‘I can show you the French statistics, Arnold,’ breathed Vincent, producing a book, ‘they are damned gratifying.’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed the poet, ‘let me gaze on them.’
And advancing to the table with the speaking tubes, he bowed his head for some minutes over the work, Vincent indicating with his pen the most gratifying passages.
‘We are reading it in the original,’ observed the Investigator, looking up for a second at Diogenes, with a certain radiancy of pride.
‘We both speak it like natives,’ added the poet with a nod.
The pair were still gloating over the Evidences of Organisation, and Diogenes was still seated in a kind of torpor of surprise, when the door was pushed slightly open, and the head of a lady in curl papers looked gaily into the apartment.
‘It’s only me,’ she said. ‘Just as I am.’
And she skipped lightly forward.
‘Ah, Miss Braddon, Miss Braddon,’ said Mr Arnold severely, ‘this is — this is a painful meeting.’
‘Mat!’ she cried, ‘so cold! this is a Strange World.’
‘You have laid your hands on Scott, ma’am, in a spirit, I fear, far other than courtesy,’ said the poet.
‘O Mat!’ returned Miss Braddon, ‘I only Byronised him.’
The poet winced.
‘And if you knew how I adore him,’ she continued. ‘It is a perfect mania of mine. You see my curl papers? — each a complete condensed Waverley — in magenta, too, my favourite colour. The author of Vixen bows to the author of Guy Mannering.’
‘Talking of Guy Mannering,’ replied Mr Arnold, ‘it’s the only one I’ve seen. Why the devil did you leave out all that anybody cares to read? and that business of the flute and song, ma’am — the heart of the romance — why, in the name of culture, leave out that?’
‘He’s such a very unequal writer,’ said the lady giddily. ‘But who’s your friend, Vincent?’
‘I forget his name — introduced by Arnold — street robbery number 3,566,783,’ replied the chief of police.
‘Diogenes — Miss Braddon, Miss Braddon — Diogenes,’ said Arnold.
‘Diogenes! why, I declare you’re one of those charming Greeks. How delightful! Have you read Dead Men’s Shoes?’
‘No, ma’am,’ replied the sage.
‘Many of my works? Come!’
‘Not one, ma’am,’ said Diogenes.
‘Ah,’ she sighed, ‘only a clod. But come, Mat — you know, I’m nothing if not local-coloury — the furniture in each of my books alone is worth the money. Let us do something classical.’
‘Classical!’ cried the poet with sudden energy. ‘You bet your life! Vincent, touch the lyre, and we will tread a measure.’
The obliging director drew from a drawer of his table a handsome penny whistle, with which he often entertained his leisures. His face lit up with joy as he applied the instrument to his moustache; and soon the apartment rang to that sweet melody; while the two famous authors, each bounding and tripping like a kid, followed the mazes of a gay impromptu dance.
‘You now behold me happy,’ said the poet. ‘Quite the Greek, you see. Ah!’ he cried, still leaping to the air, ‘if the clergy of England were but here! What a lesson they would receive from this — this is worship!’ Then, at a given moment, the music ceased, the investigator leaping from his table, joined the dance and each in turn timed the steps of the others to the improvisations of the human voice.
with:
B. My pison bowl when I was mixin’ — My name can never die,
A-pouring forth my soul in Vixen, — His name can never die, huzza,
All at once there came a thought: — Her (my) name can never die,
Why not bedevil Walter Scott?
with:
A. With French and Greek in fit proportions — My name can never die,
I wrote my classical abortions — His name can never die, huzza,
A thought as wise as Chiron: — My name can never die,
Why not bedevil George, Lord Byron? — His name can never die.
V. I was a fat contented boy,
Detective novels all my joy;
An evil thought to me there came:
Whence England’s loss and Vincent’s shame:
I thought it quite a fine transaction To put Gaboriau in action.
Grand. Dance & Finale
Our names can never die, huzza,
Our names can never die.
Scarce had the strains died away, when Mr Arnold, remembering an engagement, hurried from the building, and Vincent, dashing to his place, returned to his invaluable occupation of blowing down the tubes.
‘Ma’am,’ said Diogenes, perceiving that the scene was at an end, ‘can you guide me to St Stephens?’
‘I? of course I can. I’ll introduce you to dear Gladstone, dear Northcote, and darling Parnell. I know ’em all — all. Follow me, and they will soon be Run to Earth.’
Vincent, absorbed in calisthenics with the speaking tubes, did not appear to observe their departure; and as soon as they were in the street, the lady, turning to the sage, appealed to him in these words: ‘Is not Vincent a dear creature?’
‘At any price,’ replied Diogenes. ‘What a bad memory he must have,’ he added.
‘He! a bad memory! Why?’
‘Always remembering things that he had forgotten,’ said the sage.
‘O, the tubes you mean!’ cried Miss Braddon. ‘O dear, no, he’s forgotten nothing. That’s — well,’ said the lady, blushing, ‘I hardly like to mention it, but it’s what I call a Dress-Improver. We all do it.’
‘A what!’ cried the sage. ‘O I see. Done for show. And that’s why you all pretend to be in a bustle. Dear me!’
End of Vincent ‘Yes,’ replied the lady. ‘Just so. We all do it, as I said. We all give ourselves out for brighter, and busier, and bustlier, than ever we could be, you know, in our poor little stale existences. And the Cloven Foot is this, Diogenes, that it doesn’t do. People see through it. It’s Lady Audley’s Secret.’
‘Well, it seems I don’t know English,’ growled the sage. ‘What the devil is Lady Audley’s Secret?’
‘The Secret that everybody knows,’ replied the Authoress with pride.
There was a pause during which Diogenes partook of the sandwiches which he owed to the generosity of the British premier.
‘His food is like his foreign policy,’ he murmured— ‘bosh.’
‘Ham I to understand, sir,’ inquired the Verger, ‘that your honour has not yet, in a manner of speaking, found a man?’
Diogenes laid aside his sandwiches; and taking out his lute, etc.
‘I have been East, I have been West,
To earth’s remotest bound;
On every hand I sought the best,
The good I never found.
At last, from all the fools in flocks,
Methought I saw a man,
A-taking out the works of clocks,
Afar in the Soudan.’
‘Yes,’ he added, ‘I believe he was a man’
‘Then why not go to him, sir?’
‘I can’t,’ said Diogenes. ‘He doesn’t keep his situations long enough.’
CHAPTER II. DIOGENES AT THE SAVILE CLUB
Here we are!’ said his Grace, pausing before an unpretentious building not a hundred miles from the abode of Poole. ‘Here, I- my good fellow, is the spot. I often take my chop there of a morning, but today I think I shall drop in at the Criterion.’
‘But for whom then am I to ask?’ inquired the sage. ‘O ask for my friend, Besant-and-Rice,’ returned the Prelate airily. ‘ He’ll see you through. Ta-ta.’ And before Diogenes had time to thank him for his courtesies the Primate of England was already some doors down the Row, toddling for Vigo Street on the sacrosanct passage of the Albany.
‘What a very estimable person,’ thought the sage, pausing with one hand upon the railing, ere he mounted the steps of the Savile Club. ‘What a pity — but ps
haw!’ And wiping the moisture from his brow, he hastily, like a man turning his back upon some grievous thought, entered the building.
It was green. It was tastefully decorated with playbills and umbrellas; and the coats and hats of many rising authors depended at regular intervals upon the walls. On one hand, in a glass case, a manner of porter waited.
‘Is Mr Besant-and-Rice in?’ inquired the cynic.
‘What name, sir?’ returned the porter.
Diogenes laboriously produced a card on which one word served to indicate at once his name, his reputation and his nationality: ΔΙΟΓΕΝΗΣ.
[Get this right, for Lord’s sake: I don’t know it.]
Then remembering that French was a tongue better understood in that building than the ancient Greek, he added in pencil: ‘de la part de Monseigneur l’Archevêque de Cantorbéry.’
The servant, who was well trained, perceived the quality of his, visitor; his manner softened at once; and it was with an affectionate grace and in the softest
{diction of Marseilles}
{tones of the Bas Languedoc}
that he begged Diogenes to give himself the trouble of attending. Nor was he long absent; skipping lightly upstairs, he presently returned with the same deft tread and led the sage to the door of the Smoking Room of the Savile Club. It was opened, emitting strains of choral minstrelsy and, at the same moment, a manly form holding the card in one of its strong hands.
‘Any one from the Arshigveshy,’ said the Form, ‘is welcome. Pray step in.’
‘But are you Besant or Rice?’ inquired the sage.
‘I am both,’ said Besant. Diogenes was cowed; without another word he followed the famous novelists into the Smoking Room of the Savile Club.
‘This is the place known by fame to many; to few by sight. Now and again, Gladstone or Hugo, the Primate of England or the Prince de Galles, may tread, not without awe, its hallowed flooring. But these, great though they are, are not its true inhabitants. Here gather daily those young eaglets of glory, the swordsmen of the pen, who are the pride and wonder of the world, and the terror and envy of the effete pensionnaires of the Athenaeum. They are all young; and youth is a great gift. They are all clever authors; and some of them, with that last refinement of talent, old as Job but rare as modesty, have hitherto refrained from writing. They are old friends, though they may slate each other in anonymous prints. And they are all Rising.’
On the present occasion, the Club was in force, and six distinguished guests added lustre to the scene. Blackmore had come there with a basket of fruit and obsolete expressions; Hardy had looked in to lay down the normal of the Vulgar Woman; Oscar Wilde to buy a statuette from Pater; Black to recruit for his new Midnight Society of the Seven Converted Milkmen; Gilbert and Sullivan to submit a song with toothcomb accompaniment, to the principal critics there assembled. Thus the Men who had Risen sought counsel and countenance from the great caucus of the Rising Men.
Clouds of tobacco smoke veiled the air; and many of the more piratical members were drinking coffee with the reckless grace of Frenchmen. There was something fiery, wild, and daring in the scene. Naked genius here strangled serpents in its cradle. What it might do next, the heart quailed to fancy.
Besant-and-Rice upraised his hand: ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘here is Diogenes with his lantern. Let us make him welcome. I propose three volumes — three cheers for Diogenes.’
The cheers were heartily given; then Diogenes was installed in a chair upon the table, while one after another of the company presented himself unabashed before the cynic, and in a few heartfelt strains proffered his claims to be a Man.
THE ENCHANTRESS
Chapter I
My last remaining articles, a gold watch and a light summer overcoat, I had pawned that morning at Clermont. The proceeds had supplied me with a noonday meal at the restaurant of the casino; and thanks to some varieties of fortune, enabled me to remain at play throughout the afternoon. Between six and seven I stepped forth into the evening penniless. It was the hour of dinner; but there was no dinner for me, nor any supper, nor the least prospect of a bed. I sat on a bench in the grounds and considered my position gravely. Stranded in a foreign place, where I could not flatter myself I was at all believed, even by my one or two acquaintances, for in these last days of evil fortune I had not displayed my character in the most amiable light; hundreds of miles from any of my relations, who all detested me and whom I myself detested; destitute of any art whether of use or pleasing; destitute of luggage; bankrupt of self-reliance; with no other advantages than what is called a gentlemanly exterior and a suit of excellent clothes: in what direction (I asked myself anxiously) can such a person turn? I could not dig; for I had no spade and nothing to dig in if I had. I was not in the least ashamed to beg: but where was the use of it? I knew my fellow creatures: even to the most clamant cases of distress (admitting mine to be one of the most clamant) they would be little likely to exceed a franc; and for francs, I had no use, my daily expenses being calculated in pounds sterling. For crime I had little fancy, and no talent. I might indeed join the Church of Rome, as an interesting convert; but my conversion would have to be something of the suddenest, or I might die ere my reception.
As I thus helplessly revolved my predicament, the brutes who had been feeding began to tramp out of their various hotels. The band struck up, the idle evening life of Royat had begun again; and here was I condemned to rove upon the outskirts of my customary haunts, and draw in the buckle of my trousers as the hours proceeded. It came upon me in a flash that I must gain time. Beggary, if it did not promise me a permanent livelihood, held forth some hopes of supper. With my address and the cut of my tailor it would be strange if I could not beg to some advantage. I saw too that the first time a man begged he would be likely to do the thing well, but that the performance must infallibly decline upon a repetition. If I chose the person wisely and nicely adjusted my bearing, I might possibly fly as high as Napoleon. The person; the address; — here were my two points, and it was clear the second depended altogether on the first. With one, romantic falsehood would be found enticing, with another the blunt truth. Upon the person then I fixed my attention singly. Being a man, I should certainly be a great ass if I did not choose a woman: upon that I did not hesitate an instant. But whether that woman should be fair or homely, young or old, was a matter not at all as obvious; indeed I found such specious considerations in favour of each, that I could by no manner of means arrive at a conclusion, and it was (as you are now to hear) an accident that finally decided me.
It had grown late, the night was very dark, many of the brutes had gone home. When as I hurried in the dark path between the two casinos, I was aware of a young lady drawing near. Distant and broken lights from open doors and windows fell upon and left her as she came. These showed me she was dressed for the evening, and as she approached I was even able to recognise her face and to recall her name, which I had casually overheard. She was a Miss Croft; an orphan of wealth and beauty, resident here in Royat in the care of her guardian, a Mr Hussey Ramley, with whom I had been several hours thus in contact at the card table. Mr Ramley was a famous financier in those days, and a great and daring card player; nor will the reader have forgot the singular scandal with which, some ten years later, he collapsed and like Samson involved thousands in his fate. I had no sooner recognised Miss Croft, and the propitiousness of all the circumstances: of time, of darkness to conceal my blushes, and of solitude sufficient to protect me against interruption and yet not so great as to alarm the lady; than my mind was instantly made up. I took off my hat and advanced.
‘Miss Croft, if I am not mistaken?’ said I.
She paused and looked at me with some curiosity. ‘To whom have I the pleasure...?’ she asked.
‘Madam,’ said I, ‘I beg the favour of a few minutes conversation. I will not detain you beyond the corner of the main street. I should have told you perhaps at first that I am a gentleman, and perfectly unaccustomed — indeed u
ntil tonight I should have thought myself equally incapable — you have no cause for alarm,’ I added.
‘I see no reason for alarm,’ replied Miss Croft. ‘Whether in my case — or in yours.’ She said this very quietly, and it so much increased my confusion that I remained silent. ‘Well?’ she added after a little.
‘I am really so unaccustomed—’ I began, and paused once more.
‘To public speaking?’ she suggested, with the slightest touch of entertainment in her tone.
‘I cannot do it — I have made a mistake,’ said I. ‘I never looked at you before, or I would never have tried it. I can only beg pardon for this intrusion, and thank you for the patience with which you have heard me. Good evening, Miss Croft.’
‘O, no,’ she returned. ‘My patience is now quite at an end, and my curiosity thoroughly aroused. I have walked with you as far as to the comer. You will now walk with me as far at least as the Hotel de Lyon.’
‘I cannot imagine,’ I began.
‘I am pleased with your conversation,’ she returned.
‘It must be the quality of my silence,’ said I.
‘You came to tell me something, to propose something, to ask me something,’ she said. ‘After a prolonged covert study of my face, you judge me unfit to be your confidant. And yet I think you were right at first, and are now wrong. I think myself very fit to hear what you have to say; in all Royat there is no one more so; and fit or unfit, I have perfectly made up my mind that I shall hear it. Come, what is that to which you are unaccustomed, of which you once proudly thought yourself incapable of attempting, and which you now find yourself incapable of bringing to an end — at least with me.’
‘Miss Croft,’ said I, ‘I have told you, I cannot.’
‘Give me your arm,’ said she. ‘Is not your name Hatfield?’
‘I cannot conceive how you should know it,’ I replied.
‘Have you not met my guardian Mr Ramley at the casino? Have you not been playing a good deal? And — losing a good deal? And did you not come to me tonight with some idea of negotiating a small advance?’
Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson Page 391
