Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  He ended abruptly — he had unburdened his mind to one who he knew understood him and sympathized with him, and he turned to the perusal of some letters just received.

  The two friends were sitting that morning in the breakfast-room, — a charming little octagonal apartment, looking out on a small, very small garden, which, despite the London atmosphere, looked just now very bright with tastefully arranged parterres of white and yellow crocuses, mingled with the soft blue of the dainty hepatica, — that frank-faced little blossom which seems to express such an honest confidence in the goodness of God’s sky. A few sparrows of dissipated appearance were bathing their sooty plumes in a pool of equally sooty water left in the garden as a token of last night’s rain, and they splashed and twittered and debated and fussed with each other concerning their ablutions, with almost as much importance as could have been displayed by the effeminate Romans of the Augustan era when disporting themselves in their sumptuous Thermae. Alwyn’s eyes rested on them unseeingly, — his thoughts were very far away from all his surroundings. Before his imagination rose a Gehenna-like picture of the world in which he had to live, — the world of fashion and form and usage, — the world he was to try and rouse to a sense of better things. A Promethean task indeed! to fill human life with new symbols of hope, — to set up a white standard of faith amid the swift rushing on and reckless tramping down of desperate battle, — to pour out on all, rich or poor, worthy or unworthy, the divine-born balm of Sympathy, which, when given freely and sincerely from man to man, serves often as a check to vice — a silent, yet all eloquent, rebuke to crime, — and can more easily instill into refractory intelligences things of God and desires for good, than any preacher’s argument, no matter how finely worded. To touch the big, wayward, BETTER heart of Humanity! … could he in very truth do it? … Or was the work too vast for his ability? Tormented by various cross-currents of feeling, he gave vent to a troubled sigh and looked dubiously at his friend.

  “In such a state of things as you describe, Villiers,” he aid, “what a useless unit I am! A Poet! — who wants me in this age of Sale and Barter? … Is not a producer of poems always considered more or less of a fool nowadays, no matter how much his works may be in fashion for the moment? I am sure, in spite of the success of ‘Nourhalma,’ that the era of poetry has passed; and, moreover, it certainly seems to have given place to the very baldest and most unbeauteous forms of prose! As, for instance, if a book is written which contains what is called ‘poetic prose’ the critics are all ready to denounce it as ‘turgid,’ ‘overladen,’ ‘strained for effect,’ and ‘hysterical sublime.’ Heine’s Reisebilder, which is one of the most exquisite poems in prose ever given to the world, is nearly incomprehensible to the majority of English minds; so much so, indeed, that the English translators in their rendering of it have not only lost the delicate glamour of its fairy-like fancifulness, but have also blunted all the fine points of its dazzling sarcasm and wealth of imagery. It is evident enough that the larger mass of people prefer mediocrity to high excellence, else such a number of merely mediocre works of art would not, and could not, be tolerated. And as long as mediocrity is permitted to hold ground, it is almost an impossibility to do much toward raising the standard of literature. The few who love the best authors are as a mere drop in the ocean of those who not only choose the worst, but who also fail to see any difference between good and bad.”

  “True enough!” assented Villiers,— “Still the ‘few’ you speak of are worth all the rest. For the ‘few’ Homer wrote, — Plato, Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus, — and the ‘few’ are capable of teaching the majority, if they will only set about it rightly. But at present they are setting about it wrongly. All children are taught to read, but no child is guided in WHAT to read. This is like giving a loaded gun to a boy and saying, ‘Shoot away! … No matter in which direction you point your aim, . . shoot yourself if you like, and others too, — anyhow, you’ve GOT the gun!’ Of course there are a few fellows who have occasionally drawn up a list of books as suitable for everybody’s perusal, — but then these lists cannot be taken as true criterions, as they all differ from one another as much as church sects. One would-be instructor in the art of reading says we ought all to study ‘Tom Jones’ — now I don’t see the necessity of THAT! And, oddly enough, these lists scarcely ever include the name of a poet, — which is the absurdest mistake ever made. A liberal education in the highest works of poesy is absolutely necessary to the thinking abilities of man. But, Alwyn, YOU need not trouble yourself about what is good for the million and what isn’t, . . whatever you write is sure to be read NOW — you’ve got the ear of the public, — the ‘fair, large ear’ of the ass’s head which disguises Bottom the Weaver, who frankly says of himself, ‘I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch!’”

  Alwyn smiled. He was thinking of what his Shadow-Self had said on this very subject— “A book or poem, to be great, and keep its greatness hereafter, must be judged by the natural instinct of PEOPLES. This world-wide decision has never yet been, and never will be, hastened by any amount of written criticism, — it is the responsive beat of the enormous Pulse of Life that thrills through all mankind, high and low, gentle and simple, — its great throbs are slow and solemnly measured, yet if once it answers to a Poet’s touch, that Poet’s name is made glorious forever!” He.. in the character of Sah-luma.. had seemed to utter these sentiments many ages ago, — and now the words repeated themselves in his thoughts with a new and deep intensity of meaning.

  “Of course,” added Villiers suddenly— “you must expect plenty of adverse criticism now, as it is known beyond all doubt that you are alive and able to read what is written concerning you, — but if you once pay attention to critics, you may as well put aside pen altogether, as it is the business of these worthies never to be entirely satisfied with anything. Even Shelley and Byron, in the critical capacity, abused Keats, till the poor, suffering youth, who promised to be greater then either of them, died of a broken heart as much as disease. This sort of injustice will go on to the end of time, or till men become more Christianized than Paul’s version of Christianity has ever yet made them.”

  Here a knock at the door interrupted the conversation. The servant entered, bringing a note gorgeously crested and coroneted in gold. Villiers, to whom it was addressed, opened and read it.

  “What shall we do about this?” he asked, when his man had retired. “It is an invitation from the Duchess de la Santoisie. She asks us to go and dine with her next week, — a party of twenty — reception afterward. I think we’d better accept, — what do you say?”

  Alwyn roused himself from his reverie. “Anything to please you, my dear boy!” he answered cheerfully— “But I haven’t the faintest idea who the Duchess de la Santoisie is!”

  “No? … Well, she’s an Englishwoman who has married a French Duke. He is a delightful old fellow, the pink of courtesy, and the model of perfect egotism. A true Parisian, and of course an atheist, — a very polished atheist, too, with a most charming reliance on his own infallibility. His wife writes novels which have a SLIGHT leaning toward Zolaism, — she is an extremely witty woman sarcastic, and cold-blooded enough to be a female Robespierre, yet, on the whole, amusing as a study of what curious nondescript forms the feminine nature can adopt unto itself, if it chooses. She has an immense respect for GENIUS, — mind, I say genius advisedly, because she really is one of those rare few who cannot endure mediocrity. Everything at her house is the best of its kind, and the people she entertains are the best of theirs. Her welcome of you will be at any rate a sincerely admiring one, — and as I think, in spite of your desire for quiet, you will have to show yourself somewhere, it may as well be there.”

  Alwyn looked dubious, and not at all resigned to the prospect of “showing himself.”

  “Your description of her does not strike me as particularly attractive,” — he said— “I cannot endure that nineteenth-century hermaphroditic production, a mannish
woman.”

  “Oh but she isn’t altogether mannish,” — declared Villiers, . .

  “Besides, I mustn’t forget to add, that she is extremely beautiful.”

  Alwyn shrugged his shoulders indifferently. His friend noticed the gesture and laughed.

  “Still impervious to beauty, old boy?” — he said gayly— “You always were, I remember!”

  Alwyn flushed a little, and rose from his chair.

  “Not always,” — he answered steadily,— “There have been times in my life when the beauty of women, — mere physical beauty — has exercised great influence over me. But I have lately learned how a fair face may sometimes mask a foul mind, — and unless I can see the SUBSTANCE of Soul looking through the SEMBLANCE of Body, then I know that the beauty I SEEM to behold is mere Appearance, and not Reality. Hence, unless your beautiful Duchess be like the ‘King’s daughter’ of David’s psalm, ‘all glorious WITHIN’ — her APPARENT loveliness will have no charm for me! — Now” — and he smiled, and spoke in a less serious tone.. “if you have no objection, I am off to my room to scribble for an hour or so. Come for me if you want me — you know I don’t in the least mind being disturbed.”

  But Villiers detained him a moment, and looked inquisitively at him full in the eyes.

  “You’ve got some singular new attraction about you, Alwyn,” — he said, with a strange sense of keen inward excitement as he met his friend’s calm yet flashing glance,— “Something mysterious, . . something that COMPELS! What is it? … I believe that visit of yours to the Ruins of Babylon had a more important motive than you will admit, . . moreover.. I believe you are in love!”

  “IN love!” — Alwyn laughed a little as he repeated the words.. “What a foolish term that is when you come to think of it! For to be IN love suggests the possibility of getting OUT again, — which, if love be true, can never happen. Say that I LOVE! — and you will be nearer the mark! Now don’t look so mystified, and don’t ask me any more questions just now — to-night, when we are sitting together in the library, I’ll tell you the whole story of my Babylonian adventure!”

  And with a light parting wave of the hand he left the room, and Villiers heard him humming a tune softly to himself as he ascended the stairs to his own apartments, where, ever since he arrived, he had made it his custom to do two or three hours’ steady writing every morning. For a moment or so after he had gone Villiers stood lost in thought, with knitted brows and meditative eyes, then, rousing himself, he went on to his study, and sitting down at his desk wrote an answer to the Duchess de la Santoisie accepting her invitation.

  CHAPTER XXXIV.

  REWARDS OF FAME.

  An habitual resident in London who is gifted with a keen faculty of hearing and observation, will soon learn to know instinctively the various characteristics of the people who call upon him, by the particular manner in which each one handles his door-bell or knocker. He will recognize the timid from the bold, the modest from the arrogant, the meditative thinker from the bustling man of fashion, the familiar friend from the formal acquaintance. Every individual’s method of announcing his or her arrival to the household is distinctly different, — and Villiers, who studied a little of everything, had not failed to take note of the curiously diversified degrees of single and double rapping by means of which his visitors sought admittance to his abode. In fact, he rather prided himself on being able to guess with almost invariable correctness what special type of man or woman was at his door, provided he could hear the whole diapason of their knock from beginning to end. When he was shut in his “den,” however, the sounds were muffled by distance, and he could form no just judgment, — sometimes, indeed, he did not hear them at all, especially if he happened to be playing his ‘cello at the time. So that this morning he was considerably startled, when, having finished his letter to the Duchess de la Santoisie, a long and persistent rat-tat-tatting echoed noisily through the house, like the smart, quick blows of a carpenter’s hammer — a species of knock that was entirely unfamiliar to him, and that, while so emphatic in character, suggested to his mind neither friend nor foe. He laid down his pen, listened and waited. In a minute or two his servant entered the room.

  “If you please, sir, a lady to see Mr. Alwyn. Shall I show her up?”

  Villiers rose slowly out of his chair, and stood eyeing his man in blank bewilderment.

  “A LADY! … To see Mr. Alwyn!” — he repeated, his thoughts instantly reverting to his friend’s vaguely hinted love-affair,— “What name?”

  “She gives no name, sir. She says it isn’t needed, — Mr. Alwyn will know who she is.”

  “Mr. Alwyn will know who she is, will he?” murmured Villiers dubiously.— “What is she like? Young and pretty?”

  Over the man-servant’s staid countenance came the glimmer of a demure, respectful smile.

  “Oh no, sir, — not young, sir! A person about fifty, I should say.”

  This was mystifying. A person about fifty! Who could she be? Villiers hastily considered, — there must be some mistake, he thought, — at any rate, he would see the unknown intruder himself first, and find out what her business was, before breaking in upon Alwyn’s peaceful studies upstairs.

  “Show the lady in here” — he said— “I can’t disturb Mr. Alwyn just now.”

  The servant retired, and soon re-appeared, ushering in a tall, gaunt, black-robed female, who walked with the stride of a dragoon and the demeanor of a police-inspector, and who, merely nodding briskly in response to Villiers’s amazed bow, selected with one comprehensive glance the most comfortable chair in the room, and seated herself at ease therein. She then put up her veil, displaying a long, narrow face, cold, pale, arrogant eyes, a nose inclined to redness at the tip, and a thin, close-set mouth lined with little sarcastic wrinkles, which came into prominent and unbecoming play as soon as she began to speak, which she did almost immediately.

  “I suppose I had better introduce myself to you, Mr. Alwyn” — she said with a condescending and confident air— “Though really we know each other so well by reputation that there seems scarcely any necessity for it! Of course you have heard of ‘Tiger-Lily!’”

  Villiers gazed at her helplessly, — he had never felt so uncomfortable in all his life. Here was a strange woman, who had actually taken bodily possession of his apartment as though it were her own, — who had settled herself down in his particular pet Louis Quatorze chair, — who stared at him with the scrutinizing complacency of a professional physiognomist, — and who seemed to think no explanation of her extraordinary conduct was necessary, inasmuch as “of course” he, Villiers, had heard of “TIGER-LILY!” It was very singular! … almost like madness! … Perhaps she WAS mad! How could he tell? She had a remarkably high, knobby brow, — a brow with an unpleasantly bald appearance, owing to the uncompromising way in which her hair was brushed well off it — he had seen such brows before in certain “spiritualists” who believed, or pretended to believe, in the suddenly willed dematerialization of matter, and THEY were mad, he knew, or else very foolishly feigning madness!

  Endeavoring to compose his bewildered mind, he fixed glass in eye, and regarded her through it with an inquiring solemnity, — he would have spoken, but before he could utter a word, she went on rapidly:

  “You are not in the least like the person I imagined you to be! … However, that doesn’t matter. Literary celebrities are always so different to what we expect!”

  “Pardon me, madam,” — began Villiers politely.. “You are making a slight error, — my servant probably did not explain. I am not Mr. Alwyn, . . my name is Villiers. Mr. Alwyn is my guest, — but he is at present very much occupied, — and unless your business is extremely urgent…”

  “Certainly it is urgent” — said the lady decisively.. “otherwise I should not have come. And so you are NOT Mr. Alwyn! Well, I thought you couldn’t be! Now then, will you have the kindness to tell Mr. Alwyn I am here?”

  By this time Villiers had recovered his custo
mary self-possession, and he met her commanding glance with a somewhat defiant coolness.

  “I am not aware to whom I have the honor of speaking,” he said frigidly. “Perhaps you will oblige me with your name?”