by Sax Rohmer
Those tapestries for which Paul had paid so extravagant a price at the sale of the Mayence heirlooms were stripped from the wall, and gone were the Damascus sword, the lance-head and black armour of Godfrey de Bouillon. A definite note was lacking; the stage was in a state of transition, and not yet set for the new drama.
Paul came in, hands extended in cordial welcome. “Good old Don!” he cried. “On Friday I was within twenty miles of the part of the line where I imagined you to be, but was unable to get across.”
“How fortunate. You would have had a vain journey, Paul. I was in Derbyshire on Friday. I would have met you this morning, but I knew you would prefer to be tête-à-tête with Yvonne.”
“My dear fellow, Bassett ordained it otherwise. I found myself surrounded by pressmen and picture people. Of course, he disclaimed responsibility as usual, but I could read his guilt in his eyes. He persists in ‘booming’ me as though I were an operatic nightingale with a poor voice or a variety comedian who was not funny.”
“Yvonne told you I had called?”
“Yes. You did not know I was away?”
“My knowledge of your movements up to the time that I left France was based upon those two or three brief communications, partially undecipherable, with which you have favoured me during the past six months. I read your paper, Le Bateleur, in the Review. Everybody has read it. Paul, you have created a bigger sensation with those five or six thousand words than Hindenburg can create with an output of five or six thousand lives!”
“It was designed to pave the way, Don. You think it has succeeded?”
“Succeeded! You have stirred up the religious world from Little Bethel to St. Peter’s.” Don dropped into an armchair and began to load his pipe from the Mycenaean vase. “Some of your facts are startlingly novel. For instance, where on earth did you get hold of that idea about the initiation of Christ by the Essenes at Lake Moeris in Egypt?”
Paul’s expression grew wrapt and introspective. “From material in the possession of Jules Thessaly,” he replied. “In a tomb near the Pyramid of Hawâra in the Egyptian Fayûm was found the sarcophagus of one Menahîm, chief of the Order of the Essenes, who were established near Lake Moeris. Menahîm’s period of office dated from the year 18 B.C. to the year of his death in the reign of Caligula, and amid the dust of his bones was found the Golden Chalice of Initiation. I cannot hope to make clear to you without a very lengthy explanation how the fact dawned upon my mind that Jehoshoua of Nazareth, son of Joseph, became an initiate, but the significance of these dates must be evident. When you see the Chalice you will understand.”
“Had it been found in Renan’s time what a different Vie de Christ we should have had.”
“Possibly. Renan’s Vie de Christ is an exquisite evasion, a jewelled confession of failure. But there are equally wonderful things at Thessaly’s house, Don. You must come there with me.”
“I shall do so without fail. It appears to me, Paul, that you have materially altered your original plan. You have abandoned the idea of casting your book in the form of a romance?”
“I have — yes. The purely romantic appeal may be dispensed with, I think, in this case. Zarathustra has entered the blood of the German people like a virus from a hypodermic needle. I do not hesitate to accept its lesson. Where I desire to cite instances of illustrative human lives they will be strictly biographical but anonymous.”
“You hope to succeed where Maeterlinck failed.”
“Maeterlinck thinks as a poet and only fails when he writes as a philosopher. Don, I wish I could have you beside me in my hours of doubt. Thessaly is inspiring, but his influence is sheerly intellectual. You have the trick of harmonising all that was discordant within myself. I see my work as a moving pageant and every figure is in its appointed place. I realise that all the knowledge of the world means nothing beside one short human existence. Upon the Ogam tablets, the Assyrian cylinders, the Egyptian monuments is written a wisdom perhaps greater than ours, but it is cold, like the stone that bears it; within ourselves it lives — all that knowledge, that universe of truth. What do the Egyptologists know of the message of Egypt? I have stood upon the summit of the Great Pyramid and have watched its shadow steal out and out touching the distant lands with its sceptre, claiming Egypt for its own; I have listened in the profound darkness at its heart to the voice of the silence and have thought myself an initiate buried, awaiting the unfolding of the mystic Rose of Isis. And science would have us believe that that wondrous temple is a tomb! A tomb! when truly it is a birthplace!”
His dark eyes glowed almost fiercely. To Don alone did he thus reveal himself, mantled in a golden rhetoric.
“Mitrahîna, too, the village on the mounds which cloak with their memorable ashes the splendour that was Memphis; who has not experienced the mournful allurement of those palm-groves amid which lie the fallen colossi of Rameses? But how many have responded to it? They beckon me, Don, bidding me to the gates of royal Memphis, to the palace of the Pharaoh. A faint breeze steals over the desert, and they shudder and sigh because palace and temple are dust and the King of the Upper and Lower Land is but a half-remembered name strange upon the lips of men. Ah! who that has heard it can forget the call, soft and mournful, of the palm-groves of Mitrahîna?
“I would make such places sacred and no vulgar foot should ever profane them. Once, as I passed the entrance to the tomb of Seti in the Valley of the Kings, I met a fat German coming out. He was munching sandwiches, and I had to turn aside; I believe I clenched my fists. A picture of the shameful Clodius at the feast of Bona Dea arose before me. My very soul revolted against this profanation of the ancient royal dead. To left and right upon the slopes above and perhaps beneath the very path along which the gross Teuton was retiring lay those who ruled the world ere Rome bestrode the seven hills, whose body-slaves were princes when the proud states and empires of to-day slumbered unborn in the womb of Time. Seti I! what a name of power! His face, Don, is unforgettable and his image seems to haunt those subterranean halls in which at last he had thought to find rest. To-day his tomb is a public resort, his alabaster sarcophagus an exhibit at the Sloane Museum, and his body, stripped of its regal raiment, is lying exposed to curious eyes in a glass case in Cairo!
“We honour the departed of our own times, and tread lightly in God’s acre; why, because they passed from the world before Western civilisation had raised its head above primeval jungles, should we fail in our respect for Egypt’s mightier dead? I tell you, Don, there is not one man in a million who understands; who, having the eyes to see, the ears to hear, has the soul to comprehend. And this understanding is a lonely, sorrowful gift. I looked out from an observation-post on the Somme over a landscape like the blasted heath in Macbeth. No living thing moved, but the earth was pregnant with agony and the roar of the guns from hidden pits was like that of the grindstones of hell. There, upon the grave of an epoc, I listened to that deathly music and it beckoned to me like the palm fronds of Mitrahîna and spoke the same message as the voice of the pyramid silence. Don! all that has ever been, is, and within us dwells the first and the last.”
VII
A silence fell between them which endured for a long time, such an understanding silence as is only possible in rare friendships. Paul began to fill his pipe, and Don almost regretfully broke the spell. “My real mission,” he said, “is to release you from a bargain into which you entered blindfolded, without realising that you had to deal with an utterly unprincipled partner.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I owe a debt to the late Michael Duveen, Paul, which you generously offered to assist me in liquidating — —”
Paul reached over and grasped Don’s arm. “Stop there!” he cried, “and hear me. You are going to say that my enthusiasm has cooled — —”
“I am going to say nothing of the kind.”
“Ah, but you think it is so. Yet you know me so well, Don, that you should understand me better. I handed the whole affair over to Ne
vin, and to you that seems like ennui, I know. But it does not mean that; it simply means that as a hopeless man of business I appoint another to do what I know myself incapable of doing. Once I am committed to the production of a book, Don, I cease to exist outside its pages. I live and move and have my being in it. But please don’t misunderstand. Anything within my power to do for Flamby I will do gladly. I only learned to-day of her second bereavement. Don, we must protect her from the fate which so often befalls girls in such circumstances.”
“My dear Paul, in accusing me of misjudging you, you are misjudging me. If I don’t understand you nobody does. My offer to release you from the bargain is not to be understood as a reproach; it is a confession. I am a man utterly devoid of common sense, one to whom reason is a stranger and moderation an enemy. I am a funny joke. I should be obliged if you would sell me to Punch.”
“You puzzle me.”
“I puzzle myself. Don Courtier is a conundrum with which I struggle night and morning. In brief, Paul, I have been shopping with Flamby.”
“With Flamby? Then she is in London?”
“She arrived yesterday morning, a most pathetic little picture in black. I wish you could have seen her, Paul; then you might understand and condone.”
The vertical wrinkle between Paul’s brows grew darker. His mind was a playground of conflicting thoughts. When he spoke he did so almost automatically. “She has never had a chance, Don. God knows I am eager to help her.”
“But I cannot permit it. To put the matter in a nutshell, I have already spent roughly a hundred and twenty pounds in this worthy cause!”
Paul laughed outright. “My dear fellow, what are a hundred and twenty pounds in the scale against your life? You are worth more to me than sixty pounds!”
“This is only the beginning. Having beguiled her into an extravagant mode of expenditure, from motives of self-protection I have been forced to plunge deeper into the mire of deception. I have informed her that she is to refer all tradespeople to Nevin. Quite innocently she may let us in for any amount of money!”
Paul put his hands upon Don’s shoulders, laughing more loudly than ever. “I don’t know to what extent your service has depleted your exchequer, and how far you can afford to pursue the Quixotic, but for my own part all I have is at your disposal — and at Flamby’s.”
“I shall see that no such demand is made upon you. But you must come and visit her, Paul. She has few friends.”
“Poor little girl. I will come when you like, Don. To-night I am going to Thessaly’s, and I wish you could join the party. He would welcome you, I know.”
“Impossible, unfortunately. I am dining with a man who was attached to us for a time.”
“Don’t fill up your entire programme, Don, and leave no room for me. Give me at least one whole day.”
“To-morrow, then.”
“Splendid. Thessaly will be joining us in the evening, too, and I am anxious for you to renew your acquaintance. We had projected a ramble around London’s Bohemian haunts. I must keep in touch with the ideas of contemporary writers, painters and composers, for these it is who make opinion. Then I propose to plumb the depths of our modern dissipations, Don. The physician’s diagnosis is based upon symptoms of sickness.”
“Certainly. A nation is known not by its virtues, but by its vices. In the haversack of the fallen Frenchman it is true that we may find a silk stocking, or a dainty high-heeled shoe, but in that of the German we find a liver sausage. Most illuminating, I think. To-morrow, then. Shall I call here for you? Yvonne might like to lunch with us. The wife of a genius must often be very lonely.”
VIII
Before the bookstall in the entrance to the Café Royal, Paul stood on the following night, with Jules Thessaly and Don.
“I shall never cease to regret Kirchner,” said Thessaly. “He popularised thin legs, and so many women have them. Ha, Mario! here you are again on the front page of a perfectly respectable weekly journal, just alighting from the train. You look like an intelligent baboon, and your wife will doubtless instruct Nevin directly her attention is drawn to this picture. It creates an impression that she was not sober at the time. What a public benefactor was he who introduced popular illustrated journalism. He brought all the physical deformities of the great within reach of the most modest purse.”
“It is very curious,” said Don, “but you do not appear in the photograph, Mr. Thessaly. You appear in none that I have seen.”
“Modesty is a cloak, Captain Courtier, which can even defy the camera. Let us inhale the gratifying odour, suggestive of truffles frying in oil, which is the hall-mark of your true café, and is as ambergris in the nostrils of the gourmand. Do you inhale it?”
“It is unavoidable,” replied Paul. “The triumph of Continental cookery rests upon a basis of oil.”
“We will bathe in the unctuous fumes. Enter, my friends.”
Passing the swing-door they entered the café, which was full as usual, so that at first it seemed as though they would find no accommodation.
“Twenty-five per cent of elbows are nudging fifty per cent of ribs,” said Thessaly, “and ninety per cent of eyes are staring at Paul Mario. Personally, my extreme modesty would revolt. I once endeavoured to visualise Fame and the resultant picture was that of a huge room filled with pretty women, all of whom watched me with the fixed gaze of nascent love. It was exquisite but embarrassing. I think there is a table near the corner, on the right, a spot sanctified by the frequent presence of Jacob Epstein. Let us intrude.”
They made their way to the table indicated by Thessaly, and the curious sudden silence which notability imposes upon the ordinary marked their progress. Paul’s handsome olive face became the focus of a hundred glances. Several people who were seated with their backs toward the entrance, half rose to look covertly at him as he walked in. They seated themselves at the marble-topped table, Don and Paul upon the plush lounge and Thessaly upon a chair facing them. “I have a mirror before me,” said Thessaly, “and can stare without fear of rebuke. Yonder is a group of Johnsons.”
“To whom do you refer?” asked Don.
“To those young men wearing Soho whiskers and coloured collars. I call them Johnsons because they regard Augustus John as their spiritual father.”
“And what is your opinion of his school?” inquired Don.
“He has no school. His work is aspirative, if you will grant me the word; the striving of a soul which knew the art of an earlier civilisation to seek expression in this. Such a man may have imitators, but he can never have disciples.”
“He is a master of paint.”
“Quite possibly. Henry James was a master of ink, but only by prayer and fasting can we hope to grasp his message. Both afford examples of very strange and experienced spirits trammelled by the limitations of imperfect humanity. Their dreams cannot be expressed in terms within the present human compass. Debussy’s extraordinary music may be explained in the same way. Those who seek to follow such a lead follow a Jack-o’-lantern. The more I see of the work of the Johnsons the more fully I recognise it to embody all that we do not ask of art.”
“Those views do not apply to the Johnsons’ spiritual father?” suggested Paul, laughingly.
“Not in the least. If we confounded the errors of the follower with the message of the Master must not the Messianic tradition have died with Judas?”
Paul gave an order to the waiter and Don began to load his pipe. Thessaly watched him, smiling whilst he packed the Latakia mixture into the bowl with meticulous care, rejecting fragments of stalk as Paphnutius rejected Thais; more in sorrow than in anger.
“Half the absinthe drinker’s joy is derived from filtering the necessary drops of water through a lump of sugar,” he said as Don reclosed his pouch; “and in the same way, to the lover of my lady Nicotine the filling of the pipe is a ritual, the lighting a burnt offering and the smoking a mere habit.”
“Quite agree,” replied Don, fumbling for matches in the pock
et of his trench-coat, “as the Aunt would say. Our own pipe never tastes so sweet as the other fellow’s smells. There is Chauvin over there and I want to speak to him. Perhaps he fails to recognise me in uniform. Ah! he has seen me.” He waved his hand to a fresh-coloured, middle-aged man seated with a lady dressed in green, whose cerise hair lent her an interesting likeness to a human geranium. Chauvin rose, having obtained the lady’s permission, bowed to her, and coming across to the table, shook Don warmly by the hand.
“Paul,” said Don, “This is Claude Chauvin. You have one of his pictures in your dining-room. Paul Mario — Mr. Jules Thessaly. Chauvin, I know you require another assistant in your studio. You cannot possibly turn out so much black and white stuff for the sporting journals and all those etchings as well as your big pictures.”
“It is hopeless to expect to find anyone to help me,” replied Chauvin. “Nobody understands animals nowadays. I would pay a good assistant any amount as well as putting him in the way of doing well for himself later on.”
“I am bringing a girl around to you in the morning who knows nearly as much about animals as you know yourself.”
“A girl.”
“A girl — yes; a female Briton Rivière.”
Chauvin’s rather tired-looking eyes lighted up with professional interest and he bent lower over the table upon which he was resting his hands. “Really! Who is she?”
“Flamby Duveen. I would never trust her to anybody’s care but yours, Chauvin. She is the daughter of a man who saved my life and she is a born artist as well. She starts at Guilder’s on Monday. Her style wants broadening of course. But look at this.”
