Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “Is this your first visit to Willowsmere Court?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I answered, making an effort to appear more at my ease— “I bought the place, — on the recommendation of my friend the prince here, — without looking at it.”

  “So I heard,” — she said, still observing me curiously— “And you are satisfied with it?”

  “More than satisfied — I am delighted. It exceeds all my best expectations.”

  “Mr Tempest is going to marry the daughter of the former owner of Willowsmere,” — put in Lucio,— “No doubt you have seen it announced in the papers?”

  “Yes;” — she responded with a slight smile— “I have seen it — and I think Mr Tempest is much to be congratulated. Lady Sibyl is very lovely, — I remember her as a beautiful child when I was a child myself — I never spoke to her, but I often saw her. She must be charmed at the prospect of returning as a bride to the old home she loved so well.”

  Here the servant entered with the tea, and Miss Clare, putting down her tiny dog, went to the table to dispense it. I watched her move across the room with a sense of vague wonder and reluctant admiration, — she rather resembled a picture by Greuze in her soft white gown with a pale rose nestled amid the old Flemish lace at her throat, — and as she turned her head towards us, the sunlight caught her fair hair and turned it to the similitude of a golden halo circling her brows. She was not a beauty; but she possessed an undoubted individual charm, — a delicate attractiveness, which silently asserted itself, as the breath of honeysuckle hidden in the tangles of a hedge, will delight the wayfarer with sweet fragrance though the flowers be unseen.

  “Your book was very clever, Mr Tempest” — she said suddenly, smiling at me— “I read it as soon as it came out. But do you know I think your article was even cleverer?”

  I felt myself growing uncomfortably red in the face.

  “To what article do you allude, Miss Clare?” I stammered confusedly— “I do not write for any magazine.”

  “No?” and she laughed gaily— “But you did on this occasion! You ‘slated’ me very smartly! — I quite enjoyed it. I found out that you were the author of the philippic, — not through the editor of the journal — oh no, poor man! he is very discreet; but through quite another person who must be nameless. It is very difficult to prevent me from finding out whatever I wish to know, especially in literary matters! Why, you look quite unhappy!” and her blue eyes danced with fun as she handed me my cup of tea— “You really don’t suppose I was hurt by your critique, do you? Dear me, no! Nothing of that kind ever affronts me, — I am far too busy to waste any thought on reviews or reviewers. Only your article was so exceptionally funny!”

  “Funny?” I echoed stupidly, trying to smile, but failing in the effort.

  “Yes, funny!” she repeated— “It was so very angry that it became amusing. My poor ‘Differences’! I am really sorry it put you into such a temper, — temper does exhaust one’s energies so!”

  She laughed again and sat down in her former place near me, regarding me with a frankly open and half humorous gaze which I found I could not meet with any sort of composure. To say I felt foolish, would inadequately express my sense of utter bafflement. This woman with her young unclouded face, sweet voice and evidently happy nature, was not at all the creature I had imagined her to be, — and I struggled to say something, — anything, — that would furnish a reasonable and coherent answer. I caught Lucio’s glance, — one of satirical amusement, — and my thoughts grew more entangled than ever. A distraction however occurred in the behaviour of the dog Tricksy, who suddenly took up a position immediately opposite Lucio, and lifting his nose in air began to howl with a desolate loudness astonishing in so small an animal. His mistress was surprised.

  “Tricksy, what is the matter?” she exclaimed, catching him up in her arms where he hid his face shivering and moaning; — then she looked steadily at Lucio— “I never knew him do such a thing before” — she said— “Perhaps you do not like dogs, Prince Rimânez?”

  “I am afraid they do not like me!” he replied, deferentially.

  “Then pray excuse me a moment!” she murmured, and left the room, to return immediately without her canine favorite. After this I noticed that her blue eyes often rested on Lucio’s handsome countenance with a bewildered and perplexed expression, as if she saw something in his very beauty that she disliked or distrusted. Meanwhile I had recovered a little of my usual self-possession, and I addressed her in a tone which I meant to be kind, but which I knew was somewhat patronizing.

  “I am very glad, Miss Clare, that you were not offended at the article you speak of. It was rather strong I admit, — but you know we cannot all be of the same opinion ...”

  “Indeed no!” she said quietly and with a slight smile— “Such a state of things would make a very dull world! I assure you I was not and am not in the least offended — the critique was a smart piece of writing, and made not the slightest effect on me or on my book. You remember what Shelley wrote of critics? No? You will find the passage in his preface to ‘The Revolt of Islam,’ and it runs thus,— ‘I have sought to write as I believe that Homer, Shakespeare, and Milton wrote, with an utter disregard of anonymous censure. I am certain that calumny and misrepresentation, though it may move me to compassion cannot disturb my peace. I shall understand the expressive silence of those sagacious enemies who dare not trust themselves to speak. I shall endeavour to extract from the midst of insult and contempt and maledictions, those admonitions which may tend to correct whatever imperfections such censurers may discern in my appeal to the Public. If certain Critics were as clear-sighted as they are malignant, how great would be the benefit to be derived from their virulent writings! As it is, I fear I shall be malicious enough to be amused with their paltry tricks and lame invectives. Should the public judge that my composition is worthless, I shall indeed bow before the tribunal from which Milton received his crown of immortality, and shall seek to gather, if I live, strength from that defeat, which may nerve me to some new enterprise of thought which may not be worthless!’”

  As she gave the quotation, her eyes darkened and deepened, — her face was lighted up as by some inward illumination, — and I discovered the rich sweetness of the voice which made the name of ‘Mavis’ suit her so well.

  “You see I know my Shelley!” she said with a little laugh at her own emotion— “And those words are particularly familiar to me, because I have had them painted up on a panel in my study. Just to remind me, in case I should forget, what the really great geniuses of the world thought of criticism, — because their example is very encouraging and helpful to a humble little worker like myself. I am not a press-favourite — and I never get good reviews, — but—” and she laughed again— “I like my reviewers all the same! If you have finished your tea, will you come and see them?”

  Come and see them! What did she mean? She seemed delighted at my visible surprise, and her cheeks dimpled with merriment.

  “Come and see them!” she repeated— “They generally expect me at this hour!”

  She led the way into the garden, — we followed, — I, in a bewildered confusion of mind, with all my ideas respecting ‘unsexed females’ and repulsive blue-stockings upset by the unaffected behaviour and charming frankness of this ‘celebrity’ whose fame I envied, and whose personality I could not but admire. With all her intellectual gifts she was yet a lovable woman, — ah Mavis! — how lovable and dear I was destined in misery to know! Mavis, Mavis! — I whisper your sweet name in my solitude, — I see you in my dreams, and kneeling before you I call you Angel! — my angel at the gate of a lost Paradise, whose Sword of Genius turning every way, keeps me back from all approach to my forfeited Tree of Life!

  XX

  Scarcely had we stepped out on the lawn before an unpleasant incident occurred which might have ended dangerously. At his mistress’s approach the big St Bernard dog rose from the sunny corner where he had been peacefully dozing, and p
repared to greet her, — but as soon as he perceived us he stopped short with an ominous growl. Before Miss Clare could utter a warning word, he made a couple of huge bounds and sprang savagely at Lucio as though to tear him in pieces, — Lucio with admirable presence of mind caught him firmly by the throat and forced him backwards. Mavis turned deathly pale.

  “Let me hold him! He will obey me!” she cried, placing her little hand on the great dog’s neck— “Down, Emperor! Down! How dare you! Down sir!”

  In a moment ‘Emperor’ dropped to the ground, and crouched abjectly at her feet, breathing heavily and trembling in every limb. She held him by the collar, and looked up at Lucio who was perfectly composed, though his eyes flashed dangerously.

  “I am so very sorry!” she murmured,— “I forgot, — you told me dogs do not like you. But what a singularly marked antipathy, is it not? I cannot understand it. Emperor is generally so good-natured, — I must apologize for his bad conduct — it is quite unusual. I hope he has not hurt you?”

  “Not at all!” returned Lucio affably but with a cold smile; “I hope I have not hurt him, — or distressed you!”

  She made no reply, but led the St Bernard away and was absent for a few minutes. While she was gone, Lucio’s brow clouded, and his face grew very stern.

  “What do you think of her?” he asked me abruptly.

  “I hardly know what to think,” I answered abstractedly— “She is very different to what I imagined. Her dogs are rather unpleasant company!”

  “They are honest animals!” he said morosely— “They are no doubt accustomed to candour in their mistress, and therefore object to personified lies.”

  “Speak for yourself!” I said irritably— “They object to you, chiefly.”

  “Am I not fully aware of that?” he retorted— “and do I not speak for myself? You do not suppose I would call you a personified lie, do you, — even if it were true! I would not be so uncivil. But I am a living lie, and knowing it I admit it, which gives me a certain claim to honesty above the ordinary run of men. This woman-wearer of laurels is a personified truth! — imagine it! — she has no occasion to pretend to be anything else than she is! No wonder she is famous!”

  I said nothing, as just then the subject of our conversation returned, tranquil and smiling, and did her best, with the tact and grace of a perfect hostess, to make us forget her dog’s ferocious conduct, by escorting us through all the prettiest turns and twisting paths of her garden, which was quite a bower of spring beauty. She talked to us both with equal ease, brightness and cleverness, though I observed that she studied Lucio with close interest, and watched his looks and movements with more curiosity than liking. Passing under an arching grove of budding syringas, we presently came to an open court-yard paved with blue and white tiles, having in its centre a picturesque dove-cote built in the form of a Chinese pagoda. Here pausing, Mavis clapped her hands. A cloud of doves, white, grey, brown, and opalescent answered the summons, circling round and round her head, and flying down in excited groups at her feet.

  233”Here are my reviewers!” she said laughing— “Are they not pretty creatures? The ones I know best are named after their respective journals, — there are plenty of anonymous ones of course, who flock in with the rest. Here, for instance, is the ‘Saturday Review’” — and she picked up a strutting bird with coral-tinted feet, who seemed to rather like the attention shown to him— “He fights with all his companions and drives them away from the food whenever he can. He is a quarrelsome creature!” — here she stroked the bird’s head— “You never know how to please him, — he takes offence at the corn sometimes and will only eat peas, or vice versa. He quite deserves his name, — go away, old boy!” and she flung the pigeon in the air and watched it soaring up and down— “He is such a comical old grumbler! There is the ‘Speaker’” — and she pointed to a fat fussy fantail— “He struts very well, and fancies he’s important, you know, but he isn’t. Over there is ‘Public Opinion,’ — that one half-asleep on the wall; next to him is the ‘Spectator,’ — you see he has two rings round his eyes like spectacles. That brown creature with the fluffy wings all by himself on that flower-pot is the ‘Nineteenth Century,’ — the little bird with the green neck is the ‘Westminster Gazette,’ and the fat one sitting on the platform of the cote is the ‘Pall-Mall.’ He knows his name very well — see!” and she called merrily— “Pall Mall! Come boy! — come here!” The bird obeyed at once, and flying down from the cote settled on her shoulder. “There are so many others, — it is difficult to distinguish them sometimes,” — she continued,— “Whenever I get a bad review I name a pigeon, — it amuses me. That draggle-tailed one with the muddy feet is the ‘Sketch,’ — he is not at all a well-bred bird I must tell you! — that smart-looking dove with the purple breast is the ‘Graphic,’ and that bland old grey thing is the ‘I. L. N.’ short for ‘Illustrated London News.’ Those three white ones are respectively ‘Daily Telegraph,’ ‘Morning Post,’ and ‘Standard.’ Now see them all!” and taking a covered basket from a corner she began to scatter corn and peas and various grains in lavish quantities all over the court. For a moment we could scarcely see the sky, so thickly the birds flocked together, struggling, fighting, swooping downwards, and soaring upwards, — but the wingëd confusion soon gave place to something like order when they were all on the ground and busy, selecting their respective favourite foods from the different sorts provided for their choice.

  “You are indeed a sweet-natured philosopher” — said Lucio smiling, “if you can symbolize your adverse reviewers by a flock of doves!”

  She laughed merrily.

  “Well, it is a remedy against all irritation,” — she returned; “I used to worry a good deal over my work, and wonder why it was that the press people were so unnecessarily hard upon me, when they showed so much leniency and encouragement to far worse writers, — but after a little serious consideration, finding that critical opinion carried no sort of conviction whatever to the public, I determined to trouble no more about it, — except in the way of doves!”

  “In the way of doves, you feed your reviewers,” — I observed.

  “Exactly! And I suppose I help to feed them even as women and men!” she said— “They get something from their editors for ‘slashing’ my work, — and they probably make a little more out of selling their ‘review copies.’ So you see the dove-emblem holds good throughout. But you have not seen the ‘Athenæum,’ — oh, you must see him!”

  With laughter still lurking in her blue eyes, she took us out of the pigeon-court, and led the way round to a sequestered and shady corner of the garden, where, in a large aviary-cage fitted up for its special convenience, sat a solemn white owl. The instant it perceived us, it became angry, and ruffling up its downy feathers, rolled its glistening yellow eyes vindictively and opened its beak. Two smaller owls sat in the background, pressed close together, — one grey, the other brown.

  “Cross old boy!” said Mavis, addressing the spiteful-looking creature in the sweetest of accents— “Haven’t you found any mice to kill to-day? Oh, what wicked eyes! — what a snappy mouth!” Then turning to us, she went on— “Isn’t he a lovely owl? Doesn’t he look wise? — but as a matter of fact he’s just as stupid as ever he can be. That is why I call him the ‘Athenæum’! He looks so profound, you’d fancy he knows everything, but he really thinks of nothing but killing mice all the time, — which limits his intelligence considerably!”

  Lucio laughed heartily, and so did I, — she looked so mischievous and merry.

  “But there are two other owls in the cage” — I said— “What are their names?”

  She held up a little finger in playful warning.

  “Ah, that would be telling secrets!” she said— “They’re all the ‘Athenæum’ — the holy Three, — a sort of literary Trinity. But why a trinity I do not venture to explain! — it is a riddle I must leave you to guess!”

  She moved on, and we followed across a velvety grass-pl
ot bordered with bright spring-flowers, such as crocuses, tulips, anemones, and hyacinths, and presently pausing she asked— “Would you care to see my work-room?”

  I found myself agreeing to this proposition with an almost boyish enthusiasm. Lucio glanced at me with a slight half-cynical smile.

  “Miss Clare, are you going to name a pigeon after Mr Tempest?” he inquired— “He played the part of an adverse critic, you know — but I doubt whether he will ever do so again!”

  She looked round at me and smiled.

  “Oh, I have been merciful to Mr Tempest,” — she replied; “He is among the anonymous birds whom I do not specially recognise!”

  She stepped into the arched embrasure of an open window which fronted the view of the grass and flowers, and entering with her we found ourselves in a large room, octagonal in shape, where the first object that attracted and riveted the attention was a marble bust of the Pallas Athene whose grave impassive countenance and tranquil brows directly faced the sun. A desk strewn with papers occupied the left-hand side of the window-nook, — in a corner draped with olive-green velvet, the white presence of the Apollo Belvedere taught in his inscrutable yet radiant smile, the lesson of love and the triumphs of fame, — and numbers of books were about, not ranged in formal rows on shelves as if they were never read, but placed on low tables and wheeled stands, that they might be easily taken up and glanced at. The arrangement of the walls chiefly excited my interest and admiration, for these were divided into panels, and every panel had, inscribed upon it in letters of gold, some phrase from the philosophers, or some verse from the poets. The passage from Shelley which Mavis had recently quoted to us, occupied, as she had said, one panel, and above it hung a beautiful bas-relief of the drowned poet copied from the monument at Via Reggio. Another and broader panel held a fine engraving of Shakespeare, and under the picture appeared the lines —