Orpheus in Mayfair, and Other Stories and Sketches Part 5

He handed her a stylograph pen.

"Must it be witnessed?" she asked.

"No," he replied, "these kind of doc.u.ments don't need a witness."

In a firm, bold handwriting Mrs. Bergmann signed her name in red ink across the sixpenny stamp. She half expected to hear a clap of thunder and to see Mr. Satan disappear, but nothing of the kind occurred. Mr.

Satan took the doc.u.ment, folded it, placed it in his pocket-book, took up his hat and gloves, and said:

"Mr. William Shakespeare will call to luncheon on Thursday week. At what hour is the luncheon to be?"

"One-thirty," said Mrs. Bergmann.

"He may be a few minutes late," answered Mr. Satan. "Good afternoon, madam," and he bowed and withdrew.

Mrs. Bergmann chuckled to herself when she was alone. "I have done him," she thought to herself, "because ten million years in eternity is nothing. He might just as well have said one second as ten million years, since anything less than eternity in eternity is nothing. It is curious how stupid the devil is in spite of all his experience. Now I must think about my invitations."

II

The morning of Mrs. Bergmann's luncheon had arrived. She had asked thirteen men and nine women.

But an hour before luncheon an incident happened which nearly drove Mrs.

Bergmann distracted. One of her guests, who was also one of her most intimate friends, Mrs. Lockton, telephoned to her saying she had quite forgotten, but she had asked on that day a man to luncheon whom she did not know, and who had been sent to her by Walford, the famous professor.

She ended the message by saying she would bring the stranger with her.

"What is his name?" asked Mrs. Bergmann, not without intense irritation, meaning to put a veto on the suggestion.

"His name is----" and at that moment the telephone communication was interrupted, and in spite of desperate efforts Mrs. Bergmann was unable to get on to Mrs. Lockton again. She reflected that it was quite useless for her to send a message saying that she had no room at her table, because Angela Lockton would probably bring the stranger all the same.

Then she further reflected that in the excitement caused by the presence of Shakespeare it would not really much matter whether there was a stranger there or not. A little before half-past one the guests began to arrive. Lord Pantry of a.s.souan, the famous soldier, was the first comer. He was soon followed by Professor Morgan, an authority on Greek literature; Mr. Peebles, the ex-Prime Minister; Mrs. Hubert Baldwin, the immensely popular novelist; the fascinating Mrs. Rupert Duncan, who was lending her genius to one of Ibsen's heroines at that moment; Miss Medea Tring, one of the latest American beauties; Corporal, the portrait-painter; Richard Giles, critic and man of letters; Hereward Blenheim, a young and rising politician, who before the age of thirty had already risen higher than most men of sixty; Sir Horace Silvester, K.C.M.G., the brilliant financier, with his beautiful wife Lady Irene; Professor Leo Newcastle, the eminent man of science; Lady Hyacinth Gloucester, and Mrs. Milden, who were well known for their beauty and charm; Osmond Hall, the paradoxical playwright; Monsieur Faubourg, the psychological novelist; Count Sciarra, an Italian n.o.bleman, about fifty years old, who had written a history of the Popes, and who was now staying in London; Lady Herman, the beauty of a former generation, still extremely handsome; and Willmott, the successful actor-manager. They were all a.s.sembled in the drawing-room upstairs, talking in knots and groups, and pervaded by a feeling of pleasurable excitement and expectation, so much so that conversation was intermittent, and nearly everybody was talking about the weather. The Right Hon. John Lockton, the eminent lawyer, was the last guest to arrive.

"Angela will be here in a moment," he explained; "she asked me to come on first."

Mrs. Bergmann grew restless. It was half-past one, and no Shakespeare.

She tried to make her guests talk, with indifferent success. The expectation was too great. Everybody was absorbed by the thought of what was going to happen next. Ten minutes pa.s.sed thus, and Mrs. Bergmann grew more and more anxious.

At last the bell rang, and soon Mrs. Lockton walked upstairs, leading with her a quite insignificant, ordinary-looking, middle-aged, rather portly man with s.h.i.+ny black hair, bald on the top of his head, and a blank, good-natured expression.

"I'm so sorry to be so late, Louise, dear," she said. "Let me introduce Mr. ---- to you." And whether she had forgotten the name or not, Mrs.

Bergmann did not know or care at the time, but it was mumbled in such a manner that it was impossible to catch it. Mrs. Bergmann shook hands with him absent-mindedly, and, looking at the clock, saw that it was ten minutes to two.

"I have been deceived," she thought to herself, and anger rose in her breast like a wave. At the same time she felt the one thing necessary was not to lose her head, or let anything damp the spirits of her guests.

"We'll go down to luncheon directly," she said. "I'm expecting some one else, but he probably won't come till later." She led the way and everybody trooped downstairs to the dining-room, feeling that disappointment was in store for them. Mrs. Bergmann left the place on her right vacant; she did not dare fill it up, because in her heart of hearts she felt certain Shakespeare would arrive, and she looked forward to a _coup de theatre_, which would be quite spoilt if his place was occupied. On her left sat Count Sciarra; the unknown friend of Angela Lockton sat at the end of the table next to Willmott.

The luncheon started haltingly. Angela Lockton's friend was heard saying in a clear voice that the dust in London was very trying.

"Have you come from the country?" asked M. Faubourg. "I myself am just returned from Oxford, where I once more admired your admirable English lawns--_vos pelouses seculaires_."

"Yes," said the stranger, "I only came up to town to-day, because it seems indeed a waste and a pity to spend the finest time of the year in London."

Count Sciarra, who had not uttered a word since he had entered the house, turned to his hostess and asked her whom she considered, after herself, to be the most beautiful woman in the room, Lady Irene, Lady Hyacinth, or Mrs. Milden?

"Mrs. Milden," he went on, "has the smile of La Gioconda, and hands and hair for Leonardo to paint. Lady Gloucester," he continued, leaving out the Christian name, "is English, like one of Shakespeare's women, Desdemona or Imogen; and Lady Irene has no nationality, she belongs to the dream worlds of Sh.e.l.ley and D'Annunzio: she is the guardian Lady of Sh.e.l.ley's 'Sensitiva,' the vision of the lily. 'Quale un vaso liturgico d'argento.' And you, madame, you take away all my sense of criticism.

'Vous me troublez trop pour que je definisse votre genre de beaute.'"

Mrs. Milden was soon engaged in a deep tete-a-tete with Mr. Peebles, who was heard every now and then to say, "Quite, quite," Miss Tring was holding forth to Silvester on French sculpture, and Silvester now and again said: "Oh! really!" in the tone of intense interest which his friends knew indicated that he was being acutely bored. Lady Hyacinth was discussing Socialism with Osmond Hall, Lady Herman was discussing the theory of evolution with Professor Newcastle, Mrs. Lockton, the question of the French Church, with Faubourg; and Blenheim was discharging molten fragments of embryo exordiums and perorations on the subject of the stage to Willmott; in fact, there was a general buzz of conversation.

"Have you been to see Antony and Cleopatra?" asked Willmott of the stranger.

"Yes," said the neighbour, "I went last night; many authors have treated the subject, and the version I saw last night was very pretty. I couldn't get a programme so I didn't see who----"

"I think my version," interrupted Willmott, with pride, "is admitted to be the best."

"Ah! it is your version!" said the stranger. "I beg your pardon, I think you treated the subject very well."

"Yes," said Willmott, "it is ungrateful material, but I think I made something fine of it."

"No doubt, no doubt," said the stranger.

"Do tell us," Mrs. Baldwin was heard to ask M. Faubourg across the table, "what the young generation are doing in France? Who are the young novelists?"

"There are no young novelists worth mentioning," answered M. Faubourg.

Miss Tring broke in and said she considered "Le Visage Emerveille," by the Comtesse de Noailles, to be the most beautiful book of the century, with the exception, perhaps, of the "Tagebuch einer Verlorenen."

But from the end of the table Blenheim's utterance was heard preponderating over that of his neighbours. He was making a fine speech on the modern stage, comparing an actor-manager to Napoleon, and commenting on the campaigns of the latter in detail.

Quite heedless of this Mr. Willmott was carrying on an equally impa.s.sioned but much slower monologue on his conception of the character of Cyrano de Bergerac, which he said he intended to produce. "Cyrano,"

he said, "has been maligned by Coquelin. Coquelin is a great artist, but he did not understand Cyrano. Cyrano is a dreamer, a poet; he is a martyr of thought like Tolstoi, a sacrifice to wasted, useless action, like Hamlet; he is a Moliere come too soon, a Bayard come too late, a John the Baptist of the stage, calling out in vain in the wilderness--of bricks and mortar; he is misunderstood;--an enigma, an anachronism, a premature herald, a false dawn."

Count Sciarra was engaged in a third monologue at the head of the table.

He was talking at the same time to Mrs. Bergmann, Lady Irene, and Lady Hyacinth about the devil. "Ah que j'aime le diable!" he was saying in low, tender tones. "The devil who creates your beauty to lure us to destruction, the devil who puts honey into the voice of the siren, the dolce sirena--

"Che i marinari in mezzo il mar dismaga"

(and he hummed this line in a sing-song two or three times over)--"the devil who makes us dream and doubt, and who made life interesting by persuading Eve to eat the silver apple--what would life have been if she had not eaten the apple? We should all be in the silly trees of the Garden of Eden, and I should be sitting next to you" (he said to Mrs.

Bergmann), "without knowing that you were beautiful; que vous etes belle et que vous etes desirable; que vous etes puissante et caline, que je fais naufrage dans une mer d'amour--e il naufragio m'e dolce in questo mare--en un mot, que je vous aime."

"Life outside the garden of Eden has many drawbacks," said Mrs.

Bergmann, who, although she was inwardly pleased by Count Sciarra's remarks, saw by Lady Irene's expression that she thought he was mad.

"Aucun 'drawback,'" answered Sciarra, "n'egalerait celui de comtempler les divins contours feminins sans un frisson. Pensez donc si Madame Bergmann----"

"Count Sciarra," interrupted Mrs. Bergmann, terrified of what was coming next, "do tell me about the book you are writing on Venice."

Mrs. Lockton was at that moment discussing portraiture in novels with M.

Faubourg, and during a pause Miss Tring was heard to make the following remark: "And is it true M. Faubourg, that 'Cecile' in 'La Mauvaise Bonte' is a portrait of some one you once loved and who treated you very badly?"