Ardath: The Story of a Dead Self Part 48

"Quite!"--There was no mistake about the firm emphasis of this reply.

"Oh, very well!"--here she opened the door, rattling the handle with rather an unnecessary violence,--"I'm sorry to have taken up any of your time, Mr. Villiers. Good-morning!"

"Good-morning!" ... returned Villiers calmly, touching the bell that his servant might be in readiness to show her out. But the baffled "Tiger-Lily" was not altogether gone. She looked back, her face wrinkling into one of those strangely unbecoming expressions of grim playfulness.

"I've half a mind to make an 'At Home' out of YOU!" she said, nodding at him energetically. "Only you're not important enough!"

Villiers burst out laughing. He was not proof against this touch of humor, and on a sudden good-natured impulse, sprang to the door and shook hands with her.

"No, indeed, I am not!" he said, with a charming smile--"Think of it!--I haven't even invented a new biscuit! Come, let me see you into the hall,--I'm really sorry if I've spoken roughly, but I a.s.sure you Alwyn's not at all the sort of man you want for interviewing,--he's far too modest and n.o.ble-hearted. Believe me!--I'm not romancing a bit--I'm in earnest. There ARE some few fine, manly, gifted fellows left in the world, who do their work for the love of the work alone, and not for the sake of notoriety, and he is one of them. Now I'm not certain, if you were quite candid with me, you'd admit that you yourself don't think much of the people who actually LIKE to be interviewed?"

His amiable glance, his kindly manner, took the gaunt female by surprise, and threw her quite off her guard. She laughed,--a natural, unforced laugh in which there was not a trace of bitterness. He was really a delightful young man, she thought, in spite of his old-fas.h.i.+oned, out-of-the-way notions!

"Well, perhaps I don't!" she replied frankly--"But you see it is not my business to think about them at all. I simply 'interview' them,--and I generally find they are very willing, and often eager, to tell me all about themselves, even to quite trifling and unnecessary details. And, of course, each one thinks himself or herself the ONLY or the chief 'celebrity' in London, or, for that matter, in the world. I have always to tone down the egotistical part of it a little, especially with authors, for if I were to write out exactly what THEY separately say of their contemporaries, it would be simply frightful! They would be all at daggers drawn in no time! I a.s.sure you 'interviewing' is often a most delicate and difficult business!"

"Would it were altogether impossible!" said Villiers heartily--"But as long as there is a plethora of little authors, and a scarcity of great ones, so long, I suppose, must it continue--for little men love notoriety, and great ones shrink from it, just in the same way that good women like flattery, while bad ones court it. I hope you don't bear me any grudge because I consider my friend Alwyn both good and great, and resent the idea of his being placed, no matter with what excellent intention soever, on the level of the small and mean?"

The lady surveyed him with a twinkle of latent approval in her pale-colored eyes.

"Not in the least!" she replied in a tone of perfect good-humor. "On the contrary, I rather admire your frankness! Still, I think, that as matters stand nowadays, you are very odd,--and I suppose your friend is odd too,--but, of course, there must be exceptions to every rule. At the same time, you should recollect that, in many people's opinion, to be 'interviewed' is one of the chiefest rewards of fame!--" Villiers shrugged his shoulders expressively. "Oh, yes, it seems a poor reward to you, no doubt,"--she continued smilingly,--"but there are no end of authors who would do anything to secure the notoriety of it! Now, suppose that, after all, Mr. Alwyn DOES care to submit to the operation, you will let me know, won't you?"

"Certainly I will!"--and Villiers, accepting her card, on which was inscribed her own private name and address, shook hands once more, and bowed her courteously out. No sooner had the door closed upon her than he sprang upstairs, three steps at a time, and broke impetuously in upon Alwyn, who, seated at a table covered with papers, looked up with a surprised smile at the abrupt fas.h.i.+on of his entrance. In a few minutes he had disburdened himself of the whole story of the "Tiger-Lily's" visit, telling it in a whimsical way of his own, much to the amus.e.m.e.nt of his friend, who listened, pen in hand, with a half-laughing, half-perplexed light in his fine, poetic eyes.

"Now did I express the proper opinion?" he demanded in conclusion. "Was I not right in thinking you would never consent to be interviewed?"

"Right? Why of course you were!"--responded Alwyn quickly. "Can you imagine me calmly stating the details of my personal life and history to a strange woman, and allowing her to turn it into a half-guinea article for some society journal! But, Villiers, what an extraordinary state of things we are coming to, if the Press can actually condescend to employ a sort of spy, or literary detective, to inquire into the private experience of each man or woman who comes honorably to the front!"

"Honorably or DIShonorably,--it doesn't matter which,"--said Villiers, "That is just the worst of it. One day it is an author who is 'interviewed,' the next it is a murderer,--now a statesman,--then a ballet dancer,--the same honor is paid to all who have won any distinct notoriety. And what is so absurd is, that the reading million don't seem able to distinguish between 'notoriety' and 'fame.' The two things are so widely, utterly apart! Byron's reputation, for instance, was much more notoriety during his life than fame--while Keats had actually laid hold on fame while as yet deeming himself unfamous. It's curious, but true, nevertheless, that very often the writers who thought least of themselves during their lifetime have become the most universally renowned after their deaths. Shakespeare, I dare say, had no very exaggerated idea of the beauty of his own plays,--he seems to have written just the best that was in him, without caring what anybody thought of it. And I believe that is the only way to succeed in the end."

"In the end!" repeated Alwyn dreamily--"In the end, no worldly success is worth attaining,--a few thousand years and the greatest are forgotten!"

"Not the GREATEST,"--said Villiers warmly--"The greatest must always be remembered."

"No, my friend!--Not even the greatest! Do you not think there must have been great and wise and gifted men in Tyre, in Sidon, in Carthage, in Babylon?--There are five men mentioned in Scripture, as being 'ready to write swiftly'--Sarea, Dabria, Selemia, Eca.n.u.s, and Ariel--where is the no doubt admirable work done by these? Perhaps ... who knows? ...

one of them was as great as Homer in genius,--we cannot tell!"

"True,--we cannot tell!" responded Villiers meditatively--"But, Alwyn, if you persist in viewing things through such tremendous vistas of time, and in measuring the Future by the Past, then one may ask what is the use of anything?"

"There IS no use in anything, except in the making of a strong, persistent, steady effort after good," said Alwyn earnestly ... "We men are cast, as it were, between two swift currents, Wrong and Right,--Self and G.o.d,--and it seems more easy to shut our eyes and drift into Self and Wrong, than to strike out brave arms, and swim, despite all difficulty, toward G.o.d and Right, yet if we once take the latter course, we shall find it the most natural and the least fatiguing. And with every separate stroke of high endeavor we carry others with us,--we raise our race,--we bear it onward,--upward! And the true reward, or best result of fame, is, that having succeeded in winning brief attention from the mult.i.tude, a man may be able to p.r.o.nounce one of G.o.d's lightning messages of inspired Truth plainly to them, while they are yet willing to stand and listen. This momentary hearing from the people is, as I take it, the sole reward any writer can dare to hope for,--and when he obtains it, he should remember that his audience remains with him but a very short while,--so that it is his duty to see that he employ his chance WELL, not to win applause for himself, but to cheer and lift others to n.o.ble thought, and still more n.o.ble fulfilment."

Villiers regarded him wistfully.

"Alwyn, my dear fellow, do you want to be the Sisyphus of this era?--You will find the stone of Evil heavy to roll upward,--moreover, it will exhibit the usually painful tendency to slip back and crush you!"

"How can it crush me?" asked his friend with a serene smile. "My heart cannot be broken, or my spirit dismayed, and as for my body, it can but die,--and death comes to every man! I would rather try to roll up the stone, however fruitless the task, than sit idly looking at it, and doing nothing!"

"Your heart cannot be broken? Ah! how do you know" ... and Villiers shook his head dubiously--"What man can be certain of his own destiny?"

"Everyman can WILL his own destiny,"--returned Alwyn firmly. "That is just it. But here we are getting into a serious discussion, and I had determined to talk no more on such subjects till to-night."

"And to-night we are to go in for them thoroughly, I suppose?"--inquired Villiers with a quick look. "To-night, my dear boy, you will have to decide whether you consider me mad or sane," said Alwyn cheerfully--"I shall tell you truths that seem like romances--and facts that sound like fables,--moreover, I shall have to a.s.sure you that miracles DO happen whenever G.o.d chooses, in spite of all human denial of their possibility. Do you remember Whately's clever skit--'Historical Doubts of Napoleon I'?--showing how easy it was to logically prove that Napoleon never existed?--That ought to enlighten people as to the very precise and convincing manner in which we can, if we choose, argue away what is nevertheless an incontestible FACT. Thus do skeptics deny miracles--yet we live surrounded by miracles! ... do you think me crazed for saying so?"

Villiers laughed. "Crazed! No, indeed!--I wish every man in London were as sane and sound as you are!"

"Ah, but wait till to-night!" and Alwyn's eyes sparkled mirthfully--"Perhaps you will alter your opinion then!"--Here, collecting his scattered ma.n.u.scripts, he put them by--"I've done work for the present,"--he said--"Shall we go for a walk somewhere?"

Villiers a.s.sented, and they left the room together.

CHAPTER x.x.xV.

ONE AGAINST MANY.

The beautiful and socially popular d.u.c.h.ess de la Santoisie sat her at brilliantly appointed dinner-table, and flashed her bright eyes comprehensively round the board,--her party was complete. She had secured twenty of the best-known men and women of letters in all London, and yet she was not quite satisfied with the result attained.

One dark, splendid face on her right hand had taken the l.u.s.tre out of all the rest,--one quiet, courteous smile on a mouth haughty, yet sweet, had somehow or other made the entertainment of little worth in her own estimation. She was very fair to look upon, very witty, very worldly-wise,--but for once her beauty seemed to herself defective and powerless to charm, while the graceful cloak of social hypocrisy she was always accustomed to wear would not adapt itself to her manner tonight so well as usual. The author of "Nourhalma" the successful poet whose acquaintance she had very eagerly sought to make, was not at all the kind of man she had expected,--and now, when he was beside her as her guest, she did not quite know what to do with him.

She had met plenty of poets, so called, before,--and had, for the most part, found them insignificant looking men with an enormous opinion of themselves, and a suave, condescending contempt for all others of their craft; but this being,--this stately, kingly creature with the n.o.ble head, and far-gazing, luminous eyes,--this man, whose every gesture was graceful, whose demeanor was more royal than that of many a crowned monarch,--whose voice had such a singular soft thrill of music in its tone,--he was a personage for whom she had not been prepared,--and in whose presence she felt curiously embarra.s.sed and almost ill at ease.

And she was not the only one present who experienced these odd sensations. Alwyn's appearance, when, with his friend Villiers, he had first entered the d.u.c.h.ess's drawing-room that evening, and had there been introduced to his hostess, had been a sort of revelation to the languid, fas.h.i.+onable guests a.s.sembled; sudden quick whispers were exchanged--surprised glances,--how unlike he was to the general type of the nervous, f.a.gged, dyspeptic "literary" man!

And now that every one was seated at dinner, the same impression remained on all,--an impression that was to some disagreeable and humiliating, and that yet could not be got over,--namely, that this "poet," whom, in a way, the d.u.c.h.ess and her friends had intended to patronize, was distinctly superior to them all. Nature, as though proud of her handiwork, proclaimed him as such,--while he, quite unconscious of the effect he produced, wondered why this bevy of human beings, most of whom were more or less distinguished in the world of art and literature, had so little to say for themselves. Their conversation was Ba.n.a.l,--tame,--ordinary; they might have been well-behaved, elegantly dressed peasants for aught they said of wise, cheerful, or witty. The weather,--the parks,--the theatres,--the newest actress, and the newest remedies for indigestion,--these sort of subjects were bandied about from one to the other with a vaguely tame persistence that was really irritating,--the question of remedies for indigestion seemed to hold ground longest, owing to the variety of opinions expressed thereon.

The d.u.c.h.ess grew more and more inwardly vexed, and her little foot beat an impatient tattoo under the table, as she replied with careless brevity to a few of the commonplace observations addressed to her, and cast an occasional annoyed glance at her lord, M le Duc, a thin, military-looking individual, with a well waxed and pointed mustache, whose countenance suggested an admirably executed mask. It was a face that said absolutely nothing,--yet beneath its cold impa.s.siveness linked the satyr-like, complex, half civilized, half brutish mind of the born and bred Parisian,--the goblin-creature with whom pure virtues, whether in man or woman, are no more sacred than nuts to a monkey. The suave charm of a polished civility sat on M le Due's smooth brow, and beamed in his urbane smile,--his manners were exquisite, his courtesy irreproachable, his whole demeanor that of a very precise and elegant master of deportment. Yet, notwithstanding his calm and perfectly self-possessed exterior, he was, oddly enough, the frequent prey of certain extraordinary and ungovernable pa.s.sions; there were times when he became impossible to himself,--and when, to escape from his own horrible thoughts, he would plunge headlong into an orgie of wild riot and debauchery, such as might have made the hair of his respectable English acquaintances stand on end, had they known to what an extent he carried his excesses. But at these seasons of moral attack, he "went abroad for his health," as he said, delicately touching his chest in order to suggest some interesting latent weakness there, and in these migratory excursions his wife never accompanied him, nor did she complain of his absence. When he returned, after two or three months, he looked more the "chevalier sans peur et sans reproche" than ever; and neither he, nor the fair partner of his joys and sorrows, even committed such a breach of politeness as to inquire into each other's doings during the time of their separation. So they jogged on together, presenting the most delightful outward show of wedded harmony to the world,--and only a few were found to hazard the remark, that the "racy" novels Madame la d.u.c.h.esse wrote to wile away her duller hours were singularly "bitter" in tone, for a woman whose lot in life was so extremely enviable!

On this particular evening, the Duke affected to be utterly unconscious of the meaning looks his beautiful spouse shot at him every now and then,--looks which plainly said--"Why don't you start some interesting subject of conversation, and stop these people from talking such every-day twaddle?" He was a clever man in his way, and his present mood was malign and mischievous; therefore he went on eating daintily, and discussing mild plat.i.tudes in the most languidly amiable manner imaginable, enjoying to the full the mental confusion and discomfort of his guests,--confusion and discomfort which, as he very well knew, was the psychological result of their having one in their midst whose life and character were totally opposite to, and distinctly separate from, their own. As Emerson truly says, "Let the world beware when a Thinker comes into it!".. and here WAS this Thinker,--this type of the G.o.dlike in Man,--this uncomfortably sincere personage, whose eyes were clear of falsehood, whose genius was incontestable, whose fame had taken society by a.s.sault, and who, therefore, was ent.i.tled to receive every attention and consideration.

Everybody had desired to see him, and here he was,--the great man, the new "celebrity"--and now that he was actually present, no one knew what to say to him; moreover, there was a very general tendency in the company to avoid his direct gaze. People fidgeted on their chairs and looked aside or downward, whenever his glance accidentally fell on them,--and to the a.n.a.lytical Voltairean mind of M. le Duc there was something grimly humorous in the whole situation. He was a great admirer of physical strength and beauty, and Alwyn's n.o.ble face and fine figure had won his respect, though of the genius of the poet he knew nothing, and cared less. It was enough for all the purposes of social usage that the author of "Nourhalma" was CONSIDERED ill.u.s.trious,--no matter whether he deserved the appellation or not. And so the Duke, satirically amused at the obvious embarra.s.sment of the other "notabilities" a.s.sembled, did nothing whatsoever to relieve or to lighten the conversation, which remained so utterly dull and inane that Alwyn, who had been compelled, for politeness' sake, to appear interested in the account of a bicycle race detailed to him by a very masculine looking lady-doctor whose seat at table was next his own, began to feel a little weary, and to wonder dismally how long this "feast of reason and flow of soul" was going to last.

Villiers, too, whose easy, good-natured, and clever talk generally gave some sparkle and animation to the dreariest social gathering, was to-night unusually taciturn:--he was bored by his partner, a middle-aged woman with a mania for philology, and, moreover, his thoughts, like those of most of the persons present, were centered on Alwyn, whom every now and then he regarded with a certain wistful wonder and reverence. He had heard the whole story of the Field of Ardath; and he knew not how much to accept of it as true, or how much to set down to his friend's ardent imagination. He had come to a fairly logical explanation of the whole matter,--namely, that as the City of Al-Kyris had been proved a dream, so surely the visit of the Angel-maiden Edris must have been a dream likewise,--that the trance at the Monastery of Dariel, followed by the constant reading of the pa.s.sages from Esdras, and the treatise of Algazzali, had produced a vivid impression on Alwyn's susceptible brain, which had resolved itself into the visionary result narrated.

He found in this the most practical and probable view of what must otherwise be deemed by mortal minds incredible; and, being a frank and honest fellow, he had not scrupled to openly tell his friend what he thought. Alwyn had received his remarks with the most perfect sweetness and equanimity,--but, all the same, had remained unchanged in his opinion as to the REALITY of his betrothal to his Angel-love in Heaven.

And one or two points had certainly baffled Villiers, and perplexed him in his would-be precise a.n.a.lysis of the circ.u.mstances: first, there was the remarkable change in Alwyn's own nature. From an embittered, sarcastic, disappointed, violently ambitious man, he had become softened, gracious, kindly,--showing the greatest tenderness and forethought for others, even in small, every-day trifles; while for himself he took no care. He wore his fame as lightly as a child might wear a flower, just plucked and soon to fade,--his intelligence seemed to expand itself into a broad, loving, sympathetic comprehension of the wants and afflictions of human-kind; and he was writing a new poem, of which Villiers had seen some lines that had fairly amazed him by their grandeur of conception and clear pa.s.sion of utterance. Thus it was evident there was no morbidness in him,--no obscurity,--nothing eccentric,--nothing that removed him in any way from his fellows, except that royal personality of his,--that strong, beautiful, well-balanced Spirit in him, which exercised such a bewildering spell on all who came within its influence, He believed himself loved by an Angel! Well,--if there WERE angels, why not? Villiers argued the proposition thus:

"Whether we are Christians, Jews, Buddhists, or Mahometans, we are supposed to accept angels as forming part of the system of our Faith.

If we are nothing,--then, of course, we believe in nothing. But granted we are SOMETHING, then we are bound in honor, if consistent, to acknowledge that angels help to guide our destinies. And if, as we are a.s.sured by Holy Writ, such loftier beings DO exist, why should they not communicate with, and even love, human creatures, provided those human creatures are worthy of their tenderness? Certainly, viewed by all the chief religions of the world, there is nothing new or outrageous in the idea of an angel descending to the help of man."

Such thoughts as these were in his mind now, as he ever and anon glanced across the glittering table, with its profusion of lights and flowers, to where his poet-friend sat, slightly leaning back in his chair, with a certain half-perplexed, half-disappointed expression on his handsome features, though his eyes brightened into a smile as he caught Villiers's look, and he gave the smallest, scarcely perceptible shrug, as who should say, "Is this your brilliant d.u.c.h.ess?--your witty and cultured society?"

Villiers flashed back an amused, responsive glance, and then conscientiously strove to pay more attention to the irrepressible feminine philologist beside him, determining to take her, as he said to himself, by way of penance for his unremembered sins. After a while there came one of those extraordinary, sudden rushes of gabble that often occur at even the stiffest dinner-party,--a galloping race of tongues, in which nothing really distinct is heard, but in which each talks to the other as though moved by an impulse of sheer desperation.

This burst of noise was a relief after the strained murmurs of trite commonplaces that had hitherto been the order of the hour, and the fair d.u.c.h.ess, somewhat easier in her mind, turned anew to Alwyn, with greater grace and gentleness of manner than she had yet shown.

"I am afraid," she said smilingly, "you must find us all very stupid after your travels abroad? In England we ARE dull,--our tristesse cannot be denied. But, really, the climate is responsible,--we want more suns.h.i.+ne. I suppose in the East, where the sun is so warm and bright, the people are always cheerful?"

"On the contrary, I have found them rather serious and contemplative than otherwise," returned Alwyn,--"yet their gravity is certainly of a pleasant, and not of a forbidding type. I don't myself think the sun has much to do with the disposition of man, after all,--I fancy his temperament is chiefly moulded by the life he leads. In the East, for instance, men accept their existence as a sort of divine command, which they obey cheerfully, yet with a consciousness of high responsibility:--on the Continent they take it as a bagatelle, lightly won, lightly lost, hence their indifferent, almost childish, gayety;--but in Great Britain"--and he smiled,--"it looks nowadays as if it were viewed very generally as a personal injury and bore,--a kind of t.i.tle bestowed without the necessary money to keep it up! And this money people set themselves steadily to obtain, with many a weary grunt and groan, while they are, for the most part, forgetful of anything else life may have to offer."

"But what IS life without plenty of money?" inquired the d.u.c.h.ess carelessly--"Surely, not worth the trouble of living!"