Books: Ardath

M >> Marie Corelli >> Ardath

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"Don't think it, Villiers!" exclaimed Alwyn impetuously.. "There
is a mettle in the English that will never be conquered!"

Villiers shrugged his shoulders. "We will hope so, my dear boy!"
he said resignedly. "But the 'mettle' under bad government, with
bad weapons, and more or less untried ships, can scarcely be
blamed if it should not be able to resist a tremendous force
majeure. Besides, all the Parliaments in the world cannot upset
the laws of the universe. If things are false and corrupt, they
MUST be swept away,--Nature will not have them,--she will
transmute and transform them somehow, no matter at what cost. It
is the cry of the old Prophets over again,--'Because ye have not
obeyed God's Law, therefore shall ye meet with destruction.'
Egoism is certainly NOT God's Law, and we shall have to return on
our imagined progressive steps, and be beaten with rods of
affliction, till we understand what His Law IS. It is, for one
thing, the wheel that keeps this Universe going--OUR laws are no
use whatever in the management of His sublime cosmos! Nations,
like individuals, are punished for their own wilful misdeeds--the
punishment may be tardy, but sure as death it comes. And I fancy
America will be our 'scourge in the Lord's hand'--as the Bible
hath it. That pretty, dollar-crusted young Republican wants an
aristocracy, . . she will engraft it on the old roots here,--in
fact, she has already begun to engraft it. It is even on the cards
that she may need a Monarchy--if she does, she will plant it..
HERE! Then it will be time for Englishmen to adopt another
country, and forget, if they can, their own disgraced nationality.
And yet, if, as Shakespeare says, England were to herself but
true,--if she had great statesmen as of yore,--intellectual,
earnest, self-abnegating, fearless, unhesitating workers, who
would devote themselves heart and soul to her welfare, she might
gather, not only her Colonies, but America also, to her knee, as a
mother gathers children, and the most magnificent Christian Empire
the world has ever seen might rise up, a supreme marvel of
civilization and union that would make all other nations wonder
and revere. But the selfishness of the day, and the ruling passion
of gain, are the fatal obstructions in the path of such a
desirable millennium."

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 customary 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?"

"My name doesn't in the least matter," she replied calmly--"though
I will tell you afterward if you wish. But you don't seem to
understand I..._I_ am 'Tiger-Lily'!"

The situation was becoming ludicrous. Villiers felt strongly
disposed to laugh.

"I'm afraid I am very ignorant!"--he said, with a humorous sparkle
in his blue eyes,--"But really I am quite in the dark as to your
meaning. Will you explain?"

The lady's nose grew deeper of tint, and the look she shot at him
had quite a killing vindictiveness. With evident difficulty she
forced a smile.

"Oh, you MUST have heard of me!"--she declared, with a ponderous
attempt at playfulness--"You read the papers, don't you?"

"Some of them," returned Villiers cautiously--"Not all. Not the
Sunday ones, for instance."

"Still, you can't possibly have helped seeing my descriptions of
famous people 'At Home,' you know! I write for ever so many
journals. I think"--and she became complacently reflective--"I
think I may say with perfect truth that I have interviewed
everybody who has ever done anything worth noting, from our
biggest provision dealer to our latest sensational novelist! And
all my articles are signed 'Tiger-Lily.' NOW do you remember? Oh,
you MUST remember? ... I am so VERY well known!"

There was a touch of genuine anxiety in her voice that was almost
pathetic, but Villiers made no attempt to soothe her wounded
vanity.

"I have no recollection whatever of the name," he said bluntly--
"But that is easily accounted for, as I never read newspaper
descriptions of celebrities. So you are an 'interviewer' for the
Press?"

"Exactly!" and the lady leaned back more comfortably in the Louis
Quatorze fauteuil--"And of course I want to interview Mr. Alwyn. I
want..." here drawing out a business looking note-book from her
pocket she opened it and glanced at the different headings therein
enumerated,--"I want to describe his personal appearance,--to know
when he was born, and where he was educated,--whether his father
or mother had literary tastes,--whether he had, or has, brothers
or sisters, or both,--whether he is married, or likely to be, and
how much money he has made by his book." She paused and gave an
upward glance at Villiers, who returned it with a blank and stony
stare.

"Then,"--she resumed energetically--"I wish to know what are his
methods of work;--WHERE he gets his ideas and HOW he elaborates
them,--how many hours he writes at a time, and whether he is an
early riser,--also what he usually takes for dinner,--whether he
drinks wine or is a total abstainer, and at what hour he retires
to rest. All this is so INTENSELY interesting to the public!
Perhaps he might be inclined to give me a few notes of his recent
tour in the East, and of course I should be very glad if he will
state his opinions on the climate, customs, and governments of the
countries through which he has passed. It's a great pity this is
not his own house,--it is a pretty place and a description of it
would read well. Let me see!"--and she meditated,--" I think I
could manage to insert a few lines about this apartment, . . it
would be easy to say 'the picturesque library in the house of the
Honble. Francis Villiers, where Mr. Alwyn received me,' etc.,--
Yes! that would do very well!--very well indeed! I should like to
know whether he has a residence of his own anywhere, and if not,
whether he intends to take one in London, because in the latter
case it would be as well to ascertain by whom he intends to have
it furnished. A little discussion on upholstery is so specially
fascinating to my readers! Then, naturally, I am desirous to learn
how the erroneous rumor of his death was first started, . . whether
in the course of his travels he met with some serious accident, or
illness, which gave rise to the report. Now,"--and she shut her
note-book and folded her hands,--"I don't mind waiting an hour or
more if necessary,--but I am sure if you will tell Mr. Alwyn who I
am, and what I have come for, he will be only too delighted to see
me with as little delay as possible."

She ceased. Villiers drew a long breath,--his compressed lips
parted in a slightly sarcastic smile. Squaring his shoulders with
that peculiar pugnacious gesture of his which always indicated to
those who knew him well that his mind was made up, and that
nothing would induce him to alter it, he said in a tone of stiff
civility:

"I am sorry, madam, . . very sorry! ... but I am compelled to inform
you that your visit here is entirely useless! Were I to tell my
friend of the purpose you have in view concerning him, he would
not feel so much flattered as you seem to imagine, but rather
insulted! Excuse my frankness,--you have spoken plainly,--I must
speak plainly too. Provision dealers and sensational story writers
may find that it serves their purpose to be interviewed, if only
as a means of gaining extra advertisement, but a truly great and
conscientious author like Theos Alwyn is quite above all that sort
of thing."

The lady raised her pale eyebrows with an expression of
interrogative scorn.

"ABOVE all that sort of thing!" she echoed incredulously--"Dear
me! How very extraordinary! I have always found all our
celebrities so exceedingly pleased to be given a little additional
notoriety! ... and I should have thought a POET," this with much
depreciative emphasis--"would have been particularly glad of the
chance! Because, of course you know that unless a very astonishing
success is made, as in the case of Mr. Alwyn's 'Nourhalma,' people
really take such slight interest in writers of verse, that it is
hardly ever worth while interviewing them!"

"Precisely!" agreed Villiers ironically,--"The private history of
a prize-fighter would naturally be much more thrilling!" He
paused,--his temper was fast rising, but, quickly reflecting that,
after all, the indignation he felt was not so much against his
visitor as against the system she represented, he resumed quietly,
"May I ask you, madam, whether you have ever 'interviewed' Her
Majesty the Queen?"