Books: Ardath

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Her glance swept slightingly over him.

"Certainly not! Such a thing would be impossible!"

"Then you have never thought," went on Villiers, with a thrill of
earnestness in his manly, vibrating voice--"that it might be quite
as impossible to 'interview' a great Poet?--who, if great indeed,
is in every way as royal as any Sovereign that ever adorned a
throne! I do not speak of petty verse-writers,--I say a great
Poet, by which term I imply a great creative genius who is
honestly faithful to his high vocation. Such an one could no more
tell you his methods of work than a rainbow could prattle about
the way it shines,--and as for his personal history, I should like
to know by what right society is entitled to pry into the sacred
matters of a man's private life, simply because he happens to be
famous? I consider the modern love of prying and probing into
other people's affairs a most degrading and abominable sign of the
times,--it is morbid, unwholesome, and utterly contemptible.
Moreover, I think that writers who consent to be 'interviewed'
condemn themselves as literary charlatans, unworthy of the
profession they have wrongfully adopted. You see I have the
courage of my opinions on this matter,--in fact, I believe, if
every one were to speak their honest mind openly, a better state
of things might be the result, and 'interviewing' would gradually
come to be considered in its true light, namely, as a vulgar and
illegitimate method of advertisement. I mean no disrespect to you,
madam,"--this, as the lady suddenly put down her veil, thrust her
note-book in her pocket, and rose somewhat bouncingly from her
chair--"I am only sorry you should find such an occupation as that
of the 'interviewer' open to you. I can scarcely imagine such work
to be congenial to a lady's feelings, as, in the case of really
distinguished personages, she must assuredly meet with many a
rebuff! I hope I have not offended you by my bluntness, ... "--
here he trailed off into inaudible polite murmurs, while the
"Tiger-Lily" marched steadily toward the door.

"Oh dear, no, I am not in the least offended!" she retorted
contemptuously,--"On the contrary, this has been a most amusing
experience!--most amusing, I assure you! and quite unique! Why--"
and suddenly stopping short, she turned smartly round and
gesticulated with one hand ... "I have interviewed all the
favorite actors and actresses in London! The biggest brewers in
Great Britain have received me at their country mansions, and have
given me all the particulars of their lives from earliest
childhood! The author of 'Hugger Mugger's Curse' took the greatest
pains to explain to me how he first collected the materials for
his design. The author of that most popular story, 'Darling's
Twins,' gave me a description of all the houses he has ever lived
in,--he even told me where he purchased his writing-paper, pens,
and ink! And to think that a POET should be too grand to be
interrogated! Oh, the idea is really very funny! ... quite too
funny for anything! "She gave a short laugh,--then relapsing into
severity, she added ... "You will, I hope, tell Mr. Alwyn I
called?"

Villiers bowed. "Assuredly!"

"Thank you! Because it is possible he may have different opinions
to yours,--in that case, if he writes me a line, fixing an
appointment, I shall be very pleased to call again. I will leave
my card,--and if Mr. Alwyn is a sensible man, he will certainly
hold broader ideas on the subject of 'interviewing' than YOU
appear to entertain. You are QUITE sure I cannot see him?"

"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
assure you Alwyn's not at all the sort of man you want for
interviewing,--he's far too modest and noble-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-fashioned, 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 assure 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 fashion 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 amusement 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, Ecanus,
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 God,--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 God 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 multitude, a
man may be able to pronounce one of God'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 noble thought, and still more
noble 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 assure you that miracles DO happen whenever God 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 manuscripts, he put them by--"I've done
work for the present,"--he said--"Shall we go for a walk
somewhere?"

Villiers assented, and they left the room together.

CHAPTER XXXV.

ONE AGAINST MANY.

The beautiful and socially popular Duchess 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
lustre 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 noble 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 embarrassed 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 Duchess's drawing-room that evening, and had there been
introduced to his hostess, had been a sort of revelation to the
languid, fashionable guests assembled; sudden quick whispers were
exchanged--surprised glances,--how unlike he was to the general
type of the nervous, fagged, 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 Duchess 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 BANAL,--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 Duchess 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 impassiveness 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
passions; 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 Duchesse 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
platitudes 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 Godlike in Man,--this uncomfortably
sincere personage, whose eyes were clear of falsehood, whose
genius was incontestable, whose fame had taken society by assault,
and who, therefore, was entitled 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 analytical 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 noble 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 illustrious,--no matter whether he
deserved the appellation or not. And so the Duke, satirically
amused at the obvious embarrassment of the other "notabilities"
assembled, 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 passages 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 analysis of
the circumstances: 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 passion 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 assured 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."