The Sorrows of Satan
by Marie Corelli · English · Gutenberg #42332 · 938,520 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Sorrows of Satan
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The Sorrows of Satan
Author: Marie Corelli
Release date: March 14, 2013 [eBook #42332]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42332
Credits: Produced by Julie Barkley, David Wilson and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SORROWS OF SATAN ***
THE SORROWS OF SATAN
OR
THE STRANGE EXPERIENCE OF ONE
GEOFFREY TEMPEST, MILLIONAIRE
A ROMANCE
BY MARIE CORELLI
METHUEN & CO. LTD., LONDON
_36 Essex Street W.C._
_First Published November 1895
Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth, Seventh,
Eighth, Ninth, Tenth Editions 1895
Eleventh, Twelfth, Thirteenth, Fourteenth, Fifteenth,
Sixteenth, Seventeenth, Eighteenth, Nineteenth,
Twentieth, Twenty-first, Twenty-second, Twenty-third,
Twenty-fourth, Twenty-fifth, Twenty-sixth,
Twenty-seventh, Twenty-eighth, Twenty-ninth,
Thirtieth, Thirty-first, Thirty-second Editions 1896
Thirty-third, Thirty-fourth, Thirty-fifth, Thirty-sixth
Editions 1897
Thirty-seventh, Thirty-eighth, Thirty-ninth
Editions 1898
Fortieth and Forty-first Editions 1899
Forty-second Edition 1900
Forty-third and Forty-fourth Editions 1901
Forty-fifth and Forty-sixth Editions 1902
Forty-seventh Edition 1903
Forty-eighth Edition 1904
Forty-ninth and Fiftieth Editions 1905
Fifty-first Edition 1906
Fifty-second and Fifty-third Editions 1907
Fifty-fourth Edition 1908
Fifty-fifth Edition 1909
Fifty-sixth Edition 1910
Fifty-seventh Edition 1911
Fifty-eighth Edition 1913
Fifty-ninth Edition 1914
Sixtieth Edition 1916
Sixty-first Edition 1917
Sixty-second and Sixty-third Editions 1918
Sixty-fourth Edition 1920
Sixty-fifth Edition (Cheap Edition) 1920
Sixty-sixth Edition " " 1922
Sixty-seventh Edition " " 1931
Sixty-eighth Edition " " 1936
Reprinted, 1952_
68.2
CATALOGUE NO. 2075/V
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
THE SORROWS OF SATAN
I
Do you know what it is to be poor? Not poor with the arrogant poverty
complained of by certain people who have five or six thousand a year to
live upon, and who yet swear they can hardly manage to make both ends
meet, but really poor,--downright, cruelly, hideously poor, with a
poverty that is graceless, sordid and miserable? Poverty that compels
you to dress in your one suit of clothes till it is worn
threadbare,--that denies you clean linen on account of the ruinous
charges of washerwomen,--that robs you of your own self-respect, and
causes you to slink along the streets vaguely abashed, instead of
walking erect among your fellow-men in independent ease,--this is the
sort of poverty I mean. This is the grinding curse that keeps down noble
aspiration under a load of ignoble care; this is the moral cancer that
eats into the heart of an otherwise well-intentioned human creature and
makes him envious and malignant, and inclined to the use of dynamite.
When he sees the fat idle woman of society passing by in her luxurious
carriage, lolling back lazily, her face mottled with the purple and red
signs of superfluous eating,--when he observes the brainless and sensual
man of fashion smoking and dawdling away the hours in the Park, as if
all the world and its millions of honest hard workers were created
solely for the casual diversion of the so-called 'upper' classes,--then
the good blood in him turns to gall, and his suffering spirit rises in
fierce rebellion, crying out--"Why in God's name, should this injustice
be? Why should a worthless lounger have his pockets full of gold by mere
chance and heritage, while I, toiling wearily from morn till midnight,
can scarce afford myself a satisfying meal?"
Why indeed! Why should the wicked flourish like a green bay-tree? I have
often thought about it. Now however I believe I could help to solve the
problem out of my own personal experience. But ... such an experience!
Who will credit it? Who will believe that anything so strange and
terrific ever chanced to the lot of a mortal man? No one. Yet it is
true;--truer than much so-called truth. Moreover I know that many men
are living through many such incidents as have occurred to me, under
precisely the same influence, conscious perhaps at times, that they are
in the tangles of sin, but too weak of will to break the net in which
they have become voluntarily imprisoned. Will they be taught, I wonder,
the lesson I have learned? In the same bitter school, under the same
formidable taskmaster? Will they realize as I have been forced to
do,--aye, to the very fibres of my intellectual perception,--the vast,
individual, active Mind, which behind all matter, works unceasingly,
though silently, a very eternal and positive God? If so, then dark
problems will become clear to them, and what seems injustice in the
world will prove pure equity! But I do not write with any hope of either
persuading or enlightening my fellow-men. I know their obstinacy too
well;--I can gauge it by my own. My proud belief in myself was, at one
time, not to be outdone by any human unit on the face of the globe. And
I am aware that others are in similar case. I merely intend to relate
the various incidents of my career in due order exactly as they
happened,--leaving to more confident heads the business of propounding
and answering the riddles of human existence as best they may.
During a certain bitter winter, long remembered for its arctic severity,
when a great wave of intense cold spread freezing influences not alone
over the happy isles of Britain, but throughout all Europe, I, Geoffrey
Tempest, was alone in London and well-nigh starving. Now a starving man
seldom gets the sympathy he merits,--so few can be persuaded to believe
in him. Worthy folks who have just fed to repletion are the most
incredulous, some of them being even moved to smile when told of
existing hungry people, much as if these were occasional jests invented
for after-dinner amusement. Or, with that irritating vagueness of
attention which characterizes fashionable folk to such an extent that
when asking a question they neither wait for the answer nor understand
it when given, the well-dined groups, hearing of some one starved to
death, will idly murmur 'How dreadful!' and at once turn to the
discussion of the latest 'fad' for killing time, ere it takes to killing
them with sheer _ennui_. The pronounced fact of being hungry sounds
coarse and common, and is not a topic for polite society, which always
eats more than sufficient for its needs. At the period I am speaking of
however, I, who have since been one of the most envied of men, knew the
cruel meaning of the word hunger, too well,--the gnawing pain, the sick
faintness, the deadly stupor, the insatiable animal craving for mere
food, all of which sensations are frightful enough to those who are,
unhappily, daily inured to them, but which when they afflict one who has
been tenderly reared and brought up to consider himself a
'gentleman,'--God save the mark! are perhaps still more painful to bear.
And I felt that I had not deserved to suffer the wretchedness in which I
found myself. I had worked hard. From the time my father died, leaving
me to discover that every penny of the fortune I imagined he possessed
was due to swarming creditors, and that nothing of all our house and
estate was left to me except a jewelled miniature of my mother who had
lost her own life in giving me birth,--from that time I say, I had put
my shoulder to the wheel and toiled late and early. I had turned my
University education to the only use for which it or I seemed
fitted,--literature. I had sought for employment on almost every journal
in London,--refused by many, taken on trial by some, but getting steady
pay from none. Whoever seeks to live by brain and pen alone is, at the
beginning of such a career, treated as a sort of social pariah. Nobody
wants him,--everybody despises him. His efforts are derided, his
manuscripts are flung back to him unread, and he is less cared for than
the condemned murderer in gaol. The murderer is at least fed and
clothed,--a worthy clergyman visits him, and his gaoler will
occasionally condescend to play cards with him. But a man gifted with
original thoughts and the power of expressing them, appears to be
regarded by everyone in authority as much worse than the worst criminal,
and all the 'jacks-in-office' unite to kick him to death if they can. I
took both kicks and blows in sullen silence and lived on,--not for the
love of life, but simply because I scorned the cowardice of
self-destruction. I was young enough not to part with hope too
easily;--the vague idea I had that my turn would come,--that the
ever-circling wheel of Fortune would perchance lift me up some day as it
now crushed me down, kept me just wearily capable of continuing
existence,--though it was merely a continuance and no more. For about
six months I got some reviewing work on a well-known literary journal.
Thirty novels a week were sent to me to 'criticise,'--I made a habit of
glancing hastily at about eight or ten of them, and writing one column
of rattling abuse concerning these thus casually selected,--the
remainder were never noticed at all. I found that this mode of action
was considered 'smart,' and I managed for a time to please my editor who
paid me the munificent sum of fifteen shillings for my weekly labour.
But on one fatal occasion I happened to change my tactics and warmly
praised a work which my own conscience told me was both original and
excellent. The author of it happened to be an old enemy of the
proprietor of the journal on which I was employed;--my eulogistic review
of the hated individual, unfortunately for me, appeared, with the result
that private spite outweighed public justice, and I was immediately
dismissed.
After this I dragged on in a sufficiently miserable way, doing 'hack
work' for the dailies, and living on promises that never became
realities, till, as I have said, in the early January of the bitter
winter alluded to, I found myself literally penniless and face to face
with starvation, owing a month's rent besides for the poor lodging I
occupied in a back street not far from the British Museum. I had been
out all day trudging from one newspaper office to another, seeking for
work and finding none. Every available post was filled. I had also
tried, unsuccessfully, to dispose of a manuscript of my own,--a work of
fiction which I knew had some merit, but which all the 'readers' in the
publishing offices appeared to find exceptionally worthless. These
'readers' I learned, were most of them novelists themselves, who read
other people's productions in their spare moments and passed judgment on
them. I have always failed to see the justice of this arrangement; to me
it seems merely the way to foster mediocrities and suppress originality.
Common sense points out the fact that the novelist 'reader' who has a
place to maintain for himself in literature would naturally rather
encourage work that is likely to prove ephemeral, than that which might
possibly take a higher footing than his own. Be this as it may, and
however good or bad the system, it was entirely prejudicial to me and my
literary offspring. The last publisher I tried was a kindly man who
looked at my shabby clothes and gaunt face with some commiseration.
"I'm sorry," said he, "very sorry, but my readers are quite unanimous.
From what I can learn, it seems to me you have been too earnest. And
also, rather sarcastic in certain strictures against society. My dear
fellow, that won't do. Never blame society,--it buys books! Now if you
could write a smart love-story, slightly _risqué_,--even a little more
than _risqué_ for that matter; that is the sort of thing that suits the
present age."
"Pardon me," I interposed somewhat wearily--"but are you sure you judge
the public taste correctly?"
He smiled a bland smile of indulgent amusement at what he no doubt
considered my ignorance in putting such a query.
"Of course I am sure,"--he replied--"It is my business to know the
public taste as thoroughly as I know my own pocket. Understand me,--I
don't suggest that you should write a book on any positively indecent
subject,--that can be safely left to the 'New' woman,"--and he
laughed,--"but I assure you high-class fiction doesn't sell. The critics
don't like it, to begin with. What goes down with them and with the
public is a bit of sensational realism told in terse newspaper English.
Literary English,--Addisonian English,--is a mistake."
"And I am also a mistake I think," I said with a forced smile--"At any
rate if what you say be true, I must lay down the pen and try another
trade. I am old-fashioned enough to consider Literature as the highest
of all professions, and I would rather not join in with those who
voluntarily degrade it."
He gave me a quick side-glance of mingled incredulity and depreciation.
"Well, well!" he finally observed--"you are a little quixotic. That will
wear off. Will you come on to my club and dine with me?"
I refused this invitation promptly. I knew the man saw and recognised my
wretched plight,--and pride--false pride if you will--rose up to my
rescue. I bade him a hurried good-day, and started back to my lodging,
carrying my rejected manuscript with me. Arrived there, my landlady met
me as I was about to ascend the stairs, and asked me whether I would
'kindly settle accounts' the next day. She spoke civilly enough, poor
soul, and not without a certain compassionate hesitation in her manner.
Her evident pity for me galled my spirit as much as the publisher's
offer of a dinner had wounded my pride,--and with a perfectly audacious
air of certainty I at once promised her the money at the time she
herself appointed, though I had not the least idea where or how I should
get the required sum. Once past her, and shut in my own room, I flung my
useless manuscript on the floor and myself into a chair, and--swore. It
refreshed me to swear, and it seemed natural,--for though temporarily
weakened by lack of food, I was not yet so weak as to shed tears,--and a
fierce formidable oath was to me the same sort of physical relief which
I imagine a fit of weeping may be to an excitable woman. Just as I could
not shed tears, so was I incapable of apostrophizing God in my despair.
To speak frankly, I did not believe in any God--_then_. I was to myself
an all-sufficing mortal, scorning the time-worn superstitions of
so-called religion. Of course I had been brought up in the Christian
faith; but that creed had become worse than useless to me since I had
intellectually realized the utter inefficiency of Christian ministers to
deal with difficult life-problems. Spiritually I was adrift in
chaos,--mentally I was hindered both in thought and achievement,--bodily,
I was reduced to want. My case was desperate,--I myself was desperate.
It was a moment when if ever good and evil angels play a game of chance
for a man's soul, they were surely throwing the dice on the last wager
for mine. And yet, with it all, I felt I had done my best. I was driven
into a corner by my fellow-men who grudged me space to live in, but I
had fought against it. I had worked honestly and patiently;--all to no
purpose. I knew of rogues who gained plenty of money; and of knaves who
were amassing large fortunes. Their prosperity appeared to prove that
honesty after all was _not_ the best policy. What should I do then? How
should I begin the jesuitical business of committing evil that good,
personal good, might come of it? So I thought, dully, if such stray
half-stupefied fancies as I was capable of, deserved the name of thought.
The night was bitter cold. My hands were numbed, and I tried to warm
them at the oil-lamp my landlady was good enough to still allow me the
use of, in spite of delayed cash-payments. As I did so, I noticed three
letters on the table,--one in a long blue envelope suggestive of either
a summons or a returned manuscript,--one bearing the Melbourne postmark,
and the third a thick square missive coroneted in red and gold at the
back. I turned over all three indifferently, and selecting the one from
Australia, balanced it in my hand a moment before opening it. I knew
from whom it came, and idly wondered what news it brought me. Some
months previously I had written a detailed account of my increasing
debts and difficulties to an old college chum, who finding England too
narrow for his ambition had gone out to the wider New world on a
speculative quest of gold mining. He was getting on well, so I
understood, and had secured a fairly substantial position; and I had
therefore ventured to ask him point-blank for the loan of fifty pounds.
Here, no doubt, was his reply, and I hesitated before breaking the seal.
"Of course it will be a refusal," I said half-aloud,--"However kindly a
friend may otherwise be, he soon turns crusty if asked to lend money. He
will express many regrets, accuse trade and the general bad times and
hope I will soon 'tide over.' I know the sort of thing. Well,--after
all, why should I expect him to be different to other men? I've no claim
on him beyond the memory of a few sentimental arm-in-arm days at
Oxford."
A sigh escaped me in spite of myself, and a mist blurred my sight for
the moment. Again I saw the grey towers of peaceful Magdalen, and the
fair green trees shading the walks in and around the dear old University
town where we,--I and the man whose letter I now held in my
hand,--strolled about together as happy youths, fancying that we were
young geniuses born to regenerate the world. We were both fond of
classics,--we were brimful of Homer and the thoughts and maxims of all
the immortal Greeks and Latins,--and I verily believe, in those
imaginative days, we thought we had in us such stuff as heroes are made
of. But our entrance into the social arena soon robbed us of our sublime
conceit,--we were common working units, no more,--the grind and prose of
daily life put Homer into the background, and we soon discovered that
society was more interested in the latest unsavoury scandal than in the
tragedies of Sophocles or the wisdom of Plato. Well! it was no doubt
extremely foolish of us to dream that we might help to regenerate a
world in which both Plato and Christ appear to have failed,--yet the
most hardened cynic will scarcely deny that it is pleasant to look back
to the days of his youth if he can think that at least then, if only
once in his life, he had noble impulses.
The lamp burned badly, and I had to re-trim it before I could settle
down to read my friend's letter. Next door some-one was playing a violin,
and playing it well. Tenderly and yet with a certain amount of _brio_
the notes came dancing from the bow, and I listened, vaguely pleased.
Being faint with hunger I was somewhat in a listless state bordering on
stupor,--and the penetrating sweetness of the music appealing to the
sensuous and æsthetic part of me, drowned for the moment mere animal
craving.
"There you go!" I murmured, apostrophizing the unseen
musician,--"practising away on that friendly fiddle of yours,--no doubt
for a mere pittance which barely keeps you alive. Possibly you are some
poor wretch in a cheap orchestra,--or you might even be a street-player
and be able to live in this neighbourhood of the _élite_ starving,--you
can have no hope whatever of being the 'fashion' and making your bow
before Royalty,--or if you have that hope, it is wildly misplaced. Play
on, my friend, play on!--the sounds you make are very agreeable, and
seem to imply that you are happy. I wonder if you are?--or if, like me,
you are going rapidly to the devil!"
The music grew softer and more plaintive, and was now accompanied by the
rattle of hailstones against the window-panes. A gusty wind whistled
under the door and roared down the chimney,--a wind cold as the grasp of
death and searching as a probing knife. I shivered,--and bending close
over the smoky lamp, prepared to read my Australian news. As I opened
the envelope, a bill for fifty pounds, payable to me at a well-known
London banker's, fell out upon the table. My heart gave a quick bound of
mingled relief and gratitude.
"Why Jack, old fellow, I wronged you!" I exclaimed,--"Your heart is in
the right place after all."
And profoundly touched by my friend's ready generosity, I eagerly
perused his letter. It was not very long, and had evidently been written
off in haste.
Dear Geoff,
I'm sorry to hear you are down on your luck; it shows what a crop of
fools are still flourishing in London, when a man of your capability
cannot gain his proper place in the world of letters, and be
fittingly acknowledged. I believe it's all a question of
wire-pulling, and money is the only thing that will pull the wires.
Here's the fifty you ask for and welcome,--don't hurry about paying
it back. I am doing you a good turn this year by sending you a
friend,--a real friend, mind you!--no sham. He brings you a letter
of introduction from me, and between ourselves, old man, you cannot
do better than put yourself and your literary affairs entirely in
his hands. He knows everybody, and is up to all the dodges of
editorial management and newspaper cliques. He is a great
philanthropist besides,--and seems particularly fond of the society
of the clergy. Rather a queer taste you will say, but his reason for
such preference is, as he has explained to me quite frankly, that he
is so enormously wealthy that he does not quite know what to do with
his money, and the reverend gentlemen of the church are generally
ready to show him how to spend some of it. He is always glad to know
of some quarter where his money and influence (he is very
influential) may be useful to others. He has helped me out of a very
serious hobble, and I owe him a big debt of gratitude. I've told him
all about you,--what a smart fellow you are, and what a lot dear old
Alma Mater thought of you, and he has promised to give you a lift
up. He can do anything he likes; very naturally, seeing that the
whole world of morals, civilization and the rest is subservient to
the power of money,--and _his_ stock of cash appears to be
limitless. _Use him_; he is willing and ready to be used,--and write
and let me know how you get on. Don't bother about the fifty till
you feel you have tided over the storm.
Ever yours
Boffles.
I laughed as I read the absurd signature, though my eyes were dim with
something like tears. 'Boffles' was the nickname given to my friend by
several of our college companions, and neither he nor I knew how it
first arose. But no one except the dons ever addressed him by his proper
name, which was John Carrington,--he was simply 'Boffles,' and Boffles
he remained even now for all those who had been his intimates. I
refolded and put by his letter and the draft for the fifty pounds, and
with a passing vague wonder as to what manner of man the
'philanthropist' might be who had more money than he knew what to do
with, I turned to the consideration of my other two correspondents,
relieved to feel that now, whatever happened, I could settle up arrears
with my landlady the next day as I had promised. Moreover I could order
some supper, and have a fire lit to cheer my chilly room. Before
attending to these creature comforts however, I opened the long blue
envelope that looked so like a threat of legal proceedings, and
unfolding the paper within, stared at it amazedly. What was it all
about? The written characters danced before my eyes,--puzzled and
bewildered, I found myself reading the thing over and over again without
any clear comprehension of it. Presently a glimmer of meaning flashed
upon me, startling my senses like an electric shock, ...
no--no--!--impossible! Fortune never could be so mad as this!--never so
wildly capricious and grotesque of humour! It was some senseless hoax
that was being practised upon me, ... and yet, ... if it were a joke, it
was a very elaborate and remarkable one! Weighted with the majesty of
the law too! ... Upon my word and by all the fantastical freakish
destinies that govern human affairs, the news seemed actually positive
and genuine!
II
Steadying my thoughts with an effort, I read every word of the document
over again deliberately, and the stupefaction of my wonder increased.
Was I going mad, or sickening for a fever? Or could this startling, this
stupendous piece of information be really true? Because,--if indeed it
were true, ... good heavens!--I turned giddy to think of it,--and it was
only by sheer force of will that I kept myself from swooning with the
agitation of such sudden surprise and ecstasy. If it were true--why then
the world was mine!--I was king instead of beggar;--I was everything I
chose to be! The letter,--the amazing letter, bore the printed name of a
noted firm of London solicitors, and stated in measured and precise
terms that a distant relative of my father's, of whom I had scarcely
heard, except remotely now and then during my boyhood, had died suddenly
in South America, leaving me his sole heir.
"_The real and personal estate now amounting to something over Five
Millions of Pounds Sterling, we should esteem it a favour if you could
make it convenient to call upon us any day this week in order that we
may go through the necessary formalities together. The larger bulk of
the cash is lodged in the Bank of England, and a considerable amount is
placed in French government securities. We should prefer going into
further details with you personally rather than by letter. Trusting you
will call on us without delay, we are, Sir, yours obediently...._"
Five Millions! I, the starving literary hack,--the friendless, hopeless,
almost reckless haunter of low newspaper dens,--I, the possessor of
"over Five Millions of Pounds Sterling"! I tried to grasp the astounding
fact,--for fact it evidently was,--but could not. It seemed to me a wild
delusion, born of the dizzy vagueness which lack of food engendered in
my brain. I stared round the room;--the mean miserable furniture,--the
fireless grate,--the dirty lamp,--the low truckle bedstead,--the
evidences of penury and want on every side;--and then,--then the
overwhelming contrast between the poverty that environed me and the news
I had just received, struck me as the wildest, most ridiculous
incongruity I had ever heard of or imagined,--and I gave vent to a shout
of laughter.
"Was there ever such a caprice of mad Fortune!" I cried aloud--"Who
would have imagined it! Good God! I! I, of all men in the world to be
suddenly chosen out for this luck! By Heaven!--If it is all true, I'll
make society spin round like a top on my hand before I am many months
older!"
And I laughed loudly again; laughed just as I had previously sworn,
simply by way of relief to my feelings. Some one laughed in answer,--a
laugh that seemed to echo mine. I checked myself abruptly, somewhat
startled, and listened. Rain poured outside, and the wind shrieked like
a petulant shrew,--the violinist next door was practising a brilliant
roulade up and down his instrument,--but there were no other sounds than
these. Yet I could have sworn I heard a man's deep-chested laughter
close behind me where I stood.
"It must have been my fancy;" I murmured, turning the flame of the lamp
up higher in order to obtain more light in the room--"I am nervous I
suppose,--no wonder! Poor Boffles!--good old chap!" I continued,
remembering my friend's draft for fifty pounds, which had seemed such a
godsend a few minutes since--"What a surprise is in store for you! You
shall have your loan back as promptly as you sent it, with an extra
fifty added by way of interest for your generosity. And as for the new
Mæcenas you are sending to help me over my difficulties,--well, he may
be a very excellent old gentleman, but he will find himself quite out of
his element this time. I want neither assistance nor advice nor
patronage,--I can buy them all! Titles, honours, possessions,--they are
all purchaseable,--love, friendship, position,--they are all for sale in
this admirably commercial age and go to the highest bidder! By my
soul!--The wealthy 'philanthropist' will find it difficult to match me
in power! He will scarcely have more than five millions to waste, I
warrant! And now for supper,--I shall have to live on credit till I get
some ready cash,--and there is no reason why I should not leave this
wretched hole at once, and go to one of the best hotels and swagger it!"
I was about to leave the room on the swift impulse of excitement and
joy, when a fresh and violent gust of wind roared down the chimney,
bringing with it a shower of soot which fell in a black heap on my
rejected manuscript where it lay forgotten on the floor, as I had
despairingly thrown it. I hastily picked it up and shook it free from
the noisome dirt, wondering as I did so, what would be its fate
now?--now, when I could afford to publish it myself, and not only
publish it but advertise it, and not only advertise it, but 'push' it,
in all the crafty and cautious ways known to the inner circles of
'booming'! I smiled as I thought of the vengeance I would take on all
those who had scorned and slighted me and my labour,--how they should
cower before me!--how they should fawn at my feet like whipt curs, and
whine their fulsome adulation! Every stiff and stubborn neck should bend
before me;--this I resolved upon; for though money does not always
conquer everything, it only fails when it is money apart from brains.
Brains and money together can move the world,--brains can very
frequently do this alone without money, of which serious and proved fact
those who have no brains should beware!
Full of ambitious thought, I now and then caught wild sounds from the
violin that was being played next door,--notes like sobbing cries of
pain, and anon rippling runs like a careless woman's laughter,--and all
at once I remembered I had not yet opened the third letter addressed to
me,--the one coroneted in scarlet and gold, which had remained where it
was on the table almost unnoticed till now. I took it up and turned it
over with an odd sense of reluctance in my fingers, which were slow at
the work of tearing the thick envelope asunder. Drawing out an equally
thick small sheet of notepaper also coroneted, I read the following
lines written in an admirably legible, small and picturesque hand.
Dear Sir.
I am the bearer of a letter of introduction to you from your former
college companion Mr John Carrington, now of Melbourne, who has been
good enough to thus give me the means of making the acquaintance of
one, who, I understand, is more than exceptionally endowed with the
gift of literary genius. I shall call upon you this evening between
eight and nine o'clock, trusting to find you at home and disengaged.
I enclose my card, and present address, and beg to remain,
Very faithfully yours
Lucio Rimânez.
The card mentioned dropped on the table as I finished reading the note.
It bore a small, exquisitely engraved coronet and the words
PRINCE LUCIO RIMÂNEZ.
while, scribbled lightly in pencil underneath was the address 'Grand
Hotel.'
I read the brief letter through again,--it was simple enough,--expressed
with clearness and civility. There was nothing remarkable about
it,--nothing whatever; yet it seemed to me surcharged with meaning.
Why, I could not imagine. A curious fascination kept my eyes fastened on
the characteristic bold handwriting, and made me fancy I should like the
man who penned it. How the wind roared!--and how that violin next door
wailed like the restless spirit of some forgotten musician in torment!
My brain swam and my heart ached heavily,--the drip drip of the rain
outside sounded like the stealthy footfall of some secret spy upon my
movements. I grew irritable and nervous,--a foreboding of evil somehow
darkened the bright consciousness of my sudden good fortune. Then an
impulse of shame possessed me,--shame that this foreign prince, if such
he were, with limitless wealth at his back, should be coming to visit
me,--_me_, now a millionaire,--in my present wretched lodging. Already,
before I had touched my riches, I was tainted by the miserable vulgarity
of seeking to pretend I had never been really poor, but only embarrassed
by a little temporary difficulty! If I had had a sixpence about me,
(which I had not) I should have sent a telegram to my approaching
visitor to put him off.
"But in any case," I said aloud, addressing myself to the empty room and
the storm-echoes--"I will not meet him to-night. I'll go out and leave
no message,--and if he comes he will think I have not yet had his
letter. I can make an appointment to see him when I am better lodged,
and dressed more in keeping with my present position,--in the meantime,
nothing is easier than to keep out of this would-be benefactor's way."
As I spoke, the flickering lamp gave a dismal crackle and went out,
leaving me in pitch darkness. With an exclamation more strong than
reverent, I groped about the room for matches, or failing them, for my
hat and coat,--and I was still engaged in a fruitless and annoying
search, when I caught a sound of galloping horses' hoofs coming to an
abrupt stop in the street below. Surrounded by black gloom, I paused and
listened. There was a slight commotion in the basement,--I heard my
landlady's accents attuned to nervous civility, mingling with the
mellow tones of a deep masculine voice,--then steps, firm and even,
ascended the stairs to my landing.
"The devil is in it!" I muttered vexedly--"Just like my wayward
luck!--here comes the very man I meant to avoid!"
III
The door opened,--and from the dense obscurity enshrouding me I could
just perceive a tall shadowy figure standing on the threshold. I
remember well the curious impression the mere outline of this scarcely
discerned Form made upon me even then,--suggesting at the first glance
such a stately majesty of height and bearing as at once riveted my
attention,--so much so indeed that I scarcely heard my landlady's
introductory words "A gentleman to see you sir,"--words that were
quickly interrupted by a murmur of dismay at finding the room in total
darkness. "Well to be sure! The lamp must have gone out!" she
exclaimed,--then addressing the personage she had ushered thus far, she
added--"I'm afraid Mr Tempest isn't in after all, sir, though I
certainly saw him about half-an-hour ago. If you don't mind waiting here
a minute I'll fetch a light and see if he has left any message on his
table."
She hurried away, and though I knew that of course I ought to speak, a
singular and quite inexplicable perversity of humour kept me silent and
unwilling to declare my presence. Meanwhile the tall stranger advanced a
pace or two, and a rich voice with a ring of ironical amusement in it
called me by my name--
"Geoffrey Tempest, are you there?"
Why could I not answer? The strangest and most unnatural obstinacy
stiffened my tongue,--and, concealed in the gloom of my forlorn literary
den I still held my peace. The majestic figure drew nearer, till in
height and breadth it seemed to suddenly overshadow me; and once again
the voice called--
"Geoffrey Tempest, are you there?"
For very shame's sake I could hold out no longer,--and with a determined
effort I broke the extraordinary dumb spell that had held me like a
coward in silent hiding, and came forward boldly to confront my visitor.
"Yes I _am_ here," I said--"And being here I am ashamed to give you such
a welcome as this. You are Prince Rimânez of course;--I have just read
your note which prepared me for your visit, but I was hoping that my
landlady, finding the room in darkness, would conclude I was out, and
show you downstairs again. You see I am perfectly frank!"
"You are indeed!" returned the stranger, his deep tones still vibrating
with the silvery clang of veiled satire--"So frank that I cannot fail to
understand you. Briefly, and without courtesy, you resent my visit this
evening and wish I had not come!"
This open declaration of my mood sounded so brusque that I made haste to
deny it, though I knew it to be true. Truth, even in trifles, always
seems unpleasant!
"Pray do not think me so churlish,"--I said--"The fact is, I only opened
your letter a few minutes ago, and before I could make any arrangements
to receive you, the lamp went out, with the awkward result that I am
forced to greet you in this unsociable darkness, which is almost too
dense to shake hands in."
"Shall we try?" my visitor enquired, with a sudden softening of accent
that gave his words a singular charm; "Here is my hand,--if yours has
any friendly instinct in it the twain will meet,--quite blindly and
without guidance!"
I at once extended my hand, and it was instantly clasped in a warm and
somewhat masterful manner. At that moment a light flashed on the
scene,--my landlady entered, bearing what she called 'her best lamp'
alit, and set it on the table. I believe she uttered some exclamation of
surprise at seeing me,--she may have said anything or nothing,--I did
not hear or heed, so entirely was I amazed and fascinated by the
appearance of the man whose long slender hand still held mine. I am
myself an average good height, but he was fully half a head taller than
I, if not more than that,--and as I looked straightly at him, I thought
I had never seen so much beauty and intellectuality combined in the
outward personality of any human being. The finely shaped head denoted
both power and wisdom, and was nobly poised on such shoulders as might
have befitted a Hercules,--the countenance was a pure oval, and
singularly pale, this complexion intensifying the almost fiery
brilliancy of the full dark eyes, which had in them a curious and
wonderfully attractive look of mingled mirth and misery. The mouth was
perhaps the most telling feature in this remarkable face,--set in the
perfect curve of beauty, it was yet firm, determined, and not too small,
thus escaping effeminacy,--and I noted that in repose it expressed
bitterness, disdain and even cruelty. But with the light of a smile upon
it, it signified, or seemed to signify, something more subtle than any
passion to which we can give a name, and already with the rapidity of a
lightning flash, I caught myself wondering what that mystic undeclared
something might be. At a glance I comprehended these primary details of
my new acquaintance's eminently prepossessing appearance, and when my
hand dropped from his close grasp I felt as if I had known him all my
life! And now face to face with him in the bright lamp-light, I
remembered my actual surroundings,--the bare cold room, the lack of
fire, the black soot that sprinkled the nearly carpetless floor,--my own
shabby clothes and deplorable aspect, as compared with this
regal-looking individual, who carried the visible evidence of wealth
upon him in the superb Russian sables that lined and bordered his long
overcoat which he now partially unfastened and threw open with a
carelessly imperial air, the while he regarded me, smiling.
"I know I have come at an awkward moment," he said--"I always do! It is
my peculiar misfortune. Well-bred people never intrude where they are
not wanted,--and in this particular I'm afraid my manners leave much to
be desired. Try to forgive me if you can, for the sake of this,"--and he
held out a letter addressed to me in my friend Carrington's familiar
handwriting. "And permit me to sit down while you read my credentials."
He took a chair and seated himself. I observed his handsome face and
easy attitude with renewed admiration.
"No credentials are necessary," I said with all the cordiality I now
really felt--"I have already had a letter from Carrington in which he
speaks of you in the highest and most grateful terms. But the fact
is----well!--really, prince, you must excuse me if I seem confused or
astonished ... I had expected to see quite an old man ..."
And I broke off, somewhat embarrassed by the keen glance of the
brilliant eyes that met mine so fixedly.
"No one is old, my dear sir, nowadays!" he declared lightly--"even the
grandmothers and grandfathers are friskier at fifty than they were at
fifteen. One does not talk of age at all now in polite society,--it is
ill-bred, even coarse. Indecent things are unmentionable--age has become
an indecent thing. It is therefore avoided in conversation. You expected
to see an old man you say? Well, you are not disappointed--I _am_ old.
In fact you have no idea how very old I am!"
I laughed at this piece of absurdity.
"Why, you are younger than I,"--I said--"or if not, you look it."
"Ah, my looks belie me!" he returned gaily--"I am like several of the
most noted fashionable beauties,--much riper than I seem. But come, read
the introductory missive I have brought you,--I shall not be satisfied
till you do."
Thus requested, and wishing to prove myself as courteous as I had
hitherto been brusque, I at once opened my friend's note and read as
follows,--
Dear Geoffrey.
The bearer of this, Prince Rimânez, is a very distinguished scholar
and gentleman, allied by descent to one of the oldest families in
Europe, or for that matter, in the world. You, as a student and
lover of ancient history, will be interested to know that his
ancestors were originally princes of Chaldea, who afterwards settled
in Tyre,--from thence they went to Etruria and there continued
through many centuries, the last scion of the house being the very
gifted and genial personage who, as my good friend, I have the
pleasure of commending to your kindest regard. Certain troublous and
overpowering circumstances have forced him into exile from his
native province, and deprived him of a great part of his
possessions, so that he is, to a considerable extent a wanderer on
the face of the earth, and has travelled far and seen much, and has
a wide experience of men and things. He is a poet and musician of
great skill, and though he occupies himself with the arts solely for
his own amusement, I think you will find his practical knowledge of
literary matters eminently useful to you in your difficult career. I
must not forget to add that in all matters scientific he is an
absolute master. Wishing you both a cordial friendship, I am, dear
Geoffrey,
Yours sincerely
John Carrington.
The signature of 'Boffles' had evidently been deemed out of place this
time and somehow I was foolishly vexed at its omission. There seemed to
be something formal and stiff in the letter, almost as if it had been
written to dictation, and under pressure. What gave me this idea I know
not. I glanced furtively at my silent companion,--he caught my stray
look and returned it with a curiously grave fixity. Fearing lest my
momentary vague distrust of him had been reflected in my eyes I made
haste to speak--
"This letter, prince, adds to my shame and regret that I should have
greeted you in so churlish a manner this evening. No apology can
condone my rudeness,--but you cannot imagine how mortified I felt and
still feel, to be compelled to receive you in this miserable den,--it is
not at all the sort of place in which I should have liked to welcome
you...." And I broke off with a renewed sense of irritation, remembering
how actually rich I now was, and that in spite of this, I was obliged to
seem poor. Meanwhile the prince waived aside my remarks with a light
gesture of his hand.
"Why be mortified?" he demanded. "Rather be proud that you can dispense
with the vulgar appurtenances of luxury. Genius thrives in a garret and
dies in a palace,--is not that the generally accepted theory?"
"Rather a worn-out and mistaken one I consider,"--I replied; "Genius
might like to try the effect of a palace for once,--it usually dies of
starvation."
"True!--but in thus dying, think how many fools it afterwards fattens!
There is an all-wise Providence in this, my dear sir! Schubert perished
of want,--but see what large profits all the music-publishers have made
since out of his compositions! It is a most beautiful dispensation of
nature,--that honest folk should be sacrificed in order to provide for
the sustenance of knaves!"
He laughed, and I looked at him in a little surprise. His remark touched
so near my own opinions that I wondered whether he were in jest or
earnest.
"You speak sarcastically of course?" I said--"You do not really believe
what you say?"
"Oh, do I not!" he returned, with a flash of his fine eyes that was
almost lightning-like in its intensity--"If I could not believe the
teaching of my own experience, what would be left to me? I always
realize the '_needs must_' of things--how does the old maxim go--'needs
must when the devil drives.' There is really no possible contradiction
to offer to the accuracy of that statement. The devil drives the world,
whip in hand,--and oddly enough, (considering that some belated folk
still fancy there is a God somewhere) succeeds in managing his team
with extraordinary ease!" His brow clouded and the bitter lines about
his mouth deepened and hardened,--anon he laughed again lightly and
continued--"But let us not moralize,--morals sicken the soul both in
church and out of it,--every sensible man hates to be told what he
_could_ be and what he _won't_ be. I am here to make friends with you if
you permit,--and to put an end to ceremony, will you accompany me back
to my hotel where I have ordered supper?"
By this time I had become indescribably fascinated by his easy manner,
handsome presence and mellifluous voice,--the satirical turn of his
humour suited mine,--I felt we should get on well together,--and my
first annoyance at being discovered by him in such poverty-stricken
circumstances somewhat abated.
"With pleasure!" I replied--"But first of all, you must allow me to
explain matters a little. You have heard a good deal about my affairs
from my friend John Carrington, and I know from his private letter to me
that you have come here out of pure kindness and goodwill. For that
generous intention I thank you! I know you expected to find a poor
wretch of a literary man struggling with the direst circumstances of
disappointment and poverty,--and a couple of hours ago you would have
amply fulfilled that expectation. But now, things have changed,--I have
received news which completely alters my position,--in fact I have had a
very great and remarkable surprise this evening...."
"An agreeable one I trust?" interposed my companion suavely.
I smiled.
"Judge for yourself!" And I handed him the lawyer's letter which
informed me of my suddenly acquired fortune.
He glanced it through rapidly,--then folded and returned it to me with a
courteous bow.
"I suppose I should congratulate you,"--he said--"And I do. Though of
course this wealth which seems to content you, to me appears a mere
trifle. It can be quite conveniently run through and exhausted in about
eight years or less, therefore it does not provide absolute immunity
from care. To be rich, really rich, in my sense of the word, one should
have about a million a year. Then one might reasonably hope to escape
the workhouse!"
He laughed,--and I stared at him stupidly, not knowing how to take his
words, whether as truth or idle boasting. Five millions of money a mere
trifle! He went on without apparently noticing my amazement--
"The inexhaustible greed of a man, my dear sir, can never be satisfied.
If he is not consumed by desire for one thing, he is for another, and
his tastes are generally expensive. A few pretty and unscrupulous women
for example, would soon relieve you of your five millions in the
purchase of jewels alone. Horse-racing would do it still more quickly.
No, no,--you are not rich,--you are still poor,--only your needs are no
longer so pressing as they were. And in this I confess myself somewhat
disappointed,--for I came to you hoping to do a good turn to some one
for once in my life, and to play the foster-father to a rising
genius--and here I am--forestalled,--as usual! It is a singular thing,
do you know, but nevertheless a fact, that whenever I have had any
particular intentions towards a man I am always forestalled! It is
really rather hard upon me!" He broke off and raised his head in a
listening attitude.
"What is that?" he asked.
It was the violinist next door playing a well-known "Ave Maria." I told
him so.
"Dismal,--very dismal!" he said with a contemptuous shrug. "I hate all
that kind of mawkish devotional stuff. Well!--millionaire as you are,
and acknowledged lion of society as you shortly will be, there is no
objection I hope, to the proposed supper? And perhaps a music-hall
afterwards if you feel inclined,--what do you say?"
He clapped me on the shoulder cordially and looked straight into my
face,--those wonderful eyes of his, suggestive of both tears and fire,
fixed me with a clear masterful gaze that completely dominated me. I
made no attempt to resist the singular attraction which now possessed me
for this man whom I had but just met,--the sensation was too strong and
too pleasant to be combated. Only for one moment more I hesitated,
looking down at my shabby attire.
"I am not fit to accompany you, prince," I said--"I look more like a
tramp than a millionaire."
He glanced at me and smiled.
"Upon my life, so you do!" he averred.--"But be satisfied!--you are in
this respect very like many another Croesus. It is only the poor and
proud who take the trouble to dress well,--they and the dear 'naughty'
ladies, generally monopolize tasteful and becoming attire. An
ill-fitting coat often adorns the back of a Prime Minister,--and if you
see a woman clad in clothes vilely cut and coloured, you may be sure she
is eminently virtuous, renowned for good works, and probably a duchess!"
He rose, drawing his sables about him.
"What matter the coat if the purse be full!" he continued gaily.--"Let
it once be properly paragraphed in the papers that you are a
millionaire, and doubtless some enterprising tailor will invent a
'Tempest' ulster coloured softly like your present garb, an artistic
mildewy green! And now come along,--your solicitor's communication
should have given you a good appetite, or it is not so valuable as it
seems,--and I want you to do justice to my supper. I have my own _chef_
with me, and he is not without skill. I hope, by the way, you will at
least do me this much service,--that pending legal discussion and
settlement of your affairs, you will let me be your banker?"
This offer was made with such an air of courteous delicacy and
friendship, that I could do no more than accept it gratefully, as it
relieved me from all temporary embarrassment. I hastily wrote a few
lines to my landlady, telling her she would receive the money owing to
her by post next day,--then, thrusting my rejected manuscript, my only
worldly possession, into my coat-pocket, I extinguished the lamp, and
with the new friend I had so suddenly gained, I left my dismal lodgings
and all its miserable associations for ever. I little thought the time
would come when I should look back to the time spent in that small mean
room as the best period of my life,--when I should regard the bitter
poverty I then endured, as the stern but holy angel meant to guide me to
the highest and noblest attainment,--when I should pray desperately with
wild tears to be as I was then, rather than as I am now! Is it well or
ill for us I wonder, that the future is hidden from our knowledge?
Should we steer our ways clearer from evil if we knew its result? It is
a doubtful question,--at anyrate my ignorance for the moment was indeed
bliss. I went joyfully out of the dreary house where I had lived so long
among disappointments and difficulties, turning my back upon it with
such a sense of relief as could never be expressed in words,--and the
last thing I heard as I passed into the street with my companion, was a
plaintive long-drawn wail of minor melody, which seemed to be sent after
me like a parting cry, by the unknown and invisible player of the
violin.
IV
Outside, the prince's carriage waited, drawn by two spirited black
horses caparisoned in silver; magnificent thoroughbreds, which pawed the
ground and champed their bits impatient of delay,--at sight of his
master the smart footman in attendance threw the door open, touching his
hat respectfully. We stepped in, I preceding my companion at his
expressed desire; and as I sank back among the easy cushions, I felt the
complacent consciousness of luxury and power to such an extent that it
seemed as if I had left my days of adversity already a long way behind
me. Hunger and happiness disputed my sensations between them, and I was
in that vague light-headed condition common to long fasting, in which
nothing seems absolutely tangible or real. I knew I should not properly
grasp the solid truth of my wonderful good luck till my physical needs
were satisfied and I was, so to speak, once more in a naturally balanced
bodily condition. At present my brain was in a whirl,--my thoughts were
all dim and disconnected,--and I appeared to myself to be in some
whimsical dream from which I should wake up directly. The carriage
rolled on rubber-tyred wheels and made no noise as it went,--one could
only hear the even rapid trot of the horses. By-and-by I saw in the
semi-darkness my new friend's brilliant dark eyes fixed upon me with a
curiously intent expression.
"Do you not feel the world already at your feet?" he queried half
playfully, half ironically--"Like a football, waiting to be kicked? It
is such an absurd world, you know--so easily moved. Wise men in all ages
have done their best to make it less ridiculous,--with no result,
inasmuch as it continues to prefer folly to wisdom. A football, or let
us say a shuttlecock among worlds, ready to be tossed up anyhow and
anywhere, provided the battledore be of gold!"
"You speak a trifle bitterly, prince"--I said--"But no doubt you have
had a wide experience among men?"
"I have," he returned with emphasis--"My kingdom is a vast one."
"You are a ruling power then?" I exclaimed with some
astonishment--"Yours is not a title of honour only?"
"Oh, as your rules of aristocracy go, it _is_ a mere title of
honour"--he replied quickly--"When I say that my kingdom is a vast one,
I mean that I rule wherever men obey the influence of wealth. From this
point of view, am I wrong in calling my kingdom vast?--is it not almost
boundless?"
"I perceive you are a cynic,"--I said--"Yet surely you believe that
there are some things wealth cannot buy,--honour and virtue for
example?"
He surveyed me with a whimsical smile.
"I suppose honour and virtue _do_ exist--" he answered--"And when they
are existent of course they cannot be bought. But my experience has
taught me that I can always buy everything. The sentiments called honour
and virtue by the majority of men are the most shifty things
imaginable,--set sufficient cash down, and they become bribery and
corruption in the twinkling of an eye! Curious--very curious. I confess
I found a case of unpurchaseable integrity once, but only once. I may
find it again, though I consider the chance a very doubtful one. Now to
revert to myself, pray do not imagine I am playing the humbug with you
or passing myself off under a _bogus_ title. I am a _bona-fide_ prince,
believe me, and of such descent as none of your oldest families can
boast,--but my dominions are long since broken up and my former subjects
dispersed among all nations,--anarchy, nihilism, disruption and
political troubles generally, compel me to be rather reticent concerning
my affairs. Money I fortunately have in plenty,--and with that I pave my
way. Some day when we are better acquainted, you shall know more of my
private history. I have various other names and titles besides that on
my card--but I keep to the simplest of them, because most people are
such bunglers at the pronunciation of foreign names. My intimate friends
generally drop my title, and call me Lucio simply."
"That is your christian name--?" I began.
"Not at all--I have no 'christian' name,"--he interrupted swiftly and
with anger--"There is no such thing as 'christian' in my composition!"
He spoke with such impatience that for a moment I was at a loss for a
reply. At last--
"Indeed!" I murmured vaguely.
He burst out laughing.
"'Indeed!' That is all you can find to say! Indeed and again indeed the
word 'christian' vexes me. There is no such creature alive. _You_ are
not a Christian,--no one is really,--people pretend to be,--and in so
damnable an act of feigning are more blasphemous than any fallen fiend!
Now I make no pretences of the kind,--I have only one faith--"
"And that is?"--
"A profound and awful one!" he said in thrilling tones--"And the worst
of it is that it is true,--as true as the workings of the Universe. But
of that hereafter,--it will do to talk of when we feel low-spirited and
wish to converse of things grim and ghastly,--at present here we are at
our destination, and the chief consideration of our lives, (it is the
chief consideration of most men's lives) must be the excellence or
non-excellence of our food."
The carriage stopped and we descended. At first sight of the black
horses and silver trappings, the porter of the hotel and two or three
other servants rushed out to attend upon us; but the prince passed into
the hall without noticing any of them and addressed himself to a
sober-looking individual in black, his own private valet, who came
forward to meet him with a profound salutation. I murmured something
about wishing to engage a room for myself in the hotel.
"Oh, my man will see to that for you"--he said lightly--"The house is
not full,--at anyrate all the best rooms are not taken; and of course
you want one of the best."
A staring waiter, who up to that moment, had been noting my shabby
clothes with that peculiar air of contempt commonly displayed by
insolent menials to those whom they imagine are poor, overheard these
words, and suddenly changing the derisive expression of his foxy face,
bowed obsequiously as I passed. A thrill of disgust ran through me,
mingled with a certain angry triumph,--the hypocritical reflex of this
low fellow's countenance, was, I knew, a true epitome of what I should
find similarly reflected in the manner and attitude of all 'polite'
society. For there the estimate of worth is no higher than a common
servant's estimate, and is taken solely from the money standard;--if you
are poor and dress shabbily you are thrust aside and ignored,--but if
you are rich, you may wear shabby clothes as much as you like, you are
still courted and flattered, and invited everywhere, though you may be
the greatest fool alive or the worst blackguard unhung. With vague
thoughts such as these flitting over my mind, I followed my host to his
rooms. He occupied nearly a whole wing of the hotel, having a large
drawing-room, dining-room and study _en suite_, fitted up in the most
luxurious manner, besides bedroom, bathroom, and dressing-room, with
other rooms adjoining, for his valet and two extra personal attendants.
The table was laid for supper, and glittered with the costliest glass,
silver and china, being furthermore adorned by baskets of the most
exquisite fruit and flowers, and in a few moments we were seated. The
prince's valet acted as head-waiter, and I noticed that now this man's
face, seen in the full light of the electric lamps, seemed very dark
and unpleasant, even sinister in expression,--but in the performance of
his duties he was unexceptionable, being quick, attentive, and
deferential, so much so that I inwardly reproached myself for taking an
instinctive dislike to him. His name was Amiel, and I found myself
involuntarily watching his movements, they were so noiseless,--his very
step suggesting the stealthy gliding of a cat or a tiger. He was
assisted in his work by the two other attendants who served as his
subordinates, and who were equally active and well-trained,--and
presently I found myself enjoying the choicest meal I had tasted for
many and many a long day, flavoured with such wine as connoisseurs might
be apt to dream of, but never succeed in finding. I began to feel
perfectly at my ease, and talked with freedom and confidence, the strong
attraction I had for my new friend deepening with every moment I passed
in his company.
"Will you continue your literary career now you have this little fortune
left you?" he inquired, when at the close of supper Amiel set the
choicest cognac and cigars before us, and respectfully withdrew--"Do you
think you will care to go on with it?"
"Certainly I shall"--I replied--"if only for the fun of the thing. You
see, with money I can force my name into notice whether the public like
it or not. No newspaper refuses paying advertisements."
"True!--but may not inspiration refuse to flow from a full purse and an
empty head?"
This remark provoked me not a little.
"Do you consider me empty-headed?" I asked with some vexation.
"Not at present. My dear Tempest, do not let either the Tokay we have
been drinking, or the cognac we are going to drink, speak for you in
such haste! I assure you I do not think you empty-headed,--on the
contrary, your head, I believe from what I have heard, has been and is
full of ideas,--excellent ideas, original ideas, which the world of
conventional criticism does not want. But whether these ideas will
continue to germinate in your brain, or whether, with the full purse,
they will cease, is now the question. Great originality and inspiration,
strange to say, seldom endow the millionaire. Inspiration is supposed to
come from above,--money from below! In your case however both
originality and inspiration may continue to flourish and bring forth
fruit,--I trust they may. It often happens, nevertheless that when bags
of money fall to the lot of aspiring genius, God departs and the devil
walks in. Have you never heard that?"
"Never!" I answered smiling.
"Well, of course the saying is foolish, and sounds doubly ridiculous in
this age when people believe in neither God nor devil. It implies
however that one must choose an up or a down,--genius is the Up, money
is the Down. You cannot fly and grovel at the same instant."
"The possession of money is not likely to cause a man to grovel"--I
said--"It is the one thing necessary to strengthen his soaring powers
and lift him to the greatest heights."
"You think so?" and my host lit his cigar with a grave and pre-occupied
air--"Then I'm afraid, you don't know much about what I shall call
natural psychics. What belongs to the earth tends earthwards,--surely
you realize that? Gold most strictly belongs to the earth,--you dig it
out of the ground,--you handle it and dispose of it in solid wedges or
bars--it is a substantial metal enough. Genius belongs to nobody knows
where,--you cannot dig it up or pass it on, or do anything with it
except stand and marvel--it is a rare visitant and capricious as the
wind, and generally makes sad havoc among the conventionalities of men.
It is as I said an 'upper' thing, beyond earthly smells and
savours,--and those who have it always live in unknown high latitudes.
But money is a perfectly level commodity,--level with the ground;--when
you have much of it, you come down solidly on your flat soles and down
you stay!"
I laughed.
"Upon my word you preach very eloquently against wealth!" I said--"You
yourself are unusually rich,--are you sorry for it?"
"No, I am not sorry, because being sorry would be no use"--he
returned--"And I never waste my time. But I am telling you the
truth--Genius and great riches hardly ever pull together. Now I, for
example,--you cannot imagine what great capabilities I had once!--a long
time ago--before I became my own master!"
"And you have them still I am sure"--I averred, looking expressively at
his noble head and fine eyes.
The strange subtle smile I had noticed once or twice before lightened
his face. "Ah, you mean to compliment me!" he said--"You like my
looks,--many people do. Yet after all there is nothing so deceptive as
one's outward appearance. The reason of this is that as soon as
childhood is past, we are always pretending to be what we are not,--and
thus, with constant practice from our youth up, we manage to make our
physical frames complete disguises for our actual selves. It is really
wise and clever of us,--for hence each individual is so much flesh-wall
through which neither friend nor enemy can spy. Every man is a solitary
soul imprisoned in a self-made den,--when he is quite alone he knows and
frequently hates himself,--sometimes he even gets afraid of the gaunt
and murderous monster he keeps hidden behind his outwardly pleasant
body-mask, and hastens to forget its frightful existence in drink and
debauchery. That is what I do occasionally,--you would not think it of
me, would you?"
"Never!" I replied quickly, for something in his voice and aspect moved
me strangely--"You belie yourself, and wrong your own nature."
He laughed softly.
"Perhaps I do!" he said carelessly--"This much you may believe of
me--that I am no worse than most men! Now to return to the subject of
your literary career,--you have written a book, you say,--well, publish
it and see the result--if you only make one 'hit' that is something. And
there are ways of arranging that the 'hit' shall be made. What is your
story about? I hope it is improper?"
"It certainly is not;"--I replied warmly--"It is a romance dealing with
the noblest forms of life and highest ambitions;--I wrote it with the
intention of elevating and purifying the thoughts of my readers, and
wished if I could, to comfort those who had suffered loss or sorrow--"
Rimânez smiled compassionately.
"Ah, it won't do!" he interrupted--"I assure you it won't;--it doesn't
fit the age. It might go down, possibly, if you could give a
'first-night' of it as it were to the critics, like one of my most
intimate friends, Henry Irving,--a 'first-night' combined with an
excellent supper and any amount of good drinks going. Otherwise it's no
use. If it is to succeed by itself, it must not attempt to be
literature,--it must simply be indecent. As indecent as you can make it
without offending advanced women,--that is giving you a good wide
margin. Put in as much as you can about sexual matters and the bearing
of children,--in brief, discourse of men and women simply as cattle who
exist merely for breeding purposes, and your success will be enormous.
There's not a critic living who won't applaud you,--there's not a
school-girl of fifteen who will not gloat over your pages in the silence
of her virginal bedroom!"
Such a flash of withering derision darted from his eyes as startled
me,--I could find no words to answer him for the moment, and he went
on--
"What put it into your head, my dear Tempest, to write a book dealing
with, as you say, 'the noblest forms of life'? There are no noble forms
of life left on this planet,--it is all low and commercial,--man is a
pigmy, and his aims are pigmy like himself. For noble forms of life seek
other worlds!--there _are_ others. Then again, people don't want their
thoughts raised or purified in the novels they read for amusement--they
go to church for that, and get very bored during the process. And why
should you wish to comfort folks who, out of their own sheer stupidity
generally, get into trouble? They wouldn't comfort _you_,--they would
not give you sixpence to save you from starvation. My good fellow, leave
your quixotism behind you with your poverty. Live your life to
yourself,--if you do anything for others they will only treat you with
the blackest ingratitude,--so take my advice, and don't sacrifice your
own personal interests for any consideration whatever."
He rose from the table as he spoke and stood with his back to the bright
fire, smoking his cigar tranquilly,--and I gazed at his handsome figure
and face with just the faintest thrill of pained doubt darkening my
admiration.
"If you were not so good-looking I should call you heartless"--I said at
last--"But your features are a direct contradiction to your words. You
have not really that indifference to human nature which you strive to
assume,--your whole aspect betokens a generosity of spirit which you
cannot conquer if you would. Besides, are you not always trying to do
good?"
He smiled.
"Always! That is, I am always at work endeavouring to gratify every
man's desire. Whether that is good of me, or bad, remains to be proved.
Men's wants are almost illimitable,--the only thing none of them ever
seem to wish, so far as I am concerned, is to cut my acquaintance!"
"Why, of course not! After once meeting you, how could they!" I said,
laughing at the absurdity of the suggestion.
He gave me a whimsical side-look.
"Their desires are not always virtuous," he remarked, turning to flick
off the ash of his cigar into the grate.
"But of course you do not gratify them in their vices!" I rejoined,
still laughing--"That would be playing the part of a benefactor somewhat
too thoroughly!"
"Ah now I see we shall flounder in the quicksands of theory if we go any
further"--he said--"You forget, my dear fellow, that nobody can decide
as to what _is_ vice, or what _is_ virtue. These things are
chameleon-like, and take different colours in different countries.
Abraham had two or three wives and several concubines, and he was the
very soul of virtue according to sacred lore,--whereas my Lord Tom-Noddy
in London to-day has one wife and several concubines, and is really very
much like Abraham in other particulars, yet he is considered a very
dreadful person. 'Who shall decide when doctors disagree!' Let's drop
the subject, as we shall never settle it. What shall we do with the rest
of the evening? There is a stout-limbed, shrewd wench at the Tivoli,
dancing her way into the affections of a ricketty little Duke,--shall we
go and watch the admirable contortions with which she is wriggling into
a fixed position among the English aristocracy? Or are you tired, and
would you prefer a long night's rest?"
To tell the truth I was thoroughly fatigued, and mentally as well as
physically worn out with the excitements of the day,--my head too was
heavy with the wine to which I had so long been unaccustomed.
"Upon my word I think I would rather go to bed than anything--" I
confessed--"But what about my room?"
"Oh, Amiel will have attended to that for you,--we'll ask him." And he
touched the bell. His valet instantly appeared.
"Have you got a room for Mr Tempest?"
"Yes, your Excellency. An apartment in this corridor almost facing your
Excellency's suite. It is not as well furnished as it might be, but I
have made it as comfortable as I can for the night."
"Thanks very much!" I said--"I am greatly obliged to you."
Amiel bowed deferentially.
"Thank _you_, sir."
He retired, and I moved to bid my host good-night. He took my proffered
hand, and held it in his, looking at me curiously the while.
"I like you, Geoffrey Tempest;" he said--"And because I like you, and
because I think there are the makings of something higher than mere
earthy brute in you, I am going to make you what you may perhaps
consider rather a singular proposition. It is this,--that if you don't
like _me_, say so at once, and we will part now, before we have time to
know anything more of each other, and I will endeavour not to cross your
path again unless you seek me out. But if on the contrary, you do like
me,--if you find something in my humour or turn of mind congenial to
your own disposition, give me your promise that you will be my friend
and comrade for a while, say for a few months at any rate. I can take
you into the best society, and introduce you to the prettiest women in
Europe as well as the most brilliant men. I know them all, and I believe
I can be useful to you. But if there is the smallest aversion to me
lurking in the depths of your nature"--here he paused,--then resumed
with extraordinary solemnity--"in God's name give it full way and let me
go,--because I swear to you in all sober earnest that I am not what I
seem!"
Strongly impressed by his strange look and stranger manner, I hesitated
one moment,--and on that moment, had I but known it, hung my future. It
was true,--I had felt a passing shadow of distrust and repulsion for
this fascinating yet cynical man, and he seemed to have guessed it. But
now every suspicion of him vanished from my mind, and I clasped his hand
with renewed heartiness.
"My dear fellow, your warning comes too late!" I said
mirthfully--"Whatever you are, or whatever you choose to think you are,
I find you most sympathetic to my disposition, and I consider myself
most fortunate in knowing you. My old friend Carrington has indeed done
me a good turn in bringing us together, and I assure you I shall be
proud of your companionship. You seem to take a perverse delight in
running yourself down!--but you know the old adage, 'the devil is not so
black as he is painted'?"
"And that is true!" he murmured dreamily--"Poor devil! His faults are no
doubt much exaggerated by the clergy! And so we are to be friends?"
"I hope so! I shall not be the first to break the compact!"
His dark eyes rested upon me thoughtfully, yet there seemed to be a
lurking smile in them as well.
"Compact is a good word"--he said--"So,--a compact we will consider it.
I meant to improve your material fortunes,--you can dispense with that
aid now; but I think I can still be of service in pushing you on in
society. And love--of course you will fall in love if you have not
already done so,--have you?"
"Not I!" I answered quickly, and with truth--"I have seen no woman yet
who perfectly fulfils my notions of beauty."
He burst out laughing violently.
"Upon my word you are not wanting in audacity!" he said--"Nothing but
perfect beauty will suit you, eh? But consider, my friend, you, though a
good-looking well-built man, are not yourself quite a Phoebus Apollo!"
"That has nothing to do with the matter"--I rejoined--"A man should
choose a wife with a careful eye to his own personal gratification, in
the same way that he chooses horses or wine,--perfection or nothing."
"And the woman?"--Rimânez demanded, his eyes twinkling.
"The woman has really no right of choice"--I responded,--for this was my
pet argument and I took pleasure in setting it forth--"She must mate
wherever she has the chance of being properly maintained. A man is
always a man,--a woman is only a man's appendage, and without beauty she
cannot put forth any just claim to his admiration or his support."
"Right!--very right, and logically argued!"--he exclaimed, becoming
preternaturally serious in a moment--"I myself have no sympathy with the
new ideas that are in vogue concerning the intellectuality of woman. She
is simply the female of man,--she has no real soul save that which is a
reflex of his, and being destitute of logic, she is incapable of forming
a correct opinion on any subject. All the imposture of religion is kept
up by this unmathematical hysterical creature,--and it is curious,
considering how inferior a being she is, what mischief she has contrived
to make in the world, upsetting the plans of the wisest kings and
counsellors, who as mere men, should undoubtedly have mastered her! And
in the present age she is becoming more than ever unmanageable."
"It is only a passing phase"--I returned carelessly--"A fad got up by a
few unloved and unlovable types of the feminine sex. I care very little
for women--I doubt whether I shall ever marry."
"Well you have plenty of time to consider, and amuse yourself with the
fair ones, _en passant_"--he said watching me narrowly--"And in the
meantime I can take you round the different marriage-markets of the
world if you choose, though the largest one of them all is of course
this very metropolis. Splendid bargains to be had, my dear
friend!--wonderful blonde and brunette specimens going really very
cheap. We'll examine them at our leisure. I'm glad you have yourself
decided that we are to be comrades,--for I am proud;--I may say damnably
proud;--and never stay in any man's company when he expresses the
slightest wish to be rid of me. Good-night!"
"Good-night!" I responded. We clasped hands again and they were still
interlocked, when a sudden flash of lightning blazed vividly across the
room, followed instantaneously by a terrific clap of thunder. The
electric lights went out, and only the glow of the fire illumined our
faces. I was a little startled and confused,--the prince stood still,
quite unconcerned, his eyes shining like those of a cat in the darkness.
"What a storm!" he remarked lightly--"Such thunder in winter is rather
unusual. Amiel!"
The valet entered, his sinister countenance resembling a white mask made
visible in the gloom.
"These lamps have gone out,"--said his master--"It's very odd that
civilized humanity has not yet learned the complete management of the
electric light. Can you put them in order, Amiel?"
"Yes, your excellency." And in a few moments, by some dexterous
manipulation which I did not understand and could not see, the
crystal-cased jets shone forth again with renewed brilliancy. Another
peal of thunder crashed overhead, followed by a downpour of rain.
"Really remarkable weather for January,"--said Rimânez, again giving me
his hand--"Good-night my friend! Sleep well."
"If the anger of the elements will permit!" I returned, smiling.
"Oh, never mind the elements. Man has nearly mastered them or soon will
do so, now that he is getting gradually convinced there is no Deity to
interfere in his business. Amiel, show Mr Tempest to his room."
Amiel obeyed, and crossing the corridor, ushered me into a large,
luxurious apartment, richly furnished, and lit up by the blaze of a
bright fire. The comforting warmth shone welcome upon me as I entered,
and I who had not experienced such personal luxury since my boyhood's
days, felt more than ever overpowered by the jubilant sense of my sudden
extraordinary good fortune. Amiel waited respectfully, now and then
furtively glancing at me with an expression which to my fancy had
something derisive in it.
"Is there anything I can do for you sir?" he inquired.
"No thank you,"--I answered, endeavouring to throw an accent of careless
condescension into my voice--for somehow I felt this man must be kept
strictly in his place--"you have been very attentive,--I shall not
forget it."
A slight smile flickered over his features.
"Much obliged to you, sir. Good-night."
And he retired, leaving me alone. I paced the room up and down more
dreamily than consciously, trying to think,--trying to set in order the
amazing events of the day, but my brain was still dazed and confused,
and the only image of actual prominence in my mind was the striking and
remarkable personality of my new friend Rimânez. His extraordinary good
looks, his attractive manner, his curious cynicism which was so oddly
mixed with some deeper sentiment to which I could not give a name, all
the trifling yet uncommon peculiarities of his bearing and humour
haunted me and became indissolubly mingled as it were with myself and
all the circumstances concerning me. I undressed before the fire,
listening drowsily to the rain, and the thunder which was now dying off
into sullen echoes.
"Geoffrey Tempest, the world is before you--" I said, apostrophizing
myself indolently--"you are a young man,--you have health, a good
appearance, and brains,--added to these you now have five millions of
money, and a wealthy prince for your friend. What more do you want of
Fate or Fortune? Nothing,--except fame! And that you will get easily,
for now-a-days even fame is purchaseable--like love. Your star is in the
ascendant,--no more literary drudgery for you my boy!--pleasure and
profit and ease are yours to enjoy for the rest of your life. You are a
lucky dog!--at last you have your day!"
I flung myself upon the soft bed, and settled myself to sleep,--and as I
dozed off, I still heard the rumble of heavy thunder in the distance.
Once I fancied I heard the prince's voice calling "Amiel! Amiel!" with a
wildness resembling the shriek of an angry wind,--and at another moment
I started violently from a profound slumber under the impression that
someone had approached and was looking fixedly at me. I sat up in bed,
peering into the darkness, for the fire had gone out;--then I turned on
a small electric night-lamp at my side which fully illumined the
room,--there was no one there. Yet my imagination played me such tricks
before I could rest again that I thought I heard a hissing whisper near
me that said--
"Peace! Trouble him not. Let the fool in his folly sleep!"
V
The next morning on rising I learned that 'his excellency' as Prince
Rimânez was called by his own servants and the employés of the 'Grand,'
had gone out riding in the Park, leaving me to breakfast alone. I
therefore took that meal in the public room of the hotel, where I was
waited upon with the utmost obsequiousness, in spite of my shabby
clothes, which I was of course still compelled to wear, having no
change. When would I be pleased to lunch? At what hour would I dine?
Should my present apartment be retained?--or was it not satisfactory?
Would I prefer a 'suite' similar to that occupied by his excellency? All
these deferential questions first astonished and then amused me,--some
mysterious agency had evidently conveyed the rumour of my wealth among
those best fitted to receive it, and here was the first result. In reply
I said my movements were uncertain,--I should be able to give definite
instructions in the course of a few hours, and that in the meantime I
retained my room. The breakfast over I sallied forth to go to my
lawyers, and was just about to order a hansom when I saw my new friend
coming back from his ride. He bestrode a magnificent chestnut mare,
whose wild eyes and strained quivering limbs showed she was fresh from a
hard gallop and was scarcely yet satisfied to be under close control.
She curveted and danced among the carts and cabs in a somewhat risky
fashion, but she had her master in Rimânez, who if he had looked
handsome by night looked still more so by day, with a slight colour
warming the natural pallor of his complexion and his eyes sparkling with
all the zest of exercise and enjoyment. I waited for his approach, as
did also Amiel, who as usual timed his appearance in the hotel corridor
in exact accordance with the moment of his master's arrival. Rimânez
smiled as he caught sight of me, touching his hat with the handle of his
whip by way of salutation.
"You slept late, Tempest"--he said, as he dismounted and threw the reins
to a groom who had cantered up after him,--"To-morrow you must come with
me and join what they call in fashionable slang parlance the Liver
Brigade. Once upon a time it was considered the height of indelicacy and
low breeding to mention the 'liver' or any other portion of one's
internal machinery,--but we have done with all that now, and we find a
peculiar satisfaction in discoursing of disease and unsavoury medical
matters generally. And in the Liver Brigade you see at a glance all
those interesting fellows who have sold themselves to the devil for the
sake of the flesh-pots of Egypt,--men who eat till they are well-nigh
bursting, and then prance up and down on good horses,--much too
respectable beasts by the way to bear such bestial burdens--in the hope
of getting out of their poisoned blood the evil they have themselves put
in. They think me one of them, but I am not."
He patted his mare and the groom led her away, the foam of her hard ride
still flecking her glossy chest and forelegs.
"Why do you join the procession then?" I asked him, laughing and
glancing at him with undisguised approval as I spoke, for he seemed more
admirably built than ever in his well-fitting riding gear--"You are a
fraud!"
"I am!" he responded lightly--"And do you know I am not the only one in
London! Where are you off to?"
"To those lawyers who wrote to me last night;--Bentham and Ellis is the
name of the firm. The sooner I interview them the better,--don't you
think so?"
"Yes--but see here,"--and he drew me aside--"You must have some ready
cash. It doesn't look well to apply at once for advances,--and there is
really no necessity to explain to these legal men that you were on the
verge of starvation when their letter arrived. Take this
pocket-book,--remember you promised to let me be your banker,--and on
your way you might go to some well-reputed tailor and get properly
rigged out. Ta-ta!"
He moved off at a rapid pace,--I hurried after him, touched to the quick
by his kindness.
"But wait--I say--Lucio!" And I called him thus by his familiar name for
the first time. He stopped at once and stood quite still.
"Well?" he said, regarding me with an attentive smile.
"You don't give me time to speak"--I answered in a low voice, for we
were standing in one of the public corridors of the hotel--"The fact is
I have some money, or rather I can get it directly,--Carrington sent me
a draft for fifty pounds in his letter--I forgot to tell you about it.
It was very good of him to lend it to me,--you had better have it as
security for this pocket-book,--by-the-bye how much is there inside it?"
"Five hundred, in bank notes of tens and twenties,"--he responded with
business-like brevity.
"Five hundred! My dear fellow, I don't want all that. It's too much!"
"Better have too much than too little nowadays,"--he retorted with a
laugh--"My dear Tempest, don't make such a business of it. Five hundred
pounds is really nothing. You can spend it all on a dressing-case for
example. Better send back John Carrington's draft,--I don't think much
of his generosity considering that he came into a mine worth a hundred
thousand pounds sterling, a few days before I left Australia."
I heard this with great surprise, and, I must admit with a slight
feeling of resentment too. The frank and generous character of my old
chum 'Boffles' seemed to darken suddenly in my eyes,--why could he not
have told me of his good fortune in his letter? Was he afraid I might
trouble him for further loans? I suppose my looks expressed my
thoughts, for Rimânez, who had observed me intently, presently added--
"Did he not tell you of his luck? That was not very friendly of him--but
as I remarked last night, money often spoils a man."
"Oh I daresay he meant no slight by the omission," I said hurriedly,
forcing a smile--"No doubt he will make it the subject of his next
letter. Now as to this five hundred"--
"Keep it, man, keep it"--he interposed impatiently--"What do you talk
about security for? Haven't I got _you_ as security?"
I laughed. "Well, I am fairly reliable now"--I said--"And I'm not going
to run away."
"From _me_?" he queried, with a half cold half kind glance; "No,--I
fancy not!"
He waved his hand lightly and left me, and I, putting the leather case
of notes in my inner breast-pocket, hailed a hansom and was driven off
rapidly to Basinghall Street where my solicitors awaited me.
Arrived at my destination, I sent up my name, and was received at once
with the utmost respect by two small chips of men in rusty black who
represented 'the firm.' At my request they sent down their clerk to pay
and dismiss my cab, while I, opening Lucio's pocket book, asked them to
change me a ten-pound note into gold and silver which they did with
ready good-will. Then we went into business together. My deceased
relative, whom I had never seen as far as I myself remembered, but who
had seen me as a motherless baby in my nurse's arms, had left me
everything he possessed unconditionally, including several rare
collections of pictures, jewels and curios. His will was so concisely
and clearly worded that there were no possibilities of any legal
hair-splitting over it,--and I was informed that in a week or ten days
at the utmost everything would be in order and at my sole disposition.
"You are a very fortunate man Mr Tempest;"--said the senior partner Mr
Bentham, as he folded up the last of the papers we had been looking
through and put it by--"At your age this princely inheritance may be
either a great boon to you or a great curse,--one never knows. The
possession of such enormous wealth involves great responsibilities."
I was amused at what I considered the impertinence of this mere servant
of the law in presuming to moralize on my luck.
"Many people would be glad to accept such responsibilities and change
places with me"--I said with a flippant air--"You yourself, for
example?"
I knew this remark was not in good taste, but I made it wilfully,
feeling that he had no business to preach to me as it were on the
responsibilities of wealth. He took no offence however,--he merely gave
me an observant side-glance like that of some meditative crow.
"No Mr Tempest, no"--he said drily--"I do not think I should at all be
disposed to change places with you. I feel very well satisfied as I am.
My brain is my bank, and brings me in quite sufficient interest to live
upon, which is all that I desire. To be comfortable, and pay one's way
honestly is enough for me. I have never envied the wealthy."
"Mr Bentham is a philosopher,"--interposed his partner, Mr Ellis
smiling--"In our profession Mr Tempest, we see so many ups and downs of
life, that in watching the variable fortunes of our clients, we
ourselves learn the lesson of content."
"Ah, it is a lesson that I have never mastered till now!" I responded
merrily--"But at the present moment I confess myself satisfied."
They each gave me a formal little bow, and Mr Bentham shook hands.
"Business being concluded, allow me to congratulate you," he said
politely--"Of course, if you should wish at any time to entrust your
legal affairs to other hands, my partner and myself are perfectly
willing to withdraw. Your deceased relative had the highest confidence
in us...."
"As I have also, I assure you,"--I interrupted quickly--"Pray do me the
favour to continue managing things for me as you did for my relative,
and be assured of my gratitude in advance."
Both little men bowed again, and this time Mr Ellis shook hands.
"We shall do our best for you, Mr Tempest, shall we not Bentham?"
Bentham nodded gravely. "And now what do you say--shall we mention it
Bentham?--or shall we not mention it?"
"Perhaps," responded Bentham sententiously--"it would be as well to
mention it."
I glanced from one to the other, not understanding what they meant. Mr
Ellis rubbed his hands and smiled deprecatingly.
"The fact is Mr Tempest, your deceased relative had one very curious
idea--he was a shrewd man and a clever one, but he certainly had one
very curious idea--and perhaps if he had followed it up to any extent,
it might--yes, it might have landed him in a lunatic asylum and
prevented his disposing of his extensive fortune in the--er--the very
just and reasonable manner he has done. Happily for himself and--er--for
you, he did not follow it up, and to the last he retained his admirable
business qualities and high sense of rectitude. But I do not think he
ever quite dispossessed himself of the idea itself, did he Bentham?"
Bentham gazed meditatively at the round black mark of the gas-burner
where it darkened the ceiling.
"I think not,--no, I think not," he answered--"I believe he was
perfectly convinced of it."
"And what was it?" I asked, getting impatient--"Did he want to bring out
some patent?--a new notion for a flying-machine, and get rid of his
money in that way?"
"No, no, no!" and Mr Ellis laughed a soft pleasant little laugh over my
suggestion--"No, my dear sir--nothing of a purely mechanical or
commercial turn captivated his imagination. He was too,--er--yes, I
think I may say too profoundly opposed to what is called 'progress' in
the world to aid it by any new invention or other means whatever. You
see it is a little awkward for me to explain to you what really seems to
be the most absurd and fantastic notion,--but--to begin with, we never
really knew how he made his money, did we Bentham?"
Bentham shook his head and pursed his lips closely together.
"We had to take charge of large sums, and advise as to investments and
other matters,--but it was not our business to inquire where the cash
came from in the first place, was it, Bentham?"
Again Bentham shook his head solemnly.
"We were entrusted with it;"--went on his partner, pressing the tips of
his fingers together caressingly as he spoke--"and we did our best to
fulfil that trust--with--er--with discretion and fidelity. And it was
only after we had been for many years connected in business that our
client mentioned--er--his idea;--a most erratic and extraordinary one,
which was briefly this,--that he had sold himself to the devil, and that
his large fortune was one result of the bargain!"
I burst out laughing heartily.
"What a ridiculous notion!" I exclaimed--"Poor man!--a weak spot in his
brain somewhere evidently,--or perhaps he used the expression as a mere
figure of speech?"
"I think not;"--responded Mr Ellis half interrogatively, still caressing
his fingers--"I think our client did not use the phrase 'sold to the
devil' as a figure of speech merely, Mr Bentham?"
"I am positive he did not,"--said Bentham seriously--"He spoke of the
'bargain' as an actual and accomplished fact."
I laughed again with a trifle less boisterousness.
"Well, people have all sorts of fancies now-a-days"--I said; "What with
Blavatskyism, Besantism and hypnotism, it is no wonder if some folks
still have a faint credence in the silly old superstition of a devil's
existence. But for a thoroughly sensible man...."
"Yes--er, yes;"--interrupted Mr Ellis--"Your relative, Mr Tempest, _was_
a thoroughly sensible man, and this--er--this idea was the only fancy
that ever appeared to have taken root in his eminently practical mind.
Being only an idea, it seemed hardly worth mentioning--but perhaps it is
well--Mr Bentham agreeing with me--that we _have_ mentioned it."
"It is a satisfaction and relief to ourselves,"--said Mr Bentham, "to
have had it mentioned."
I smiled, and thanking them, rose to go. They bowed to me once more,
simultaneously, looking almost like twin brothers, so identically had
their united practice of the law impressed itself upon their features.
"Good-day Mr Tempest,"--said Mr Bentham--"I need scarcely say that we
shall serve you as we served our late client, to the best of our
ability. And in matters where advice may be pleasant or profitable, we
may possibly be of use to you. May we ask whether you require any cash
advances immediately?"
"No, thank you,"--I answered, feeling grateful to my friend Rimânez for
having placed me in a perfectly independent position to confront these
solicitors--"I am amply provided."
They seemed, I fancied, a trifle surprised at this, but were too
discreet to offer any remark. They wrote down my address at the Grand
Hotel, and sent their clerk to show me to the door. I gave this man
half-a-sovereign to drink my health which he very cheerfully promised to
do,--then I walked round by the Law Courts, trying to realize that I was
not in a dizzy dream, but that I was actually and solidly, five times a
millionaire. As luck would have it, in turning a corner I jostled up
against a man coming the other way, the very publisher who had returned
me my rejected manuscript the day before.
"Hullo!" he exclaimed stopping short.
"Hullo!" I rejoined.
"Where are you off to?" he went on--"Going to try and place that
unlucky novel? My dear boy, believe me it will never do as it is...."
"It will do, it shall do;"--I said calmly--"I am going to publish it
myself."
He started. "Publish it yourself! Good heavens!--it will cost
you--ah!--sixty or seventy, perhaps a hundred pounds."
"I don't care if it costs me a thousand!"
A red flush came into his face, and his eyes opened in astonishment.
"I thought ... excuse me ..." he stammered awkwardly; "I thought money
was scarce with you----"
"It was," I answered drily--"It isn't now."
Then, his utterly bewildered look, together with the whole
topsy-turviness of things in my altered position, struck me so forcibly
that I burst out laughing, wildly, and with a prolonged noise and
violence that apparently alarmed him, for he began looking nervously
about him in all directions as if meditating flight. I caught him by the
arm.
"Look here man," I said, trying to conquer my almost hysterical
mirth--"I'm not mad--don't you think it,--I'm only a--millionaire!" And
I began laughing again; the situation seemed to me so sublimely
ridiculous. But the worthy publisher did not see it at all--and his
features expressed so much genuine alarm that I made a further effort to
control myself and succeeded. "I assure you on my word of honour I'm not
joking--it's a fact. Last night I wanted a dinner, and you, like a good
fellow, offered to give me one,--to-day I possess five millions of
money! Don't stare so! don't have a fit of apoplexy! And as I have told
you, I shall publish my book myself at my own expense, and it _shall_
succeed! Oh I'm in earnest, grim earnest, grim as death!--I've more than
enough in my pocketbook to pay for its publication _now_!"
I loosed my hold of him, and he fell back stupefied and confused.
"God bless my soul!" he muttered feebly--"It's like a dream!--I was
never more astonished in my life!"
"Nor I!" I said, another temptation to laughter threatening my
composure,--"But strange things happen in life, as in fiction. And that
book which the builders--I mean the readers--rejected, shall be the
headstone of the corner--or--the success of the season! What will you
take to bring it out?"
"Take? I? I bring it out!"
"Yes, you--why not? If I offer you a chance to turn an honest penny
shall your paid pack of 'readers' prevent your accepting it? Fie! you
are not a slave,--this is a free country. I know the kind of people who
'read' for you,--the gaunt unlovable spinster of fifty,--the dyspeptic
book-worm who is a 'literary failure' and can find nothing else to do
but scrawl growling comments on the manuscript of promising work,--why
in heaven's name should you rely on such incompetent opinion? I'll pay
you for the publication of my book at as stiff a price as you choose and
something over for good-will. And I guarantee you another thing--it
shall not only make my name as an author, but yours as a publisher. I'll
advertise royally, and I'll work the press. Everything in this world can
be done for money ..."
"Stop, stop,"--he interrupted.--"This is so sudden! You must let me
think of it--you must give me time to consider----"
"Take a day for your meditations then," I said--"But no longer. For if
you don't say yes, I'll get another man, and he'll have the big pickings
instead of you! Be wise in time, my friend!--good-day!"
He ran after me.
"Stay,--look here! You're so strange, so wild--so erratic you know! Your
head seems quite turned!"
"It is! The right way round this time!"
"Dear dear me," and he smiled benevolently--"Why, you don't give me a
chance to congratulate you. I really do, you know--I congratulate you
sincerely!" And he shook me by the hand quite fervently. "And as regards
the book I believe there was really no fault found with it in the
matter of literary style or quality,--it was simply too--too
transcendental, and unlikely therefore to suit the public taste. The
Domestic-Iniquity line is what we find pays best at present. But I will
think about it--where will a letter find you?"
"Grand Hotel," I responded, inwardly amused at his puzzled and anxious
expression--I knew he was already mentally calculating how much he could
make out of me in the pursuit of my literary whim--"Come there, and
lunch or dine with me to-morrow if you like--only send me a word
beforehand. Remember, I give you just a day's grace to decide,--it must
be yes or no, in twenty-four hours!"
And with this I left him, staring vaguely after me like a man who has
seen some nameless wonder drop out of the sky at his feet. I went on,
laughing to myself inaudibly, till I saw one or two passers-by looking
at me so surprisedly that I came to the conclusion that I must put a
disguise on my thoughts if I would not be taken for a madman. I walked
briskly, and presently my excitement cooled down. I resumed the normal
condition of the phlegmatic Englishman who considers it the height of
bad form to display any personal emotion whatever, and I occupied the
rest of the morning in purchasing some ready-made apparel which by
unusual good luck happened to fit me, and also in giving an extensive,
not to say extravagant order to a fashionable tailor in Sackville Street
who promised me everything with punctuality and despatch. I next sent
off the rent I owed to the landlady of my former lodgings, adding five
pounds extra by way of recognition of the poor woman's long patience in
giving me credit, and general kindness towards me during my stay in her
dismal house,--and this done I returned to the Grand in high spirits,
looking and feeling very much the better for my ready-made outfit. A
waiter met me in the corridor and with the most obsequious deference,
informed me that 'his excellency the prince' was waiting luncheon for me
in his own apartments. Thither I repaired at once, and found my new
friend alone in his sumptuous drawing-room, standing near the full light
of the largest window and holding in his hand an oblong crystal case
through which he was looking with an almost affectionate solicitude.
"Ah, Geoffrey! Here you are!" he exclaimed--"I imagined you would get
through your business by lunch time, so I waited."
"Very good of you!" I said, pleased at the friendly familiarity he
displayed in thus calling me by my Christian name--"What have you got
there?"
"A pet of mine,"--he answered, smiling slightly--"Did you ever see
anything like it before?"
VI
I approached and examined the box he held. It was perforated with finely
drilled holes for the admission of air, and within it lay a brilliant
winged insect coloured with all the tints and half-tints of the rainbow.
"Is it alive?" I asked.
"It is alive, and has a sufficient share of intelligence,"--replied
Rimânez. "I feed it and it knows me,--that is the utmost you can say of
the most civilized human beings; they know what feeds them. It is quite
tame and friendly as you perceive,"--and opening the case he gently
advanced his forefinger. The glittering beetle's body palpitated with
the hues of an opal; its radiant wings expanded, and it rose at once to
its protector's hand and clung there. He lifted it out and held it
aloft, then shaking it to and fro lightly, he exclaimed--
"Off, Sprite! Fly, and return to me!"
The creature soared away through the room and round and round the
ceiling, looking like a beautiful iridescent jewel, the whirr of its
wings making a faint buzzing sound as it flew. I watched it fascinated,
till after a few graceful movements hither and thither, it returned to
its owner's still outstretched hand, and again settled there making no
further attempt to fly.
"There is a well-worn platitude which declares that 'in the midst of
life we are in death'"--said the prince then softly, bending his dark
deep eyes on the insect's quivering wings--"But as a matter of fact that
maxim is wrong as so many trite human maxims are. It should be 'in the
midst of death we are in life.' This creature is a rare and curious
production of death, but not I believe the only one of its kind. Others
have been found under precisely similar circumstances. I took possession
of this one myself in rather a weird fashion,--will the story bore you?"
"On the contrary"--I rejoined eagerly, my eyes fixed on the radiant
bat-shaped thing that glittered in the light as though its veins were
phosphorescent.
He paused a moment, watching me.
"Well,--it happened simply thus,--I was present at the uncasing of an
Egyptian female mummy;--her talismans described her as a princess of a
famous royal house. Several curious jewels were tied round her neck, and
on her chest was a piece of beaten gold quarter of an inch thick.
Underneath this gold plate, her body was swathed round and round in an
unusual number of scented wrappings; and when these were removed it was
discovered that the mummified flesh between her breasts had decayed
away, and in the hollow or nest thus formed by the process of
decomposition, this insect I hold was found alive, as brilliant in
colour as it is now!"
I could not repress a slight nervous shudder.
"Horrible!" I said--"I confess, if I were you, I should not care to make
a pet of such an uncanny object. I should kill it, I think."
He kept his bright intent gaze upon me.
"Why?" he asked. "I'm afraid, my dear Geoffrey, you are not disposed to
study science. To kill the poor thing who managed to find life in the
very bosom of death, is a cruel suggestion, is it not? To me, this
unclassified insect is a valuable proof (if I needed one) of the
indestructibility of the germs of conscious existence; it has eyes, and
the senses of taste, smell, touch and hearing,--and it gained these
together with its intelligence, out of the dead flesh of a woman who
lived, and no doubt loved and sinned and suffered more than four
thousand years ago!" He broke off,--then suddenly added--"All the same
I frankly admit to you that I believe it to be an evil creature. I do
indeed! But I like it none the less for that. In fact I have rather a
fantastic notion about it myself. I am much inclined to accept the idea
of the transmigration of souls, and so I please my humour sometimes by
thinking that perhaps the princess of that Royal Egyptian house had a
wicked, brilliant, vampire soul,--and that ... _here it is_!"
A cold thrill ran through me from head to foot at these words, and as I
looked at the speaker standing opposite me in the wintry light, dark and
tall, with the 'wicked, brilliant, vampire soul' clinging to his hand,
there seemed to me to be a sudden hideousness declared in his excessive
personal beauty. I was conscious of a vague terror, but I attributed it
to the gruesome nature of the story, and, determining to combat my
sensations, I examined the weird insect more closely. As I did so, its
bright beady eyes sparkled, I thought, vindictively, and I stepped back,
vexed with myself at the foolish fear of the thing which overpowered me.
"It is certainly remarkable,"--I murmured--"No wonder you value it,--as
a curiosity. Its eyes are quite distinct, almost intelligent in fact."
"No doubt she had beautiful eyes,"--said Rimânez smiling.
"She? Whom do you mean?"
"The princess, of course!" he answered, evidently amused; "The dear dead
lady,--some of whose personality must be in this creature, seeing that
it had nothing but her body to nourish itself upon."
And here he replaced the creature in its crystal habitation with the
utmost care.
"I suppose"--I said slowly, "you, in your pursuit of science, would
infer from this that nothing actually perishes completely?"
"Exactly!" returned Rimânez emphatically. "There, my dear Tempest, is
the mischief,--or the deity,--of things. Nothing can be entirely
annihilated;--not even a thought."
I was silent, watching him while he put the glass case with its uncanny
occupant away out of sight.
"And now for luncheon," he said gaily, passing his arm through
mine--"You look twenty per cent. better than when you went out this
morning, Geoffrey, so I conclude your legal matters are disposed of
satisfactorily. And what else have you done with yourself?"
Seated at table with the dark-faced Amiel in attendance, I related my
morning's adventures, dwelling at length on my chance meeting with the
publisher who had on the previous day refused my manuscript, and who
now, I felt sure, would be only too glad to close with the offer I had
made him. Rimânez listened attentively, smiling now and then.
"Of course!" he said, when I had concluded. "There is nothing in the
least surprising in the conduct of the worthy man. In fact I think he
showed remarkable discretion and decency in not at once jumping at your
proposition,--his pleasant hypocrisy in retiring to think it over, shows
him to be a person of tact and foresight. Did you ever imagine that a
human being or a human conscience existed that could not be bought? My
good fellow, you can buy a king if you only give a long price enough;
and the Pope will sell you a specially reserved seat in his heaven if
you will only hand him the cash down while he is on earth! Nothing is
given free in this world save the air and the sunshine,--everything else
must be bought,--with blood, tears and groans occasionally,--but
oftenest with money."
I fancied that Amiel, behind his master's chair, smiled darkly at
this,--and my instinctive dislike of the fellow kept me more or less
reticent concerning my affairs till the luncheon was over. I could not
formulate to myself any substantial reason for my aversion to this
confidential servant of the prince's,--but do what I would the aversion
remained, and increased each time I saw his sullen, and as I thought,
sneering features. Yet he was perfectly respectful and deferential; I
could find no actual fault with him,--nevertheless when at last he
placed the coffee, cognac, and cigars on the table and noiselessly
withdrew, I was conscious of a great relief, and breathed more freely.
As soon as we were alone, Rimânez lit a cigar and settled himself for a
smoke, looking over at me with a personal interest and kindness which
made his handsome face more than ever attractive.
"Now let us talk,"--he said--"I believe I am at present the best friend
you have, and I certainly know the world better than you do. What do you
propose to make of your life? Or in other words how do you mean to begin
spending your money?"
I laughed. "Well, I shan't provide funds for the building of a church,
or the endowment of a hospital,"--I said--"I shall not even start a Free
Library, for these institutions, besides becoming centres for infectious
diseases, generally get presided over by a committee of local grocers
who presume to consider themselves judges of literature. My dear Prince
Rimânez, I mean to spend my money on my own pleasure, and I daresay I
shall find plenty of ways to do it."
Rimânez fanned away the smoke of his cigar with one hand, and his dark
eyes shone with a peculiarly vivid light through the pale grey floating
haze.
"With your fortune, you could make hundreds of miserable people
happy;"--he suggested.
"Thanks, I would rather be happy myself first"--I answered gaily--"I
daresay I seem to you selfish,--you are philanthropic I know; I am not."
He still regarded me steadily.
"You might help your fellow-workers in literature...."
I interrupted him with a decided gesture.
"That I will never do, my friend, though the heavens should crack! My
fellow-workers in literature have kicked me down at every opportunity,
and done their best to keep me from earning a bare livelihood,--it is my
turn at kicking now, and I will show them as little mercy, as little
help, as little sympathy as they have shown me!"
"Revenge is sweet!" he quoted sententiously--"I should recommend your
starting a high-class half-crown magazine."
"Why?"
"Can you ask? Just think of the ferocious satisfaction it would give you
to receive the manuscripts of your literary enemies, and reject them! To
throw their letters into the waste-paper basket, and send back their
poems, stories, political articles and what not, with '_Returned with
thanks_' or '_Not up to our mark_' type-written on the backs thereof! To
dig knives into your rivals through the medium of anonymous criticism!
The howling joy of a savage with twenty scalps at his belt would be tame
in comparison to it! I was an editor once myself, and I know!"
I laughed at his whimsical earnestness.
"I daresay you are right,"--I said--"I can grasp the vengeful position
thoroughly! But the management of a magazine would be too much trouble
to me,--too much of a tie."
"_Don't_ manage it! Follow the example of all the big editors, and live
out of the business altogether,--but take the profits! You never see the
real editor of a leading daily newspaper you know,--you can only
interview the sub. The real man is, according to the seasons of the
year, at Ascot, in Scotland, at Newmarket, or wintering in Egypt,--he is
supposed to be responsible for everything in his journal, but he is
generally the last person who knows anything about it. He relies on his
'staff'--a very bad crutch at times,--and when his 'staff' are in a
difficulty, they get out of it by saying they are unable to decide
without the editor. Meanwhile the editor is miles away, comfortably free
from worry. You could bamboozle the public in that way if you liked."
"I could, but I shouldn't care to do so," I answered--"If I had a
business I would not neglect it. I believe in doing things thoroughly."
"So do I!" responded Rimânez promptly. "I am a very thorough-going
fellow myself, and whatever my hand findeth to do, I do it with my
might!--excuse me for quoting Scripture!" He smiled, a little ironically
I thought, then resumed--"Well, in what, at present does your idea of
enjoying your heritage consist?"
"In publishing my book," I answered. "That very book I could get no one
to accept,--I tell you, I will make it the talk of London!"
"Possibly you will"--he said, looking at me through half-closed eyes and
a cloud of smoke,--"London easily talks. Particularly on unsavoury and
questionable subjects. Therefore,--as I have already hinted,--if your
book were a judicious mixture of Zola, Huysmans and Baudelaire, or had
for its heroine a 'modest' maid who considered honourable marriage a
'degradation,' it would be quite sure of success in these days of new
Sodom and Gomorrah." Here he suddenly sprang up, and flinging away his
cigar, confronted me. "Why do not the heavens rain fire on this accursed
city! It is ripe for punishment,--full of abhorrent creatures not worth
the torturing in hell to which it is said liars and hypocrites are
condemned! Tempest, if there is one human being more than another that I
utterly abhor, it is the type of man so common to the present time, the
man who huddles his own loathly vices under a cloak of assumed
broad-mindedness and virtue. Such an one will even deify the loss of
chastity in woman by the name of 'purity,'--because he knows that it is
by her moral and physical ruin alone that he can gratify his brutal
lusts. Rather than be such a sanctimonious coward I would openly
proclaim myself vile!"
"That is because yours is a noble nature"--I said--"You are an exception
to the rule."
"An exception? I?"--and he laughed bitterly--"Yes, you are right; I am
an exception among men perhaps,--but I am one with the beasts in
honesty! The lion does not assume the manners of the dove,--he loudly
announces his own ferocity. The very cobra, stealthy though its
movements be, evinces its meaning by a warning hiss or rattle. The
hungry wolf's bay is heard far down the wind, intimidating the hurrying
traveller among the wastes of snow. But man gives no clue to his
intent--more malignant than the lion, more treacherous than the snake,
more greedy than the wolf, he takes his fellow-man's hand in pretended
friendship, and an hour later defames his character behind his
back,--with a smiling face he hides a false and selfish heart,--flinging
his pigmy mockery at the riddle of the Universe, he stands gibing at
God, feebly a-straddle on his own earth-grave--Heavens!"--here he
stopped short with a passionate gesture--"What should the Eternities do
with such a thankless, blind worm as he!"
His voice rang out with singular emphasis,--his eyes glowed with a fiery
ardour; startled by his impressive manner I let my cigar die out and
stared at him in mute amazement. What an inspired countenance!--what an
imposing figure!--how sovereignly supreme and almost god-like in his
looks he seemed at the moment;--and yet there was something terrifying
in his attitude of protest and defiance. He caught my wondering
glance,--the glow of passion faded from his face,--he laughed and
shrugged his shoulders.
"I think I was born to be an actor"--he said carelessly--"Now and then
the love of declamation masters me. Then I speak--as Prime Ministers and
men in Parliament speak--to suit the humour of the hour, and without
meaning a single word I say!"
"I cannot accept that statement"--I answered him, smiling a little--"You
do mean what you say,--though I fancy you are rather a creature of
impulse."
"Do you really!" he exclaimed--"How wise of you!--good Geoffrey Tempest,
how very wise of you! But you are wrong. There never was a being created
who was less impulsive, or more charged with set purpose than I. Believe
me or not as you like,--belief is a sentiment that cannot be forced. If
I told you that I am a dangerous companion,--that I like evil things
better than good,--that I am not a safe guide for any man, what would
you think?"
"I should think you were whimsically fond of under-estimating your own
qualities"--I said, re-lighting my cigar, and feeling somewhat amused by
his earnestness--"And I should like you just as well as I do
now,--perhaps better,--though that would be difficult."
At these words, he seated himself, bending his steadfast dark eyes full
upon me.
"Tempest, you follow the fashion of the prettiest women about
town,--they always like the greatest scoundrels!"
"But you are not a scoundrel;"--I rejoined, smoking peacefully.
"No,--I'm not a scoundrel, but there's a good deal of the devil in me."
"All the better!" I said, stretching myself out in my chair with lazy
comfort--"I hope there's something of him in me too."
"Do you believe in him?" asked Rimânez smiling.
"The devil? of course not!"
"He is a very fascinating legendary personage;"--continued the prince,
lighting another cigar and beginning to puff at it slowly--"And he is
the subject of many a fine story. Picture his fall from
heaven!--'Lucifer Son of the Morning'--what a title, and what a
birthright! To be born of the morning implies to be a creature formed of
translucent light undefiled, with all the warm rose of a million orbs of
day colouring his bright essence, and all the lustre of fiery planets
flaming in his eyes. Splendid and supreme, at the right hand of Deity
itself he stood, this majestic Arch-angel, and before his unwearied
vision rolled the grandest creative splendours of God's thoughts and
dreams. All at once he perceived in the vista of embryonic things a new
small world, and on it a being forming itself slowly as it were into the
Angelic likeness,--a being weak yet strong, sublime yet foolish,--a
strange paradox, destined to work its way through all the phases of
life, till imbibing the very breath and soul of the Creator it should
touch Conscious Immortality,--Eternal Joy. Then Lucifer, full of wrath,
turned on the Master of the Spheres, and flung forth his reckless
defiance, crying aloud--'Wilt thou make of this slight poor creature an
Angel even as I? I do protest against thee and condemn! Lo, if thou
makest Man in Our image I will destroy him utterly, as unfit to share
with me the splendours of Thy Wisdom,--the glory of Thy love!' And the
Voice Supreme in accents terrible and beautiful replied; 'Lucifer, Son
of the Morning, full well dost thou know that never can an idle or
wasted word be spoken before Me. For Free-will is the gift of the
Immortals; therefore what thou sayest, thou must needs do! Fall, proud
Spirit from thy high estate!--thou and thy companions with thee!--and
return no more till Man himself redeem thee! Each human soul that yields
unto thy tempting shall be a new barrier set between thee and heaven;
each one that of its own choice doth repel and overcome thee, shall lift
thee nearer thy lost home! When the world rejects thee, I will pardon
and again receive thee,--but _not till then_.'"
"I never heard exactly that version of the legend before,"--I
said,--"The idea that Man should redeem the devil is quite new to me."
"Is it?" and he looked at me fixedly--"Well--it is one form of the
story, and by no means the most unpoetical. Poor Lucifer! His punishment
is of course eternal, and the distance between himself and Heaven must
be rapidly increasing every day,--for Man will never assist him to
retrieve his error. Man will reject God fast enough and gladly
enough--but never the devil. Judge then, how, under the peculiar
circumstances of his doom, this 'Lucifer, Son of the Morning,' Satan, or
whatever else he is called, must hate Humanity!"
I smiled. "Well he has one remedy left to him"--I observed--"He need not
tempt anybody."
"You forget!--he is bound to keep his word, according to the
legend"--said Rimânez--"He swore before God that he would destroy Man
utterly,--he must therefore fulfil that oath, if he can. Angels, it
would seem, may not swear before the Eternal without endeavouring at
least to fulfil their vows,--men swear in the name of God every day
without the slightest intention of carrying out their promises."
"But it's all the veriest nonsense,"--I said somewhat impatiently--"All
these old legends are rubbish. You tell the story well, and almost as if
you believed in it,--that is because you have the gift of speaking with
eloquence. Nowadays no one believes in either devils or angels;--I, for
example, do not even believe in the soul."
"I know you do not"--he answered suavely--"And your scepticism is very
comfortable because it relieves you of all personal responsibility. I
envy you! For--I regret to say, I am compelled to believe in the soul."
"Compelled!" I echoed--"That is absurd--no one can compel you to accept
a mere theory."
He looked at me with a flitting smile that darkened rather than
lightened his face.
"True! very true! There is no compelling force in the whole
Universe,--Man is the supreme and independent creature,--master of all
he surveys and owning no other dominion save his personal desire.
True--I forgot! Let us avoid theology, please, and psychology also,--let
us talk about the only subject that has any sense or interest in
it--namely, Money. I perceive your present plans are definite,--you wish
to publish a book that shall create a stir and make you famous. It seems
a modest enough campaign! Have you no wider ambitions? There are several
ways, you know, of getting talked about. Shall I enumerate them for your
consideration?"
I laughed. "If you like!"
"Well, in the first place I should suggest your getting yourself
properly paragraphed. It must be known to the press that you are an
exceedingly rich man. There is an Agency for the circulation of
paragraphs,--I daresay they'll do it sufficiently well for about ten or
twenty guineas."
I opened my eyes a little at this.
"Oh, is that the way these things are done?"
"My dear fellow, how else should they be done?" he demanded somewhat
impatiently--"Do you think _anything_ in the world is done without
money? Are the poor, hard-working journalists your brothers or your
bosom friends that they should lift you into public notice without
getting something for their trouble? If you do not manage them properly
in this way, they'll abuse you quite heartily and free of cost,--that I
can promise you! I know a 'literary agent,' a very worthy man too, who
for a hundred guineas down, will so ply the paragraph wheel that in a
few weeks it shall seem to the outside public that Geoffrey Tempest, the
millionaire, is the only person worth talking about, and the one
desirable creature whom to shake hands with is next in honour to meeting
Royalty itself."
"Secure him!" I said indolently--"And pay him _two_ hundred guineas! So
shall all the world hear of me!"
"When you have been paragraphed thoroughly," went on Rimânez--"the next
move will be a dash into what is called 'swagger' society. This must be
done cautiously and by degrees. You must be presented at the first Levée
of the season, and later on, I will get you an invitation to some great
lady's house, where you will meet the Prince of Wales privately at
dinner. If you can oblige or please His Royal Highness in any way so
much the better for you,--he is at least the most popular royalty in
Europe, so it should not be difficult to you to make yourself agreeable.
Following upon this event, you must purchase a fine country seat, and
have _that_ fact 'paragraphed'--then you can rest and look
round,--Society will have taken you up, and you will find yourself in
the swim!"
I laughed heartily,--well entertained by his fluent discourse.
"I should not," he resumed--"propose your putting yourself to the
trouble of getting into Parliament. That is no longer necessary to the
career of a gentleman. But I should strongly recommend your winning the
Derby."
"I daresay you would!" I answered mirthfully--"It's an admirable
suggestion,--but not very easy to follow!"
"If you wish to win the Derby," he rejoined quietly--"you _shall_ win
it. I'll guarantee both horse and jockey!"
Something in his decisive tone impressed me, and I leaned forward to
study his features more closely.
"Are you a worker of miracles?" I asked him jestingly--"Do you mean it?"
"Try me!" he responded--"Shall I enter a horse for you?"
"You can't; it's too late," I said. "You would need to be the devil
himself to do it. Besides I don't care about racing."
"You will have to amend your taste then,"--he replied--"That is, if you
want to make yourself agreeable to the English aristocracy, for they are
interested in little else. No really great lady is without her betting
book, though she may be deficient in her knowledge of spelling. You may
make the biggest literary _furore_ of the season, and that will count as
nothing among 'swagger' people, but if you win the Derby you will be a
really famous man. Personally speaking I have a great deal to do with
racing,--in fact I am devoted to it. I am always present at every great
race,--I never miss one; I always bet, and I never lose! And now let me
proceed with your social plan of action. After winning the Derby you
will enter for a yacht race at Cowes, and allow the Prince of Wales to
beat you just narrowly. Then you will give a grand dinner, arranged by a
perfect _chef_,--and you will entertain His Royal Highness to the
strains of 'Britannia rules the waves,' which will serve as a pretty
compliment. You will allude to the same well-worn song in a graceful
speech,--and the probable result of all this will be one, or perhaps two
Royal invitations. So far, so good. With the heats of summer you will go
to Homburg to drink the waters there whether you require them or
not,--and in the autumn you will assemble a shooting-party at the
country seat before-mentioned which you will have purchased, and invite
Royalty to join you in killing the poor little partridges. Then your
name in society may be considered as made, and you can marry whatever
fair lady happens to be in the market!"
"Thanks!--much obliged!" and I gave way to hearty laughter--"Upon my
word Lucio, your programme is perfect! It lacks nothing!"
"It is the orthodox round of social success," said Lucio with admirable
gravity--"Intellect and originality have nothing whatever to do with
it,--only money is needed to perform it all."
"You forget my book"--I interposed--"I know there is some intellect in
that, and some originality too. Surely that will give me an extra lift
up the heights of fashionable light and leading."
"I doubt it!" he answered--"I very much doubt it. It will be received
with a certain amount of favour of course, as a production of a rich man
amusing himself with literature as a sort of whim. But, as I told you
before, genius seldom develops itself under the influence of wealth.
Then again 'swagger' folks can never get it out of their fuddled heads
that Literature belongs to Grub Street. Great poets, great philosophers,
great romancists are always vaguely alluded to by 'swagger' society as
'those sort of people.' Those sort of people are so 'interesting' say
the blue-blooded noodles deprecatingly, excusing themselves as it were
for knowing any members of the class literary. You can fancy a 'swagger'
lady of Elizabeth's time asking a friend--'O do you mind, my dear, if I
bring one Master William Shakespeare to see you? He writes plays, and
does something or other at the _Globe_ theatre,--in fact I'm afraid he
acts a little--he's not very well off poor man,--but _these sort of
people_ are always so amusing!' Now you, my dear Tempest, are not a
Shakespeare, but your millions will give you a better chance than he
ever had in his life-time, as you will not have to sue for patronage, or
practise a reverence for 'my lord' or 'my lady,'--these exalted
personages will be only too delighted to borrow money of you if you will
lend it."
"I shall not lend,"--I said.
"Nor give?"
"Nor give."
His keen eyes flashed approval.
"I am very glad," he observed, "that you are determined not to 'go about
doing good' as the canting humbugs say, with your money. You are wise.
Spend on yourself,--because your very act of spending cannot but benefit
others through various channels. Now I pursue a different course. I
always help charities, and put my name on subscription-lists,--and I
never fail to assist a certain portion of clergy."
"I rather wonder at that--" I remarked--"Especially as you tell me you
are not a Christian."
"Yes,--it does seem strange,--doesn't it?"--he said with an
extraordinary accent of what might be termed apologetic derision--"But
perhaps you don't look at it in the proper light. Many of the clergy are
doing their utmost best to _destroy_ religion,--by cant, by hypocrisy,
by sensuality, by shams of every description,--and when they seek my
help in this noble work, I give it,--freely!"
I laughed "You must have your joke evidently"--I said, throwing the end
of my finished cigar into the fire--"And I see you are fond of
satirizing your own good actions. Hullo, what's this?"
For at that moment Amiel entered, bearing a telegram for me on a silver
salver. I opened it,--it was from my friend the publisher, and ran as
follows--
"Accept book with pleasure. Send manuscript immediately."
I showed this to Rimânez with a kind of triumph. He smiled.
"Of course! what else did you expect? Only the man should have worded
his telegram differently, for I do not suppose he would accept the book
with pleasure if he had to lay out his own cash upon it. 'Accept money
for publishing book with pleasure' should have been the true message of
the wire. Well, what are you going to do?"
"I shall see about this at once"--I answered, feeling a thrill of
satisfaction that at last the time of vengeance on certain of my enemies
was approaching--"The book must be hurried through the press as quickly
as possible,--and I shall take a particular pleasure in personally
attending to all the details concerning it. For the rest of my plans,--"
"Leave them to me!" said Rimânez laying his finely shaped white hand
with a masterful pressure on my shoulder; "Leave them to me!--and be
sure that before very long I shall have set you aloft like the bear who
has successfully reached the bun on the top of a greased pole,--a
spectacle for the envy of men, and the wonder of angels!"
VII
The next three or four weeks flew by in a whirl of excitement, and by
the time they were ended I found it hard to recognize myself in the
indolent, listless, extravagant man of fashion I had so suddenly become.
Sometimes at stray and solitary moments the past turned back upon me
like a revolving picture in a glass with a flash of unwelcome
recollection, and I saw myself worn and hungry, and shabbily clothed,
bending over my writing in my dreary lodging, wretched, yet amid all my
wretchedness receiving curious comfort from my own thoughts which
created beauty out of penury, and love out of loneliness. This creative
faculty was now dormant in me,--I did very little, and thought less. But
I felt certain that this intellectual apathy was but a passing phase,--a
mental holiday and desirable cessation from brain-work to which I was
deservedly entitled after all my sufferings at the hands of poverty and
disappointment. My book was nearly through the press,--and perhaps the
chiefest pleasure of any I now enjoyed was the correction of the proofs
as they passed under my supervision. Yet even this, the satisfaction of
authorship, had its drawback,--and my particular grievance was somewhat
singular. I read my own work with gratification of course, for I was not
behind my contemporaries in thinking well of myself in all I did,--but
my complacent literary egoism was mixed with a good deal of disagreeable
astonishment and incredulity, because my work, written with enthusiasm
and feeling, propounded sentiments and inculcated theories which I
personally did not believe in. Now, how had this happened, I asked
myself? Why had I thus invited the public to accept me at a false
valuation? I paused to consider,--and I found the suggestion puzzling.
How came I to write the book at all, seeing that it was utterly unlike
me as I now knew myself? My pen, consciously or unconsciously, had
written down things which my reasoning faculties entirely
repudiated,--such as belief in a God,--trust in the eternal
possibilities of man's diviner progress,--I credited neither of these
doctrines. When I imagined such transcendental and foolish dreams I was
poor,--starving,--and without a friend in the world;--remembering all
this, I promptly set down my so-called 'inspiration' to the action of an
ill-nourished brain. Yet there was something subtle in the teaching of
the story, and one afternoon when I was revising some of the last proof
sheets I caught myself thinking that the book was nobler than its
writer. This idea smote me with a sudden pang,--I pushed my papers
aside, and walking to the window, looked out. It was raining hard, and
the streets were black with mud and slush,--the foot-passengers were
drenched and miserable,--the whole prospect was dreary, and the fact
that I was a rich man did not in the least lift from my mind the
depression that had stolen on me unawares. I was quite alone, for I had
my own suite of rooms now in the hotel, not far from those occupied by
Prince Rimânez; I also had my own servant, a respectable, good sort of
fellow whom I rather liked because he shared to the full the instinctive
aversion I felt for the prince's man, Amiel. Then I had my own carriage
and horses with attendant coachman and groom,--so that the prince and I,
though the most intimate friends in the world, were able to avoid that
'familiarity which breeds contempt' by keeping up our own separate
establishments. On this particular afternoon I was in a more miserable
humour than ever my poverty had brought upon me, yet from a strictly
reasonable point of view I had nothing to be miserable about. I was in
full possession of my fortune,--I enjoyed excellent health, and I had
everything I wanted, with the added consciousness that if my wants
increased I could gratify them easily. The 'paragraph wheel' under
Lucio's management had been worked with such good effect that I had seen
myself mentioned in almost every paper in London and the provinces as
the 'famous millionaire,'--and for the benefit of the public, who are
sadly uninstructed on these matters, I may here state as a very plain
unvarnished truth, that for forty pounds,[1] a well-known 'agency' will
guarantee the insertion of _any_ paragraph, provided it is not
libellous, in no less than four hundred newspapers. The art of 'booming'
is thus easily explained, and level-headed people will be able to
comprehend why it is that a few names of authors are constantly
mentioned in the press, while others, perhaps more deserving, remain
ignored. Merit counts as nothing in such circumstances,--money wins the
day. And the persistent paragraphing of my name, together with a
description of my personal appearance and my 'marvellous literary
gifts,' combined with a deferential and almost awe-struck allusion to
the 'millions' which made me so interesting--(the paragraph was written
out by Lucio and handed for circulation to the 'agency' aforesaid with
'money down')--all this I say brought upon me two inflictions,--first,
any amount of invitations to social and artistic functions,--and
secondly, a continuous stream of begging-letters. I was compelled to
employ a secretary, who occupied a room near my suite, and who was kept
hard at work all day. Needless to say I refused all appeals for
money;--no one had helped _me_ in my distress, with the exception of my
old chum 'Boffles,'--no one save he had given me even so much as a word
of sympathy,--I was resolved now to be as hard and as merciless as I had
found my contemporaries. I had a certain grim pleasure in reading
letters from two or three literary men, asking for work 'as secretary or
companion,' or failing that, for the loan of a little cash to 'tide over
present difficulties.' One of these applicants was a journalist on the
staff of a well-known paper who had promised to find _me_ work, and who
instead of doing so, had, as I afterwards learned, strongly dissuaded
his editor from giving me any employment. He never imagined that Tempest
the millionaire, and Tempest the literary hack, were one and the same
person,--so little do the majority think that wealth can ever fall to
the lot of authors! I wrote to him myself however and told him what I
deemed it well he should know, adding my sarcastic thanks for his
friendly assistance to me in time of need,--and herein I tasted
something of the sharp delight of vengeance. I never heard from him
again, and I am pretty sure my letter gave him material not only for
astonishment but meditation.
Yet with all the advantages over both friends and enemies which I now
possessed I could not honestly say I was happy. I knew I could have
every possible enjoyment and amusement the world had to offer,--I knew I
was one of the most envied among men, and yet,--as I stood looking out
of the window at the persistently falling rain, I was conscious of a
bitterness rather than a sweetness in the full cup of fortune. Many
things that I had imagined would give me intense satisfaction had fallen
curiously flat. For example, I had flooded the press with the most
carefully worded and prominent advertisements of my forthcoming book,
and when I was poor I had pictured to myself how I should revel in doing
this,--now that it was done I cared nothing at all about it. I was
simply weary of the sight of my own advertised name. I certainly did
look forward with very genuine feeling and expectation to the
publication of my work when that should be an accomplished fact,--but
to-day even that idea had lost some of its attractiveness owing to this
new and unpleasant impression on my mind that the contents of that book
were as utterly the reverse of my own true thoughts as they could well
be. A fog began to darken down over the streets in company with the
rain,--and disgusted with the weather and with myself, I turned away
from the window and settled into an arm-chair by the fire, poking the
coal till it blazed, and wondering what I should do to rid my mind of
the gloom that threatened to envelop it in as thick a canopy as that of
the London fog. A tap came at the door, and in answer to my somewhat
irritable "Come in!" Rimânez entered.
"What, all in the dark Tempest!" he exclaimed cheerfully--"Why don't you
light up?"
"The fire's enough,"--I answered crossly--"Enough at any rate to think
by."
"And have you been thinking?" he inquired laughing--"Don't do it. It's a
bad habit. No one thinks now-a-days,--people can't stand it--their heads
are too frail. Once begin to think and down go the foundations of
society,--besides thinking is always dull work."
"I have found it so," I said gloomily--"Lucio, there is something wrong
about me somewhere."
His eyes flashed keen, half-amused inquiry into mine.
"Wrong? Oh no, surely not! What _can_ there be wrong about you, Tempest?
Are you not one of the richest men living?"
I let the satire pass.
"Listen, my friend," I said earnestly--"You know I have been busy for
the last fortnight correcting the proofs of my book for the press,--do
you not?"
He nodded with a smiling air.
"Well I have arrived almost at the end of my work and I have come to the
conclusion that the book is not Me,--it is not a reflex of my feelings
at all,--and I cannot understand how I came to write it."
"You find it stupid perhaps?" said Lucio sympathetically.
"No," I answered with a touch of indignation--"I do not find it stupid."
"Dull then?"
"No,--it is not dull."
"Melodramatic?"
"No,--not melodramatic."
"Well, my good fellow, if it is not dull or stupid or melodramatic, what
is it!" he exclaimed merrily--"It must be something!"
"Yes,--it is this,--it is beyond me altogether." And I spoke with some
bitterness. "Quite beyond me. I could not write it now,--I wonder I
could write it then. Lucio, I daresay I am talking foolishly,--but it
seems to me I must have been on some higher altitude of thought when I
wrote the book,--a height from which I have since fallen."
"I'm sorry to hear this," he answered, with twinkling eyes--"From what
you say it appears to me you have been guilty of literary sublimity. Oh
bad, very bad! Nothing can be worse. To write sublimely is a grievous
sin, and one which critics never forgive. I'm really grieved for you, my
friend--I never thought your case was quite so desperate."
I laughed in spite of my depression.
"You are incorrigible, Lucio!" I said--"But your cheerfulness is very
inspiriting. All I wanted to explain to you is this,--that my book
expresses a certain tone of thought which purporting to be _mine_, is
not _me_,--in short, I, in my present self have no sympathy with it. I
must have changed very much since I wrote it."
"Changed? Why yes, I should think so!" and Lucio laughed heartily--"The
possession of five millions is bound to change a man considerably for
the better--or worse! But you seem to be worrying yourself most absurdly
about nothing. Not one author in many centuries writes from his own
heart or as he truly feels--when he does, he becomes well-nigh immortal.
This planet is too limited to hold more than one Homer, one Plato, one
Shakespeare. Don't distress yourself--you are neither of these three!
You belong to the age, Tempest,--it is a decadent ephemeral age, and
most things connected with it are decadent and ephemeral. Any era that
is dominated by the love of money only, has a rotten core within it and
must perish. All history tells us so, but no one accepts the lesson of
history. Observe the signs of the time,--Art is made subservient to the
love of money--literature, politics and religion the same,--_you_ cannot
escape from the general disease. The only thing to do is to make the
best of it,--no one can reform it--least of all you, who have so much
of the lucre given to your share."
He paused,--I was silent, watching the bright fire-glow and the dropping
red cinders.
"What I am going to say now," he proceeded in soft, almost melancholy
accents--"will sound ridiculously trite,--still it has the perverse
prosiness of truth about it. It is this--in order to write with intense
feeling, you must first _feel_. Very likely when you wrote this book of
yours, you were almost a human hedge-hog in the way of feeling. Every
prickly point of you was erect and responsive to the touch of all
influences, pleasant or the reverse, imaginative or realistic. This is a
condition which some people envy and others would rather dispense with.
Now that you, as a hedge-hog, have no further need for either alarm,
indignation or self-defence, your prickles are soothed into an agreeable
passiveness, and you partially cease to feel. That is all. The 'change'
you complain of is thus accounted for;--you have nothing to feel
about,--hence you cannot comprehend how it was that you ever felt."
I was conscious of irritation at the calm conviction of his tone.
"Do you take me for such a callous creature as all that?" I
exclaimed--"You are mistaken in me, Lucio. I feel most keenly----"
"What do you feel?" he inquired, fixing his eyes steadily upon
me--"There are hundreds of starving wretches in this metropolis,--men
and women on the brink of suicide because they have no hope of anything
in this world or the next, and no sympathy from their kind--do you feel
for them? Do _their_ griefs affect _you_? You know they do not,--you
know you never think of them,--why should you? One of the chief
advantages of wealth is the ability it gives us to shut out other
people's miseries from our personal consideration."
I said nothing,--for the first time my spirit chafed at the truth of his
words, principally because they _were_ true. Alas, Lucio!--if I had
only known then what I know now!
"Yesterday," he went on in the same quiet voice--"a child was run over
here, just opposite this hotel. It was _only_ a poor child,--mark that
'only.' Its mother ran shrieking out of some back-street hard by, in
time to see the little bleeding body carted up in a mangled heap. She
struck wildly with both hands at the men who were trying to lead her
away, and with a cry like that of some hurt savage animal fell face
forward in the mud--dead. She was only a poor woman,--another 'only.'
There were three lines in the paper about it headed 'Sad Incident.' The
hotel-porter here witnessed the scene from the door with as composed a
demeanor as that of a fop at the play, never relaxing the serene majesty
of his attitude,--but about ten minutes after the dead body of the woman
had been carried out of sight, he, the imperial, gold-buttoned being,
became almost crook-backed in his servile haste to run and open the door
of your brougham, my dear Geoffrey, as you drove up to the entrance.
This is a little epitome of life as it is lived now-a-days,--and yet the
canting clerics swear we are all equal in the sight of heaven! We may
be, though it does not look much like it,--and if we are, it does not
matter, as we have ceased to care how heaven regards us. I don't want to
point a moral,--I simply tell you the 'sad incident' as it
occurred,--and I am sure you are not the least sorry for the fate of
either the child who was run over, or its mother who died in the sharp
agony of a suddenly broken heart. Now don't say you are, because I know
you're not!"
"How can one feel sorry for people one does not know or has never
seen,--" I began.
"Exactly!--How is it possible? And there we have it--how can one feel,
when one's self is so thoroughly comfortable as to be without any other
feeling save that of material ease? Thus, my dear Geoffrey, you must be
content to let your book appear as the reflex and record of your past
when you were in the prickly or sensitive stage,--now you are encased
in a pachydermatous covering of gold, which adequately protects you from
such influences as might have made you start and writhe, perhaps even
roar with indignation, and in the access of fierce torture, stretch out
your hands and grasp--quite unconsciously--the winged thing called
Fame!"
"You should have been an orator,"--I said, rising and pacing the room to
and fro in vexation,--"But to me your words are not consoling, and I do
not think they are true. Fame is easily enough secured."
"Pardon me if I am obstinate;"--said Lucio with a deprecatory
gesture--"Notoriety is easily secured--very easily. A few critics who
have dined with you and had their fill of wine, will give you notoriety.
But fame is the voice of the whole civilized public of the world."
"The public!" I echoed contemptuously--"The public only care for trash."
"It is a pity you should appeal to it then;"--he responded with a
smile--"If you think so little of the public why give it anything of
your brain? It is not worthy of so rare a boon! Come, come Tempest,--do
not join in the snarl of unsuccessful authors who take refuge, when
marked unsaleable, in pouring out abuse on the public. The public is the
author's best friend and truest critic. But if you prefer to despise it,
in company with all the very little literature-mongers who form a mutual
admiration society, I tell you what to do,--print just twenty copies of
your book and present these to the leading reviewers, and when they have
written you up (as they will do--I'll take care of that) let your
publisher advertise to the effect that the 'First and Second Large
Editions' of the new novel by Geoffrey Tempest, are exhausted, one
hundred thousand copies having been sold in a week! If that does not
waken up the world in general, I shall be much surprised!"
I laughed,--I was gradually getting into a better humour.
"It would be quite as fair a plan of action as is adopted by many modern
publishers," I said--"The loud hawking of literary wares now-a-days
reminds me of the rival shouting of costermongers in a low
neighbourhood. But I will not go quite so far,--I'll win my fame
legitimately if I can."
"You can't!" declared Lucio with a serene smile--"It's impossible. You
are too rich. That of itself is not legitimate in Literature, which
great art generally elects to wear poverty in its button-hole as a
flower of grace. The fight cannot be equal in such circumstances. The
fact that you are a millionaire must weigh the balance apparently in
your favour for a time. The world cannot resist money. If I, for
example, became an author, I should probably with my wealth and
influence, burn up every one else's laurels. Suppose that a desperately
poor man comes out with a book at the same time as you do, he will have
scarcely the ghost of a chance against you. He will not be able to
advertise in your lavish style,--nor will he see his way to dine the
critics as you can. And if he should happen to have more genius than
you, and you succeed, your success will _not_ be legitimate. But after
all, that does not matter much--in Art, if in nothing else, things
always right themselves."
I made no immediate reply, but went over to my table, rolled up my
corrected proofs and directed them to the printers,--then ringing the
bell I gave the packet to my man, Morris, bidding him post it at once.
This done, I turned again towards Lucio and saw that he still sat by the
fire, but that his attitude was now one of brooding melancholy, and that
he had covered his eyes with one hand on which the glow from the flames
shone red. I regretted the momentary irritation I had felt against him
for telling me unwelcome truths,--and I touched him lightly on the
shoulder.
"Are _you_ in the dumps now Lucio?" I said--"I'm afraid my depression
has proved infectious."
He moved his hand and looked up,--his eyes were large and lustrous as
the eyes of a beautiful woman.
"I was thinking," he said, with a slight sigh--"of the last words I
uttered just now,--_things always right themselves_. Curiously enough in
art they always do,--no charlatanism or sham lasts with the gods of
Parnassus. But in other matters it is different. For instance _I_ shall
never right myself! Life is hateful to me at times, as it is to
everybody."
"Perhaps you are in love?" I said with a smile.
He started up.
"In love! By all the heavens and all the earths too, that suggestion
wakes me with a vengeance! In love! What woman alive do you think could
impress _me_ with the notion that she was anything more than a frivolous
doll of pink and white, with long hair frequently not her own? And as
for the tom-boy tennis-players and giantesses of the era, I do not
consider them women at all,--they are merely the unnatural and strutting
embryos of a new sex which will be neither male nor female. My dear
Tempest, I hate women. So would you if you knew as much about them as I
do. They have made me what I am, and they keep me so."
"They are to be much complimented then,"--I observed--"You do them
credit!"
"I do!" he answered slowly--"In more ways than one!" A faint smile was
on his face, and his eyes brightened with that curious jewel-like gleam
I had noticed several times before. "Believe me, I shall never contest
with you such a slight gift as woman's love, Geoffrey. It is not worth
fighting for. And _apropos_ of women, that reminds me,--I have promised
to take you to the Earl of Elton's box at the Haymarket to-night,--he is
a poor peer, very gouty and somewhat heavily flavoured with port-wine,
but his daughter, Lady Sibyl, is one of the belles of England. She was
presented last season and created quite a _furore_. Will you come?"
"I am quite at your disposition"--I said, glad of any excuse to escape
the dullness of my own company and to be in that of Lucio, whose talk,
even if its satire galled me occasionally, always fascinated my mind and
remained in my memory--"What time shall we meet?"
"Go and dress now, and join me at dinner,"--he answered; "And we'll
drive together to the theatre afterwards. The play is on the usual theme
which has lately become popular with stage-managers,--the glorification
of a 'fallen' lady, and the exhibition of her as an example of something
superlatively pure and good, to the astonished eyes of the innocent. As
a play it is not worth seeing,--but perhaps Lady Sibyl is."
He smiled again as he stood facing me,--the light flames of the fire had
died down to a dull uniform coppery red,--we were almost in darkness,
and I pressed the small button near the mantelpiece that flooded the
room with electric light. His extraordinary beauty then struck me afresh
as something altogether singular and half unearthly.
"Don't you find that people look at you very often as you pass, Lucio?"
I asked him suddenly and impulsively.
He laughed. "Not at all. Why should they? Every man is so intent on his
own aims, and thinks so much of his own personality that he would
scarcely forget his _ego_ if the very devil himself were behind him.
Women look at me sometimes, with the affected coy and kitten-like
interest usually exhibited by the frail sex for a personable man."
"I cannot blame them!" I answered, my gaze still resting on his stately
figure and fine head with as much admiration as I might have felt for a
noble picture or statue--"What of this Lady Sibyl we are to meet
to-night,--how does she regard you?"
"Lady Sibyl has never seen me,"--he replied--"And I have only seen her
at a distance. It is chiefly for the purpose of an introduction to her
that the Earl has asked us to his box this evening."
"Ha ha! Matrimony in view!" I exclaimed jestingly.
"Yes--I believe Lady Sibyl is for sale,"--he answered with the callous
coldness that occasionally distinguished him and made his handsome
features look like an impenetrable mask of scorn--"But up to the present
the bids have not been sufficiently high. And I shall not purchase. I
have told you already, Tempest, I hate women."
"Seriously?"
"Most seriously. Women have always done me harm,--they have wantonly
hindered me in my progress. And why I specially abominate them is, that
they have been gifted with an enormous power for doing good, and that
they let this power run to waste and will not use it. Their deliberate
enjoyment and choice of the repulsive, vulgar and common-place side of
life disgusts me. They are much less sensitive than men, and infinitely
more heartless. They are the mothers of the human race, and the faults
of the race are chiefly due to them. That is another reason for my
hatred."
"Do you want the human race to be perfect?" I asked
astonished--"Because, if you do, you will find that impossible."
He stood for a moment apparently lost in thought.
"Everything in the Universe is perfect,"--he said, "except that curious
piece of work--Man. Have you never thought out any reason why he should
be the one flaw,--the one incomplete creature in a matchless Creation?"
"No, I have not,"--I replied--"I take things as I find them."
"So do I,"--and he turned away, "And as I find _them_, so they find
_me_! Au revoir! Dinner in an hour's time remember!"
The door opened and closed--he was gone. I remained alone for a little,
thinking what a strange disposition was his,--what a curious mixture of
philosophy, worldliness, sentiment and satire seemed to run like the
veins of a leaf through the variable temperament of this brilliant,
semi-mysterious personage who had by mere chance become my greatest
friend. We had now been more or less together for nearly a month, and I
was no closer to the secret of his actual nature than I had been at
first. Yet I admired him more than ever,--without his society I felt
life would be deprived of half its charm. For though, attracted as human
moths will be by the glare of my glittering millions, numbers of
so-called 'friends' now surrounded me, there was not one among them who
so dominated my every mood and with whom I had so much close sympathy
as this man,--this masterful, half cruel, half kind companion of my
days, who at times seemed to accept all life as the veriest bagatelle,
and myself as a part of the trivial game.
[1] A fact.
VIII
No man, I think, ever forgets the first time he is brought face to face
with perfect beauty in woman. He may have caught fleeting glimpses of
loveliness on many fair faces often,--bright eyes may have flashed on
him like star-beams,--the hues of a dazzling complexion may now and then
have charmed him, or the seductive outlines of a graceful figure;--all
these are as mere peeps into the infinite. But when such vague and
passing impressions are suddenly drawn together in one focus,--when all
his dreamy fancies of form and colour take visible and complete
manifestation in one living creature who looks down upon him as it were
from an empyrean of untouched maiden pride and purity, it is more to his
honour than his shame, if his senses swoon at the ravishing vision, and
he, despite his rough masculinity and brute strength, becomes nothing
but the merest slave to passion. In this way was I overwhelmed and
conquered without any chance of deliverance when Sibyl Elton's violet
eyes, lifted slowly from the shadow of their dark lashes, rested upon me
with that indefinable expression of mingled interest and indifference
which is supposed to indicate high breeding, but which more frequently
intimidates and repulses the frank and sensitive soul. The Lady Sibyl's
glance repelled, but I was none the less attracted. Rimânez and I had
entered the Earl of Elton's box at the Haymarket between the first and
second acts of the play, and the Earl himself, an unimpressive,
bald-headed, red-faced old gentleman, with fuzzy white whiskers, had
risen to welcome us, seizing the prince's hand and shaking it with
particular effusiveness. (I learned afterwards that Lucio had lent him a
thousand pounds on easy terms, a fact which partly accounted for the
friendly fervour of his greeting.) His daughter had not moved; but a
minute or two later when he addressed her somewhat sharply, saying
"Sibyl! Prince Rimânez and his friend, Mr Geoffrey Tempest," she turned
her head and honoured us both with the chill glance I have endeavoured
to describe, and the very faintest possible bow as an acknowledgment of
our presence. Her exquisite beauty smote me dumb and foolish,--I could
find nothing to say, and stood silent and confused, with a strange
sensation of bewilderment upon me. The old Earl made some remark about
the play, which I scarcely heard though I answered vaguely and at
hap-hazard,--the orchestra was playing abominably as is usual in
theatres, and its brazen din sounded like the noise of the sea in my
ears,--I had not much real consciousness of anything save the wondrous
loveliness of the girl who faced me, clad in pure white, with a few
diamonds shining about her like stray dewdrops on a rose. Lucio spoke to
her, and I listened.
"At last, Lady Sibyl," he said, bending towards her deferentially. "At
last I have the honour of meeting you. I have seen you often, as one
sees a star,--at a distance."
She smiled,--a smile so slight and cold that it scarcely lifted the
corners of her lovely lips.
"I do not think I have ever seen _you_," she replied. "And yet there is
something oddly familiar in your face. I have heard my father speak of
you constantly,--I need scarcely say his friends are always mine."
He bowed.
"To merely speak to Lady Sibyl Elton is counted sufficient to make the
man so privileged happy," he said. "To be her friend is to discover the
lost paradise."
She flushed,--then grew suddenly very pale, and shivering, she drew her
cloak towards her. Rimânez wrapped its perfumed silken folds carefully
round her beautiful shoulders,--how I grudged him the dainty task! He
then turned to me, and placed a chair just behind hers.
"Will you sit here Geoffrey?" he suggested--"I want to have a moment's
business chat with Lord Elton."
Recovering my self-possession a little, I hastened to take the chance he
thus generously gave me to ingratiate myself in the young lady's favour,
and my heart gave a foolish bound of joy because she smiled
encouragingly as I approached her.
"You are a great friend of Prince Rimânez?" she asked softly, as I sat
down.
"Yes, we are very intimate," I replied--"He is a delightful companion."
"So I should imagine!" and she looked over at him where he sat next to
her father talking earnestly in low tones--"He is singularly handsome."
I made no reply. Of course Lucio's extraordinary personal attractiveness
was undeniable,--but I rather grudged her praise bestowed on him just
then. Her remarks seemed to me as tactless as when a man with one pretty
woman beside him loudly admires another in her hearing. I did not myself
assume to be actually handsome, but I knew I was better looking than the
ordinary run of men. So out of sudden pique I remained silent, and
presently the curtain rose and the play was resumed. A very questionable
scene was enacted, the 'woman with the past' being well to the front of
it. I felt disgusted at the performance and looked at my companions to
see if they too were similarly moved. There was no sign of disapproval
on Lady Sibyl's fair countenance,--her father was bending forward
eagerly, apparently gloating over every detail,--Rimânez wore that
inscrutable expression of his in which no feeling whatever could be
discerned. The 'woman with the past' went on with her hysterical
sham-heroics, and the mealy-mouthed fool of a hero declared her to be a
'pure angel wronged,' and the curtain fell amid loud applause. One
energetic hiss came from the gallery, affecting the occupants of the
stalls to scandalized amazement.
"England has progressed!" said Rimânez in soft half-bantering
tones--"Once upon a time this play would have been hooted off the stage
as likely to corrupt the social community. But now the only voice of
protest comes from the 'lower' classes."
"Are you a democrat, prince?" inquired Lady Sibyl, waving her fan
indolently to and fro.
"Not I! I always insist on the pride and supremacy of worth,--I do not
mean money value, but intellect. And in this way I foresee a new
aristocracy. When the High grows corrupt, it falls and becomes the
Low;--when the Low educates itself and aspires, it becomes the High.
This is simply the course of nature."
"But, God bless my soul!" exclaimed Lord Elton--"you don't call this
play low or immoral do you? It's a realistic study of modern social
life--that's what it is. These women you know,--these poor souls with a
past--are very interesting!"
"Very!" murmured his daughter.--"In fact it would seem that for women
with no such 'past' there can be no future! Virtue and modesty are quite
out of date, and have no chance whatever."
I leaned towards her, half whispering,
"Lady Sibyl, I am glad to see this wretched play offends you."
She turned her deep eyes on me in mingled surprise and amusement.
"Oh no, it doesn't," she declared--"I have seen so many like it. And I
have read so many novels on just the same theme! I assure you, I am
quite convinced that the so-called 'bad' woman is the only popular type
of our sex with men,--she gets all the enjoyment possible out of
life,--she frequently makes an excellent marriage, and has, as the
Americans say 'a good time all round.' It's the same thing with our
convicted criminals,--in prison they are much better fed than the honest
working-man. I believe it is quite a mistake for women to be
respectable,--they are only considered dull."
"Ah, now you are only joking!" I said with an indulgent smile. "You know
that in your heart you think very differently!"
She made no answer, as just then the curtain went up again, disclosing
the unclean 'lady' of the piece, "having a good time all round" on board
a luxurious yacht. During the unnatural and stilted dialogue which
followed, I withdrew a little back into the shadow of the box, and all
that self-esteem and assurance of which I had been suddenly deprived by
a glance at Lady Sibyl's beauty, came back to me, and a perfectly stolid
coolness and composure succeeded to the first feverish excitement of my
mind. I recalled Lucio's words--"_I believe Lady Sibyl is for
sale_"--and I thought triumphantly of my millions. I glanced at the old
earl, abjectly pulling at his white whiskers while he listened anxiously
to what were evidently money schemes propounded by Lucio. Then my gaze
came back appraisingly to the lovely curves of Lady Sibyl's milk-white
throat, her beautiful arms and bosom, her rich brown hair of the shade
of a ripe chestnut, her delicate haughty face, languid eyes and
brilliant complexion,--and I murmured inwardly--"All this loveliness is
purchaseable, and I will purchase it!" At that very instant she turned
to me and said--
"You are the famous Mr Tempest, are you not?"
"Famous?" I echoed with a deep sense of gratification--"Well,--I am
scarcely that,--yet! My book is not published ..."
Her eyebrows arched themselves surprisedly.
"Your book? I did not know you had written one?"
My flattered vanity sank to zero.
"It has been extensively advertised," I began impressively,--but she
interrupted me with a laugh.
"Oh I never read advertisements,--it's too much trouble. When I asked if
you were the famous Mr Tempest, I meant to say were you the great
millionaire who has been so much talked of lately?"
I bowed a somewhat chill assent. She looked at me inquisitively over the
lace edge of her fan.
"How delightful it must be for you to have so much money!" she
said--"And you are young too, and good-looking."
Pleasure took the place of vexed _amour-propre_ and I smiled.
"You are very kind, Lady Sibyl!"
"Why?" she asked laughing,--such a delicious little low laugh--"Because
I tell you the truth? You _are_ young and you _are_ good-looking!
Millionaires are generally such appalling creatures. Fortune, while
giving them money, frequently deprives them of both brains and personal
attractiveness. And now do tell me about your book!"
She seemed to have suddenly dispensed with her former reserve, and
during the last act of the play, we conversed freely, in whispers which
assisted us to become almost confidential. Her manner to me now was full
of grace and charm, and the fascination she exerted over my senses
became complete. The performance over, we all left the box together, and
as Lucio was still apparently engrossed with Lord Elton I had the
satisfaction of escorting Lady Sibyl to her carriage. When her father
joined her, Lucio and I both stood together looking in at the window of
the brougham, and the Earl, getting hold of my hand shook it up and down
with boisterous friendliness.
"Come and dine,--come and dine!" he spluttered excitedly; "Come--let me
see,--this is Tuesday--come on Thursday. Short notice and no ceremony!
My wife is paralysed I'm sorry to say,--she can't receive,--she can only
see a few people now and then when she is in the humour,--her sister
keeps house and does the honours,--Aunt Charlotte, eh Sibyl?--ha-ha-ha!
The Deceased Wife's Sister's Bill would never be any use to me, for if
my wife were to die I shouldn't be anxious to marry Miss Charlotte
Fitzroy! Ha ha ha! A perfectly unapproachable woman sir!--a model,--ha
ha! Come and dine with us, Mr Tempest,--Lucio, you bring him along with
you, eh? We've got a young lady staying with us,--an American, dollars,
accent and all,--and by Jove I believe she wants to marry me ha ha ha!
and is waiting for Lady Elton to go to a better world first, ha ha! Come
along--come and see the little American, eh? Thursday shall it be?"
Over the fair features of Lady Sibyl there passed a faint shadow of
annoyance at her father's allusion to the "little American," but she
said nothing. Only her looks appeared to question our intentions as well
as to persuade our wills, and she seemed satisfied when we both accepted
the invitation given. Another apoplectic chuckle from the Earl and a
couple of handshakes,--a slight graceful bow from her lovely ladyship,
as we raised our hats in farewell, and the Elton equipage rolled away,
leaving us to enter our own vehicle, which amid the officious roarings
of street-boys and policemen had just managed to draw up in front of the
theatre. As we drove off, Lucio peered inquisitively at me--I could see
the steely glitter of his fine eyes in the semi-darkness of the
brougham,--and said--
"Well?"
I was silent.
"Don't you admire her?" he went on--"I must confess she is cold,--a very
chilly vestal indeed,--but snow often covers volcanoes! She has good
features, and a naturally clear complexion."
Despite my intention to be reticent, I could not endure this tame
description.
"She is perfectly beautiful,"--I said emphatically. "The dullest eyes
must see that. There is not a fault to be found with her. And she is
wise to be reserved and cold--were she too lavish of her smiles and too
seductive in manner, she might drive many men not only into folly, but
madness."
I felt rather than saw the cat-like glance he flashed upon me.
"Positively, Geoffrey, I believe that notwithstanding the fact that we
are only in February, the wind blows upon you due south, bringing with
it odours of rose and orange-blossom! I fancy Lady Sibyl has powerfully
impressed you?"
"Did you wish me to be impressed?" I asked.
"I? My dear fellow, I wish nothing that you yourself do not wish. I
accommodate my ways to my friends' humours. If asked for my opinion I
should say it is rather a pity if you are really smitten with the young
lady, as there are no obstacles to be encountered. A love-affair, to be
conducted with spirit and enterprise should always bristle with
opposition and difficulty, real or invented. A little secrecy and a good
deal of wrong-doing, such as sly assignations and the telling of any
amount of lies--such things add to the agreeableness of love-making on
this planet--"
I interrupted him.
"See here, Lucio, you are very fond of alluding to 'this' planet as if
you knew anything about other planets"--I said impatiently. "_This_
planet, as you somewhat contemptuously call it, is the only one _we_
have any business with."
He bent his piercing looks so ardently upon me that for the moment I was
startled.
"If that is so," he answered, "why in Heaven's name do you not let the
other planets alone? Why do you strive to fathom their mysteries and
movements? If men, as you say, have no business with any planet save
this one why are they ever on the alert to discover the secret of
mightier worlds,--a secret which haply it may some day terrify them to
know!"
The solemnity of his voice and the inspired expression of his face awed
me. I had no reply ready, and he went on--
"Do not let us talk, my friend, of planets, not even of this particular
pin's point among them known as Earth. Let us return to a better
subject--the Lady Sibyl. As I have already said, there are no obstacles
in the way of your wooing and winning her, if such is your desire.
Geoffrey Tempest, as mere author of books would indeed be insolent to
aspire to the hand of an earl's daughter, but Geoffrey Tempest,
millionaire, will be a welcome suitor. Poor Lord Elton's affairs are in
a bad way--he is almost out-at-elbows;--the American woman who is
boarding with him----"
"Boarding with him!" I exclaimed--"Surely he does not keep a
boarding-house?"
Lucio laughed heartily.
"No, no!--you must not put it so coarsely, Geoffrey. It is simply this,
that the Earl and Countess of Elton give the prestige of their home and
protection to Miss Diana Chesney (the American aforesaid) for the
trifling sum of two thousand guineas per annum. The Countess being
paralyzed, is obliged to hand over her duties of chaperonage to her
sister Miss Charlotte Fitzroy,--but the halo of the coronet still hovers
over Miss Chesney's brow. She has her own suite of rooms in the house,
and goes wherever it is proper for her to go, under Miss Fitzroy's care.
Lady Sibyl does not like the arrangement, and is therefore never seen
anywhere except with her father. She will not join in companionship with
Miss Chesney, and has said so pretty plainly."
"I admire her for it!" I said warmly--"I really am surprised that Lord
Elton should condescend----"
"Condescend to what?" inquired Lucio--"Condescend to take two thousand
guineas a year? Good heavens man, there are no end of lords and ladies
who will readily agree to perform such an act of condescension. 'Blue'
blood is getting thin and poor, and only money can thicken it. Diana
Chesney is worth over a million dollars and if Lady Elton were to die
conveniently soon, I should not be surprised to see that 'little
American' step triumphantly into her vacant place."
"What a state of topsy-turveydom!" I said, half angrily.
"Geoffrey, my friend, you are really amazingly inconsistent! Is there a
more flagrant example of topsy-turveydom than yourself for instance? Six
weeks ago, what were you? A mere scribbler, with flutterings of the
wings of genius in your soul, but many uncertainties as to whether those
wings would ever be strong enough to lift you out of the rut of
obscurity in which you floundered, struggling and grumbling at adverse
fate. Now, as millionaire, you think contemptuously of an Earl, because
he ventures quite legitimately to add a little to his income by boarding
an American heiress and launching her into society where she would never
get without him. And you aspire, or probably mean to aspire to the hand
of the Earl's daughter, as if you yourself were a descendant of kings.
Nothing can be more topsy-turvey than _your_ condition!"
"My father was a gentleman," I said, with a touch of hauteur, "and a
descendant of gentlemen. We were never common folk,--our family was one
of the most highly esteemed in the counties."
Lucio smiled.
"I do not doubt it, my dear fellow,--I do not in the least doubt it. But
a simple 'gentleman' is a long way below--or above--an Earl. Have it
which side you choose!--because it really doesn't matter nowadays. We
have come to a period of history when rank and lineage count as nothing
at all, owing to the profoundly obtuse stupidity of those who happen to
possess it. So it chances, that as no resistance is made, brewers are
created peers of the realm, and ordinary tradesmen are knighted, and the
very old families are so poor that they have to sell their estates and
jewels to the highest bidder, who is frequently a vulgar 'railway-king'
or the introducer of some new manure. You occupy a better position than
such, since you inherit your money with the farther satisfaction that
you do not know how it was made."
"True!" I answered meditatively,--then, with a sudden flash of
recollection I added--"By the way I never told you that my deceased
relative imagined that he had sold his soul to the devil, and that this
vast fortune of his was the material result!"
Lucio burst into a violent fit of laughter.
"No! Not possible!" he exclaimed derisively--"What an idea! I suppose he
had a screw loose somewhere! Imagine any sane man believing in a devil!
Ha, ha, ha! And in these advanced days too! Well, well! The folly of
human imaginations will never end! Here we are!"--and he sprang lightly
out as the brougham stopped at the Grand Hotel--"I will say good-night
to you, Tempest. I've promised to go and have a gamble."
"A gamble? Where?"
"At one of the select private clubs. There are any amount of them in
this eminently moral metropolis--no occasion to go to Monte Carlo! Will
you come?"
I hesitated. The fair face of Lady Sibyl haunted my mind,--and I felt,
with a no doubt foolish sentimentality, that I would rather keep my
thoughts of her sacred, and unpolluted by contact with things of lower
tone.
"Not to-night;"--I said,--then half smiling, I added--"It must be rather
a one-sided affair for other men to gamble with you, Lucio! You can
afford to lose,--and perhaps they can't."
"If they can't, they shouldn't play,"--he answered--"A man should at
least know his own mind and his own capacity; if he doesn't, he is no
man at all. As far as I have learned by long experience, those who
gamble like it, and when _they_ like it, _I_ like it. I'll take you with
me to-morrow if you care to see the fun,--one or two very eminent men
are members of the club, though of course they wouldn't have it known
for worlds. You shan't lose much--I'll see to that."
"All right,--to-morrow it shall be!"--I responded, for I did not wish to
appear as though I grudged losing a few pounds at play--"But to-night I
think I'll write some letters before going to bed."
"Yes--and dream of Lady Sibyl!" said Lucio laughing--"If she fascinates
you as much when you see her again on Thursday you had better begin the
siege!"
He waved his hand gaily, and re-entering his carriage, was driven off at
a furious pace through the drifting fog and rain.
IX
My publisher, John Morgeson,--the estimable individual who had first
refused my book, and who now, moved by self-interest, was devoting his
energies assiduously to the business of launching it in the most modern
and approved style, was not like Shakespeare's _Cassio_, strictly 'an
honourable man.' Neither was he the respectable chief of a
long-established firm whose system of the cheating of authors, mellowed
by time, had become almost sacred;--he was a 'new' man, with new ways,
and a good stock of new push and impudence. All the same, he was clever,
shrewd and diplomatic, and for some reason or other, had secured the
favour of a certain portion of the press, many of the dailies and
weeklies always giving special prominence to his publications over the
heads of other far more legitimately dealing firms. He entered into a
partial explanation of his methods, when, on the morning after my first
meeting with the Earl of Elton and his daughter, I called upon him to
inquire how things were going with regard to my book.
"We shall publish next week,"--he said, rubbing his hands complacently,
and addressing me with all the deference due to my banking account--"And
as you don't mind what you spend, I'll tell you just what I propose to
do. I intend to write out a mystifying paragraph of about some seventy
lines or so, describing the book in a vague sort of way as '_likely to
create a new era of thought_'--or, '_ere long everybody who is anybody
will be compelled to read this remarkable work_,'--or '_as something
that must be welcome to all who would understand the drift of one of the
most delicate and burning questions of the time_.' These are all stock
phrases, used over and over again by the reviewers,--there's no
copyright in them. And the last one always 'tells' wonderfully,
considering how old it is, and how often it has been made to do duty,
because any allusion to a '_delicate and burning question_' makes a
number of people think the novel must be improper, and they send for it
at once!"
He chuckled at his own perspicuity, and I sat silent, studying him with
much inward amusement. This man on whose decision I had humbly and
anxiously waited not so many weeks ago was now my paid tool,--ready to
obey me to any possible extent for so much cash,--and I listened to him
indulgently while he went on unravelling his schemes for the
gratification of _my_ vanity, and the pocketing of _his_ extras.
"The book has been splendidly advertised"--he went on; "It could not
have been more lavishly done. Orders do not come in very fast yet--but
they will,--they will. This paragraph of mine, which will take the shape
of a 'leaderette,' I can get inserted in about eight hundred to a
thousand newspapers here and in America. It will cost you,--say a
hundred guineas--perhaps a trifle more. Do you mind that?"
"Not in the least!" I replied, still vastly amused.
He meditated a moment,--then drew his chair closer to mine and lowered
his voice a little.
"You understand I suppose, that I shall only issue two hundred and fifty
copies at first?"
This limited number seemed to me absurd, and I protested vehemently.
"Such an idea is ridiculous!" I said--"you cannot supply the trade with
such a scanty edition."
"Wait, my dear sir, wait,--you are too impatient. You do not give me
time to explain. All these two hundred and fifty will be _given away_ by
me in the proper quarters on the day of publication,--never mind
how,--they _must_ be given away--"
"Why?"
"Why?" and the worthy Morgeson laughed sweetly--"I see, my dear Mr
Tempest, you are like most men of genius--you do not understand
business. The reason why we give the first two hundred and fifty copies
away is in order to be able to announce at once in all the papers that
'_The First Large Edition of the New Novel by Geoffrey Tempest being
exhausted on the day of publication, a Second is in Rapid Preparation_.'
You see we thus hoodwink the public, who of course are not in our
secrets, and are not to know whether an edition is two hundred or two
thousand. The Second Edition will of course be ready behind the scenes,
and will consist of another two hundred and fifty."
"Do you call that course of procedure honest?" I asked quietly.
"Honest? My dear sir! Honest?" And his countenance wore a virtuously
injured expression--"Of course it is honest! Look at the daily papers!
Such announcements appear every day--in fact they are getting rather too
common. I freely admit that there are a few publishers here and there
who stick up for exactitude and go to the trouble of not only giving the
number of copies in an Edition, but also publishing the date of each one
as it was issued,--this may be principle if they like to call it so, but
it involves a great deal of precise calculation and worry! If the public
like to be deceived, what is the use of being exact! Now, to
resume,--your second edition will be sent off 'on sale or return' to
provincial booksellers, and then we shall announce--"In consequence of
the Enormous Demand for the new novel by Geoffrey Tempest, the Large
Second Edition is out of print. A Third will be issued in the course of
next week." And so on, and so on, till we get to the sixth or seventh
edition (always numbering two hundred and fifty each) in three volumes;
perhaps we can by skilful management work it to a tenth. It is only a
question of diplomacy and a little dexterous humbugging of the trade.
Then we shall arrive at the one-volume issue, which will require
different handling. But there's time enough for that. The frequent
advertisements will add to the expense a bit, but if you don't mind--"
"I don't mind anything," I said--"so long as I have my fun."
"Your fun?" he queried surprisedly--"I thought it was fame you wanted,
more than fun!"
I laughed aloud.
"I'm not such a fool as to suppose that fame is secured by
advertisement," I said--"For instance I am one of those who think the
fame of Millais as an artist was marred when he degraded himself to the
level of painting the little green boy blowing bubbles of Pears's Soap.
That was an advertisement. And that very incident in his career,
trifling though it seems, will prevent his ever standing on the same
dignified height of distinction with such masters in art as Romney, Sir
Peter Lely, Gainsborough or Reynolds."
"I believe there is a great deal of justice in what you say;" and
Morgeson shook his head wisely--"Viewed from a purely artistic and
sentimental standpoint you are right." And he became suddenly downcast
and dubious. "Yes,--it is a most extraordinary thing how fame does
escape people sometimes just when they seem on the point of grasping it.
They are 'boomed' in every imaginable way, and yet after a time nothing
will keep them up. And there are others again who get kicked and
buffeted and mocked and derided----"
"Like Christ?" I interposed with a half smile. He looked shocked,--he
was a Non-conformist,--but remembering in time how rich I was, he bowed
with a meek patience.
"Yes"--and he sighed--"as you suggest, Mr Tempest, like Christ. Mocked
and derided and opposed at every turn,--and yet by the queerest caprice
of destiny, they succeed in winning a world-wide fame and power----"
"Like Christ again!" I said mischievously, for I loved to jar his
non-conformist conscience.
"Exactly!" He paused, looking piously down. Then with a return of
secular animation he added--"But I was not thinking of the Great Example
just then, Mr Tempest--I was thinking of a woman."
"Indeed!" I said indifferently.
"Yes--a woman, who despite continued abuse and opposition is rapidly
becoming celebrated. You are sure to hear of her in literary and social
circles"--and he gave me a furtive glance of doubtful inquiry--"but she
is not rich, you know,--only famous. However,--we have nothing to do
with her just now--so let us return to business. The one uncertain point
in the matter of your book's success is the attitude of the critics.
There are only six leading men who do the reviews, and between them they
cover all the English magazines and some of the American too, as well as
the London papers. Here are their names"--and he handed me a pencilled
memorandum,--"and their addresses, as far as I can ascertain them, or
the addresses of the papers for which they most frequently write. The
man at the head of the list, David McWhing, is the most formidable of
the lot. He writes everywhere about everything,--being a Scotchman he's
bound to have his finger in every pie. If you can secure McWhing, you
need not trouble so much about the others, as he generally gives the
'lead,' and has his own way with the editors. He is one of the 'personal
friends' of the editor of the _Nineteenth Century_ for example, and you
would be sure to get a notice there, which would otherwise be
impossible. No reviewer _can_ review anything for that magazine unless
he _is_ one of the editor's friends.[2] You must manage McWhing, or
he might, just for the sake of 'showing off,' cut you up rather
roughly."
"That would not matter," I said, diverted at the idea of 'managing
McWhing,'--"A little slating always helps a book to sell."
"In some cases it does,"--and Morgeson stroked his thin beard
perplexedly--"But in others it most emphatically does _not_. Where there
is any very decided or daring originality, adverse criticism is always
the most effective. But a work like yours requires fostering with
favour,--wants 'booming' in short----"
"I see!" and I felt distinctly annoyed--"You don't think my book
original enough to stand alone?"
"My dear sir!--you are really--really--! what shall I say?" and he
smiled apologetically--"a little brusque? I think your book shows
admirable scholarship and delicacy of thought,--if I find fault with it
at all, it is perhaps because I am dense. The only thing it lacks in my
opinion is what I should call _tenaciousness_, for want of a better
expression,--the quality of holding the reader's fancy fixed like a
nail. But after all this is a common failing of modern literature; few
authors feel sufficiently themselves to make others feel."
I made no reply for a moment. I was thinking of Lucio's remarks on this
very same subject.
"Well!" I said at last--"If I had no feeling when I wrote the book, I
certainly have none now. Why man, I felt every line of it!--painfully
and intensely!"
"Ay, ay indeed!" said Morgeson soothingly--"Or perhaps you _thought_ you
felt, which is another very curious phase of the literary temperament.
You see, to convince people at all, you must first yourself be
convinced. The result of this is generally a singular magnetic
attraction between author and public. However I am a bad hand at
argument,--and it is possible that in hasty reading I may have gathered
a wrong impression of your intentions. Anyhow the book shall be a
success if we can make it so. All I venture to ask of you is that you
should personally endeavour to manage McWhing!"
I promised to do my best, and on this understanding we parted. I
realised that Morgeson was capable of greater discernment than I had
imagined, and his observations had given me material for thought which
was not altogether agreeable. For if my book, as he said, lacked
tenacity, why then it would not take root in the public mind,--it would
be merely the ephemeral success of a season,--one of those brief 'booms'
in literary wares for which I had such unmitigated contempt,--and Fame
would be as far off as ever, except that spurious imitation of it which
the fact of my millions had secured. I was in no good humour that
afternoon, and Lucio saw it. He soon elicited the sum and substance of
my interview with Morgeson, and laughed long and somewhat uproariously
over the proposed 'managing' of the redoubtable McWhing. He glanced at
the five names of the other leading critics and shrugged his shoulders.
"Morgeson is quite right,"--he said--"McWhing is intimate with the rest
of these fellows--they meet at the same clubs, dine at the same cheap
restaurants and make love to the same painted ballet-girls. All in a
comfortable little fraternal union together, and one obliges the other
on their several journals when occasion offers. Oh yes! I should make up
to McWhing if I were you."
"But how?" I demanded, for though I knew McWhing's name well enough
having seen it signed _ad nauseam_ to literary articles in almost every
paper extant, I had never met the man; "I cannot ask any favour of a
press critic."
"Of course not!" and Lucio laughed heartily again--"If you were to do
such an idiotic thing what a slating you'd get for your pains! There's
no sport a critic loves so much as the flaying of an author who has made
the mistake of lowering himself to the level of asking favours of his
intellectual inferiors! No, no, my dear fellow!--we shall manage McWhing
quite differently,--_I_ know him, though you do not."
"Come, that's good news!" I exclaimed--"Upon my word Lucio, you seem to
know everybody."
"I think I know most people worth knowing--" responded Lucio
quietly--"Though I by no means include Mr McWhing in the category of
worthiness. I happened to make his personal acquaintance in a somewhat
singular and exciting manner. It was in Switzerland, on that awkward
ledge of rock known as the Mauvais Pas. I had been some weeks in the
neighbourhood on business of my own, and being surefooted and fearless,
was frequently allowed by the guides to volunteer my services with
theirs. In this capacity of amateur guide, capricious destiny gave me
the pleasure of escorting the timid and bilious McWhing across the
chasms of the Mer de Glace, and I conversed with him in the choicest
French all the while, a language of which, despite his boasted
erudition, he was deplorably ignorant. I knew who he was I must tell
you, as I know most of his craft, and had long been aware of him as one
of the authorised murderers of aspiring genius. When I got him on the
Mauvais Pas, I saw that he was seized with vertigo; I held him firmly by
the arm and addressed him in sound strong English thus--'Mr McWhing, you
wrote a damnable and scurrilous article against the work of a certain
poet' and I named the man--'an article that was a tissue of lies from
beginning to end, and which by its cruelty and venom embittered a life
of brilliant promise, and crushed a noble spirit. Now, unless you
promise to write and publish in a leading magazine a total recantation
of this your crime when you get back to England,--_if_ you get
back!--giving that wronged man the 'honourable mention' he rightly
deserves,--down you go! I have but to loosen my hold!' Geoffrey, you
should have seen McWhing then! He whined, he wriggled, he clung! Never
was an oracle of the press in such an unoracular condition.
'Murder!--murder!' he gasped, but his voice failed him. Above him
towered the snow peaks like the summits of that Fame he could not reach
and therefore grudged to others,--below him the glittering ice-waves
yawned in deep transparent hollows of opaline blue and green,--and afar
off the tinkling cowbells echoed through the still air, suggestive of
safe green pastures and happy homes. 'Murder!' he whispered gurglingly.
'Nay!' said I, ''tis I should cry Murder!--for if ever an arresting hand
held a murderer, mine holds one now! Your system of slaying is worse
than that of the midnight assassin, for the assassin can but kill the
body,--_you_ strive to kill the soul. You cannot succeed, 'tis true, but
the mere attempt is devilish. No shouts, no struggles will serve you
here,--we are alone with Eternal Nature,--give the man you have
slandered his tardy recognition, or else, as I said before--down you
go!' Well, to make my story short, he yielded, and swore to do as I bade
him,--whereupon placing my arm round him as though he were my tender
twin-brother, I led him safely off the Mauvais Pas and down the kindlier
hill, where, what with the fright and the remains of vertigo, he fell
a'weeping grievously. Would you believe it, that before we reached
Chamounix we had become the best friends in the world? He explained
himself and his rascally modes of action, and I nobly exonerated
him,--we exchanged cards,--and when we parted, this same author's
bug-bear McWhing, overcome with sentiment and whisky toddy (he is a
Scotchman you know) swore that I was the grandest fellow in the world,
and that if ever he could serve me he would. He knew my princely title
by this time, but he would have given me a still higher name. 'You are
not--_hic_--a poet yourself?' he murmured, leaning on me fondly as he
rolled to bed. I told him no. 'I am sorry--very!' he declared, the tears
of whisky rising to his eyes, 'If you had been I would have done a great
thing for you,--I would have boomed you,--_for nothing_!' I left him
snoring nobly, and saw him no more. But I think he'll recognize me,
Geoffrey;--I'll go and look him up personally. By all the gods!--if he
had only known Who held him between life and death upon the Mauvais
Pas!"
I stared, puzzled.
"But he did know"--I said--"Did you not say you exchanged cards?"
"True, but that was afterwards!" and Lucio laughed; "I assure you, my
dear fellow, we can 'manage' McWhing!"
I was intensely interested in the story as he told it,--he had such a
dramatic way of speaking and looking, while his very gestures brought
the whole scene vividly before me like a picture. I spoke out my thought
impulsively.
"You would certainly have made a superb actor, Lucio!"
"How do you know I am not one?" he asked with a flashing glance, then he
added quickly--"No,--there is no occasion to paint the face and prance
over the boards before a row of tawdry footlights like the paid mimes,
in order to be histrionically great. The finest actor is he who can play
the comedy of life perfectly, as I aspire to do. To walk well, talk
well, smile well, weep well, groan well, laugh well--and die well!--it
is all pure acting,--because in every man there is the dumb dreadful
immortal Spirit who is real,--who cannot act,--who Is,--and who steadily
maintains an infinite though speechless protest against the body's Lie!"
I said nothing in answer to this outburst,--I was beginning to be used
to his shifting humours and strange utterances,--they increased the
mysterious attraction I had for him, and made his character a perpetual
riddle to me which was not without its subtle charm. Every now and then
I realized, with a faintly startled sense of self-abasement, that I was
completely under his dominance,--that my life was being entirely guided
by his control and suggestion,--but I argued with myself that surely it
was well it should be so, seeing he had so much more experience and
influence than I. We dined together that night as we often did, and our
conversation was entirely taken up with monetary and business concerns.
Under Lucio's advice I was making several important investments, and
these matters gave us ample subject for discussion. At about eleven
o'clock, it being a fine frosty evening and fit for brisk walking, we
went out, our destination being the private gambling club to which my
companion had volunteered to introduce me as a guest. It was situated at
the end of a mysterious little back street, not far from the respectable
precincts of Pall-Mall, and was an unpretentious looking house enough
outside, but within, it was sumptuously though tastelessly furnished.
Apparently, the premises were presided over by a woman,--a woman with
painted eyes and dyed hair who received us first of all within the
lamp-lighted splendours of an Anglo-Japanese drawing-room. Her looks and
manner undisguisedly proclaimed her as a _demi-mondaine_ of the most
pronounced type,--one of those 'pure' ladies with a 'past' who are
represented as such martyrs to the vices of men. Lucio said something to
her apart,--whereupon she glanced at me deferentially and smiled,--then
rang the bell. A discreet looking man-servant in sober black made his
appearance, and at a slight sign from his mistress who bowed to me as I
passed her, proceeded to show us upstairs. We trod on a carpet of the
softest felt,--in fact I noticed that everything was rendered as
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/42332