He slipped a green carnation into his evening coat, fixed it in its
place with a pin, and looked at himself in the glass, the long glass
that stood near the window of his London bedroom. The summer evening was
so bright that he could see his double clearly, even though it was just
upon seven o'clock. There he stood in his favourite and most
characteristic attitude, with his left knee slightly bent, and his arms
hanging at his sides, gazing, as a woman gazes at herself before she
starts for a party. The low and continuous murmur of Piccadilly, like
the murmur of a flowing tide on a smooth beach, stole to his ears
monotonously, and inclined him insensibly to a certain thoughtfulness.
Floating through the curtained window the soft lemon light sparkled on
the silver backs of the brushes that lay on the toilet-table, on the
dressing-gown of spun silk that hung from a hook behind the door, on
the great mass of gloire de Dijon roses, that dreamed in an ivory-white
bowl set on the writing-table of ruddy-brown wood. It caught the gilt of
the boy's fair hair and turned it into brightest gold, until, despite
the white weariness of his face, the pale fretfulness of his eyes, he
looked like some angel in a church window designed by Burne-Jones, some
angel a little blasé from the injudicious conduct of its life. He
frankly admired himself as he watched his reflection, occasionally
changing his pose, presenting himself to himself, now full face, now
three-quarters face, leaning backward or forward, advancing one foot in
its silk stocking and shining shoe, assuming a variety of interesting
expressions. In his own opinion he was very beautiful, and he thought it
right to appreciate his own qualities of mind and of body. He hated
those fantastic creatures who are humble even in their self-communings,
cowards who dare not acknowledge even to themselves how exquisite, how
delicately fashioned they are. Quite frankly he told other people that
he was very wonderful, quite frankly he avowed it to himself. There is a
nobility in fearless truthfulness, is there not? and about the magic of
his personality he could never be induced to tell a lie.
It is so interesting to be wonderful, to be young, with pale gilt hair
and blue eyes, and a face in which the shadows of fleeting expressions
come and go, and a mouth like the mouth of Narcissus. It is so
interesting to oneself. Surely one's beauty, one's attractiveness,
should be one's own greatest delight. It is only the stupid, and those
who still cling to Exeter Hall as to a Rock of Ages, who are afraid, or
ashamed, to love themselves, and to express that love, if need be.
Reggie Hastings, at least, was not ashamed. The mantel-piece in his
sitting-room bore only photographs of himself, and he explained this
fact to inquirers by saying that he worshipped beauty. Reggie was very
frank. When he could not be witty, he often told the naked truth; and
truth, without any clothes on, frequently passes for epigram. It is
daring, and so it seems clever. Reggie was considered very clever by his
friends, but more clever by himself. He knew that he was great, and he
said so often in Society. And Society smiled and murmured that it was a
pose. Everything is a pose nowadays, especially genius.
This evening Reggie stood before the mirror till the Sèvres clock on the
chimneypiece gently chimed seven. Then he drew out of their tissue paper
a pair of lavender gloves, and pressed the electric bell.
"Call me a hansom, Flynn," he said to his valet.
He threw a long buff-coloured overcoat across his arm, and went slowly
downstairs. A cab was at the door, and he entered it and told the man to
drive to Belgrave Square. As they turned the corner of Half Moon Street
into Piccadilly, he leant forward over the wooden apron and lazily
surveyed the crowd. Every second cab he passed contained an immaculate
man going out to dinner, sitting bolt upright, with a severe expression
of countenance, and surveying the world with steady eyes over an
unyielding rampart of starched collar. Reggie exchanged nods with
various acquaintances. Presently he passed an elderly gentleman with a
red face and small side whiskers. The elderly gentleman stared him in
the face, and sniffed ostentatiously.
"What a pity my poor father is so plain," Reggie said to himself with a
quiet smile. Only that morning he had received a long and vehement
diatribe from his parent, showering abuse upon him, and exhorting him to
lead a more reputable life. He had replied by wire--
"What a funny little man you are.--Reggie."
The funny little man had evidently received his message.
As his cab drew up for a moment at Hyde Park corner to allow a stream
of pedestrians to cross from the Park, he saw several people pointing
him out. Two well-dressed women looked at him and laughed, and he heard
one murmur his name to the other. He let his blue eyes rest upon them
calmly as they peacocked across to St. George's Hospital, still
laughing, and evidently discussing him. He did not know them, but he was
accustomed to being known. His life had never been a cautious one. He
was too modern to be very reticent, and he liked to be wicked in the eye
of the crowd. Secret wickedness held little charm for him. He preferred
to preface his failings with an overture on the orchestra, to draw up
the curtain, and to act his drama of life to a crowded audience of smart
people in the stalls. When they hissed him, he only pitied them, and
wondered at their ignorance. His social position kept him in Society,
however much Society murmured against him; and, far from fearing
scandal, he loved it. He chose his friends partly for their charm, and
partly for their bad reputations; and the white flower of a blameless
life was much too inartistic to have any attraction for him. He believed
that Art showed the way to Nature, and worshipped the abnormal with all
the passion of his impure and subtle youth.
"Lord Reginald Hastings," cried Mrs. Windsor's impressive butler, and
Reggie entered the big drawing-room in Belgrave Square with the delicate
walk that had led certain Philistines to christen him Agag. There were
only two ladies present, and one tall and largely built man, with a
closely shaved, clever face, and rather rippling brown hair.
"So sweet of you to come, dear Lord Reggie," said Mrs. Windsor, a very
pretty woman of the preserved type, with young cheeks and a middle-aged
mouth, hair that was scarcely out of its teens, and eyes full of a weary
sparkle. "But I knew that Mr. Amarinth would prove a magnet. Let me
introduce you to my cousin, Lady Locke--Lord Reginald Hastings."
Reggie bowed to a lady dressed in black, and shook hands affectionately
with the big man, whom he addressed as Esmé. Five minutes later dinner
was announced, and they sat down at a small oval table covered with pale
pink roses.
"The opera to-night is 'Faust,'" said Mrs. Windsor. "Ancona is
Valentine, and Melba is Marguerite. I forget who else is singing, but it
is one of Harris' combination casts, a constellation of stars."
"The evening stars sang together!" said Mr. Amarinth, in a gently
elaborate voice, and with a sweet smile. "I wonder Harris does not
start morning opera; from twelve till three for instance. One could drop
in after breakfast at eleven, and one might arrange to have luncheon
parties between the acts."
"But surely it would spoil one for the rest of the day," said Lady
Locke, a fresh-looking woman of about twenty-eight, with the sort of
face that is generally called sensible, calm observant eyes, and a
steady and simple manner. "One would be fit for nothing afterwards."
"Quite so," said Mr. Amarinth, with extreme gentleness. "That would be
the object of the performance, to unfit one for the duties of the day.
How beautiful! What a glorious sight it would be to see a great audience
flocking out into the orange-coloured sunshine, each unit of which was
thoroughly unfitted for any duties whatsoever. It makes me perpetually
sorrowful in London to meet with people doing their duty. I find them
everywhere. It is impossible to escape from them. A sense of duty is
like some horrible disease. It destroys the tissues of the mind, as
certain complaints destroy the tissues of the body. The catechism has a
great deal to answer for."
"Ah! now you are laughing at me," said Lady Locke calmly.
"Mr. Amarinth never laughs at any one, Emily," said Mrs. Windsor. "He
makes others laugh. I wish I could say clever things. I would rather be
able to talk in epigrams, and hear Society repeating what I said, than
be the greatest author or artist that ever lived. You are luckier than
I, Lord Reggie. I heard a _bon mot_ of yours at the Foreign Office last
night."
"Indeed. What was it?"
"Er--really I--oh! it was something about life, you know, with a sort of
general application, one of your best. It made me smile, not laugh. I
always think that is such a test of merit. We smile at wit; we laugh at
buffoonery."
"The highest humour often moves me to tears," said Mr. Amarinth
musingly. "There is nothing so absolutely pathetic as a really fine
paradox. The pun is the clown among jokes, the well turned paradox is
the polished comedian, and the highest comedy verges upon tragedy, just
as the keenest edge of tragedy is often tempered by a subtle humour. Our
minds are shot with moods as a fabric is shot with colours, and our
moods often seem inappropriate. Everything that is true is
inappropriate."
Lady Locke ate her salmon calmly. She had not been in London for ten
years. Her husband had had a military appointment in the Straits
Settlements, and she had been with him. Two years ago he had died at
his post of duty, and since then she had been living quietly in a German
town. Now she was entering the world again, and it seemed to her odd and
altered. She was interested in all she saw and heard. To-night she found
herself studying a certain phase of modernity. That it sometimes struck
her as maniacal did not detract from its interest. The mad often
fascinate the sane.
"I know," said Reggie Hastings, holding his fair head slightly on one
side, and crumbling his bread with a soft, white hand--"I know. That is
why I laughed at my brother's funeral. My grief expressed itself in that
way. People were shocked, of course, but when are they not shocked?
There is nothing so touching as the inappropriate. I thought my laughter
was very beautiful. Anybody can cry. That was what I felt. I forced my
grief beyond tears, and then my relations said that I was heartless."
"But surely tears are the natural expression of sad feelings," said Lady
Locke. "We do not weep at a circus or at a pantomime; why should we
laugh at a funeral?"
"I think a pantomime is very touching," said Reggie. "The pantaloon is
one of the most luridly tragic figures in art or in life. If I were a
great actor, I would as soon play the pantaloon as 'King Lear.'"
"Perhaps his mournful possibilities have been increased since I have
been out of England," said Lady Locke. "Ten years ago he was merely a
shadowy absurdity."
"Oh! he has not changed," said Mr. Amarinth. "That is so wonderful. He
never develops at all. He alone understands the beauty of rigidity, the
exquisite serenity of the statuesque nature. Men always fall into the
absurdity of endeavouring to develop the mind, to push it violently
forward in this direction or in that. The mind should be receptive, a
harp waiting to catch the winds, a pool ready to be ruffled, not a
bustling busybody, forever trotting about on the pavement looking for a
new bun shop. It should not deliberately run to seek sensations, but it
should never avoid one; it should never be afraid of one; it should
never put one aside from an absurd sense of right and wrong. Every
sensation is valuable. Sensations are the details that build up the
stories of our lives."
"But if we do not choose our sensations carefully, the stories may be
sad, may even end tragically," said Lady Locke.
"Oh! I don't think that matters at all; do you, Mrs. Windsor?" said
Reggie. "If we choose carefully, we become deliberate at once; and
nothing is so fatal to personality as deliberation. When I am good, it
is my mood to be good; when I am what is called wicked, it is my mood to
be evil. I never know what I shall be at a particular moment. Sometimes
I like to sit at home after dinner and read 'The dream of Gerontius.' I
love lentils and cold water. At other times I must drink absinthe, and
hang the night hours with scarlet embroideries. I must have music, and
the sins that march to music. There are moments when I desire squalor,
sinister, mean surroundings, dreariness, and misery. The great unwashed
mood is upon me. Then I go out from luxury. The mind has its West End
and its Whitechapel. The thoughts sit in the Park sometimes, but
sometimes they go slumming. They enter narrow courts and rookeries. They
rest in unimaginable dens seeking contrast, and they like the ruffians
whom they meet there, and they hate the notion of policemen keeping
order. The mind governs the body. I never know how I shall spend an
evening till the evening has come. I wait for my mood."
Lady Locke looked at him quite gravely while he was speaking. He always
talked with great vivacity, and as if he meant what he was saying. She
wondered if he did mean it. Like most other people, she felt the charm
that always emanated from him. His face was tired and white, but not
wicked, and there was an almost girlish beauty about it. He flushed
easily, and was obviously sensitive to impressions. As he spoke now, he
seemed to be elucidating some fantastic gospel, giving forth some
whimsical revelation; yet she felt that he was talking the most
dangerous nonsense, and she rather wanted to say so. Most of her life
had been passed among soldiers. Her father had been a general in the
Artillery. Her two brothers were serving in India. Her husband had been
a bluff and straightforward man of action, full of hard commonsense, and
the sterling virtues that so often belong to the martinet. Mr. Amarinth
and Lord Reggie were specimens of manhood totally strange to her--until
now she had not realised that such people existed. All the opinions
which she had hitherto believed herself to hold in common with the rest
of sane people, seemed suddenly to become ridiculous in this
environment. Her point of view was evidently remarkably different from
that attained by her companions. On the whole, she decided not to
dispute the doctrine of moods. So she said nothing, and allowed Mrs.
Windsor to break in airily--
"Yes, moods are delightful. I have as many as I have dresses, and they
cost me nearly as much. I suppose they cost Jimmy a good deal too," she
added, with a desultory pensiveness; "but fortunately he is well off, so
it doesn't matter. I never go into the slums, though. It is so tiring,
and then there is so much infection. Microbes generally flourish most in
shabby places, don't they, Mr. Amarinth? A mood that cost one typhoid or
smallpox would be really silly, wouldn't it? Shall we go into the
drawing-room, Emily? the carriage will be round directly. Yes; do smoke,
Mr. Amarinth. You shall have your coffee in here while we put on our
cloaks."
She rustled out of the room with her cousin. When she had gone, Esmé
Amarinth lit a gold-tipped cigarette, and leaned back lazily in his
chair.
"How tiring women are," he said. "They always let one know that they are
trying to be up to the mark. Isn't it so, Reggie?"
"Yes, unless they have convictions which lead them to hate one's mark.
Lady Locke has convictions, I should fancy."
"Probably. But she has a great deal besides."
"Comment?"
"Don't you know why Mrs. Windsor specially wanted you to-night?"
"To polish your wit with mine," said the boy, with his pretty, quick
smile.
"No, Reggie. Lady Locke has come into an immense fortune lately. They
say she has over twenty thousand a year. Mrs. Windsor is trying to do
you a good turn. And I dare say she would not be averse to uniting her
first cousin with a future marquis."
"H'm!" said Reggie, helping himself to coffee with a rather abstracted
air.
"It is a pity I am already married," added Amarinth, sipping his coffee
with a deliberate grace. "I am paying for my matrimonial mood now."
"But I thought Mrs. Amarinth lived entirely upon Cross and Blackwell's
potted meats and stale bread," said Reggie seriously.
"Unfortunately that is only a _canard_ invented by my dearest enemies."