London, say what we will of it, is after all the head of the British
giant, and if not the liveliest in bubbles, it is past competition the
largest broth-pot of brains anywhere simmering on the hob: over the
steadiest of furnaces too. And the oceans and the continents, as you
know, are perpetual and copious contributors, either to the heating
apparatus or to the contents of the pot. Let grander similes besought.
This one fits for the smoky receptacle cherishing millions, magnetic to
tens of millions more, with its caked outside of grime, and the inward
substance incessantly kicking the lid, prankish, but never casting it
off. A good stew, you perceive; not a parlous boiling. Weak as we may be
in our domestic cookery, our political has been sagaciously adjusted as
yet to catch the ardours of the furnace without being subject to their
volcanic activities.
That the social is also somewhat at fault, we have proof in occasional
outcries over the absence of these or those particular persons famous
for inspiriting. It sticks and clogs. The improvising songster is
missed, the convivial essayist, the humorous Dean, the travelled cynic,
and he, the one of his day, the iridescent Irishman, whose remembered
repartees are a feast, sharp and ringing, at divers tables descending
from the upper to the fat citizen's, where, instead of coming in the
sequence of talk, they are exposed by blasting, like fossil teeth of old
Deluge sharks in monotonous walls of our chalk-quarries. Nor are these
the less welcome for the violence of their introduction among a people
glad to be set burning rather briskly awhile by the most unexpected of
digs in the ribs. Dan Merion, to give an example. That was Dan Merion's
joke with the watchman: and he said that other thing to the Marquis of
Kingsbury, when the latter asked him if he had ever won a donkey-race.
And old Dan is dead, and we are the duller for it! which leads to the
question: Is genius hereditary? And the affirmative and negative are
respectively maintained, rather against the Yes is the dispute, until
a member of the audience speaks of Dan Merion's having left a daughter
reputed for a sparkling wit not much below the level of his own. Why,
are you unaware that the Mrs. Warwick of that scandal case of Warwick
versus Dannisburgh was old Dan Merion's girl--and his only child? It
is true; for a friend had it from a man who had it straight from Mr.
Braddock, of the firm of Braddock, Thorpe and Simnel, her solicitors in
the action, who told him he could sit listening to her for hours, and
that she was as innocent as day; a wonderful combination of a good woman
and a clever woman and a real beauty. Only her misfortune was to have
a furiously jealous husband, and they say he went mad after hearing the
verdict.
Diana was talked of in the London circles. A witty woman is such salt
that where she has once been tasted she must perforce be missed more
than any of the absent, the dowering heavens not having yet showered her
like very plentifully upon us. Then it was first heard that Percy Dacier
had been travelling with her. Miss Asper heard of it. Her uncle, Mr.
Quintin Manx, the millionnaire, was an acquaintance of the new Judge and
titled dignitary, Sir Cramborne Wathin, and she visited Lady Wathin,
at whose table the report in the journals of the Nile-boat party was
mentioned. Lady Wathin's table could dispense with witty women, and,
for that matter, witty men. The intrusion of the spontaneous on the
stereotyped would have clashed. She preferred, as hostess, the old legal
anecdotes sure of their laugh, and the citations from the manufactories
of fun in the Press, which were current and instantly intelligible to
all her guests. She smiled suavely on an impromptu pun, because her
experience of the humorous appreciation of it by her guests bade her
welcome the upstart. Nothing else impromptu was acceptable. Mrs. Warwick
therefore was not missed by Lady Wathin. 'I have met her,' she said. 'I
confess I am not one of the fanatics about Mrs. Warwick. She has a sort
of skill in getting men to clamour. If you stoop to tickle them, they
will applaud. It is a way of winning a reputation.' When the ladies were
separated from the gentlemen by the stream of Claret, Miss Asper
heard Lady Wathin speak of Mrs. Warwick again. An allusion to Lord
Dannisburgh's fit of illness in the House of Lords led to her saying
that there was no doubt he had been fascinated, and that, in her
opinion, Mrs. Warwick was a dangerous woman. Sir Cramborne knew
something of Mr. Warwick; 'Poor man!' she added. A lady present put a
question concerning Mrs. Warwick's beauty. 'Yes,' Lady Wathin said, 'she
has good looks to aid her. Judging from what I hear and have seen, her
thirst is for notoriety. Sooner or later we shall have her making a
noise, you may be certain. Yes, she has the secret of dressing well--in
the French style.'
A simple newspaper report of the expedition of a Nileboat party could
stir the Powers to take her up and turn her on their wheel in this
manner.
But others of the sons and daughters of London were regretting her
prolonged absence. The great and exclusive Whitmonby, who had dined once
at Lady Wathin's table, and vowed never more to repeat that offence to
his patience, lamented bitterly to Henry Wilmers that the sole woman
worthy of sitting at a little Sunday evening dinner with the cream of
the choicest men of the time was away wasting herself in that insane
modern chase of the picturesque! He called her a perverted Celimene.
Redworth had less to regret than the rest of her male friends, as he was
receiving at intervals pleasant descriptive letters, besides manuscript
sheets of ANTONIA'S new piece of composition, to correct the proofs for
the press, and he read them critically, he thought. He read them with
a watchful eye to guard them from the critics. ANTONIA, whatever her
faults as a writer, was not one of the order whose Muse is the Public
Taste. She did at least draw her inspiration from herself, and there
was much to be feared in her work, if a sale was the object. Otherwise
Redworth's highly critical perusal led him flatly to admire. This was
like her, and that was like her, and here and there a phrase gave him
the very play of her mouth, the flash of her eyes. Could he possibly
wish, or bear, to, have anything altered? But she had reason to desire
an extended sale of the work. Her aim, in the teeth of her independent
style, was at the means of independence--a feminine method of attempting
to conciliate contraries; and after despatching the last sheets to the
printer, he meditated upon the several ways which might serve to, assist
her; the main way running thus in his mind:--We have a work of genius.
Genius is good for the public. What is good for the public should be
recommended by the critics. It should be. How then to come at them to,
get it done? As he was not a member of the honourable literary craft,
and regarded its arcana altogether externally, it may be confessed of
him that he deemed the Incorruptible corruptible;--not, of course, with
filthy coin slid into sticky palms. Critics are human, and exceedingly,
beyond the common lot, when touched; and they are excited by mysterious
hints of loftiness in authorship; by rumours of veiled loveliness;
whispers, of a general anticipation; and also Editors can jog them.
Redworth was rising to be a Railway King of a period soon to glitter
with rails, iron in the concrete, golden in the visionary. He had
already his Court, much against his will. The powerful magnetic
attractions of those who can help the world to fortune, was exercised by
him in spite of his disgust of sycophants. He dropped words to right and
left of a coming work by ANTONIA. And who was ANTONIA?--Ah! there hung
the riddle.--An exalted personage?--So much so that he dared not name
her even in confidence to ladies; he named the publishers. To men he
said he was at liberty to speak of her only as the most beautiful woman
of her time. His courtiers of both sexes were recommended to read the
new story, THE PRINCESS EGERIA.
Oddly, one great lady of his Court had heard a forthcoming work of this
title spoken of by Percy Dacier, not a man to read silly fiction,
unless there was meaning behind the lines: that is, rich scandal of
the aristocracy, diversified by stinging epigrams to the address of
discernible personages. She talked of THE PRINCESS EGERIA: nay, laid her
finger on the identical Princess. Others followed her. Dozens were soon
flying with the torch: a new work immediately to be published from the
pen of the Duchess of Stars!--And the Princess who lends her title to
the book is a living portrait of the Princess of Highest Eminence, the
Hope of all Civilization.--Orders for copies of THE PRINCESS EGERIA
reached the astonished publishers before the book was advertized.
Speaking to editors, Redworth complimented them with friendly
intimations of the real authorship of the remarkable work appearing. He
used a certain penetrative mildness of tone in saying that 'he hoped
the book would succeed': it deserved to; it was original; but the
originality might tell against it. All would depend upon a favourable
launching of such a book. 'Mrs. Warwick? Mrs. Warwick?' said the most
influential of editors, Mr. Marcus Tonans; 'what! that singularly
handsome woman?.. The Dannisburgh affair?... She's Whitmonby's heroine.
If she writes as cleverly as she talks, her work is worth trumpeting.'
He promised to see that it went into good hands for the review, and a
prompt review--an essential point; none of your long digestions of the
contents.
Diana's indefatigable friend had fair assurances that her book would be
noticed before it dropped dead to the public appetite for novelty. He
was anxious next, notwithstanding his admiration of the originality
of the conception and the cleverness of the writing, lest the Literary
Reviews should fail 'to do it justice': he used the term; for if they
wounded her, they would take the pleasure out of success; and he had
always present to him that picture of the beloved woman kneeling at the
fire-grate at The Crossways, which made the thought of her suffering any
wound his personal anguish, so crucially sweet and saintly had her
image then been stamped on him. He bethought him, in consequence, while
sitting in the House of Commons; engaged upon the affairs of the nation,
and honestly engaged, for he was a vigilant worker--that the Irish
Secretary, Charles Raiser, with whom he stood in amicable relations,
had an interest, to the extent of reputed ownership, in the chief of the
Literary Reviews. He saw Raiser on the benches, and marked him to speak
for him. Looking for him shortly afterward, the man was gone. 'Off to
the Opera, if he's not too late for the drop,' a neighbour said, smiling
queerly, as though he ought to know; and then Redworth recollected
current stories of Raiser's fantastical devotion to the popular prima
donna of the angelical voice.--He hurried to the Opera and met the
vomit, and heard in the crushroom how divine she had been that night.
A fellow member of the House, tolerably intimate with Raiser, informed
him, between frightful stomachic roulades of her final aria, of the
likeliest place where Raiser might be found when the Opera was over: not
at his Club, nor at his chambers: on one of the bridges--Westminster, he
fancied.
There was no need for Redworth to run hunting the man at so late an
hour, but he was drawn on by the similarity in dissimilarity of this
devotee of a woman, who could worship her at a distance, and talk of
her to everybody. Not till he beheld Raiser's tall figure cutting the
bridge-parapet, with a star over his shoulder, did he reflect on the
views the other might entertain of the nocturnal solicitation to see
'justice done' to a lady's new book in a particular Review, and the
absurd outside of the request was immediately smothered by the natural
simplicity and pressing necessity of its inside.
He crossed the road and said, 'Ah?' in recognition. 'Were you at the
Opera this evening?'
'Oh, just at the end,' said Raiser, pacing forward. 'It's a fine night.
Did you hear her?'
'No; too late.'
Raiser pressed ahead, to meditate by himself, as was his wont. Finding
Redworth beside him, he monologuized in his depths: 'They'll kill her.
She puts her soul into it, gives her blood. There 's no failing of the
voice. You see how it wears her. She's doomed. Half a year's rest on
Como ... somewhere... she might be saved! She won't refuse to work.'
'Have you spoken to her?' said Redworth.
'And next to Berlin! Vienna! A horse would be....
I? I don't know her,' Raiser replied. 'Some of their women stand it.
She's delicately built. You can't treat a lute like a drum without
destroying the instrument. We look on at a murder!'
The haggard prospect from that step of the climax checked his delivery.
Redworth knew him to be a sober man in office, a man with a head for
statecraft: he had made a weighty speech in the House a couple of
hours back. This Opera cantatrice, no beauty, though gentle, thrilling,
winning, was his corner of romance.
'Do you come here often?' he asked.
'Yes, I can't sleep.'
'London at night, from the bridge, looks fine. By the way...'
'It 's lonely here, that's the advantage,' said Rainer; 'I keep silver
in my pocket for poor girls going to their homes, and I'm left in peace.
An hour later, there's the dawn down yonder.'
'By the way,' Redworth interposed, and was told that after these nights
of her singing she never slept till morning. He swallowed the fact,
sympathized, and resumed: 'I want a small favour.'
'No business here, please!'
'Not a bit of it. You know Mrs. Warwick.... You know of her. She 's
publishing a book. I want you to use your influence to get it noticed
quickly, if you can.'
'Warwick? Oh, yes, a handsome woman. Ah, yes; the Dannisburgh affair,
yes. What did I hear!--They say she 's thick with Percy Dacier at
present. Who was talking of her! Yes, old Lady Dacier. So she 's a
friend of yours?'
'She's an old friend,' said Redworth, composing himself; for the dose he
had taken was not of the sweetest, and no protestations could be uttered
by a man of the world to repel a charge of tattlers. 'The truth is, her
book is clever. I have read the proofs. She must have an income, and she
won't apply to her husband, and literature should help her, if she 's
fairly treated. She 's Irish by descent; Merion's daughter, witty as her
father. It's odd you haven't met her. The mere writing of the book is
extraordinarily good. If it 's put into capable hands for review! that's
all it requires. And full of life... bright dialogue.. capital sketches.
The book's a piece of literature. Only it must have competent critics!'
So he talked while Rainer ejaculated: 'Warwick? Warwick?' in the
irritating tone of dozens of others. 'What did I hear of her husband? He
has a post.... Yes, yes. Some one said the verdict in that case knocked
him over--heart disease, or something.'
He glanced at the dark Thames water. 'Take my word for it, the groves
of Academe won't compare with one of our bridges at night, if you seek
philosophy. You see the London above and the London below: round us the
sleepy city, and the stars in the water looking like souls of suicides.
I caught a girl with a bad fit on her once. I had to lecture her!
It's when we become parsons we find out our cousinship with these poor
peripatetics, whose “last philosophy” is a jump across the parapet. The
bridge at night is a bath for a public man. But choose another; leave me
mine.'
Redworth took the hint. He stated the title of Mrs. Warwick's book,
and imagined from the thoughtful cast of Rainer's head, that he was
impressing THE PRINCESS EGERIA On his memory.
Rainer burst out, with clenched fists: 'He beats her! The fellow lives
on her and beats her; strikes that woman! He drags her about to every
Capital in Europe to make money for him, and the scoundrel pays her with
blows.'
In the course of a heavy tirade against the scoundrel, Redworth
apprehended that it was the cantatrice's husband. He expressed his
horror and regret; paused, and named THE PRINCESS EGERIA and a certain
Critical Review. Another outburst seemed to be in preparation. Nothing
further was to be done for the book at that hour. So, with a blunt 'Good
night,' he left Charles Rainer pacing, and thought on his walk home of
the strange effects wrought by women unwittingly upon men (Englishmen);
those women, or some of them, as little knowing it as the moon her
traditional influence upon the tides. He thought of Percy Dacier too. In
his bed he could have wished himself peregrinating a bridge.
The PRINCESS EGERIA appeared, with the reviews at her heels, a pack of
clappers, causing her to fly over editions clean as a doe the gates and
hedges--to quote Mr. Sullivan Smith, who knew not a sentence of the work
save what he gathered of it from Redworth, at their chance meeting on
Piccadilly pavement, and then immediately he knew enough to blow his
huntsman's horn in honour of the sale. His hallali rang high. 'Here's
another Irish girl to win their laurels! 'Tis one of the blazing
successes. A most enthralling work, beautifully composed. And where is
she now, Mr. Redworth, since she broke away from that husband of hers,
that wears the clothes of the worst tailor ever begotten by a thread on
a needle, as I tell every soul of 'em in my part of the country?'
'You have seen him?' said Redworth.
'Why, sir, wasn't he on show at the Court he applied to for relief
and damages? as we heard when we were watching the case daily, scarce
drawing our breath for fear the innocent--and one of our own blood,
would be crushed. Sure, there he stood; ay, and looking the very donkey
for a woman to flip off her fingers, like the dust from my great uncle's
prise of snuff! She's a glory to the old country. And better you than
another, I'd say, since it wasn't an Irishman to have her: but what
induced the dear lady to take him, is the question we 're all of us
asking! And it's mournful to think that somehow you contrive to get the
pick of us in the girls! If ever we 're united, 'twill be by a trick of
circumvention of that sort, pretty sure. There's a turn in the market
when they shut their eyes and drop to the handiest: and London's a
vortex that poor dear dull old Dublin can't compete with. I 'll beg you
for the address of the lady her friend, Lady Dunstane.'
Mr. Sullivan Smith walked with Redworth through the park to the House of
Commons, discoursing of Rails and his excellent old friend's rise to the
top rung of the ladder and Beanstalk land, so elevated that one had
to look up at him with watery eyes, as if one had flung a ball at the
meridian sun. Arrived at famed St. Stephen's, he sent in his compliments
to the noble patriot and accepted an invitation to dinner.
'And mind you read THE PRINCESS EGERIA,' said Redworth.
'Again and again, my friend. The book is bought.' Sullivan Smith slapped
his breastpocket.
'There's a bit of Erin in it.'
'It sprouts from Erin.'
'Trumpet it.'
'Loud as cavalry to the charge!'
Once with the title stamped on his memory, the zealous Irishman might
be trusted to become an ambulant advertizer. Others, personal friends,
adherents, courtiers of Redworth's, were active. Lady Pennon and Henry
Wilmers, in the upper circle; Whitmonby and Westlake, in the literary;
spread the fever for this new book. The chief interpreter of public
opinion caught the way of the wind and headed the gale.
Editions of the book did really run like fires in summer furze; and to
such an extent that a simple literary performance grew to be respected
in Great Britain, as representing Money.