'Who is the man they call Alvan?' She put the question at the first
opportunity to an aunt of hers.
Up went five-fingered hands. This violent natural sign of horror was
comforting: she saw that he was a celebrity indeed.
'Alvan! My dear Clotilde! What on earth can you want to know about a
creature who is the worst of demagogues, a disreputable person, and a
Jew!'
Clotilde remarked that she had asked only who he was. 'Is he clever?'
'He is one of the basest of those wretches who are for upsetting the
Throne and Society to gratify their own wicked passions: that is what he
is.'
'But is he clever?'
'Able as Satan himself, they say. He is a really dangerous, bad man.
You could not have been curious about a worse one.'
'Politically, you mean.'
'Of course I do.'
The lady had not thought of any other kind of danger from a man of that
station.
The likening of one to Satan does not always exclude meditation upon him.
Clotilde was anxious to learn in what way her talk resembled Alvan's. He
being that furious creature, she thought of herself at her wildest, which
was in her estimation her best; and consequently, she being by no means a
furious creature, though very original, she could not meditate on him
without softening the outlines given him by report; all because of the
likeness between them; and, therefore, as she had knowingly been taken
for furious by very foolish people, she settled it that Alvan was also a
victim of the prejudices he scorned. It had pleased her at times to
scorn our prejudices and feel the tremendous weight she brought on
herself by the indulgence. She drew on her recollections of the Satanic
in her bosom when so situated, and never having admired herself more
ardently than when wearing that aspect, she would have admired the man
who had won the frightful title in public, except for one thing--he was a
Jew.
The Jew was to Clotilde as flesh of swine to the Jew. Her parents had
the same abhorrence of Jewry. One of the favourite similes of the family
for whatsoever grunted in grossness, wriggled with meanness, was Jew: and
it was noteworthy from the fact that a streak of the blood was in the
veins of the latest generation and might have been traced on the maternal
side.
Now a meanness that clothes itself in the Satanic to terrify cowards is
the vilest form of impudence venturing at insolence; and an insolent
impudence with Jew features, the Jew nose and lips, is past endurance
repulsive. She dismissed her contemplation of Alvan. Luckily for the
gentleman who had compared her to the Jew politician, she did not meet
him again in Italy.
She had meanwhile formed an idea of the Alvanesque in dialogue; she
summoned her forces to take aim at it, without becoming anything Jewish,
still remaining clean and Christian; and by her astonishing practice of
the art she could at any time blow up a company--scatter mature and
seasoned dames, as had they been balloons on a wind, ay, and give our
stout sex a shaking.
Clotilde rejected another aspirant proposed by her parents, and falling
into disgrace at home, she went to live for some months with an ancient
lady who was her close relative residing in the capital city where the
brain of her race is located. There it occurred that a dashing officer
of social besides military rank, dancing with her at a ball, said, for a
comment on certain boldly independent remarks she had been making: 'I see
you know Alvan.'
Alvan once more.
'Indeed I do not,' she said, for she was addressing an officer high above
Alvan in social rank; and she shrugged, implying that she was almost past
contradiction of the charge.
'Surely you must,' said he; 'where is the lady who could talk and think
as you do without knowing Alvan and sharing his views!'
Clotilde was both startled and nettled.
'But I do not know him at all; I have never met him, never seen him.
I am unlikely to meet the kind of person,' she protested; and she was
amazed yet secretly rejoiced on hearing him, a noble of her own circle,
and a dashing officer, rejoin: 'Come, come, let us be honest. That is
all very well for the little midges floating round us to say of Alvan,
but we two can clasp hands and avow proudly that we both know and love
the man.'
'Were it true, I would own it at once, but I repeat, that he is a total
stranger to me,' she said, seeing the Jew under quite a different
illumination.
'Actually?'
'In honour.'
'You have never met, never seen him, never read any of his writings?'
'Never. I have heard his name, that is all.'
'Then,' the officer's voice was earnest, 'I pity him, and you no less,
while you remain strangers, for you were made for one another. Those
ideas you have expressed, nay, the very words, are Alvan's: I have heard
him use them. He has just the same original views of society and history
as yours; they're identical; your features are not unlike . . . you talk
alike: I could fancy your voice the sister of his. You look incredulous?
You were speaking of Pompeius, and you said "Plutarch's Pompeius," and
more for it is almost incredible under the supposition that you do not
know and have never listened to Alvan--you said that Pompeius appeared to
have been decorated with all the gifts of the Gods to make the greater
sacrifice of him to Caesar, who was not personally worth a pretty woman's
"bite." Come, now--you must believe me: at a supper at Alvan's table the
other night, the talk happened to be of a modern Caesar, which led to the
real one, and from him to "Plutarch's Pompeius," as Alvan called him; and
then he said of him what you have just said, absolutely the same down to
the allusion to the bite. I assure you. And you have numbers of little
phrases in common: you are partners in aphorisms: Barriers are for those
who cannot fly: that is Alvan's. I could multiply them if I could
remember; they struck me as you spoke.'
'I must be a shameless plagiarist,' said Clotilde.
'Or he,' said Count Kollin.
It is here the place of the Chorus to state that these: ideas were in the
air at the time; sparks of the Vulcanic smithy at work in politics and
pervading literature: which both Alvan and Clotilde might catch and give
out as their own, in the honest belief that the epigram was, original to
them. They were not members of a country where literature is confined to
its little paddock, without, influence on the larger field (part lawn,
part marsh) of the social world: they were readers in sympathetic action
with thinkers and literary artists. Their saying in common, 'Plutarch's
Pompeius,' may be traceable to a reading of some professorial article on
the common portrait-painting of the sage of Chaeroneia. The dainty
savageness in the 'bite' Plutarch mentions, evidently struck on a
similarity of tastes in both, as it has done with others. And in regard
to Caesar, Clotilde thought much of Caesar; she had often wished that
Caesar (for the additional pleasure in thinking of him) had been endowed
with the beauty of his rival: one or two of Plutarch's touches upon the
earlier history of Pompeius had netted her fancy, faintly (your
generosity must be equal to hearing it) stung her blood; she liked the
man; and if he had not been beaten in the end, she would have preferred
him femininely. His name was not written Pompey to her, as in English,
to sound absurd: it was a note of grandeur befitting great and lamentable
fortunes, which the young lady declined to share solely because of her
attraction to the victor, her compulsion to render unto the victor the
sunflower's homage. She rendered it as a slave: the splendid man beloved
to ecstasy by the flower of Roman women was her natural choice.
Alvan could not be even a Caesar in person, he was a Jew. Still a Jew
of whom Count Kollin spoke so warmly must be exceptional, and of the
exceptional she dreamed. He might have the head of a Caesar. She
imagined a huge head, the cauldron of a boiling brain, anything but
bright to the eye, like a pot always on the fire, black, greasy,
encrusted, unkempt: the head of a malicious tremendous dwarf. Her hungry
inquiries in a city where Alvan was well known, brought her full
information of one who enjoyed a highly convivial reputation besides the
influence of his political leadership; but no description of his aspect
accompanied it, for where he was nightly to be met somewhere about the
city, none thought of describing him, and she did not push that question
because she had sketched him for herself, and rather wished, the more she
heard of his genius, to keep him repulsive. It appeared that his bravery
was as well proved as his genius, and a brilliant instance of it had been
given in the city not long since. He had her ideas, and he won
multitudes with them: he was a talker, a writer, and an orator; and he
was learned, while she could not pretend either to learning or to a flow
of rhetoric. She could prattle deliciously, at times pointedly, relying
on her intuition to tell her more than we get from books, and on her
sweet impudence for a richer original strain. She began to appreciate
now a reputation for profound acquirements. Learned professors of
jurisprudence and history were as enthusiastic for Alvan in their way as
Count Kollin. She heard things related of Alvan by the underbreath.
That circle below her own, the literary and artistic, idolized him; his
talk, his classic breakfasts and suppers, his undisguised ambition, his
indomitable energy, his dauntlessness and sway over her sex, were
subjects of eulogy all round her; and she heard of an enamoured baroness.
No one blamed Alvan. He had shown his chivalrous valour in defending
her. The baroness was not a young woman, and she was a hardbound Blue.
She had been the first to discover the prodigy, and had pruned,
corrected, and published him; he was one of her political works,
promising to be the most successful. An old affair apparently; but the
association of a woman's name with Alvan's, albeit the name of a veteran,
roused the girl's curiosity, leading her to think his mental and magnetic
powers must be of the very highest, considering his physical
repulsiveness, for a woman of rank to yield him such extreme devotion.
She commissioned her princely serving-man, who had followed and was never
far away from her, to obtain precise intelligence of this notorious
Alvan.
Prince Marko did what he could to please her; he knew something of the
rumours about Alvan and the baroness. But why should his lady trouble
herself for particulars of such people, whom it could scarcely be
supposed she would meet by accident? He asked her this. Clotilde said
it was common curiosity. She read him a short lecture on the dismal
narrowness of their upper world; and on the advantage of taking an
interest in the world below them and more enlightened; a world where
ideas were current and speech was wine. The prince nodded; if she had
these opinions, it must be good for him to have them too, and he shared
them, as it were, by the touch of her hand, and for the length of time
that he touched her hand, as an electrical shock may be taken by one far
removed from the battery, susceptible to it only through the link; he was
capable of thinking all that came to him from her a blessing--shocks,
wounds and disruptions. He did not add largely to her stock of items,
nor did he fetch new colours. The telegraph wire was his model of style.
He was more or less a serviceless Indian Bacchus, standing for sign of
the beauty and vacuity of their world: and how dismally narrow that world
was, she felt with renewed astonishment at every dive out of her gold-
fish pool into the world of tides below; so that she was ready to scorn
the cultivation of the graces, and had, when not submitting to the smell,
fanciful fits of a liking for tobacco smoke--the familiar incense of
those homes where speech was wine.
At last she fell to the asking of herself whether, in the same city with
him, often among his friends, hearing his latest intimate remarks--things
homely redolent of him as hot bread of the oven--she was ever to meet
this man upon whom her thoughts were bent to the eclipse of all others.
She desired to meet him for comparison's sake, and to criticize a popular
hero. It was inconceivable that any one popular could approach her
standard, but she was curious; flame played about him; she had some
expectation of easing a spiteful sentiment created by the recent
subjection of her thoughts to the prodigious little Jew; and some feeling
of closer pity for Prince Marko she had, which urged her to be rid of her
delusion as to the existence of a wonder-working man on our earth, that
she might be sympathetically kind to the prince, perhaps compliant, and
so please her parents, be good and dull, and please everybody, and adieu
to dreams, good night, and so to sleep with the beasts! . . .
Calling one afternoon on a new acquaintance of the flat table-land she
liked tripping down to from her heights, Clotilde found the lady in
supreme toilette, glowing, bubbling: 'Such a breakfast, my dear!' The
costly profusion, the anecdotes, the wit, the fun, the copious draughts
of the choicest of life--was there ever anything to match it? Never in
that lady's recollection, or her husband's either, she exclaimed. And
where was the breakfast? Why, at Alvan's, to be sure; where else could
such a breakfast be?
'And you know Alvan!' cried Clotilde, catching excitement from the lady's
flush.
'Alvan is one of my husband's closest friends'
Clotilde put on the playful frenzy; she made show of wringing her hands:
'Oh! happy you! you know Alvan? And everybody is to know him except
me? why? I proclaim it unjust. Because I am unmarried? I'll take a
husband to-morrow morning to be entitled to meet Alvan in the evening.'
The playful frenzy is accepted in its exact innocent signification of
'this is my pretty wilful will and way,' and the lady responded to it
cordially; for it is pleasant to have some one to show, and pleasant to
assist some one eager to see: besides, many had petitioned her for a
sight of Alvan; she was used to the request.
'You're not obliged to wait for to-morrow,' she said. 'Come to one of
our gatherings to-night. Alvan will be here.'
'You invite me?'
'Distinctly. Pray, come. He is sure to be here. We have his promise,
and Alvan never fails. Was it not Frau v. Crestow who did us the favour
of our introduction? She will bring you.'
The Frau v. Crestow was a cousin of Clotilde's by marriage, sentimental,
but strict in her reading of the proprieties. She saw nothing wrong in
undertaking to conduct Clotilde to one of those famous gatherings of the
finer souls of the city and the race; and her husband agreed to join them
after the sitting of the Chamber upon a military-budget vote. The whole
plan was nicely arranged and went well. Clotilde dressed carefully,
letting her gold-locks cloud her fine forehead carelessly, with finishing
touches to the negligence, for she might be challenged to take part in
disputations on serious themes, and a handsome young woman who has to
sustain an argument against a man does wisely when she forearms her
beauties for a reserve, to carry out flanking movements if required. The
object is to beat him.