The strange spirit of complete indifference, and the attitude of
finding nothing, apparently, worth the trouble of thinking about,
stood Diana in such good stead, that she found no unpleasantness or
restriction in being more or less a prisoner in her own rooms on her
return to the Château Fragonard. The lovely house was thrown open to
the usual callers and neighbours,--people came and went,--the gardens,
glorious now with a wealth of blossom, were the favourite resort of
many visitors to Madame Dimitrius and her son,--and Diana, looking
from her pretty _salon_ through one of the windows which had so deep
an embrasure that she could see everything without any fear of herself
being discovered, often watched groups of men and smartly attired women
strolling over the velvety lawns or down the carefully kept paths among
the flowers, though always with a curious lack of interest. They seemed
to have no connection with her own existence. True to his promise, Dr.
Dimitrius came every day to take her out when no other persons were in
the house or grounds,--and these walks were a vague source of pleasure
to her, though she felt she would have been happier and more at ease
had she been allowed to take them quite alone. Madame Dimitrius was
unwearying in her affectionate regard and attention, and always spent
the greater part of each day with her, displaying a tenderness and
consideration for her which six months previously would have moved
her to passionate gratitude, but which now only stirred in her mind
a faint sense of surprise. All her sensations were as of one, who,
by some mysterious means, had been removed from the comprehension of
human contact,--though her intimacy with what the world is pleased
to consider the non-reasoning things of creation had become keenly
intensified, and more closely sympathetic.
There was unconcealed disappointment among the few, who, during the
past autumn, had met her at the Château, when they were told she had
gone back to England. Baroness de Rousillon was, in particular, much
annoyed, for she had made a compact with the Marchese Farnese to
enter into close and friendly relations with Diana, and to find out
from her, if at all possible, the sort of work which went on in the
huge domed laboratory wherein Dimitrius appeared to pass so much of
his time. Farnese himself said little of his vexation,--but he left
Geneva almost immediately on hearing the news, and without informing
Dimitrius of his intention, went straight to London, resolved to
probe what he considered a “mystery” to its centre. As for Professor
Chauvet, no words could describe his surprise and deep chagrin at
Diana’s departure; he could not bring himself to believe that she had
left Geneva without saying good-bye to him. So troubled and perplexed
was he, that with his usual bluntness he made a clean confession to
Dimitrius of his proposal of marriage. Dimitrius heard him with grave
patience and a slight, supercilious uplifting of his dark eyebrows.
“I imagined as much!” he said, coldly, when he had heard all. “But Miss
May is not young, and I should have thought she would have been glad of
the chance of marriage you offered her. Did she give you any hope?”
Chauvet looked doubtfully reflective.
“She did and she didn’t,” he at last answered, rather ruefully. “And
yet--she’s not capricious--and I trust her. As you say, she’s not
young,--good heavens, what a heap of nonsense is talked about ‘young’
women!--frequently the most useless and stupid creatures!--only
thinking of themselves from morning till night!--Miss May is a fine,
intelligent creature--I should like to pass the few remaining years of
my life in her company.”
Dimitrius glanced him over with an air of disdainful compassion.
“I dare say she’ll write to you,” he said. “She’s the kind of woman who
might prefer to settle that sort of thing by letter.”
“Can you give me her address?” at once asked the Professor, eagerly.
“Not at the moment,” replied Dimitrius, composedly. “She has no fixed
abode at present,--she’s travelling with friends. As soon as I hear
from her, I will let you know!”
Chauvet, though always a trifle suspicious of other men’s meanings, was
disarmed by the open frankness with which this promise was given, and
though more or less uneasy in his own mind, allowed the matter to drop.
Dimitrius was unkindly amused at his discomfiture.
“Imagine it!” he thought--“That exquisite creation of mine wedded to so
unsatisfactory a product of ill-assorted elements!”
Meanwhile, Diana, imprisoned in her luxurious suite of rooms, had
nothing to complain of. She read many books, practised her music,
worked at her tapestry, and last, not least, studied herself. She had
begun to be worth studying. Looking in her mirror, she saw a loveliness
delicate and well-nigh unearthly, bathing her in its growing lustre as
in a mysteriously brilliant atmosphere. Her eyes shone with a melting
lustre like the eyes of a child appealing to be told some strange sweet
fairy legend,--her complexion was so fair as to be almost dazzling,
the pure ivory white of her skin showing soft flushes of pale rose with
the healthful pulsing of her blood--her lips were of a dewy crimson
tint such as one might see on a red flower-bud newly opened,--and as
she gazed at herself and reluctantly smiled at her own reflection, she
had the curious impression that she was seeing the picture of somebody
else in the glass,--somebody else who was young and enchantingly
pretty, while she herself remained plain and elderly. And yet this was
not the right view to take of her own personality, for apart altogether
from her outward appearance she was conscious of a new vitality,--an
abounding ecstasy of life,--a joy and strength which were well-nigh
incomprehensible,--for though these sensations dominated every fibre
of her being, they were not, as formerly, connected with any positive
human interest. For one thing, she scarcely thought of Dimitrius at
all, except that she had come to regard him as a sort of extraneous
being--an upper servant told off to wait upon her after the fashion of
Vasho,--and when she went out with him, she went merely because she
needed the fresh air and loved the open skies, not because she cared
for his company, for she hardly spoke to him. Her strange behaviour
completely puzzled him, but his deepening anxiety for the ultimate
success of his “experiment” deterred him from pressing her too far with
questions.
One evening during the first week in June, when the moon was showing a
half crescent in the sky, a light wind ruffled the hundreds of roses
on bush and stem that made the gardens fragrant, he went to her rooms
to propose a sail on the lake. He heard her playing the piano,--the
music she drew from the keys was wild and beautiful and new,--but as
he entered, she stopped abruptly and rose at once, her eyes glancing
him over carelessly as though he were more of an insect than a man. He
paused, hesitating.
“You want me?” she asked.
“For your own pleasure,--at least, I hope so!” he replied, almost
humbly. “It’s such a beautiful evening--would you come for a sail on
the lake? The wind is just right for it and the boat is ready.”
She made no reply, but at once threw a white serge cloak across her
shoulders, pulling its silk-lined hood over her head, and accompanied
him along a private passage which led from the upper floor of the house
to the garden.
“You like the idea?” he said, looking at her somewhat appealingly. She
lifted her eyes--bright and cold as stars on a frosty night.
“What idea?”
“This little trip on the lake?”
“Certainly,” she answered. “It has been very warm all day--it will be
cool on the water.”
Dimitrius bethought himself of one of the teachings of the
Rosicrucians: “Whoso is indifferent obtains all good. The more
indifferent you are, the purer you are, for to the indifferent, all
things are _One_!”
Some unusual influence there was radiating from her presence like a
fine air filled with suggestions of snow. It was cold, yet bracing, and
he drew a long breath as of a man who had scaled some perilous mountain
height and now found himself in a new atmosphere. She walked beside him
with a light swiftness that was almost aerial--his own movements seemed
to him by comparison abnormally heavy and clumsy. Seeking about in his
mind for some ordinary subject on which to hang a conversation, he
could find nothing. His wits had become as clumsy as his feet. Pushing
her hood a little aside, she looked at him.
“You had a garden-party to-day?” she queried.
“Yes,--if a few people to tea in the gardens is a garden-party,” he
answered.
“That’s what it is usually called,” said Diana, carelessly. “They are
generally very dull affairs. I thought so, when I watched your guests
from my window--they did not seem amused.”
“You cannot amuse people if they have no sense of amusement,”
he rejoined. “Nor can you interest them if they have no brains.
They walked among miracles of beauty--I mean the roses and other
flowers--without looking at them; the sunset over the Alpine range was
gorgeous, but they never saw it--their objective was food--that is to
say, tea, coffee, cakes and ices--anything to put down the ever open
maw of appetite. What would you? They are as they are made!”
She offered no comment.
“And you,” he continued in a voice that grew suddenly eager and
impassioned--“You are as you are made!--as _I_ have made you!”
She let her hood fall back and turned her face fully upon him. Its
fairness, with the moonlight illumining it, was of spiritual delicacy,
and yet there was something austere in it as in the face of a
sculptured angel.
“As _I_ have made you!” he repeated, with triumphant emphasis. “The
majority of men and women are governed chiefly by two passions,
Appetite and Sex. You have neither Appetite nor Sex,--therefore you are
on a higher plane----”
“Than yours?” she asked.
The question stung him a little, but he answered at once:
“Possibly!”
She smiled,--a little cold smile like the flicker of a sun-ray on
ice. They had arrived at the border of the lake, and a boat with the
picturesque lateen sail of Geneva awaited them with Vasho in charge.
Diana stepped in and seated herself among a pile of cushions arranged
for her comfort,--Dimitrius took the helm, and Vasho settled himself
down to the management of the ropes. The graceful craft was soon
skimming easily along the water with a fair light wind, and Diana in a
half-reclining attitude, looking up at the splendid sky, found herself
wishing that she could sail on thus, away from all things present to
all things future! All things past seemed so long past!--she scarcely
thought of them,--and “all things future”?--What would they be?
Dimitrius, seated close beside her at the stern, suddenly addressed her
in a low, cautious tone.
“You know that this is the first week in June?”
“Yes.”
“Your time is drawing very near,” he went on. “On the evening of the
twentieth you will come to me in the laboratory. And you will be
ready--for anything!”
She heard him, apparently uninterested, her face still upturned to the
stars.
“For anything!” she repeated dreamily--“For an End, or a new Beginning!
Yes,--I quite understand. I shall be ready.”
“Without hesitation or fear?”
“Have I shown either?”
He ventured to touch the small hand that lay passively outside the
folds of her cloak.
“No,--you have been brave, docile, patient, obedient,” he answered.
“All four things rare qualities in a woman!--or so men say! You would
have made a good wife, only your husband would have crushed you!”
She smiled.
“I quite agree. But what crowds of women have been so ‘crushed’ since
the world began!”
“They have been useful as the mothers of the race,” said Dimitrius.
“The mothers of what race?” she asked.
“The human race, of course!”
“Yes, but which section of it?” she persisted, with a cold little
laugh. “For instance,--the mothers of the Assyrian race seem to have
rather wasted their energies! What has become of _that_ race which they
bore, bred and fostered? Where is the glory of those past peoples?
What was the use of them? They have left nothing but burnt bricks and
doubtful records!”
“True!--but Destiny has strange methods, and their existence may have
been necessary.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I fail to see it!” she said. “To me it all seems waste--wanton, wicked
waste. Man lives in some wrong, mistaken way--the real joy of life must
be to dwell on earth like a ray of light, warming and fructifying all
things unconsciously--coming from the sun and returning again to the
sun, never losing a moment of perfect splendour!”
“But, to have no consciousness is death,” said Dimitrius. “A ray of
light is indifferent to joy. Consciousness with intelligence makes
happiness.”
She was silent.
“You are well?” he asked, gently.
“Perfectly!”
“And happy?”
“I suppose so.”
“You cannot do more than suppose? People will hardly understand you if
you can only ‘suppose’ you are happy!”
She flashed a look upon him of disdain which he felt rather than saw.
“Do I expect people to understand me?” she demanded. “Do I wish them to
do so? I am as indifferent to ‘people’ and their opinions as you are!”
“That is saying a great deal!” he rejoined. “But,--I am a man--you are
a woman. Women must study conventions----”
“I need not,” she interrupted him. “Nor should you speak of my sex,
since you yourself say I am sexless.”
He was silent. She had given him a straight answer. Some words of a
great scientist from whom he had gained much of his own knowledge came
back to his memory:
“To attain true and lasting life, all passions must be subjugated,--all
animosities of nature destroyed. Attraction draws, not only its own to
itself, but the aura or spirit of other things which it appropriates
so far as it is able. And this appropriation or fusion of elements is
either life-giving or destructive.”
He repeated the words “This appropriation or fusion of elements is
either life-giving or destructive”--to himself, finding a new force in
their meaning and application.
“Diana,” he said, presently, “I am beginning to find you rather a
difficult puzzle!”
“I have found myself so for some time,” she answered. “But it does not
matter. Nothing really matters.”
“Nothing?” he queried. “Not even love? That used to be a great matter
with you!”
She laughed, coldly.
“Love is a delusion,” she said. “And no doubt I ‘used’ to think the
delusion a reality. I know better now.”
He turned the helm about, and their boat began to run homeward, its
lateen sail glistening like the uplifted wing of a sea-gull. Above
them, the snowy Alpine range showed white as the tips of frozen
waves--beneath, the water rippled blue-black, breaking now and again
into streaks of silver.
“I’m afraid you have imbibed some of my cynicism,” he said, slowly.
“It is, perhaps, a pity! For now, when you have come to think love a
‘delusion,’ you will be greatly loved! It is always the way! If you
have nothing to give to men, it is then they clamour for everything!”
He looked at her as he spoke and saw her smile--a cruel little smile.
“You are lovely now,” he went on, “and you will be lovelier. For
all I can tell, you may attain an almost maddening beauty. And a
sexless beauty is like that of a goddess,--slaying its votaries as
with lightning. Supposing this to be so with you, you should learn
to love!--if only out of pity for those whom your indifference might
destroy!”
She raised herself on her elbow and looked at him curiously. The
moonlight showed his dark, inscrutable face, and the glitter of
the steely eyes under the black lashes, and there was a shadow of
melancholy upon his features.
“You forget!” she said--“You forget that I am old! I am not really
young in the sense you expect me to be. I know myself. Deep in my brain
the marks of lonely years and griefs are imprinted--of disappointed
hopes, and cruelties inflicted on me for no other cause than too much
love and constancy--those marks are ineffaceable! So it happens that
beneath the covering of youth which your science gives me, and under
the mark of this outward loveliness, I, the same Diana, live with a
world’s experience, as one in prison,--knowing that whatever admiration
or liking I may awaken, it is for my outward seeming, not for my real
self! And you can talk of love! Love is a divinity of the soul, not of
the body!”
“And how many human beings have ‘soul,’ do you think?” he queried,
ironically. “Not one in ten million!”
The boat ran in to shore and they landed. Diana looked back wistfully
at the rippling light on the water.
“It was a beautiful sail!” she said, more naturally than she had
expressed herself for many days. “Thank you for taking me!”
She smiled frankly up into his eyes as she spoke, and her spiritualised
loveliness thrilled him with sudden surprise.
“It is I who must thank you for coming,” he answered, very gently. “I
know how keenly you are now attuned to Nature--you have the light of
the sun in your blood and force of the air in your veins, and whether
you admit it or not, you enjoy your life without consciousness of
joy! Strange!--but true!--yet--Diana--believe me, I want you to be
happy!--not only to ‘suppose’ yourself happy! Your whole being must
radiate like the sunlight, of which it is now in part composed.”
She made no reply, but walked in her floating, graceful way beside him
to the house, where he took her to the door of her own apartments, and
there left her with a kindly “good-night.”
“I shall not see very much of you now till the evening of the
twentieth,” he said. “And then I hope you will not only pray for
yourself, but--for me!”