SUNRISE.
Entranced in amazed ecstasy he lay quite quiet, . . afraid to speak or
stir! This gentle Presence,--this fair, beseeching face, might vanish
if he moved! So he dimly fancied, as he gazed up at her in mute wonder
and worship, his devout eyes drinking in her saintly loveliness, from
the deep burnished gold of her hair to the soft, white slimness of her
prayerfully folded hands. And while he looked, old thoughts like
home-returning birds began to hover round his soul,--sweet and dear
remembrances, like the sunset lighting up the windows of an empty
house, began to shine on the before semi-darkened nooks and crannies of
his brain. Clearer and clearer grew the reflecting mirror of his
consciousness,--trouble and perplexity seemed passing away forever from
his mind, . . a great and solemn peace environed him, . . and he began
to believe he had crossed the boundary of death and had entered at last
into the Kingdom of Heaven! O let him not break this holy silence! ...
Let him rest so, with all the glory of that Angel-visage shed like
summer sunbeams over him! ... Let him absorb into his innermost being
the exquisite tenderness of those innocent, hopeful, watchful, starry
eyes whose radiance seemed to steal into the golden morning and give it
a sacred poetry and infinite marvel of meaning! So he mused, gravely
contented, ... while all through the brightening skies overhead, came
the pale, pink flushing of the dawn, like a far fluttering and
scattering of rose-leaves. Everything was so still that he could hear
his own heart beating forth healthful and regular pulsations, . . but
he was scarcely conscious of his own existence,--he was only aware of
the vast, beautiful, halcyon calm that encircled him shelteringly and
soothed all care away.
Gradually, however, this deep and delicious tranquillity began to yield
to a sweeping rush of memory and comprehension, ... he knew WHO he was
and WHERE he was,--though he did not as yet feel absolutely certain of
life and life's so-called realities. For if the City of Al-Kyris, with
all its vivid wonders, its distinct experiences, its brilliant
pageantry, had been indeed a DREAM, then sorely it was possible he
might be dreaming still! ... Nevertheless he was able to gather up the
fragments of lost recollection consecutively enough to realize, by
gentle degrees, his actual identity and position in the world, . . he
was Theos Alwyn, . . a man of the nineteenth century after Christ. Ah!
thank God for that! ... AFTER Christ! ... not one who had lived five
thousand years BEFORE Christ's birth! ... And this quiet, patient
Maiden at his side, . . who was she? A vision? ... or an actually
existent Being? Unable to resist the craving desire of his heart, he
spoke her name as he now remembered it, . . spoke it in a faint, awed
whisper.
"Edris!"
"Theos, my Beloved!"
O sweet and thrilling voice! more musical than the singing of birds in
a sun-filled Spring!
He raised himself a little, and looked at her more intently:--she
smiled,--and that smile, so marvellous in its pensive peace and lofty
devotion, was as though all the light of an unguessed paradise had
suddenly flashed upon his soul!
"Edris!" he said again, trembling in the excess of mingled hope and
fear ... "Hast thou then returned again from heaven, to lift me out of
darkness? ... Tell me, fair Angel, do I wake or sleep? ... Are my
senses deceived? Is this land a dream? ... Am I myself a dream, and
thou the only manifest sweet Truth in a world of drifting shadows! ...
Speak to me, gentle Saint! ... In what vast mystery have I been
engulfed? ... in what timeless trance of soul-bewilderment? ... in what
blind uncertainty and pain? ... O Sweet! ... resolve my wordless
wonder! Where have I strayed? ... what have I seen? ... Ah, let not my
rough speech fright thee back to Paradise! ... Stay with me! ...
comfort me! ... I have lost thee so long! let me not lose thee now!"
Smiling still, she bent over him, and pressed her warm, delicate
ringers lightly on his brow and lips. Then softly she rose and stood
erect.
"Fear nothing, my beloved!" she answered, her silvery accents sending a
throb of holy triumph through the air.. "Let no trouble disquiet thee,
and no shadow of misgiving dim the brightness of thy waking moments!
Thou hast slept ONE night on the Field of Ardath, in the Valley of
Vision!--but lo! the Night is past!".. and she pointed toward the
eastern horizon now breaking into waves of rosy gold, "Rise! and behold
the dawning of thy new Day!"
Roused by her touch, and fired by her tone and the grand, unworldly
dignity of her look and bearing, he sprang up, . . but as he met the
full, pure splendor of her divine eyes, and saw, wavering round her
hair, a shining aureole of amber radiance like a wreath of woven
sunbeams, his spirit quailed within him, . . he remembered all his
doubts of her,--his disbelief, . . and falling at her feet, he hid his
face in a shame that was better than all glory,--a humiliation that was
sweeter than all pride.
"Edris! Immortal Edris!".. he passionately prayed, "As thou art a
crowned saint in Heaven, shed light on the chaos of my soul! From the
depths of a penitence past thought and speech I plead with thee! Hear
me, my Edris, thou who art so maiden-meek, so tender-patient! ... hear
me, help me, guide me...I am all thine! Say, didst thou not summon me
to meet thee here upon this wondrous Field of Ardath?--did I not come
hither according to thy words?--and have I not seen things that I am
not able to express or understand? Teach me, wise and beloved one! ...
I doubt no more! I know Myself and Thee:--thou art an angel,--but I!
... alas, what am I? A grain of sand in thy sight and in God's, . . a
mere Nothing, comprehending nothing,--unable even to realize the extent
of my own nothingness! Edris, O Edris! ... THOU canst not love me! ...
thou mayst pity me perchance, and pardon, and bless me gently in
Christ's dear Name! ... but love! ... THY love! ... Oh let me not
aspire to such heights of joy, where I have no place, no right, no
worthiness!"
"No worthiness!" echoed Edris! ... what a rapture trembled through her
sweet caressing voice!--"My Theos, who is so worthy to win back what is
thine own, as thou? All Heaven has wondered at thy voluntary
exile,--thy place in God's supernal Sphere has long been vacant, . .
thy right to dwell there, none have questioned, ... thy throne is
empty--thy crown unclaimed! Thou art an Angel even as I! ... but thou
art in bonds while I am free! Ah, how sad and strange it is to me to
see thee here thus fettered to the Sorrowful Star, when, countless
aeons since, thou mightest have enjoyed full liberty in the Eternal
Light of the everlasting Paradise!"
He listened, ... a strong, sweet hope began to kindle in him like
flame, . . but he made no answer. Only he caught and kissed the edge of
her garment, . . its soft gray cloudy texture brushed his lips with the
odorous coolness of a furled roseleaf. She seemed to tremble at his
action, ... but he dared not look up. Presently he felt the pulsing
pressure of her hands upon his head! and a rush of strange, warm vigor
thrilled through his veins like an electric flash of new and
never-ending life.
"Thou wouldst seek after and know the truth!" she said, "Truth
Celestial,--Truth Unchangeable, . . Truth that permeates and underlies
all the mystic inward workings of the Universe, . . workings and secret
laws unguessed by Man! Vast as Eternity is this Truth,--ungraspable in
all its manifestations by the merely mortal intelligence, ...
nevertheless thy spirit, being chastened to noble humility and
repentance, hath risen to new heights of comprehension, whence thou
canst partly penetrate into the wonders of worlds unseen. Did I not
tell thee to 'LEARN FROM THE PERILS OF THE PAST, THE PERILS OF THE
FUTURE'--and understandest thou not the lesson of the Vision of
Al-Kyris? Thou hast seen the Dream-reflection of thy former Poet-fame
and glory in old time,--THOU WERT SAH-LUMA!"
An agony of shame possessed him as he heard. His soul at once seized
the solution of the mystery, . . his quickened thought plunged
plummet-like straight through the depths of the bewildering
phantasmagoria, in which mere reason had been of no practical avail,
and straightway sounded its whole seemingly complex, but actually
simple meaning! HE WAS SAH-LUMA! ... or rather, he HAD BEEN Sah-luma in
some far stretch of long-receded time, ... and in his Dream of a single
night, he had loved the brilliant Phantom of his Former Self more than
his own present Identity! Not less remarkable was the fact that, in
this strange Sleep-Mirage, he had imagined himself to be perfectly
UNselfish, whereas all the while he had honored, flattered, and admired
the more Appearance of Himself more than anything or everything in the
world! Ay!--even his occasional reluctant reproaches to Himself in the
ghostly impersonation of Sah-luma had been far more tender than severe!
O deep and bitter ingloriousness! ... O speechless degradation of all
the higher capabilities of Man! to love one's own ephemeral
Shadow-Existence so utterly as to exclude from thought and sympathy all
other things whether human or divine! And was it not possible that this
Spectre of Self might still be clinging to him? Was it dead with the
Dream of Sah-luma? ... or had Sah-luma never truly died at all? ... and
was the fine, fire-spun Essence that had formed the Spirit of the
Laureate of Al-Kyris yet part of the living Substance of his present
nature, ... he, a world-unrecognized English poet of the nineteenth
century? Did all Sah-luma's light follies, idle passions, and careless
cruelties remain inherent in him? Had he the same pride of intellect,
the same vain-glory, the same indifference to God and Man? Oh, no, no!
... he shuddered at the thought! ... and his head sank lower and lower
beneath the benediction touch of Her whose tenderness revived his
noblest energies, and lit anew in his heart the pure, bright fire of
heaven-encompassing Aspiration.
"THOU WERT SAH-LUMA!" went on the mildly earnest voice, "And all the
wide, ungrudging fame given to Earth's great poets in ancient days, was
thine! Thy name was on all men's mouths, ... thou wert honored by
kings, ... thou wert the chief glory of a great people, ... great
though misled by their own false opinions, ... and the City of
Al-Kyris, of which thou wert the enshrined jewel, was mightier far than
any now built upon the earth! Christ had not come to thee, save by dim
types and vague prefigurements which only praying prophets could
discern, ... but God had spoken to thy soul in quiet moments, and thou
wouldst neither hear Him nor believe in Him! I had called thee, but
thou wouldst not listen, ... thou didst foolishly prefer to hearken to
the clamorous tempting of thine own beguiling human passions, and wert
altogether deaf to an Angel's whisper! Things of the earth earthly
gained dominion over thee ... by them thou wert led astray, deceived,
and at last forsaken, ... the genius God gave thee thou didst misuse
and indolently waste, ... thy brief life came, as thou hast seen, to
sudden-piteous end,--and the proud City of thy dwelling was destroyed
by fire! Not a trace of it was left to mark the spot where once it
stood. The foundations of Babylon were laid above it, and no man
guessed that it had ever been. And thy poems, ... the fruit of thy
heaven-sent but carelessly accepted inspiration,--who is there that
remembers them? ... No one! ... save THOU! THOU hast recovered them
like sunken pearls from the profound ocean of limitless Memory, ... and
to the world of To-day thou dost repeat the SELF-SAME MUSIC to which
Al-Kyris listened entranced so many thousands of generations ago!"
A deep sigh, that was half a groan, broke from his lips, ... he could
now take the measurement of his own utter littleness and incompetency!
HE COULD CREATE NOTHING NEW! Everything he had written, as he fancied
only just lately, had been written by himself before! The problem of
the poem "Nourhalma" ... was explained, ... he had designed it when he
had played his part on the stage of life as Sah-luma,--and perhaps not
even then for the first time! In this pride-crushing knowledge there
was only one consolation, ... namely, that if his Dream was a true
reflection of his Past, and exact in details as he felt it must be,
then "Nourhalma," had not been given to Al-Kyris, ... it had been
composed, but not made public. Hence, so far, it was new to the world,
though not new to himself. Yet he had considered it wondrously new! a
"perfectly original" idea! ... Ah! who dares to boast of any idea as
humanly "original" ... seeing that all ideas whatsoever must be
referred back to God and admitted as His and His only! What is the
wisest man that ever lived, but a small, pale, ill-reflecting mirror of
the Eternal Thought that controls and dominates all things! ... He
remembered with conscience-stricken confusion what pleasure he had
felt, what placid satisfaction, what unqualified admiration, when
listening to his own works recited by the ghost-presentment of his
Former Self! ... pleasure that had certainly exceeded whatever pain he
had suffered by the then enigmatical and perplexing nature of the
incident. O what a foolish Atom he now seemed, viewed by the standard
of his newly aroused higher consciousness! ... how poor and passive a
slave to the glittering, beckoning Phantasm of his own perishable Fame!
Thus on the Field of Ardath he drained the cup of humility to the
dregs,--the cup which like that offered to the Prophet of Holy Writ was
"full as it were with water, but the color of it was like fire"--the
water of tears.. the fire of faith, . . and with that prophet he might
have said.. "When I had drunk of it, my heart uttered understanding,
and wisdom grew in my breast, for my spirit strengthened my memory."
Meanwhile Edris, still keeping her gentle hands on his bent head, went
on:
"In such wise didst thou, my Beloved, as the famous Sah-luma,
mournfully perish.. and the nations remembered thee no more! But thy
spiritual, indestructible Essence lived on, and wandered dismayed and
forlorn through a myriad forms of existence in the depths of Perpetual
Darkness which MUST be, even as the Everlasting Light IS. Thy immortal
but perverted Will bore thee always further from God, . . further from
Him, and so far from me, that thou wert at times beyond even an Angel's
ken! Ages upon ages rolled away, . . the centuries between Earth and
Earths purposed redemption passed, ... and, . . though in Heaven these
measured spaces of time that appear so great to men are as a mere
world's month of summer, . . still, to me, for once God's golden days
seemed long! I had lost THEE! Thou wert my soul's other soul, my
king!--my immortality's completion! ... and though thou wert, alas! a
fallen brightness, yet I held fast to my one hope, . . the hope in thy
diviner nature, which, though sorely overcome, WAS NOT, and COULD NOT
BE wholly destroyed. I knew the fate in store for thee, . . I knew that
thou with other erring spirits wert bound to live again on earth when
Christ had built His Holy Way therefrom to Heaven,--and never did I
cease for thy dear sake to wait and watch and pray! At last I found
thee, ... but ah! how I trembled for thy destiny! To thee had been
delivered, as to all the children of men, the final message of
salvation.. the Message of Love and Pardon which made all the angels
wonder! ... but thou didst utterly reject it--and with the same willful
arrogance of thy former self, Sah-luma, thou wert blindly and
desperately turning anew into darkness! O my Beloved, that darkness
might have been eternal! ... and crowded with memories dating from the
very beginning of life! ... Nay, let me not speak of that Supernal
Agony, since Christ hath died to quench its terrors! ... Enough!--by
happy chance, through my desire, thine own roused better will, and the
strength of one who hath many friends in Heaven, thy spirit was
released to temporary liberty, . . and in thy vision at Dariel, which
was NO vision, but a Truth, I bade thee meet me here. And why? ...
SOLELY TO TEST THY POWER OF OBEDIENCE TO A DIVINE IMPULSE UNEXPLAINABLE
BY HUMAN REASON,--and I rejoiced as only angels can rejoice, when of
thine own Free-Will thou didst keep the tryst I made with thee! Yet
thou knewest me not! ... or rather thou WOULDST NOT KNOW ME, . . till I
left thee! ... 'Tis ever the way of mortals, to doubt their angels in
disguise!"
Her sweet accents shook with a liquid thrill suggestive of tears,--but
he was silent. It seemed to him that he would be well content to hold
his place forever, if forever he might hear her thus melodiously speak
on! Had she not called him her "other soul, her king, her immortality's
completion!"--and on those wondrous words of hers his spirit hung,
impassioned, dazzled, and entranced beyond all Time and Space and
Nature and Experience!
After a brief pause, during which his ravished mind floated among the
thousand images and vague feelings of a whole Past and Future merged in
one splendid and celestial Present, she resumed, always softly and with
the same exquisite tenderness of tone:
"I left thee, Dearest, but a moment, ... and in that moment, He who
hath himself shared in human sorrows and sympathies,--He who is the
embodiment of the Essence of God's Love,--came to my aid. Plunging thy
senses in deep sleep, as hath been done before to many a saint and
prophet of old time here on this very field of Ardath,--he summoned up
before thee the phantoms of a PORTION of thy Past, ... phantoms which,
to thee, seemed far more real than the living presence of thy faithful
Edris! ... alas, my Beloved! ... thou art not the only one on the
Sorrowful Star who accepts a Dream for Reality and rejects Reality as a
Dream!"
She paused again,--and again continued: "Nevertheless, in some degree
thy Vision of Al-Kyris was true, inasmuch as thou wert shown therein as
in a mirror, ONE phase, ONE only of thy former existence upon earth.
The final episode was chosen,--as by the end of a man's days alone
shall he be judged! As much as thy dreaming-sight was able to see,--as
much as thy brain was able to bear, appeared before thee, ... but that
thou, slumbering, wert yet a conscious Personality among Phantoms, and
that these phantoms spoke to thee, charmed thee, bewildered thee,
tempted thee, and swayed thee, . . this was the Divine Master's work
upon thine own retrospective Thought and Memory. He gave the shadows of
thy bygone life, seeming color, sense, motion, and speech,--He blotted
out from thy remembrance His own Most Holy Name, . . and, shutting up
the Present from thy gaze, He sent thy spirit back into the Past.
There, thou, perplexed and sorrowful, didst painfully re-weave the last
fragments of thy former history, . . and not till thou hadst abandoned
the Shadow of Thyself, didst thou escape from the fear of destruction!
Then, when apparently all alone, and utterly forsaken, a cloud of
angels circled round thee, . . THEN, at thy first repentant cry for
help, He who has never left an earnest prayer unanswered bade me
descend hither, to waken and comfort thee! ... Oh, never was His
bidding more joyously obeyed! Now I have plainly shown thee the
interpretation of thy Dream, . . and dost thou not comprehend the
intention of the Highest in manifesting it unto thee? Remember the
words of God's Prophet of old:
"'Behold the Field thou thoughtest barren, how great a glory
hath the moon unveiled!
"'And I beheld and was sore amazed, for I was no longer
Myself, but Another
"'And the sword of death was in that Other's soul,--and yet
that Other was but Myself in pain
"'And I knew not the things which were once familiar, and my
heart failed within me for very fear!'"
She spoke the quaint and mystic lines with a grave, pure, rhythmic
utterance that was like the far-off singing of sweet psalmody;--and
when she ceased, the stillness that followed seemed quivering with the
rich vibrations of her voice, ... the very air was surely rendered
softer and more delicate by such soul-moving sound!
But Theos, who had listened dumbly until now, began to feel a sudden
sorrowful aching at his heart, a sense of coming desolation, . . a
consciousness that she would soon depart again, and leave him and, with
a mingled reverence and passion, he ventured to draw one of the fair
hands that rested on his brows, down into his own clasp. He met with no
resistance, and half-happy, half-agonized, he pressed his lips upon its
soft and dazzling whiteness, while the longing of his soul broke forth
in words of fervid, irrepressible appeal.
"Edris!" he implored.. "If thou dost love me give me my death!
Here,--now, at thy feet where I kneel! ... of what avail is it for me
to struggle in this dark and difficult world? ... O deprive me of this
fluctuating breath called Life and let me live indeed! I understand.. I
know all thou hast said,--I have learned my own sins as in a glass
darkly,--I have lived on earth before, and as it seems, made no good
use of life, ... and now: now I have found THEE! Then why must I lose
thee? ... thou who camest to me so sweetly at the first? ... Nay, I
cannot part from thee--I will not! ... If thou leavest me, I have no
strength to follow thee; I shall but miss the way to thine abode!"
"Thou canst not miss the way!"--responded Edris softly, . . "Look up,
my Theos,--be of good cheer, thou Poet to whom Heaven's greatest gifts
of Song are now accorded! Look up and tell me, . . is not the way made
plain?"
Slowly and in reverential fear, he obeyed, and raised his eyes, still
holding her by the hand,--and saw behind her a distinctly marked shadow
that seemed flung downward by the reflection of some brilliant light
above, . . the shadow of a Cross, against which her delicate figure
stood forth in shining outlines. Seeing, he understood,--but
nevertheless his mind grew more and more disquieted. A thousand
misgivings crowded upon him,--he thought of the world, . . he
remembered what it was, . . he was living in an age of heresy and
wanton unbelief, where not only Christ's Divinity was made blasphemous
mock of, but where even God's existence was itself called in question..
and as for ANGELS! ... a sort of shock ran through his nerves as he
reflected that though preachers preached concerning these supernatural
beings,--though the very birth of Christ rested on Angels'
testimony,--though poets wrote of them, and painters strove to
delineate them on their most famous canvases, each and all thus
PRACTICALLY DEMONSTRATING THE SECRET INSTINCTIVE INTUITION OF HUMANITY
that such celestial Forms ARE,--yet it was most absolutely certain that
not a man in the prosaic nineteenth century would, if asked, admit, to
any actual belief in their existence! Inconsistent? ... yes!--but are
not men more inconsistent than the very beasts of the field their
tyranny controls? What, as a rule, DO men believe in? ... Themselves!
... only themselves! They are, in their own opinion, the Be-All and the
End-All of everything! ... as if the Supreme Creative Force called God
were incapable of designing any Higher Form of Thinking-Life than their
pigmy bodies which strut on two legs and, with two eyes and a small,
quickly staggered brain, profess to understand and weigh the whole
foundation and plan of the Universe!
Growing swiftly conscious of all that in the Purgatory of the Present
awaited him, Theos felt as though the earth-chasm that had swallowed up
Al-Kyris in his dream had opened again before him, affrighting him with
its black depth of nothingness and annihilation,--and in a sudden agony
of self-distrust he gazed yearningly at the fair, wistful face above
him, . . the divine beauty that was HIS after all, if he only knew how
to claim it!--Something, he knew not what, filled him with a fiery
restlessness,--a passion of protest and aspiration, which for a moment
was so strong that it seemed to him he must, with one fierce effort,
wrench himself free from the trammels of mortality, and straightway
take upon him the majesty of immortal nature, and so bear his Angel
love company whithersoever she went! Never had the fetters of flesh
weighed upon him with such-heaviness! ... but, in spite of his feverish
longing to escape, some authoritative yet gentle Force held him
prisoner.
"God!" he muttered ... "Why am I thus bound?--why can I not be free?"
"Because thy time for freedom has not come!" said Edris, quickly
answering his thought ... "Because thou hast work to do that is not yet
done! Thy poet labors have, up till now, been merely REPETITION, ...
the repetition of thy Former Self, ... Go! the tired world waits for a
new Gospel of Poesy, ... a new song that shall rouse it from its
apathy, and bring it closer unto God and all things high and fair!
Write!--for the nations wait for a trumpet-voice of Truth! ... the
great poets are dead, . . their spirits are in Heaven, . . and there is
none to replace them on the Sorrowful Star save THOU! Not for Fame do
thy work--nor for Wealth, . . but for Love and the Glory of God!--for
Love of Humanity, for Love of the Beautiful, the Pure, the Holy! ...
let the race of men hear one more faithful Apostle of the Divine
Unseen, ere Earth is lost in the withering light of a larger Creation!
Go! ... perform thy long-neglected mission,--that mission of all poets
worthy the name.. TO RAISE THE WORLD! Thou shalt not lack strength nor
fervor, so long as thou dost write for the benefit of others. Serve God
and live!--serve Self and die! Such is the Eternal Law of Spheres
Invisible, . . the less thou seest of Self, the more thou seest of
Heaven! ... thrust Self away, and lo! God invests thee with His
Presence! Go forth into the world, . . a King uncrowned, . . a Master
of Song, . . and fear not that I, Edris, will forsake thee,--I, who
have loved thee since the birth of Time!"
He met her beautiful, luminous, inspired eyes, with a sad
interrogativeness in his own. What a hard fate was meted out to him!
... To teach the world that scoffed at teaching!--to rouse the
gold-thirsting mass of men to a new sense of things divine! O vain
task!--O dreary impossibility! ... Enough surely, to guide his own Will
aright, without making any attempt to guide the wills of others!
Her mandate seemed to him almost cruel,--it was like driving him into a
howling wilderness, when with one touch, one kiss, she might transport
him into Paradise! If SHE were in the world, . . if SHE were always
with him.. ah! then how different, how easy life would be! Again he
thought of those strange entrancing words of hers.. "My other soul, . .
my king.. my immortality's completion!"--and a sudden wild idea took
swift possession of his brain.
"Edris!" he cried.. "If I may not yet come to thee, then come THOU to
me! ... Dwell thou with me! ... O by the force of my love, which God
knoweth, let me draw thee, thou fair Light, into my heart's gloom! Hear
me while I swear my faith to thee as at some holy shrine! ... As I
live, with all my soul I do accept thy Master Christ, as mine utmost
good, and His Cross as my proudest glory! ... but yet, bethink thee,
Edris, bethink thee of this world,--its wilful sin, its scorn of God,
and all the evil that like a spreading thunder-cloud darkens it day by
day! Oh, wilt thou leave me desolate and alone? ... Fight as I will, I
shall often sink under blows, . . conquer as I may, I shall suffer the
solitude of conquest, unless THOU art with me! Oh, speak!--is there no
deeper divine intention in the marvellous destiny that has brought us
together?--thou, pure Spirit, and I, weak Mortal? Has love, the primal
mover of all things, no hold upon thee? ... If I am, as thou sayest,
thy Beloved, loved by thee so long, even while forgetful of and
unworthy of thy love, can I not NOW,--now when I am all
thine,--persuade thee to compassionate the rest of my brief life on
earth? ... Thou art in woman's shape here on this Field of Ardath,--and
yet thou art not woman! Oh, could my love constrain thee in God's Name,
to wear the mask of mortal body for my sake, would not our union even
now make the Sorrowful Star seem fair? ... Love, love, love! Come to
mine aid, and teach me how to shut the wings of this sweet bird of
paradise in mine own breast! ... God! Spare her to me for one of Thy
sweet moments which are our mortal years! ... Christ, who became a mere
child for pity of us, let me learn from Thee the mystic spell that
makes Thine angel mine!"
Carried away by his own forceful emotion he hardly knew what he said, .
. but an unspeakable, dizzy joy flooded his soul, as he caught the look
she gave him! ... a wild, sweet, amazed, half-tender, half-agonized,
wholly HUMAN look, suggestive of the most marvellous possibilities! One
effort and she released her hand from his, and moved a little apart,
her eyes kindling with celestial sympathy in which there was the very
faintest touch of self-surrender. Self-surrender? ... what! from an
Angel to a mortal? ... Ah no! ... it could not be,--yet he felt filled
all at once with a terrible sense of power that at the same time was
mingled with the deepest humility and fear.
"Hush!"--she said, and her lovely, low voice was
tremulous,--"Hush!--Thou dost speak as if we were already in God's
World! I love thee, Theos! ... and truly, because thou art prisoned
here, I love the sad Earth also! ... but dost thou think to what thou
wouldst so eagerly persuade me? To live a mortal life? ... to die? ...
to pass through the darkest phase of world-existence known in all the
teeming spheres? Nay!".. and a look of pathetic sorrow came over her
face.. "How could I, even for thee, my Theos, forsake my home in
Heaven?"
Her last words were half-questioning, half-hesitating, ... her manner
was as of one in doubt.. and Theos, kneeling still, surveyed her in
worshipping silence. Then he suddenly remembered what the Monk and
Mystic, Heliobas, had said to him at Dariel on the morning after his
trance of soul-liberty: . . "If, as I conjecture, you have seen one of
the fair inhabitants of higher spheres than ours, you would not drag
her spiritual and death-unconscious brightness down to the level of the
'reality' of a mere human life? ... Nay, if you would you could not!"
And now, strange to say, he felt that he COULD but WOULD NOT; and he
was overcome with remorse and penitence for the egotistical nature of
his own appeal.
"My love--my life!" he said brokenly,--"Forgive me,--forgive my selfish
prayer! ... Self spoke,--not I, . . yet I had thought Self dead, and
buried forever!" A faint sigh escaped him ... "Believe me, Sweet, I
would not have thee lose one hour of Heaven's ecstasies, . . I would
not have thee saddened by Earth's wilful miseries, ... no! not even for
that lightning-moment which numbers up man's mortal days! Speed back to
Angel-land, my Edris!--I will love thee till I die, and leave the
Afterward to Christ. Be glad, thou fairest, dearest One! ... unfurl thy
rainbow wings and fly from me! ... and wander singing through the
groves of Heaven, making all Heaven musical, . . perchance in the
silence of the night I may catch the echo of thy voice and fancy thou
art near! And trust me, Edris! ... trust me! ... for my faith will not
falter, ... my hope shall not waver, ... and though in the world I may,
I MUST have tribulation, yet will I believe in Him who hath by simple
love overcome the world!"
He ceased, . . a great quiet seemed to fall upon him,--the quiet of a
deep and passive resignation.
Edris drew nearer to him,--timidly as a shy bird, yet with a wonderful
smile quivering on her lips, and in the clear depths of her starry
eyes. Very gently she placed her arms about his neck and looked down at
him with divinely compassionate tenderness.
"Thou beloved one!" she said, "Thou whose spirit was formerly equal to
mine, and to all angels, in God's sight though through pride it fell!
Learn that thou art nearer to me now than thou hast been for a myriad
ages! ... between us are renewed the strong, sweet ties that shall
nevermore be broken, unless ..." and her voice faltered,--"Unless thou,
of thine own Free Will, break them again in spite of all my prayers!
For, BECAUSE thou art immortal even as I, though thou art pent up in
mortality, even so must thy Will remain immortally unfettered, and what
thou dost firmly elect to do, God will not prevent. The Dream of thy
Past was a lesson, not a command,--thou art free to forget or remember
it as thou wilt while on earth, since it is only AFTER Death that
Memory is ineffaceable, and, with its companion Remorse, constitutes
Hell. Obey God, or disobey Him,--He will not force thee either way, . .
constrained love hath no value! Only this is the Universal Law,--that
whosoever disobeys, his disobedience recoils on his own head as of
Necessity it MUST,--whereas obedience is the working in perfect harmony
with all Nature, and of equal Necessity brings its own reward. Cling to
the Cross for one moment.. the moment called by mortals, Life, ... and
it shall lift thee straightway into highest Heaven! There will I wait
for thee,--and there thou shalt make me thine own forever!"
He sighed and gazed at her wistfully.
"Alas, my Edris! ... Not till then?" he murmured.
She bent over him and kissed his forehead,--a caress as brief and light
as the passing flutter of a bird's wing.
"Not till then!"--she whispered--"Unless the longing of thy love
compels!"
He started. What did she mean? ... His eyes flashed eager inquiry into
hers, so soft and brilliantly clear, with the light of an eternal peace
dwelling in their liquid, mysterious loveliness,--and meeting his
questioning look, the angelic smile brightened more gloriously round
her lips. But there was now something altogether unearthly in her
beauty, ... a wondrous inward luminousness began to transfigure her
face and form, . . he saw her garments whiten to a sparkling radiance
as of sunbeams on snow, ... the halo round her bright hair deepened
into flame-like glory--her stature grew loftier, and became as it were
endowed with supreme and splendid majesty, . . and the exquisite
fairness of her countenance waxed warmly transparent, with the delicate
hue of a white rose, through which the pink color faintly flushes soft
suggestions of ruddier life. His gaze dwelt upon her in unspeakable
wondering adoration, mingled with a sense of irrepressible sorrow and
heaviness of heart, ... he felt she was about to leave him, . . and was
it not a parting of soul from soul?
Just then the Sun stepped royally forth from between the red and gold
curtains of the east,--and in that blaze of earth's life-radiance her
figure became resplendently invested with vivid rays of roseate lustre
that far surpassed the amber shining of the Orb of day! Awed, dazzled,
and utterly overcome, he yet strove to keep his straining eyes steadily
upon her,--conscious that her smile still blessed him with its
tenderness, ... he made a wild effort to drag himself nearer to her, .
. to touch once more the glittering edge of her robe ... to detain her
one little, little moment longer! Ah! how wistfully, how fondly she
looked upon him! ... Almost it seemed as if she might, after all,
consent to stay! ... He stretched out his arms with a pathetic gesture
of love, fear, and soul-passionate supplication.
"Edris! ... Edris!".. he cried half despairingly. "Oh, by the strength
of thine Angelhood have pity on the weakness of my Manhood!"
Surely she heard, or seemed to hear! ... and yet she gave no answer!
... No sign! ... No promise!--no gesture of farewell! ... only a look
of divine, compassionating, perfect love, . . a look so pure, so
penetrating, so true, so rapturous, that flesh and blood could bear the
glory of her transfigured Presence no longer,--and blind with the
burning effulgence of her beauty, he shut his eyes and covered his
face. He knew now, if he had never known it before, what was meant by
"an Angel standing in the sun!" [Footnote: Revelation, chap, xix., 17.]
Moreover, he also knew that what Humanity calls "miracles" ARE
possible, and DO happen,--and that instead of being violations of the
Law of Nature as we understand it, they are but confirmations of that
Law in its DEEPER DEPTHS,--depths which, controlled by Spiritual Force
alone, have not as yet been sounded by the most searching scientists.
And what is Material Force but the visible manifestation of the
Spiritual behind it? ... He who accepts the Material and denies the
Spiritual, is in the untenable position of one who admits an Effect and
denies a Cause! And if both Spiritual and Material BE accepted, then
how can we reasonably dare to set a limit to the manifestations of
either the one or the other?
* * * * * * *
When he at last looked up, Edris had vanished! He was alone, . . alone
on the Field of Ardath, ... the field that was "barren" in very truth,
now she, his Angel, had been drawn away, as it seemed, into the
sunlight, . . absorbed like a paradise-pearl into those rays of
life-giving gold that lit and warmed the reddening earth and heaven!
Slowly and dizzily he rose to his feet, and gazed about him in vague
bewilderment. He had passed ONE NIGHT on the field! One night only! ...
and he felt as though he had lived through years of experience! Now,
the VISION was ended, . . Edris, the REALITY, had fled, . . and the
World was before him, . . the World, with all the unsatisfying things
it grudgingly offers, . . the World in which Al-Kyris had been a "City
Magnificent" in the centuries gone,--and in which he, too, had played
his part before, and had won fame, to be forgotten as soon as dead!
Fame! ... how he had longed and thirsted for it! ... and what a
foolish, undesirable distinction it seemed to him now!
Steadying his thoughts by a few moments of calm reflection, he
remembered what he had in charge to do, . . TO REDEEM HIS PAST. To use
and expend whatever force was in him for the good, the help, the
consolement, and the love of others, ... NOT to benefit himself! This
was his task, . . and the very comprehension of it gave him a rush of
vigor and virile energy that at once lifted the cloud of
love-loneliness from his soul.
"My Edris!" he whispered.. "Thou shalt have no cause to weep for me in
Heaven again! ... with God's help I will win back my lost heritage!"
As he spoke the words his eyes caught a glimpse of something white on
the turf where, but a moment since, his Angel-love had stood,--he
stooped toward it, . . it was one half-opened bud of the wonderful
"Ardath-flowers" that had covered the field in such singular profusion
on the previous night when she first appeared. One only! ... might he
not gather it?
He hesitated, . . then very gently and reverently broke it off, and
tenderly bore it to his lips. What a beautiful blossom it was! ... its
fragrance was unlike that of any other flower,--its whiteness was more
pure and soft than that of the rarest edelweiss on Alpine snows, and
its partially disclosed golden centre had an almost luminous
brightness. As he held it in his hand, all sorts of vague, delicious
thoughts came sweeping across his brain, ... thoughts that seemed to
set themselves to music wild and strange and NEW, and suggestive of the
sweetest, noblest influences! A thrill of expectation stirred in him,
as of great and good things to be done,--grand changes to be wrought in
the complex web of human destiny, brought about by the quickening and
development of a pure, unselfish, spiritual force, that might with
saving benefit flow into the perplexed and weary intelligence of man; .
. and cheered, invigorated, and conscious of a circling, widening,
ever-present Supreme Power that with all-surrounding love was ever on
the side of work done for love's sake, he gently shut the flower within
his breast, resolving to carry it with him wheresoever he went as a
token and proof of the "signs and wonders" of the Prophet's Field.
And now he prepared to quit the scene of his mystic Vision, in which he
had followed with prescient pain the brief, bright career, the useless
fame, the evil love-passion, and final fate of his Former Self,--and
crossing the field with lingering tread, he looked back many times to
the fallen block of stone where he had sat when he had first perceived
God's maiden Edris, stepping softly through the bloom. When should he
again meet her? Alas! ... not till Death, the beautiful and beneficent
Herald of true Liberty, summoned him to those lofty heights of Paradise
where she had habitation. Not till then, unless, ... unless, ... and
his heart beat with a sudden tumult as he recollected her last words, .
. "UNLESS THE LONGING OF THY LOVE COMPELS!"
Could love COMPEL her, he wondered, to come to him once more while yet
he lived on earth? Perhaps! ... and yet if he indeed had such power of
love, would it be generous or just to exert it? No! ... for to draw her
down from Heaven to Earth seemed to him now a sort of
sacrilege,--dearer to him was HER joy than his own! But suppose the
possibility of her being actually HAPPY with him in mortal existence,
... suppose that Love, when absolutely pure, unselfishly mutual,
helpful, and steadfast, had it in its gift to make even the Sorrowful
Star a Heaven in miniature, what then?
He would not trust himself to think of this! ... the mere shadowy
suggestion of such supreme delight filled him with a strong passion of
yearning, to which in his accepted creed of Self-abnegation he dared
not yield! Firmly restraining, resisting, and renouncing his own
desires, he mentally raised a holy shrine for her in his soul, ... a
shrine of pure faith, warm with eternal aspirations and bright with
truth, wherein he hallowed the memory of her beauty with a sense of
devout, love-like gladness. She was safe.. she was content, . . she
blossomed flower-like in the highest gardens of God where all things
fared well;--enough for him to worship her at a distance, . . to keep
the clear reflection of her loveliness in his mind, ... and to live, so
that he might deserve to follow and find her when his work on earth was
done. Moreover, Heaven to him was no longer a vague, mythical realm,
ill-defined by the prosy descriptions of church-preachers,--it was an
actual WORLD to which HE was linked,--in which HE had possessions, of
which HE was a native, and for the perpetuation and enlargement of
whose splendor ALL worlds existed!
Arrived at the boundary of the field, the spot marked by the broken
half-buried pillar of red granite Heliobas had mentioned, he
paused--thinking dreamily of the words of Esdras, who in answer to his
Angel-visitant's inquiry: "Why art thou disquieted?" had replied:
"Because thou hast forsaken me, and yet I did according to thy words,
and I went into the field, and lo! I have seen and yet see, that I am
not able to express." Whereupon the Angel had said, "Stand up manfully
and I will advise thee!"
"Stand up manfully!" Yes! ... this is what he, Theos Alwyn, meant to
do. He would "stand up manfully" against the howling iconoclasm and
atheism of the Age,--he would be Poet henceforth in the true meaning of
the word, namely Maker, . . he would MAKE not BREAK the grand ideal
hopes and heaven-climbing ambitions of Humanity! ... he would endeavor
his utmost best to be that "Hierarch and Pontiff of the world"--as a
modern rugged Apostle of Truth has nobly said,--"who Prometheus-like
can shape new Symbols and bring new fire from heaven to fix them into
the deep, infinite faculties of Man."
With a brief silent prayer, he turned away at last, and walked slowly,
in the lovely silence of the early Eastern morning, back to the place
from whence he had last night wandered,--the Hermitage of Elzear, near
the Ruins of Babylon. He soon came in sight of it, and also perceived
Elzear himself, stooping over a small plot of ground in front of his
dwelling, apparently gathering herbs. When he approached, the old man
looked up and smiled, giving him a silent, expressively courteous
morning greeting,--by his manner it was evident that he thought his
guest had merely been out for an early stroll ere the heat of the day
set in. And yet Al-Kyris! ... How real had seemed that dream-existence
in that dream-city! The figure of Elzear looked scarcely more
substantial than the phantom-forms of Sah-luma, Zephoranim, Khosrul,
Zuriel, or Zabastes,--while Lysia's exquisite face and seductive form,
Niphrata's pensive beauty, and all the local characteristics of the
place, were stamped on the dreamer's memory as faithfully as scenes
flashed by the sun on the plates of photography! True, the pictures
were perhaps now slightly fading into the similitude of pale negatives,
. . but still, would not everything that happened in the ACTUAL world
merge into that same undecided dimness with the lapse of time?
He thought so, . . and smiled at the thought, ... the transitory nature
of earthly things was a subject for joy to him now,--not regret. With a
kindly word or two to his venerable host, he went through the open door
of the Hermitage, and entered the little room he had left only a few
hours previously. It appeared to him as familiar and UNfamiliar as
Al-Kyris itself! ... till raising his eyes he saw the great Crucifix
against the wall,--the sacred Symbol whose meaning he had forgotten and
hopelessly longed for in his Dream,--and from which, before his visit
to the field of Ardath, he had turned with a sense of bitter scorn and
proud rejection. But NOW! ... Now he gazed upon it in unspeakable
remorse,--in tenderest desire to atone, ... the sweet, grave, patient
Eyes of the holy Figure seemed to meet his with a wondrous challenge of
love, longing, and most fraternal, sympathetic comprehension of his
nature.... he paused, looking, ... and the pre-eminently false words
of George Herbert suddenly occurred to him, "Thy Saviour sentenced
joy!" O blasphemy! ... SENTENCED joy? Nay!--rather re-created it, and
invested it with divine certainties, beyond all temporal change or
evanishment! ... Yielding to a swift impulse, he threw himself on his
knees, and with clasped hands, leaned his brows against the feet of the
sculptured Christ. There he rested in wordless peace,--his whole soul
entranced in a divine passion of faith, hope, and love ... there with
the "Ardath flower" in his breast, he consecrated his life to the
Highest Good,--and there in absolute humility, and pure, child-like
devotion, he crucified SELF forever!
PART III.--POET AND ANGEL.
"O Golden Hair! ... O Gladness of an Hour
Made flesh and blood!"
* * * * *
"Who speaks of glory and the force of love
And thou not near, my maiden-minded dove!
With all the coyness, all the beauty sheen
Of thy rapt face? A fearless virgin-queen,
A queen of peace art thou,--and on thy head
The golden light of all thy hair is shed
Most nimbus-like, and most suggestive too
Of youthful saints enshrined and garlanded."
* * * * *
"Our thoughts are free,--and mine have found at last
Their apt solution; and from out the Past
There seems to shine as 'twere a beacon-fire:
And all the land is lit with large desire
Of lambent glory; all the quivering sea
Is big with waves that wait the Morn's decree
As I, thy vassal, wait thy beckoning smile
Athwart the splendors of my dreams of thee!"
--"A Lover's Litanies."--ERIC MACKAY.
CHAPTER XXXI.
FRESH LAURELS.
It was a dismal March evening. London lay swathed in a melancholy
fog,--a fog too dense to be more than temporarily disturbed even by the
sudden gusts of the bitter east wind. Rain fell steadily, sometimes
changing to sleet, that drove in sharp showers on the slippery roads
and pavements, bewildering the tired horses, and stirring up much
irritation in the minds of those ill-fated foot-passengers whom
business, certainly not pleasure, forced to encounter the
inconveniences of the weather. Against one house in particular--an
old-fashioned, irregular building situated in a somewhat out-of-the-way
but picturesque part of Kensington--the cold, wet blast blew with
specially keen ferocity, as though it were angered by the sounds
within,--sounds that in truth rather resembled its own cross groaning.
Curious short grunts and plaintive cries, interspersed with an
occasional pathetic long-drawn whine, suggested dimly the idea that
somebody was playing, or trying to play, on a refractory stringed
instrument, the well-worn composition known as Raff's "Cavatina." And,
in fact, had the vexed wind been able to break through the wall and
embody itself into a substantial being, it would have discovered the
producer of the half-fierce, half-mournful noise, in the person of the
Honorable Frank Villiers, who, with that amazingly serious ardor so
often displayed by amateur lovers of music, was persistently
endeavoring to combat the difficulties of the violoncello. He adored
his big instrument,--the more unmanageable it became in his hands, the
more he loved it. Its grumbling complaints at his unskilful touch
delighted him,--when he could succeed in awakening a peevish dull sob
from its troubled depths, he felt a positive thrill of almost
professional triumph,--and he refused to be daunted in his efforts by
the frequently barbaric clamor his awkward bowing wrung from the
tortured strings. He tried every sort of music, easy and intricate--and
his happiest hours were those when, with glass in eye and brow knitted
in anxious scrutiny, he could peer his way through the labyrinth of a
sonata or fantasia much too complex for any one but a trained artist,
enjoying to the full the mental excitement of the discordant struggle,
and comfortably conscious that as his residence was "detached," no
obtrusive neighbor could either warn him to desist, or set up an
opposition nuisance next door by constant practice on the distressingly
over-popular piano. One thing very much in his favor was, that he never
manifested any desire to perform in public. No one had ever heard him
play, . . he pursued his favorite amusement in solitude, and was amply
satisfied, if when questioned on the subject of music, he could find an
opportunity to say with a conscious-modest air, "MY instrument is the
'cello." That was quite enough self-assertion for him, . . and if any
one ever urged him to display his talent, he would elude the request
with such charming grace and diffidence, that many people imagined he
must really be a great musical genius who only lacked the necessary
insolence and aplomb to make that genius known.
The 'cello apart, Villiers was very generally recognized as a
discerning dilettante in most matters artistic. He was an excellent
judge of literature, painting, and sculpture, . . his house, though
small, was a perfect model of taste in design and adornment, . . he
knew where to pick up choice bits of antique furniture, dainty
porcelain, bronzes, and wood-carvings, while in the acquisition of rare
books he was justly considered a notable connoisseur. His delicate and
fastidious instincts were displayed in the very arrangement of his
numerous volumes, ... none were placed on such high shelves as to be
out of hand reach, . . all were within close touch and ready to
command, ranged in low, carved oak cases or on revolving stands, ...
while a few particularly rare editions and first folios were shut in
curious little side niches with locked glass-doors, somewhat resembling
small shrines such as are used for the reception of sacred relics. The
apartment he called his "den"--where he now sat practising the
"Cavatina" for about the two-hundredth time--was perhaps the most
fascinating nook in the whole house, inasmuch as it contained a little
bit of everything, arranged with that perfect attention to detail which
makes each object, small and great, appear not only ornamental, but
positively necessary. In one corner a quaint old jar overflowed with
the brightness of fresh yellow daffodils; in another a long, tapering
Venetian vase held feathery clusters of African grass and fern, . .
here the medallion of a Greek philosopher or Roman Emperor gleamed
whitely against the sombrely painted wall; there a Rembrandt portrait
flashed out from the semi-obscure background of some rich, carefully
disposed fold of drapery,--while a few admirable casts from the antique
lit up the deeper shadows of the room, such as the immortally youthful
head of the Apollo Belvedere, the wisely serene countenance of the
Pallas Athene that Goethe loved, and the Cupid of Praxiteles.
Judging from his outward appearance only, few would have given Villiers
credit for being the man of penetrative and almost classic refinement
he really was,--he looked far more athletic than aesthetic.
Broad-shouldered and deep-chested, with a round, blunt head firmly set
on a full, strong throat, he had, on the whole, a somewhat obstinate
and pugilistic air which totally belied his nature. His features, open
and ruddy, were, without being handsome, decidedly attractive--the
mouth was rather large, yet good-tempered; the eyes bright, blue, and
sparklingly suggestive of a native inborn love of humor. There was
something fresh and piquant in the very expression of naive
bewilderment with which he now adjusted his eyeglass--a wholly
unnecessary appendage--and set himself strenuously to examine anew the
chords of that extraordinary piece of music which others thought so
easy and which he found so puzzling, . . he could manage the simple
melody fairly well, but the chords!
"They are the very devil!".. he murmured plaintively, staring at the
score, and hitching up his unruly instrument more securely against his
knee, . . "Perhaps the bow wants a little rosin."
This was one of his minor weaknesses,--he would never quite admit that
false notes were his own fault. "They COULDN'T be, you know!" he mildly
argued, addressing the obtrusive neck of the 'cello, which had a
curious, stubborn way of poking itself into his chin, and causing him
to wonder how it got there, . . surely the manner in which he held it
had nothing to do with this awkward occurrence! "I'm not such a fool as
not to understand how to find the right notes, after all my practice!
There's something wrong with the strings,--or the bridge has gone
awry,--or"--and this was his last resource--"the bow wants more rosin!"
Thus he hugged himself in deliciously wilful ignorance of his own
shortcomings, and shut his ears to the whispered reproaches of musical
conscience. Had he been married his wife would no doubt have lost no
time in enlightening him,--she would have told him he was a wretched
player, that his scrapings on the 'cello were enough to drive one mad,
and sundry other assurances of the perfectly conjugal type of
frankness,--but as it chanced he was a happy bachelor, a free and
independent man with more than sufficient means to gratify his
particular tastes and whims. He was partner in a steadily prosperous
banking concern, and had just enough to do to keep him pleasantly and
profitably occupied. Asked why he did not marry, he replied with blunt
and almost brutal honesty, that he had never yet met a woman whose
conversation he could stand for more than an hour.
"Silly or clever," he said, "they are all possessed of the same
infinite tedium. Either they say nothing, or they say everything; they
are always at the two extremes, and announce themselves as dunces or
blue-stockings. One wants the just medium,--the dainty commingling of
simplicity and wisdom that shall yet be pure womanly,--and this is
precisely the jewel 'far above rubies' that one cannot find. I've given
up the search long ago, and am entirely resigned to my lot. I like
women very well--I may say very much--as friends, but to take one on
chance as a comrade for life! ... No, thank you!"
Such was his fixed opinion and consequent rejection of matrimony; and
for the rest, he studied art and literature and became an authority on
both; so much so that on one occasion he kept a goodly number of people
away from visiting the Royal Academy Exhibition, he having voted it a
"disgrace to Art."
"English artists occupy the last grade in the whole school of
painting," he had said indignantly, with that decisive manner of his
which somehow or other carried conviction, . . "The very Dutch surpass
them; and instead of trying to raise their standard, each year sees
them grovelling in lower depths. The Academy is becoming a mere gallery
of portraits, painted to please the caprices of vain men and women, at
a thousand or two thousand guineas apiece; ugly portraits, too, woodeny
portraits, utterly uninteresting portraits of prosaic nobodies. Who
cares to see 'No. 154. Mrs. Flummery in her presentation-dress'..
except Mrs. Flummery's own particular friends? ... or '283. Miss Smox,
eldest daughter of Professor A. T. Smox,' or '516. Baines Bryce, Esq.'?
... Who IS Baines Bryce? ... Nobody ever heard of him before. He may be
a retired pork-butcher for all any one knows! Portraits, even of
celebrities, are a mistake. Take Algernon Charles Swinburne, for
instance, the man who, when left to himself, writes some of the
grandest lines in the English language, HE had his portrait in the
Academy, and everybody ran away from it, it was such an unutterable
hideous disappointment. It was a positive libel of course, . .
Swinburne has fine eyes and a still finer brow, but instead of
idealizing the POET in him, the silly artist painted him as if he had
no more intellectual distinction than a bill-sticker! ... English art!
... pooh! ... don't speak to me about it! Go to Spain, Italy,
Bavaria--see what THEY can do, and then say a Miserere for the sins of
the R A's!"
Thus he would talk, and his criticisms carried weight with a tolerably
large circle of influential and wealthy persons, who when they called
upon him, and saw the perfection of his house and the rarity of his art
collections, came at once to the conclusion that it would be wise, as
well as advantageous to themselves, to consult him before purchasing
pictures, books, statues, or china, so that he occupied the powerful
position of being able with a word to start an artist's reputation or
depreciate it, as he chose,--a distinction he had not desired, and
which was often a source of trouble to him, because there were so few,
so very few, whose work he felt he could conscientiously approve and
encourage. He was eminently good-natured and sympathetic; he would not
give pain to others without being infinitely more pained himself; and
yet, for all his amiability, there was a stubborn instinct in him which
forbade him to promote, by word or look, the fatal nineteenth century
spread of mediocrity. Either a thing must be truly great and capable of
being measured by the highest standards, or for him it had no value.
This rule he carried out in all branches of art,--except his own
'cello-playing. That was NOT great,--that would never be great,--but it
was his pet pastime; he chose it in preference to the billiards,
betting, and bar-lounging that make up the amusements of the majority
of the hopeful manhood of London, and, as has already been said, he
never inflicted it upon others.
He rubbed the rosin now thoughtfully up and down his bow, and glanced
at the quaint old clock--an importation from Nurnberg--that ticked
solemnly in one corner near the deep bay-window, across which the heavy
olive green plush curtains were drawn, to shut out the penetrating
chill of the wind. It wanted ten minutes to nine. He had given orders
to his man servant that he was on no account to be disturbed that
evening, . . no matter what visitors called for him, none were to be
admitted. He had made up his mind to have a long and energetic
practice, and he felt a secret satisfaction as he heard the steady
patter of the rain outside, . . the very weather favored his desire for
solitude,--no one was likely to venture forth on such a night.
Still gravely rubbing his brow, his eyes travelled from the clock in
the corner to a photograph on the mantel-shelf--the photograph of a
man's face, dark, haughty, beautiful, yet repellent in its beauty, and
with a certain hard sternness in its outline--the face of Theos Alwyn.
From this portrait his glance wandered to the table, where, amid a
picturesque litter of books and papers, lay a square, simply bound
volume, with an ivory leaf-cutter thrust in it to mark the place where
the reader left off, and its title plainly lettered in gold at the
back--"NOURHALMA."
"I wonder where he is!" ... he mused, his thoughts naturally reverting
to the author of the book.. "He cannot know what all London knows, or
surely he would be back here like a shot! It is six months ago now
since I received his letter and that poem in manuscript from Tiflis in
Armenia,--and not another line has he sent to tell me of his
whereabouts! Curious fellow he is! ... but, by Jove, what a genius! No
wonder he has besieged Fame and taken it by storm! I don't remember any
similar instance, except that of Byron, in which such an unprecedented
reputation was made so suddenly! And in Byron's case it was more the
domestic scandal about him than his actual merit that made him the
rage, . . now the world knows literally nothing about Alwyn's private
life or character--there's no woman in his history that I know of--no
vice, ... he hasn't outraged the law, upset morals, flouted at decency,
or done anything that according to modern fashions OUGHT to have made
him famous--no! ... he has simply produced a perfect poem, stately,
grand, pure, and pathetic,--and all of a sudden some secret spring in
the human heart is touched, some long-closed valve opened, and lo and
behold, all intellectual society is raving about him,--his name is in
everybody's mouth, his book in every one's hands. I don't altogether
like his being made the subject of a 'craze';--experience shows me it's
a kind of thing that doesn't last. In fact, it CAN'T last.. the
reaction invariably sets in. And the English public is, of all publics,
the most insane in its periodical frenzies, and the most capricious.
Now, it is all agog for a 'shilling sensational'--then it discusses
itself hoarse over a one-sided theological novel made up out of
theories long ago propounded and exhaustively set forth by Voltaire,
and others of his school,--anon it revels in the gross descriptions of
shameless vice depicted in an 'accurately translated' romance of the
Paris slums,--now it writes thousands of letters to a black man, to
sympathize With him because he has been CALLED black!--could anything
be more absurd! ... it has even followed the departure of an elephant
from the Zoo in weeping crowds! However, I wish all the crazes to which
it is subject were as harmless and wholesome as the one that has seized
it for Alwyn's book,--for if true poetry were brought to the front,
instead of being, as it often is, sneered at and kept in the
background, we should have a chance of regaining the lost Divine Art,
that, wherever it has been worthily followed, has proved the glory of
the greatest nations. And then we should not have to put up with such
detestable inanities as are produced every day by persons calling
themselves poets, who are scarcely fit to write mottoes for dessert
crackers, . . and we might escape for good and all from the infliction
of 'magazine-verse,' which is emphatically a positive affront to the
human intelligence. Ah me! what wretched upholders we are of
Shakespeare's standard! ... Keats was our last splendor,--then there is
an unfilled gap, bridged in part by Tennyson..... and now comes Alwyn
blazing abroad like a veritable meteor,--only I believe he will do more
than merely flare across the heavens,--he promises to become a notable
fixed star."
Here he smiled, somewhat pleased with his own skill in metaphor, and
having rubbed his bow enough, he drew it lingeringly across the 'cello
strings. A long, sweet, shuddering sound rewarded him, like the upward
wave of a wind among high trees, and he heard it with much
gratification. He would try the Cavatina again now, he decided, and
bringing his music-stand closer, he settled himself in readiness to
begin. Just then the Nurnberg clock commenced striking the hour,
accompanying each stroke with a very soft and mellow little chime of
bells that sent fairy-like echoes through the quiet room. A bright
flame started up from the glowing fire in the grate, flinging ruddy
flashes along the walls,--a rattling gust of rain dashed once at the
windows,--the tuneful clock ceased, and all was still. Villiers waited
a moment; then with heedful earnestness, started the first bar of
Raff's oft-murdered composition, when a knock at the door disturbed him
and considerably ruffled his equanimity.
"Come in!" he called testily.
His man-servant appeared, a half-pleased, half-guilty look on his staid
countenance.
"Please, sir, a gentleman called--"
"Well!--you said I was out?"
"No, sir! leastways I thought you might be at home to him, sir!"
"Confound you!" exclaimed Villiers petulantly, throwing down his bow in
disgust,--"What business had you to think anything about it? ... Didn't
I tell you I wasn't at home to ANYBODY?"
"Come, come, Villiers!".. said a mellow voice outside, with a ripple of
suppressed laughter in its tone, . . "Don't be inhospitable! I'm sure
you are at home to ME!"
And passing by the servant, who at once retired, the speaker entered
the apartment, lifted his hat, and smiled. Villiers sprang from his
chair in delighted astonishment.
"Alwyn!" he cried; and the two friends--whose friendship dated from
boyhood--clasped each other's hands heartily, and were for a moment
both silent,--half-ashamed of those affectionate emotions to which
impulsive women may freely give vent, but to which men may not yield
without being supposed to lose somewhat of the dignity of manhood.
"By Jove!" said Villiers at last, drawing a deep breath. "This IS a
surprise! Only a few minutes ago I was considering whether we should
not have to note you down in the newspaper as one of the 'mysterious
disappearances' grown common of late! Where do you come from, old
fellow?"
"From Paris just directly," responded Alwyn, divesting himself of his
overcoat, and stepping outside the door to hang it on an evidently
familiar nail in the passage, and then re-entering,--"But from Bagdad
in the first instance. I visited that city, sacred to fairy-lore, and
from thence journeyed to Damascus like one of our favorite merchants in
the Arabian Nights,--then I went to Beyrout, and Alexandria, from which
latter place I took ship homeward, stopping at delicious Venice while
on my way."
"Then you did the Holy Land, I suppose?" queried Villiers, regarding
him with sudden and growing inquisitiveness.
"My dear fellow, certainly NOT! The Holy Land, invested by touts, and
overrun by tourists, would neither appeal to my imagination nor my
sentiments--and in its present state of vulgar abuse and unchristian
sacrilege, it is better left unseen by those who wish to revere its
associations, . . don't you think so?"
He smiled as he put the question, and drawing up an old-fashioned oak
chair to the fire, seated himself. Villiers meanwhile stared at him in
unmitigated amazement, . . what had come to the fellow, he wondered?
How had he managed to invest himself with such an overpowering
distinction of look and grace of bearing? He had always been a handsome
man,--yes, but there was certainly something more than handsome about
him now. There was a singular magnetism in the flash of the fine soft
eyes, a marvellous sweetness in the firm lines of the perfect mouth, a
royal grandeur and freedom in the very poise of his well-knit figure
and noble head, that certainly had not before been apparent in him.
Moreover, that was an odd remark for him to make about "wishing to
revere" the associations of the Holy Land,--very odd, considering his
formerly skeptical theories!
Rousing himself from his momentary bewilderment, Villiers remembered
the duties of hospitality.
"Have you dined, Alwyn?" he asked, with his hand on the bell.
"Excellently!" was the response, accompanied by a bright upward glance;
"I went to that big hotel opposite the Park, had dinner, left the
surplus of my luggage in charge, selected one small portmanteau, took a
hansom and came on here, resolved to pass one night at least under your
roof ..."
"One night!" interrupted Villiers; "You're very much mistaken, if you
think you are going to get off so easily! You'll not escape from me for
a month, I tell you! Consider yourself a prisoner!"
"Good! Send for the luggage to-morrow!" laughed Alwyn, flinging himself
back in his chair in an attitude of lazy comfort, "I give in!--I resign
myself to my fate! But what of the 'cello?"
And he pointed to the bulgy-looking casket of sweet sleeping
sounds--sleeping generally so far as Villiers was concerned, but ready
to wake at the first touch of the master-hand. Villiers glanced at it
with a comical air of admiring vanquishment.
"Oh, never mind the 'cello!" he said indifferently, "that can bear
being put by for a while. It's a most curious instrument,--sometimes it
seems to sound better when I have let it rest a little. Just like a
human thing, you know--it gets occasionally tired of me, I suppose! But
I say, why didn't you come straight here, bag, baggage, and all? ...
What business had you to stop on the way at any hotel? ... Do you call
that friendship?"
Alwyn laughed at his mock injured tone.
"I apologize, Villiers! ... I really do! But I felt it would be
scarcely civil of me to come down upon you for bed, board, and lodging,
without giving you previous notice, and at the same time I wanted to
take you by surprise, as I DID. Besides I wasn't sure whether I should
find you in town--of course I knew I should be welcome if you were!"
"Rather!" assented Villiers shortly and with affected gruffness.. "If
you were sure of nothing else in this world, you might be sure of
that!".. He paused squared his shoulders, and put up his eyeglass,
through which he scanned his friend with such a persistently
scrutinizing air, that Alwyn was somewhat amused.
"What are you staring at me for?" he demanded gayly,--"Am I so bronzed?"
"Well--you ARE rather brown," admitted Villiers slowly ... "But that
doesn't surprise me. The fact is, it's very odd and I can't altogether
explain it, but somehow I find you changed, . . positively very much
changed too!"
"Changed? In appearance, do you mean? How?"
"'Look here upon this picture and on this,'" quoted Villiers
dramatically, taking down Alwyn's portrait from the mantleshelf, and
mentally comparing it with the smiling original. "No two heads were
ever more alike, and yet more distinctly UNlike. Here"--and he tapped
the photograph--"you have the appearance of a modern Timon or Orestes..
but now, as you actually ARE, I see more resemblance in your face to
THAT"--and he pointed to the serene and splendid bust of the
"Apollo"--"than to this 'counterfeit presentment,' of your former self."
Alwyn flushed,--not so much at the implied compliment, as at the words
"FORMER SELF." But quickly shaking off his embarrassment, he glanced
round at the "Apollo" and lifted his eyebrows incredulously.
"Then all I can say, my dear boy, is, that that eyeglass of yours
represents objects to your own view in a classic light which is
entirely deceptive, for I fail to trace the faintest similitude between
my own features and that of the sunborn Lord of Laurels."
"Oh, YOU may not trace it," said Villiers calmly, "but nevertheless
others will. Some people say that no man knows what he really is like,
and that even his own reflection in the glass deceives him. Besides, it
is not so much the actual contour for the features that impresses one,
it is the LOOK,--you have the LOOK of the Greek god, the look of
conscious power and inward happiness."
He spoke seriously, thoughtfully,--surveying his friend with a vague
feeling of admiration akin to reverence.
Alwyn stooped, and stirred the fire into a brighter blaze. "Well, so
far, my looks do not belie me," he said gently, after a pause.. "I AM
conscious of both power and joy!"
"Why, naturally!" and Villiers laid one hand affectionately on his
shoulder.. "Of course the face of the whole world has changed for you,
now that you have won such tremendous fame!"
"FAME!"--Alwyn sprang upright so suddenly that Villiers was quite
startled,--"Fame! Who says I am famous?" And his eyes flashed forth an
amazed, almost haughty resentment.
His friend stared--then laughed outright.
"Who says it? ... Why, all London says it. Do you mean to tell me,
Alwyn, that you've not seen the English papers and magazines,
containing all the critical reviews and discussions on your poem of
'Nourhalma?"
Alwyn winced at the title,--what a host of strange memories it recalled!
"I have seen nothing," he replied hurriedly, "I have made it a point to
look at no papers, lest I should chance on my own name coupled, as it
has been before, with the languid abuse common to criticism in this
country. Not that I should have cared,--NOW! ..." and a slight smile
played on his lips.. "In fact I have ceased to care. Moreover, as I
know modern success in literature is chiefly commanded by the praise of
a 'clique,' or the services of 'log-rollers,' and as I am not included
in any of the journalistic rings, I have neither hoped nor expected any
particular favor or recognition from the public."
"Then," said Villiers excitedly, seizing him by the hand, "let me be
the first to congratulate you! It is often the way that when we no
longer specially crave a thing, that thing is suddenly thrust upon us
whether we will or no,--and so it has happened in YOUR case. Learn,
therefore, my dear fellow, that your poem, which you sent to me from
Tiflis, and which was published under my supervision about four months
ago, has already run through six editions, and is now in its seventh.
Seven editions of a poem,---a POEM, mark you!--in four months, isn't
bad, . . moreover, the demand continues, and the long and the short of
it is, that your name is actually at the present moment the most
celebrated in all London,--in fact, you are very generally
acknowledged the greatest poet of the day! And," continued Villiers,
wringing his friend's hand with uncommon fervor.. "I say, God bless
you, old boy! If ever a man deserved success, YOU do! 'Nourhalma' is
magnificent!--such a genius as yours will raise the literature of the
age to a higher standard than it has known since the death of Adonais
[Footnote: Keats.] You can't imagine how sincerely I rejoice at your
triumph!"
Alwyn was silent,--he returned his companion's cordial hand-pressure
almost unconsciously. He stood, leaning against the mantelpiece, and
looking gravely down into the fire. His first emotion was one of
repugnance,--of rejection, . . what did he need of this
will-o'-the-wisp called Fame, dancing again across his path,--this
transitory torch of world-approval! Fame in London! ... What was it,
what COULD it be, compared to the brilliancy of the fame he had once
enjoyed as Laureate of Al-Kyris! As this thought passed across his
mind, he gave a quick interrogative glance at Villiers, who was
observing him with much wondering intentness, and his handsome face
lighted with sudden laughter.
"Dear old boy!" he said, with a very tender inflection in his mellow,
mirthful voice--"You are the best of good fellows, and I thank you
heartily for your news, which, if it seems satisfactory to you, ought
certainly to be satisfactory to me! But tell me frankly, if I am as
famous as you say, how did I become so? ... how was it worked up?"
"Worked up!" Villiers was completely taken back by the oddity of this
question.
"Come!" continued Alwyn persuasively, his fine eyes sparkling with
mischievous good-humor.. "You can't make me believe that 'All England'
took to me suddenly of its own accord,--it is not so romantic, so
poetry-loving, so independent, or so generous as THAT! How was my
'celebrity' first started? If my book,--which has all the disadvantage
of being a poem instead of a novel,--has so suddenly leaped into high
favor and renown, why, then, some leading critic or other must have
thought that I myself was dead!"
The whimsical merriment of his face seemed to reflect itself on that of
Villiers.
"You're too quick-witted, Alwyn, positively you are!" he remonstrated
with a frankly humorous smile.. "But as it happens, you're perfectly
right! Not ONE critic, but THREE,--three of our most influential men,
too--thought you WERE dead!--and that 'Nourhalma' was a posthumous work
of PERISHED GENIUS!"
CHAPTER XXXII.
ZABASTESISM AND PAULISM.
The delighted air of triumphant conviction with which Alwyn received
this candid statement was irresistible, and Villiers's attempt at
equanimity entirely gave way before it. He broke into a roar of
laughter,--laughter in which his friend joined,--and for a minute or
two the room rang with the echoes of their mutual mirth.
"It wasn't MY doing," said Villiers at last, when he could control
himself a little,--"and even now I don't in the least know how the
misconception arose! 'Nourhalma' was published, according to your
instructions, as rapidly as it could be got through the press, and I
had no preliminary 'puffs' or announcements of any kind circulated in
the papers. I merely advertised it with a notable simplicity, thus:
'Nourhalma. A Love-Legend of the Past. A Poem. By Theos Alwyn.' That
was all. Well, when it came out, copies of it were sent, according to
custom, round to all the leading newspaper offices, and for about three
weeks after its publication I saw not a word concerning it anywhere.
Meanwhile I went on advertising. One day at the Constitutional Club,
while glancing over the Parthenon, I suddenly spied in it a long
review, occupying four columns, and headed 'A Wonder-Poem'; and just
out of curiosity, I began to read it. I remember--in fact I shall never
forget,--its opening sentence, . . it was so original!" and he laughed
again. "It commenced thus: 'It has been truly said that those whom the
gods love die young!' and then on it went, dragging in memories of
Chatterton and Shelley and Keats, till I found myself yawning and
wondering what the deuce the writer was driving at. Presently, about
the end of the second column, I came to the assertion that 'the
posthumous poem of "Nourhalma" must be admitted as one of the most
glorious productions in the English language.' This woke me up
considerably, and I read on, groping my way through all sorts of wordy
phrases and used-up arguments, till my mind gradually grasped the fact
that the critic of the Parthenon had evidently never heard of Theos
Alwyn before, and being astonished, and perhaps perplexed, by the
original beauty and glowing style of 'Nourhalma,' had jumped, without
warrant, to the conclusion that its author must be dead. The wind-up of
his lengthy dissertation was, as far as I can recollect, as follows:
"'It is a thousand pities this gifted poet is no more. Splendid as the
work of his youthful genius is, there is no doubt but that, had he
lived, he would have endowed the world anew with an inheritance of
thought worthy of the grandest master-minds.' Well, when I had fully
realized the situation, I began to think to myself, Shall I enlighten
this Sir Oracle of the Press, and tell him the 'DEAD' author he so
enthusiastically eulogizes, is alive and well, or was so, at any rate,
the last time I heard from him? I debated the question seriously, and,
after much cogitation, decided to leave him, for the present, in
ignorance. First of all, because critics like to consider themselves
the wisest men in the world, and hate to be told anything,--secondly,
because I rather enjoyed the fun. The publisher of 'Nourhalma'--a very
excellent fellow--sent me the critique, and wrote asking me whether it
was true that the author of the poem was really dead, and if not,
whether he should contradict the report. I waited a bit before
answering that letter, and while I waited two more critiques appeared
in two of the most assertively pompous and dictatorial journals of the
day, echoing the eulogies of the Parthenon, declaring 'this dead poet'
worthy 'to rank with the highest of the Immortals,' and a number of
other similar grandiose declarations. One reviewer took an infinite
deal of pains to prove 'that if the genius of Theos Alwyn had only been
spared to England, he must have infallibly been elected Poet Laureate
as soon as the post became vacant, and that too, without a single
dissentient voice, save such as were raised in envy or malice. But,
being dead '--continued this estimable scribe--'all we can say is that
he yet speaketh, and that "Nourhalma" is a poem of which the literary
world cannot be otherwise than justly proud. Let the tears that we shed
for this gifted singer's untimely decease be mingled with gratitude for
the priceless value of the work his creative genius has bequeathed to
us!'"
Here Villiers paused, his blue eyes sparkling with inward amusement,
and looked at Alwyn, whose face, though perfectly serene, had now the
faintest, softest shadow of a grave pathos hovering about it.
"By this time," he continued.. "I thought we had had about enough
sport, so I wrote off to the publisher to at once contradict the
erroneous rumor. But now that publisher had HIS story to tell. He
called upon me, and with a blandly persuasive air, said, that as
'Nourhalma' was having an extraordinary sale, was it worth while to
deny the statement of your death just yet? ... He was very anxious, . .
but I was firm, . . and lest he should waver, I wrote several letters
myself to the leading journals, to establish the certainty, so far as I
was aware, of your being in the land of the living. And then what do
you think happened?"
Alwyn met his bright, satirical glance with a look that was
half-questioning, half-wistful, but said nothing.
"It was the most laughable, and at the same time the most beautifully
instructive, lesson ever taught by the whole annals of journalism! The
Press turned round like a weathercock with the wind, and exhausted
every epithet of abuse they could find in the dictionaries. 'Nourhalma'
was a 'poor, ill-conceived work,'--'an outrage to intellectual
perception,'--'a good idea, spoilt in the treatment; an amazingly
obscure attempt at sublimity'--et cetera, . . but there! you can
yourself peruse all the criticisms, both favorable and adverse, for I
have acted the part of the fond granny to you in the careful cutting
out and pasting of everything I could find written concerning you and
your work in a book devoted to the purpose, . . and I believe I've
missed nothing. Mark you, however, the Parthenon never reversed its
judgment, nor did the other two leading journals of literary
opinion,--it wouldn't do for such bigwigs to confess they had
blundered, you know! ... and the vituperation of the smaller fry was
just the other weight in the balance which made the thing equal. The
sale of 'Nourhalma' grew fast and furious; all expenses were cleared
three times over, and at the present moment the publisher is getting
conscientiously anxious (for some publishers are more conscientious
than some authors will admit!) to hand you over a nice little check for
an amount which is not to be despised in this workaday world, I assure
you!"
"I did not write for money,"--interrupted Alwyn quietly.. "Nor shall I
ever do so."
"Of course not," assented Villiers promptly. "No poet, and indeed no
author whatsoever, who lays claim to a fraction of conscience, writes
for money ONLY. Those with whom money is the first consideration debase
their Art into a coarse huckstering trade, and are no better than
contentious bakers and cheesemongers, who jostle each other in a vulgar
struggle as to which shall sell perishable goods at the highest profit.
None of the lasting works of the world were written so. Nevertheless,
if the public voluntarily choose to lavish what they can of their best
on the author who imparts to them inspired thoughts and noble
teachings, then that author must not be churlish, or slow to accept the
gratitude implied. I think the most appropriate maxim for a poet to
address to his readers is, 'Freely ye have received, freely give.'"
There was a moment's silence. Alwyn resumed his seat in the chair near
the fire, and Villiers, leaning one arm on the mantelpiece, still
stood, looking down upon him.
"Such, my dear fellow," he went on complacently.. "is the history of
the success of 'Nourhalma.' It certainly began with the belief that you
were no longer able to benefit by the eulogy received.--but all the
same that eulogy has been uttered and cannot be UNuttered. It has led
all the lovers of the highest literature to get the book for
themselves, and to prove your actual worth, independently of press
opinions,--and the result is an immense and steadily widening verdict
in your favor. Speaking personally, I have never read anything that
gave me quite so much artistic pleasure as this poem of yours except
'Hyperion,'--only 'Hyperion' is distinctly classical, while 'Nourhalma'
takes us back into some hitherto unexplored world of antique paganism,
which, though essentially pagan, is wonderfully full of pure and lofty
sentiment. When did the idea first strike you?"
"A long time ago!" returned Alwyn with a slight, serious smile--"I
assure you it is by no means original!"
Villiers gave him a quick, surprised glance.
"No? Well, it seems to me singularly original!" he said.. "In fact, one
of your critics says you are TOO original! Mind you, Alwyn, that is a
very serious fault in this imitative age!"
Alwyn laughed a little. His thoughts were very busy. Again in
imagination he beheld the burning "Temple of Nagaya" in his Dream of
Al-Kyris,--again he saw himself carrying the corpse of his FORMER Self
through fire and flame,--and again he heard the last words of the dying
Zabastes--"I was the Poet's adverse Critic, and who but I should write
his Eulogy? Save me, if only for the sake of Sah-luma's future
honor!--thou knowest not how warmly, how generously, how nobly, I can
praise the dead!"
True! ... How easy to praise the poor, deaf, stirless clay when sense
and spirit have fled from it forever! No fear to spoil a corpse by
flattery,--the heavily sealed-up eyes can never more unclose to lighten
with glad hope or fond ambition; the quiet heart cannot leap with
gratitude or joy at that "word spoken in due season" which aids its
noblest aspirations to become realized! The DEAD poet?--Press the cold
clods of earth over him, and then rant above his grave,--tell him how
great he was, what infinite possibilities were displayed in his work,
what excellence, what merit, what subtlety of thought, what grace of
style! Rant and rave!--print reams of acclaiming verbosity, pronounce
orations, raise up statues, mark the house he lived and starved in,
with a laudatory medallion, and print his once-rejected stanzas in
every sort of type and fashion, from the cheap to the costly,--teach
the multitude how worthy he was to be loved, and honored,--and never
fear that he will move from his rigid and chill repose to be happy for
once in his life, and to learn with amazement that the world he toiled
so patiently for is actually learning to be grateful for his existence!
Once dead and buried he can be safely made glorious,--he cannot affront
us either with his superior intelligence, or make us envy the splendors
of his fame!
Some such thoughts as these passed through Alwyn's mind as he dreamily
gazed into the red hollows of the fire, and reconsidered all that his
friend had told him. He had no personal acquaintances on the press,--no
literary club or clique to haul him up into the top-gallant mast of
renown by persistent puffery; he was not related, even distantly, to
any great personage, either statesman, professor, or divine--he had not
the mysterious recommendation of being a "university man"; none of the
many "wheels" within wheels which are nowadays so frequently set in
motion to make up a momentary literary furore, were his to
command,--and yet--the Parthenon had praised him! ... Wonder of
wonders! The Parthenon was a singularly obtuse journal, which glanced
at the whole world of letters merely through the eyes of three or four
men of distinctly narrow and egotistical opinions, and these three or
four men kept it as much as possible to themselves, using its columns
chiefly for the purpose of admiring one another. As a consequence of
this restricted arrangement, very few outsiders could expect to be
noticed for their work, unless they were in the "set," or at least had
occasionally dined with one of the mystic Three or Four, . . and so it
had chanced that Alwyn's first venture into literature had been totally
disregarded by the Parthenon. In fact, that first venture, being a
small and unobtrusive book, had, most probably, been thrown into the
waste-paper basket, or sold for a few pence to the second-hand dealer.
And now,--now because he had been imagined DEAD,--the Parthenon's
leading critic had singled him out and held him up for universal
admiration!
Well, well! ... after all, Nourhalma WAS a posthumous work,--it had
been written before, ages since, when he, as Sah-luma, had perished ere
he had had time to give it to the world! He had merely REMEMBERED it..
drawn it forth again, as it were, from the dim, deep vistas of past
deeds;--so those who had reviewed it as the production of one dead in
youth, were right in their judgment, though they did not know it! ...
It was old,--nothing but repetition,--but now he had something new and
true and passionate to say, . . something that, if God pleased, it
should be his to utter with the clearness and forcibleness common to
the Greek thunderers of yore, who spoke out what was in them, grandly,
simply, and with the fearless majesty of thought that reeked nothing of
opinions. Oh, he would rouse the hearts of men from paltry greed and
covetousness, . . from lust, and hatred, and all things evil,--no
matter if he lost his own life in the effort, he would still do his
utmost best to lift, if only in a small degree, the deepening weight of
self-wrought agony from self-blinded mankind! Yes! ... he must work to
fulfil the commands and deserve the blessings of Edris!
Edris! ... ah, the memory of her pure angel-loveliness rushed upon him
like a flood of invigorating warmth and light, and when he looked up
from his brief reverie, his countenance, beautiful, and kindling with
inward ardor, affected Villiers strangely,--almost as a very grand and
perfect strain of music might affect and unsteady one's nerves. The
attraction he had always felt for his poet-friend deepened to quite a
fervent intensity of admiration, but he was not the man to betray his
feelings outwardly, and to shake off his emotion he rushed into speech
again.
"By the by, Alwyn, your old acquaintance, Professor Moxall, is very
much 'down' on your book. You know he doesn't write reviews, except on
matters connected with evolutionary phenomena, but I met him the other
day, and he was quite upset about you. 'Too transcendental'! he said,
dismally shaking his bald pate to and fro--'The whole poem is a
vaporous tissue of absurd impossibilities! Ah dear, dear me! what a
terrible falling-off in a young man of such hopeful ability! I thought
he had done with poetry forever!--I took the greatest pains to prove to
him what a ridiculous pastime it was, and how unworthy to be considered
for a moment seriously as an ART,--and he seemed to understand my
reasoning thoroughly. Indeed he promised to be one of our most powerful
adherents, . . he had an excellent grasp of the material sciences, and
a fine contempt for religion. Why, with such a quick, analytical brain
as his, he might have carried on Darwin's researches to an extremer
point of the origination of species than has yet been reached! All a
ruin, sir! a positive ruin,--a man who will in cold blood write such
lines as these ...
'"Grander is Death than Life, and sweeter far The splendors of the
Infinite Future, than our eyes, Weary with tearful watching, yet can
see"--
condemns himself as a positive lunatic! And young Alwyn too!--he who
had so completely recognized the foolishness and futility of expecting
any other life than this one! Good heavens! ... "Nourhalma," as I
understand it, is a sort of pagan poem--but with such incredible ideas
and sentiments as are expressed in it, the author might as well go and
be a Christian at once!' And with that he hobbled off, for it was
Sunday afternoon, and he was on his way to St. George's Hall to delight
the assembled skeptics, by telling them in an elaborate lecture what
absurd animalculae they all were!"
Alwyn smiled. There was a soft light in his eyes, an expression of
serene contentment on his face.
"Poor old Moxall!" he said gently--"I am sorry for him! He makes life
very desolate, both for himself and others who accept his theories. I'm
afraid his disappointment in me will have to continue, . . for as it
happens I AM a Christian,--that is, so far as I can, in my
unworthiness, be a follower of a faith so grand, and pure, and TRUE!"
Villiers started, . . his month opened in sheer astonishment, . . he
could scarcely believe his own ears, and he uttered some sound between
a gasp and an exclamation of incredulity. Alwyn met his widely
wondering gaze with a most sweet and unembarrassed calm.
"How amazed you look!" he observed, half playfully,--"Religion must be
at a very low ebb, if in a so-called Christian country you are
surprised to hear a man openly acknowledge himself a disciple of the
Christian creed!"
There was a brief pause, during which the chiming clock rang out the
hour musically on the stillness. Then Villiers, still in a state of
most profound bewilderment, sat down deliberately in a chair opposite
Alwyn's, and placed one hand familiarly on his knee.
"Look here, old fellow," he said impressively, "do you really MEAN it!
... Are you 'going over' to some Church or other?"
Alwyn laughed--his friend's anxiety was so genuine.
"Not I!"--he responded promptly.. "Don't be alarmed, Villiers,--I am
not a 'convert' to any particular set FORM of faith,--what I care for
is the faith itself. One can follow and serve Christ without any church
dogma. He has Himself told us plainly, in words simple enough for a
child to understand, what He would have us to do, . . and though I,
like many others, must regret the absence of a true Universal Church
where the servants of Christ may meet altogether without a shadow of
difference in opinion, and worship Him as He should be worshipped,
still that is no reason why I should refrain from endeavoring to
fulfil, as far as in me lies, my personal duty toward Him. The fact is,
Christianity has never yet been rightly taught, grasped or
comprehended,--moreover, as long as men seek through it their own
worldly advantage, it never will be,--so that the majority of the
people are really as yet ignorant of its true spiritual meaning, thanks
to the quarrels and differences of sects and preachers. But,
notwithstanding the unhappy position of religion at the present day, I
repeat, I am a Christian, if love for Christ, and implicit belief in
Him, can make me so."
He spoke simply, and without the slightest affectation of reserve.
Villiers was still puzzled.
"I thought, Alwyn," he ventured to say presently with some little
diffidence,--"that you entirely rejected the idea of Christ's Divinity,
as a mere superstition?"
"In dense ignorance of the extent of God's possibilities, I certainly
did so," returned Alwyn quietly,--"But I have had good reason to see
that my own inability to comprehend supernatural causes was entirely to
blame for that rejection. Are we able to explain all the numerous and
complex variations and manifestations of Matter? No. Then why do we
dare to doubt the certainly conceivable variations and manifestations
of Spirit? ... The doctrine of a purely HUMAN Christ is untenable,--a
Creed founded on that idea alone would make no way with the immortal
aspirations of the soul, . . what link could there be between a mere
man like ourselves and heaven? None whatever,--it needs the DIVINE in
Christ to overleap the darkness of the grave, . . to serve us as the
Symbol of certain Resurrection, to teach us that this life is not the
ALL, but only ONE loop in the chain of existence, . . only ONE of the
'many mansions' in the Father's House. Human teachers of high morals
there have always been in the world,--Confucius, Buddha, Zoroaster,
Socrates, Plato, . . there is no end to them, and their teachings have
been valuable so far as they went, but even Plato's majestic arguments
in favor of the Immortality of the Soul fall short of anything sure and
graspable. There were so many prefigurements of what WAS to come, . .
just as the sign of the Cross was used in the Temple of Serapis, and
was held in singular mystic veneration by various tribes of Egyptians,
Arabians, and Indians, ages before Christ came. And now that these
prefigurements have resolved themselves into an actual Divine Symbol,
the doubting world still hesitates, and by this hesitation paralyzes
both its Will and Instinct--so that it fails to cut out the core of
Christianity's true solution, or to learn what Christ really meant when
He said 'I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life,--no man cometh to the
Father but by Me.' Have you ever considered the particular weight of
that word 'MAN' in that text? It is rightly specified that 'no MAN
cometh '--for there are hosts of other beings, in other universes, who
are not of our puny race, and who do not need to be taught either the
way, truth, or life, as they know all three, and have never lost their
knowledge from the beginning."
His voice quivered a little, and he paused,--Villiers watched him with
a strange sense of ever-deepening fascination and wonder.
"I have lately studied the whole thing carefully,".. he resumed
presently, . . "and I see no reason why we, who call ourselves a
progressive generation, should revert back to the old theory of
Corinthus, who, as early as sixty-seven years after Christ, denied His
Divinity. There is nothing new in the hypothesis--it is no more
original than the doctrine of evolution, which was skilfully enough
handled by Democritus, and probably by many another before him.
Voltaire certainly threshed out the subject exhaustively, . . and I
think Carlyle's address to him on the uselessness of his work is one of
the finest of its kind. Do you remember it?"
Villiers shook his head in the negative, whereupon Alwyn rose, and
glancing along an evidently well-remembered book-shelf, took from
thence "Sartor Resartus"--and turned over the pages quickly.
"Here it is,"--and he read out the following passage.. "'Cease, my
much-respected Herr von Voltaire, . . shut thy sweet voice; for the
task appointed thee seems finished. Sufficiently hast thou demonstrated
this proposition, considerable or otherwise: That the Mythus of the
Christian Religion looks not in the eighteenth century as it did in the
eighth. Alas, were thy six-and-thirty quartos, and the six-and-thirty
thousand other quartos and folios and flying sheets or reams, printed
before and since on the same subject, all needed to convince us of so
little! But what next? Wilt thou help us to embody the Divine Spirit of
that Religion in a new Mythus, in a new vehicle and vesture, that our
Souls, otherwise too like perishing, may live? What! thou hast no
faculty in that kind? Only a torch for burning and no hammer for
building? Take our thanks then--and thyself away!'"
Villiers smiled, and straightened himself in military fashion, as was
his habit when particularly gratified.
"Excellent old Teufelsdrockh!" he murmured sotto-voce--"He had a rugged
method of explaining himself, but it was decisive enough, in all
conscience!"
"Decisive, and to the point,".. assented Alwyn, putting the book back
in its place, and then confronting his friend.--"And he states
precisely what is wanted by the world to-day,--wanted pressingly,
eagerly, . . namely that the 'Divine Spirit' of the Christian Religion
should be set forth in a 'new vehicle and vesture' to keep pace with
the advancing inquiry and scientific research of man. And truly for
this, it need only be expounded according to its old, pure, primal,
spiritual intention, and then, the more science progresses the more
true will it be proved. Christ distinctly claimed His Divinity, and
everywhere gave manifestations of it. Of course it can be said that
these manifestations rest on TESTIMONY,--and that the 'testimony' was
drawn up afterward and is a spurious invention--but we have no more
proof that it IS spurious than we have of [Footnote: See Chapter XIII.
"In Al-Kyris"--the allusion to "Oruzel."] Homer's Iliad being a
compilation of several writers and not the work of a Homer at all.
Nothing--not even the events of the past week--can be safely rested on
absolute, undiffering testimony, inasmuch as no two narrators tell the
same story alike. But all the same we HAVE the Iliad,--it cannot be
taken from us by any amount of argument, . . and we have the FRUITS of
Christ's gospel, half obscured as it is, visible among us. Everywhere
civilization of a high and aspiring order has followed Christianity
even at the cost of blood and tears, ..slavery has been abolished, and
women lifted from unspeakable degradation to honor and reverence,--and
had men been more reasonable and self-controlled, the purifying work
would have been done peacefully and without persecution. It was St.
Paul's preaching that upset all the beautiful, pristine simplicity of
the faith,--it is very evident he had no 'calling or election' such as
he pretended, . . I wonder Jeremy Bentham's conclusive book on the
subject is not more universally known. Paul's sermonizing gave rise to
a thousand different shades of opinion and argument,--and for a mere
hair's-breadth of needless discussion, nation has fought against
nation, and man against man, till the very name of religion has been
made a ghastly mockery. That, however, is not the fault of
Christianity, but the fault of those who PROFESS to follow it, like
Paul, while merely following a scheme of their own personal advantage
or convenience, . . and the result of it all is that at this very
moment, there is not a church in Christendom where Christ's actual
commands are really and to the letter fulfilled."
"Strong!" ejaculated Villiers with a slight smile.. "Mustn't say that
before a clergyman!"
"Why not?" demanded Alwyn.. "Why should not clerics be told, once and
for all, how ill they perform their sacred mission? Look at the
wilderness of spreading Atheism to-day! ... and look at the multitudes
of men and women who are hungering and thirsting for a greater
comprehension of spiritual things than they have hitherto had!--and yet
the preachers trudge drowsily on in the old ruts they have made for
themselves, and give neither sympathy nor heed to the increasing pain,
feverish bewilderment, and positive WANT of those they profess to
guide. Concerning science, too, what is the good of telling a toiling,
more or less suffering race, that there are eighteen millions of suns
in the Milky Way, and that viewed by the immensity of the Universe, man
is nothing but a small, mean, and perishable insect? Humanity hears the
statement with dull, perplexed brain, and its weight of sorrow is
doubled,--it demands at once, why, if an insect, its insect life should
BE at all, if nothing is to come of it but weariness and woe? The
marvels of scientific discovery offer no solace to the huge Majority of
the Afflicted, unless we point the lesson that the Soul of Man is
destined to live through more than these wonders; and that the millions
of planetary systems in the Milky Way are but the ALPHA BETA of the
sublime Hereafter which is our natural heritage, if we will but set
ourselves earnestly to win it. Moreover, we should not foolishly
imagine that we are to lead good lives MERELY for the sake of some
suggested reward or wages,--no,--but simply because in practising
progressive good we are equalizing ourselves and placing ourselves in
active working harmony with the whole progressive good of the Creator's
plan. We have no more right to do a deliberately evil thing, than a
musician has a right to spoil a melody by a false note on his
instrument. Why should we willfully JAR God's music, of which we are a
part? I tell you that religion, as taught to-day, is rather one of
custom and fear than love and confidence,--men cower and propitiate,
when they should be full of thankfulness and praise,--and as for any
reserve on these matters, I have none,--in fact, I fail to see why
truth, . . spiritual truth, . . should not be openly proclaimed now,
even as it is sure to be proclaimed hereafter."
His manner had warmed with his words, and he lifted his head with an
involuntary gesture of eloquent resolve, his eyes flashing splendid
scorn for all things hypocritical and mean. Villiers looked at him,
feeling curiously moved and impressed by his fervent earnestness.
"Well, I was right in one thing, at any rate, Alwyn"--he said softly..
"you ARE changed,--there's not a doubt about it! But it seems to me the
change is distinctly for the better. It does my heart good to hear you
speak with such distinct and manly emphasis on a subject, which, though
it is one of the burning questions of the day, is too often treated
irreverently, or altogether dismissed with a few sentences of languid
banter or cheap sarcasm.
"As regards myself personally, I must say that a man without faith in
anything but himself, has always seemed to me exactly in keeping with
the description given of an atheist by Lady Ashburton to
Carlyle,--namely 'a person who robs himself, not only of clothes, but
of flesh as well, and walks about the world in his bones.' And, oddly
enough in spite of all the controversies going on about Christianity, I
have always really worshipped Christ in my heart of hearts, . . and
yet.. I CAN'T go to church! I seem to lose the idea of Him altogether
there: . . but".. and his frank face took upon itself a dreamy light of
deep feeling--"there are times when, walking alone in the fields, or
through a very quiet grove of trees, or on the sea-shore, I begin to
think of His majestic life and death, and the immense, unfailing
sympathy He showed for every sort of human suffering, and then I can
really believe in him as Divine friend, comrade, Teacher, and King, and
I am scarcely able to decide which is the deepest emotion in my mind
toward Him--love, or reverence."
He paused,--Alwyn's eyes rested upon him with a quick, comprehensive
friendliness,--in one exchange of looks the two men became mutually
aware of the strong undercurrents of thought that lay beneath each
other's individual surface history, and that perhaps had never been so
clearly recognized before,--and a kind of swift, speechless,
satisfactory agreement between their two separate natures seemed
suddenly drawn up, ratified, and sealed in a glance.
"I have often thought," continued Villiers more lightly, and smiling as
he spoke--"that we are all angels or devils,--angels in our best
moments, devils in our worst. If we could only keep the best moments
always uppermost! 'Ah, poor deluded human nature!' as old Moxall
says,--while in the same breath he contradicts himself by asserting
that human Reason is the only infallible means of ascertaining
anything! How it can be 'deluded' and 'infallible' at the same time, I
can't quite understand! But, Alwyn, you haven't told me how you like
the 'get-up' of your book?"
And he handed the volume in question to its author, who turned it over
with the most curious air of careless recognition--in his fancy he
again saw Zabastes writing each line of it down to Sah-luma's dictation!
"It's very well printed"--he said at last,--"and very tastefully bound.
You have superintended the work con amore, Villiers, . . and I am as
obliged to you as friendship will let me be. You know what that means?"
"It means no obligation at all"--declared Villiers gayly.. "because
friends who are the least worthy the name take delight in furthering
each other's interests and have no need to be thanked for doing what is
particularly agreeable to them. You really like the appearance of it,
then? But you've got the sixth edition. This is the first."
And he took up from a side-table a quaint small quarto, bound is a very
superb imitation of old embossed leather, which Alwyn, beholding, was
at once struck by the resemblance it bore to the elaborate designs that
had adorned the covers of the papyrus volumes possessed by his
Shadow-Self, Sahluma!
"This is very sumptuous!" he said with a dreamy smile--"It looks quite
antique!"
"Doesn't it!" exclaimed Villiers, delighted--"I had it copied from a
first edition of Petrarca which happens to be in my collection. This
specimen of 'Nourhalma' has become valuable and unique. It was
published at ten-and-six, and can't be got anywhere under five or six
guineas, if for that. Of course a copy of each edition has been set
aside for YOU."
Alwyn laid down the book with a gentle indifference.
"My dear fellow, I've had enough of 'Nourhalma,'" ... he said ... "I'll
keep a copy of the first edition, if only as a souvenir of your
good-will and energy in bringing it out so admirably--but for the rest!
... the book belongs to me no more, but to the public,--and so let the
public do with it what they will!"
Villiers raised his eyebrows perplexedly.
"I believe, after all, Alwyn, you don't really care for your fame!"
"Not in the least!" replied Alwyn, laughing. "Why should I?"
"You longed for it once as the utmost good!"
"True!--but there are other utmost goods, my friend, that I desire more
keenly."
"But are they attainable?"--queried Villiers. "Men, and specially
poets, often hanker after what is not possible to secure."
"Granted!" responded Alwyn cheerfully--"But I do not crave for the
impossible. I only seek to recover what I have lost."
"And that is?"
"What most men have lost, or are insanely doing their best to
lose"--said Alwyn meditatively.. "A grasp of things eternal, through
the veil of things temporal."
There was a short silence, during which Villiers eyed his friend
wistfully.
"What was that 'adventure' you spoke about in your letter from the
Monastery on the Pass of Dariel?" he asked after a while--"You said you
were on the search for a new sensation-did you experience it?"
Alwyn smiled. "I certainly DID!"
"Did it arise from a contemplation of the site of the Ruins of Babylon?"
"Not exactly. Babylon,--or rather the earth-mounds which are now called
Babylon,--had very little to do with it."
"Don't you want to tell me about it?" demanded Tilliers abruptly.
"Not just yet"--answered Alwyn, with good-humored frankness,--"Not
to-night, at any rate! But I WILL tell you, never fear! For the present
we've talked enough, . . don't you think bed suggests itself as a
fitting conclusion to our converse?"
Villiers laughed and acquiesced, and after pressing his friend to
partake of something in the way of supper, which refreshment was
declined, he preceded him to a small, pleasantly cosy room,--his
"guest-chamber" as he called it, but which was really almost
exclusively set apart for Alwyn's use alone, and was always in
readiness for him whenever he chose to occupy it. Turning on the pretty
electric lamp that lit the whole apartment with a soft and shaded
lustre, Villiers shook hands heartily with his old school-fellow and
favorite comrade, and bidding him a brief but cordial good-night left
him to repose.
As soon as he was alone Alwyn took out from his breast pocket a small
velvet letter-case, from which he gently drew forth a slightly pressed
but unfaded white flower. Setting this in a glass of water he placed it
near his bed, and watched it for a moment. Delicately and gradually its
pressed petals expanded, . . its golden corolla brightened in hue, . .
a subtle, sweet odor permeated the air, . . and soon the angelic
"immortelle" of the Field of Ardath shone wondrously as a white star in
the quiet room. And when the lamp was extinguished and the poet slept,
that strange, fair blossom seemed to watch him like a soft, luminous
eye in the darkness,--a symbol of things divine and lasting,--a token
of far and brilliant worlds where even flowers cannot fade!
CHAPTER XXXIII.
REALISM.
At the end of about a week or so, it became very generally known among
the mystic "Upper Ten" of artistic and literary circles, that Theos
Alwyn, the famous author of "Nourhalma" was, to put it fashionably, "in
town." According to the classic phrasing of a leading society journal,
"Mr. Theos Alwyn, the poet, whom some of our contemporaries erroneously
reported as dead, has arrived in London from his tour in the East. He
is for the present a guest of the Honorable Francis Villiers." The
consequence of this and other similar announcements was, that the
postman seemed never to be away from Villiers's door; and every time he
came he was laden with letters and cards of invitation, addressed, for
the most part, to Villiers himself, who, with something of dismay, saw
his study table getting gradually covered with accumulating piles of
society litter, such as is comprised in the various formal
notifications of dinners, dances, balls, soirees, "at homes," and all
the divers sorts of entertainment with which the English "s'amusent
moult tristement." Some of these invitations, less ceremonious, were in
form of pretty little notes from great ladies, who entreated their
"DEAR Mr. Villiers" to give them the "EXTREME honor and pleasure" of
his company at certain select and extra brilliant receptions where
Royalty itself would be represented, adding, as an earnest
postscript--"and DO bring the LION, you know, your VERY interesting
friend, Mr. Alwyn, with you!"--A good many such billets-doux were
addressed to Alwyn personally, and as he opened and read them he was
somewhat amused to see how many who had formerly been mere bowing
acquaintances were now suddenly, almost magically, transformed into
apparently eager, admiring, and devoted friends.
"One would think these people really liked me for myself,"--he said one
morning, tossing aside a particularly gushing, pressing note from a
lady who was celebrated for the motley crowds she managed to squeeze
into her rooms, regardless of any one's comfort or convenience,--"And
yet, as the matter stands, they actually know nothing of me. I might be
a villain of the deepest dye, a kickable cad, or a coarse ruffian, but
so long as I have written a 'successful' book and am a 'somebody'--a
literary 'notable'--what matter my tastes, my morals, or my
disposition! If this sort of thing is Fame, all I can say is, that it
savors of very detestable vulgarity!"
"Of course it does!"--assented Villiers-"But what else do you expect
from modern society? ... What CAN you expect from a community which is
chiefly ruled by moneyed parvenus, BUT vulgarity? If you go to this
woman's place, for instance"--and he glanced at the note Alwyn had
thrown on the table,--"you will share the honors of the evening with
the famous man-milliner of Bond Street, an 'artist' in gowns, the
female upholsterer and house decorator, likewise an 'artist,'--the
ladies who 'compose' sonnets in Regent Street, also 'artists,--' and
chiefest among the motley crowd, perhaps, the so-called new 'Apostle'
of aestheticism, a ponderous gentleman who says nothing and does
nothing, and who, by reason of his stupendous inertia and taciturnity,
is considered the greatest 'gun' of all! ... it's no use YOUR going
among such people,--in fact, no one who has any reverence left in him
for the TRUTH of Art CAN mix with those whose profession of it is a
mere trade and hypocritical sham. Such dunderheads would see no
artistic difference between Phidias and the man of to-day who hews out
and sets up a common marble mantel-piece! I'm not a fellow to moan over
the 'good old times,'--no, not a bit of it, for those good old times
had much in them that was decidedly bad,--but I wish progress would not
rob us altogether of refinement."
"But society professes to be growing more and more cultured every day,"
observed Alwyn.