ENDYMION.
Oh, goddess wise,
Disdainful of the sultry sun,
Thou waitest till his course is run
Then stealing where Endymion
In slumber lies,
With am’rous sighs
Awake him in that secret nest,
All drowsy with enchanted rest,
To lie upon thy silver breast;
While daylight dies,
In western skies,
And shyly peering one by one,
The stars gaze on that meeting blest.
For the next week or so life passed very agreeably at the Grange, and
its inmates, becoming habituated to one another’s society, settled down
into a lotus-eating existence, which, if not a useful one, was at least
infinitely charming. Caliphronas played his part in this country house
comedy in the most admirable manner, and, owing to his good looks, his
good manners, and his good temper, soon established himself as a
universal favorite. This splendid flower of humanity which had bloomed
to such beauty under the serene skies of the East fascinated Maurice
greatly, and he took a genuine pleasure in modelling the Endymion from
the Count; though at times, in spite of his artistic capabilities, he
almost despaired of being able to mould the soft clay into a perfect
representation of this virile perfection. At the same time the
intercourse between the sculptor and his model was very pleasant, as
Caliphronas was a most delightful companion, and told stories of his
adventures in a manner worthy of Ulysses or Munchausen. Yet, though he
seemed to grow quite confidential over his past life, he nevertheless
withheld many episodes which might have prejudiced his host against him.
Maurice, who was simple in many ways, despite his ten years’ experience
of Bohemia, thought Caliphronas was laying bare his whole soul, whereas
the wily Greek only revealed the best side of that very complex article.
This setting forth of his moral excellences was of course in keeping
with the impression he was anxious to produce, and he thus made himself
very agreeable to Maurice, who took the Count for what he represented
himself to be, not for what he really was.
Caliphronas was an excellent conversationalist, and during the sittings
beguiled the time with many stories of his countrymen, and not
infrequently of his countrywomen, for this Apollo had achieved many
conquests in the fields of Venus, and seemed very proud of his prowess
during some charming campaigns. Probably most of his stories were
exaggerations, and at times even simple Maurice doubted their truth, but
so gracefully were these lies told that they sounded as delightful as
the tales of Boccaccio. The Count, with considerable imaginative power,
supplied to his host a charming history of himself and his early life,
which was more or less fictitious; but, of course, his listener never
dreamed that a man could string together such a quantity of consistent
lies, and therefore believed those romances worthy of Dumas the Elder.
Maurice was no fool, but his own nature was so simple and honorable,
that he thought every one else was like himself, and at the worst only
deemed that these histories were perhaps highly colored, but true in the
main.
Meanwhile, Eunice had demanded at the most convenient opportunity an
explanation from Crispin, regarding his inexplicable behavior on that
first night of the Greek’s visit, and had received one which
considerably startled her, as it plainly showed that Crispin was
disposed to be jealous. This rather pleased Eunice, as no woman cares
about a meek lover, and the more jealousy a man displays, the more his
beloved feels complimented at the power she exercises over his
affections. However, the situation between her and Crispin being
somewhat strained, Eunice, deeming honesty to be the best policy,
confessed all about her little scheme of misleading Mrs. Dengelton
regarding the true position of affairs. On learning the truth, Crispin
felt very much ashamed of his groundless suspicions, and apologized
profusely for having doubted his intended, whereat, being satisfied with
this humbling of the proud, she took him into favor again, so the course
of true love once more ran smooth.
Notwithstanding the unpleasantness of such a thing, Crispin rather
approved of Eunice treating him with coldness in the presence of Mrs.
Dengelton, as it would probably lull the suspicions of that lady, but he
was not so sure about his intended accepting the very pointed attentions
of Caliphronas. Crispin knew the Greek thoroughly. Eunice was absolutely
ignorant of his real character; but as, owing to his being behind the
scenes, he could make Caliphronas to a certain extent do what he
desired, he hinted very plainly to this Hellenic Don Juan that his
attentions were unwelcome to Miss Dengelton, and that he was to give up
the _rôle_ he had elected to play. At first the Count was disposed to
rebel against this fiat, which put an end to a very pleasant flirtation,
but as he really did not care about Eunice, and moreover Crispin was too
dangerous to be provoked lightly, he made a virtue of necessity, and
ceased to overwhelm the shy English girl with his florid compliments. At
the same time he promised himself to be revenged on Crispin at the first
opportunity, and Crispin, knowing this, could not help feeling a trifle
uneasy, for it was a difficult matter to fight with an absolutely
unscrupulous scoundrel like the Count, whose laws were neither those of
God nor man, but of his own making. However, Crispin’s knowledge of his
errand to Roylands proved an effective weapon, and he was satisfied that
the Greek would do nothing to jeopardize the success of his mission,
even though his vanity demanded some revenge for being thus slighted.
Of course, Mrs. Dengelton still contemplated a match between her
daughter and nephew, but Maurice evaded her hints with great dexterity,
yet at the same time, to protect Crispin from a less complaisant rival,
made such pointed remarks about the necessity of marriage as led Mrs.
Dengelton to believe that he seriously contemplated entering into the
matrimonial state. Never was the good lady so puzzled in her life, for
she could not make up her mind as to what Maurice really meant, with his
blowing hot one day and cold the next, but, being a great believer in
the efficacy of time, deemed it the wisest plan to wait the development
of events, and in order to watch the same kept her beady eyes wide open.
Owing to the neglectful manner in which Eunice had lately treated
Crispin, she apprehended no danger from that quarter, and, as Maurice
was very attentive to his cousin, the Hon. Mrs. Dengelton felt sure that
in the end she would obtain her heart’s desire, and install Eunice as
mistress of Roylands Grange.
The Rector sometimes came over to the Grange, and was friendly with
every one saving Caliphronas, as for some inexplicable reason he
professed to heartily dislike that brilliant gentleman. It was certainly
a kind of Dr. Fell-ish aversion, of which Mr. Carriston felt rather
ashamed, as he could give no plausible reason for such distrust. In
reply to a question of Maurice’s he simply said that, much as he admired
the physical beauty of the Greek, he was by no means sure that his soul
corresponded to the perfection of the body. Indeed, on one occasion,
while Mrs. Dengelton was eulogizing the charms of Caliphronas from a
feminine point of view, the Rector pointedly quoted that line from the
_Odyssey_ which says,—“Faultlessly fair bodies are not always the
temples of a godlike soul;” but as this remark was made in Homeric
Greek, the significance of it was lost upon the lady. It may be that
some subtle instinct warned him against this man, whose evil nature was
concealed under the semblance of good; but at all events the Rector was
always on his guard against the Count, and delicately warned Maurice
against trusting him too far. Evidently Mr. Carriston had studied the
character of Ulysses to no small purpose, and found in Caliphronas a
reproduction, body, brain, and soul, of the most crafty of the Greeks.
Regarding the outward appearance of Caliphronas, the Rector was too
deeply steeped in the serene literature of Hellas to be unimpressed with
the physical splendor of the man. Making allowances for the subduing
influence of modern clothing, which detracts from the most perfect
beauty either in man or woman, Mr. Carriston at times, seeing
Caliphronas in the dazzling sunlight, thought he beheld, as in a vision,
the phantom of some joyous Hellenic divinity untouched by sorrow or
care. This man, gifted with exceptional beauty, might have been Hylas,
Hyacinth, or Theoxenos, and strayed by chance from some unknown Arcadian
vale into the rush and turmoil of the modern world, with its worship of
money and position, so alien to the adoration of Beauty and Genius which
formed the cult of antique Hellas. In truth, Caliphronas was out of
place in England;—our gray rainy skies, smoky air, stifling cities, and
domesticated Nature, formed but a dark background for this strongly
vitalized being, tingling from head to foot with the healthfulness of
wild life. He should have dwelt in the burning south, beside the
tideless ripples of serene seas, under the cloudless blue of Attic
skies, with the silver-gray olives, the shining temples of the gods, and
headland, mountain peak, and island melting into phantom forms of aërial
grace far beyond the expanse of the laughing ocean. He was an
anachronism in this nineteenth century, the physical survivor of Hellas
as Keats was the mental survivor—one had the body of Alcibiades, the
other the brain of Theocritus, and both were equally alien to the modern
world.
Well was it for the Rector that he could see only the splendid casket,
and not the soul contained therein, for, in spite of his instinctive
distrust, the fancy he had that this Count was not to be trusted fell
far below the actual moral degradation of the man. Caliphronas was as
vain as a peacock, absolutely ignorant of the morality of right or
wrong, lazy in every way save what touched his own desires, and crafty
as a fox. Crispin could have pointed out to the Rector all these flaws,
but Crispin had promised to hold his peace so long as Caliphronas
abstained from actual harm; therefore he remained quiescent, and only
reminded the Greek now and then that there was a watchful eye on his
doings.
Maurice believed in the Greek, the Rector doubted him, and Crispin knew
his worthlessness thoroughly, so among the three of them the character
of Caliphronas was pretty well analyzed. From Maurice, the steady,
respectable Englishman, with occasional lapses of artistic wildness, to
Caliphronas, the brilliant cosmopolitan adventurer, was a long step.
Crispin stood midway between the two, as he had a certain amount of
British phlegmatism, with at times those wild impulses which come from a
wandering life and an intellectual nature. Still, he could control his
spontaneity, while Caliphronas, obeying his own undisciplined mind, did
whatever came into his head; yet, if any one was scandalized by such
unconventionality, he would at once obtain forgiveness by the graceful
way in which he apologized.
“It is impossible to be angry with you,” said Maurice to him one day,
when the Count had been guilty of some ridiculous escapade, “and yet you
deserve to be sharply spoken to. But you are a child in many ways, and
we cannot be angry with a child.”
“There you are right, my dear Mr. Maurice,” replied Caliphronas,
smiling. “I am a child, but that is as much as to say, I am a Greek. You
remember what the Egyptian priest said to Solon,—‘You Greeks are always
children.’ Therefore, if I am a child, and act impulsively like a child,
blame my nationality, not myself.”
“I expect you could be a very bad child if you wanted to!” said Crispin,
overhearing this defence.
Caliphronas darted a spiteful look at the speaker.
“Very likely,” he replied in a meaning tone; “but those who dread stings
should not disturb the wasps’ nest.”
There was a distinct menace in his tone, but Crispin felt too confident
of having the upper hand to take much notice of this venom, and merely
laughed, much to the wrath of the Greek. However, as the time was not
yet ripe for action, he restrained his anger, and behaved so amiably to
Crispin that it was only the knowledge the poet possessed of his true
character that made him mistrust the suave smiles and kindly actions of
this Greek Machiavelli.
Caliphronas was an amphibious creature, and lived quite as much in the
water as on the shore. Whenever he had the time to spare, he went off to
Brasdimir for a dip in the sea, and would plunge and wallow in the water
like a dolphin. Fortunately that summer at Roylands was unusually hot,
and what with the cloudless skies, the burning sun, and the delicate
emerald tints of foliage, grass, and herb, Caliphronas might well have
imagined that he was still in his beloved Greece, bathing off some
pebbly beach of the Ægean.
Brasdimir was a somewhat peculiar place, and was in reality an arm of
the sea (_bras de mer_) which ran up like a long tongue into the land,
where it met the waters of the Roy river. In olden times, Roylands,
which was its Norman-French name, had been the property of the crown,
and had been used by the Plantagenets for their favorite pastime of
hunting. Henry II. bestowed it on one of his barons who was strongly
suspected of being a son of the king, but who on receiving this royal
gift dropped his former name of Fitzroy and took that of Roylands. It
was certainly a splendid property, and through all the turbulence of
succeeding reigns the descendants of the first Roylands had succeeded in
keeping their hold on these rich acres; so it was very little diminished
in size from the time of its bestowal on Fitzroy. Brasdimir, which was a
kind of estuary, ran about half a mile up into the estate, and into it
flowed the little river Roy, which was a placid stream of no great
beauty. All round Brasdimir lay fat meadows containing some of the
finest land in the country, and clumps of beech and elm and oak,
remnants of the old hunting-forest of Plantagenet kings, dotted their
broad expanse of daisied sward.
Near the upper part of Brasdimir, where it met the waters of the Roy and
blended salt with fresh, stood a quincunx of noble oaks which grew close
to the bank. From thence the smooth turf of the meadow sloped down to
the turbulent waters, and it was here that Caliphronas came to bathe,
not only every morning, but often three times a day. Being in the middle
of the estate, Brasdimir was far away from all human habitation, and
might have been the navel of some great wilderness, so lonely it was.
The Greek loved this blending of fresh and salt water, as the softness
of the one assuaged the harshness of the other, and under the hot sun
would frequently cool himself in this unique pool, which was neither
river nor stream, but a mixture of both.
Very often Crispin and Maurice would come with him for a morning dip
just before sunrise, and then walk back to the Grange with a tremendous
appetite for breakfast.
One morning they set out for their usual walk, just as the east was
flushing redly with the dawn, and the chill morning air nipped them
keenly as they strolled along in the direction of Brasdimir. That is to
say, the poet and the sculptor strolled, for Caliphronas simply danced
along, as if to rid himself of his superabundant energy. Across the dewy
meadows he bounded fawn-like, singing as gayly as the lark already
saluting the sun in the fresh blue sky. Like some wild being of the
woods, he leaped here and there from very light-heartedness, with his
head bare and his arms tossing in the air. A number of horses pasturing
in the field rushed away at his approach, nor, though he called them
loudly, did they pause in their wild career.
“What a child he is!” said Maurice, watching the graceful figure of the
Greek bounding lightly towards the water.
“Yes, a nice child truly,” sneered Crispin, with strong disfavor.
“You don’t seem to like Caliphronas?”
“Well, no, I cannot say I do. As an acquaintance he is all very well,
but as a friend”—Here Crispin shrugged his shoulders in lieu of words.
“I suppose all he says about himself is true?”
“I suppose so,” replied the poet curtly.
“Do you think he will stay long down here? I hope he will not go away
before I finish modelling my Endymion.”
“I think you can safely depend on his staying till then,” rejoined
Crispin significantly, and the conversation ended—a conversation which
left an odd feeling of discomfort in the mind of Maurice, which—why he
could not tell—seemed to revive his old distrust of this fascinating
Greek. He would have questioned Crispin further, but as they were now on
the edge of the bank, and Caliphronas was within hearing, he had no
opportunity of so doing, therefore put off such examination till a more
convenient season.
Caliphronas was already in the water, swimming like a fish, and indeed
he was as much at home there as on the land. The two gentlemen undressed
leisurely on the bank, Maurice making fun of the Greek as he revelled in
his favorite element.
“You had better beware, Caliphronas, as the nymphs might take a fancy to
you as they did to Hylas.”
“River nymphs, sea nymphs, I do not mind in the least!” cried the Greek
gayly; “ladies are always charming, whether they have tails or limbs.”
At this moment he reached the opposite bank and climbed on the fallen
trunk of a tree. As he stood there with his arms raised above his head,
the first yellow ray of the sun flashed on his white body and enveloped
him in glory, as though he were indeed a stray Olympian. Then, with a
shout of glee, he shot downward like an arrow, cleaving the blue water
with a dash of snowy spray, which sprang upwards glittering like
diamonds in the yellow sunlight. By this time Maurice and his friend
were also enjoying their bath in the cool element, and the three
rollicked about like schoolboys. Crispin swam down the estuary in the
direction of the sea with Maurice, and soon the surface of the water
roughened by the wind began to dash salt spray in their faces.
Caliphronas stayed where he was, amusing himself with fancy strokes, but
after a time he became tired, and when the others came back, breathless
with their long swim, they found the Count standing on the bank drying
himself.
As they also were tired, they also sought the bank, but at this moment
one of the horses, a powerful black one, came timidly near them.
Caliphronas, with that wonderful power he had over all animals,
advanced, nude as he was, up the bank, and called to the horse in a
coaxing tone. The animal let him get quite close to it and lay his hand
on the mane, when with a sudden spring the Greek leaped on its back, and
the horse, startled by the action and by his shout, galloped away at
full speed. Round and round the meadow went horse and man, forming so
striking a sight that Maurice and Crispin paused in their dressing to
look at it. As the horse at full gallop came sweeping past, with
Caliphronas laughing and holding on by the mane, Maurice involuntarily
thought of the frieze of the Parthenon, where nude youths ride fiery
steeds in a long serene procession of marble figures. The Greek rode
like a Red Indian, with the most consummate ease, and as the horse for
the third time darted past the quincunx of oaks, he dropped lightly off,
by some trick known only to himself, and the steed galloped wildly away,
while the Greek came back laughing to his friends.
“What a child you are, Caliphronas!” said Maurice in a vexed tone;
“riding a bare-backed steed in that reckless manner. You might have
broken your neck.”
“Small loss if he had,” muttered Crispin under his breath.
“Oh, I can stick on anything,” answered Caliphronas carelessly, taking
no notice of Crispin’s remark, which his keen ears immediately heard;
“besides, that gallop has done me good. See, I am quite dry.”
When they were dressed, the three of them walked quickly back to
breakfast, for the morning air had developed their appetites enormously.
Mrs. Dengelton and Eunice awaited them on the terrace, and they were
soon seated round the well-spread table. Caliphronas, touching neither
coffee nor tea, drank water only, and confined his eating to bread,
honey, and eggs. His were the tastes of primeval man, and he strongly
disliked elaborate dishes which were pleasing to the cultured palates of
his more civilized neighbors.
“I do not know how you can eat such things,” he said in some disgust, as
Eunice took some curry. “Does it not make you ill?”
“Not in the least, Count,” she replied, laughing. “It is a very depraved
taste, I suppose, but I am very fond of curry.”
“And tea—hot tea,” retorted Caliphronas quickly. “I have heard it said
that tea is bad for the nerves. Ladies always complain of nerves, yet
they drink tea.”
“I could not do without my tea,” said Mrs. Dengelton, who was given to
surreptitious cups of tea at odd hours of the day, “and yet I have
nerves. Oh, those dreadful nerves! You don’t know what it is to be so
afflicted, Count.”
“No, I do not. I never had an illness in my life, but then that is
because I live a natural life, whereas all you highly civilized people
live an artificial existence. If you gave up your highly-spiced dishes,
your strong wines, your late hours, your breathing of poisonous air, you
would be as healthy as I am.”
“Well, you can hardly call the air of Roylands poisonous,” said Maurice
indolently.
“No, the air here is delightful because you live near the sea. I could
not dwell inland myself. I would die. I must breathe the sea air, see
the wide waste of waters, hear the thunder of waves on the beach. That
is the only life for a healthy man.”
“You could not live in London, I suppose,” said Mrs. Dengelton, frowning
on Eunice, who was talking in a quiet tone to Crispin.
“London!” cried the Count, with scorn. “I would as soon live at the
bottom of the sea. Indeed, I believe it would be healthier there.
London, that crushed-up mass of houses inhabited by pale-faced people—I
wonder they can exist. Oh, I saw and heard a good deal of London when I
was there. Your people in the East End never leave those narrow streets
from one year to the other. They know nothing of sunrise or sunset, for
they only see those marvels through a smoky veil. They cannot tell a
bird by its song—they know nothing of animals or their habits. Of the
wonderful life of Nature which is born and lives and dies in the woods,
in the seas, in the mountains, they are ignorant. They are born blind,
they live blind, they die blind, and call such blindness life.”
“But what about the people in the West End?” asked Mrs. Dengelton, with
the air of making a crushing remark.
“They are scarcely better,” retorted Caliphronas promptly; “they sit
half the night in theatres breathing hot air, they go to balls where
there is such a crowd of people that no one can dance, they walk for an
hour in the Park and call it exercise, they poison themselves at the
clubs with cigarettes, and in the boudoirs with tea—and all this
feverish, unreal life is called ‘the season.’ When they go abroad it is
to Monte Carlo and those sorts of places, where they lead the same life
on a smaller scale. No, the West End is no better than the East End!”
“But you forget,” said Crispin, more from a desire to contradict the
Count than because he disagreed with him, “plenty of people go
mountaineering, game-shooting, yachting, exploring.”
“I know all that, my dear friend, but the number of people who do those
things is very small. I am talking of the great mass of the English
people, and as far as I can see, whether they are rich or poor, the life
they lead is in both cases equally opposed to health and enjoyment.”
“Here endeth the first reading,” said Maurice, rising from the table,
his example being followed by all his guests. “Caliphronas, you are
quite eloquent on the subject.”
“Yes! I am not usually so eloquent,” replied the Count, going out on to
the terrace, “but on all sides I hear from your people complaints of
being ill. Well, the remedy is in their own hands. Why don’t they use
it?”
“My good sir,” remarked Crispin, who had lighted a cigarette, “you
cannot overturn the whole complex civilization of the West in that
manner. Man can no more go back to the simplicity of the existence you
eulogize, than you could settle down to a fashionable life in London and
enjoy it.”
“Well, you at least can be cured easily,” said the Count, with emphasis,
for, as they were now beyond earshot of the rest of the party, he could
talk freely; “you all your life have lived the life of a natural man,
but now you smoke that horrible tobacco, drink all kinds of wines, eat
all kinds of dishes, and will soon become as artificial as those people
around you.”
“Perhaps I will come back to the primeval existence you praise.”
“With that young lady, I suppose?”
“Perhaps.”
“Ah, she is very charming! She is”—
“Thank you, I don’t want to hear your opinion of Miss Dengelton,” said
Crispin haughtily; “your primeval simplicity at times verges on
rudeness. How long are you going to stay here?”
“I can’t tell you that; but I am going to take my first step to-day.”
“In order to get Roylands to Melnos?”
“Yes. Oh, I have a lure, my friend. Yes; I have described the fairyland
of the islands, and that it is fairyland you must admit. He is even now
seized with a desire of going there, so to-day I will get him to make up
his mind to go to the Levant with me.”
“How?”
“I will show him this.”
Crispin looked at the portrait the Count held out, which was that of a
marvellously beautiful woman in a Greek dress.
“Helena!” cried the poet, recognizing the face. “When did she get this
taken? Has she been to Athens?”
“No. I took it myself. Oh, I am not absolutely the barbarian you think
me. I have gone in for photography. Yes; this is one of my best
efforts.”
“And do you think that face will lure Maurice to the East?”
“It ought to,” said Caliphronas, gazing at the picture with a burning
light in his eyes; “she is as lovely as her namesake of Troy, and I love
her, oh, how I love her!”
“Is it wise, do you think, to introduce a possible rival?”
“That does not matter to me,” replied the Count, slipping the picture
into his pocket. “I have Justinian’s promise.”
“Yes, but you have not got Helena’s.”
“Oh, she won’t refuse to marry me.”
“For the sake of her happiness, I hope she will.”
“You are very complimentary,” retorted the Greek ironically, turning
away. “Well, I must leave your delightful society, my friend. It is time
for me to go to the studio.”
“Wait a minute! I have not thwarted your plans, because, as far as I can
see, they are innocent, but if you induce Maurice to go to the Levant”—
“Well?” demanded Caliphronas insolently.
“I will go also.”
“And your reason?”
“A very simple one. I do not trust the scamp called Andros.”
“Better known, at least in England, as Constantine Caliphronas,” replied
the Count coolly. “Well, come if you like, to watch over your precious
friend. I do not wish him harm, but he, and you also, had better beware
of Justinian.”