A DIFFICULT QUESTION.
If you this question strange decide,
This way, that way, at your pleasure,
It surely cannot be denied,
If you this question strange decide,
That Fate’s prerogative’s defied,
And thus may grudge your self-won treasure,
If you this question strange decide,
This way, that way, at your pleasure.
Certainly Maurice felt in a somewhat embarrassing position, on hearing
of Justinian’s offer to instal him as future King of Melnos, and he
hardly knew what decision to make in the matter. At present the affair
was so unexpected and bewildering that he hardly grasped the fact of its
reality, and remained where he was, leaning against a pillar, wondering
if he was asleep or awake. He had come to an unknown island of the Ægean
Sea, and therein had beheld a miniature civilization of a most unique
character, which in itself by its very fancifulness was enough to
unsettle his calm reasoning powers, when lo! the man who had created
this vision of dead classicism proposed to bestow it on him as a gift.
There was something singularly tempting in this offer, especially to a
man of Roylands’ artistic temperament; for here, in this sea-girt
island, he could lead a life of dreamy seclusion, and work at his art
amid these rejuvenated Hellenic times, which breathed all the serenity
and calm necessary to foster the craving soul of genius. In the riotous
modern world of England he had often felt like an alien, and his work,
imbued with modernisms, seemed feeble and meretricious after those
masterpieces of Greek art which still remain to remind us of the
supremacy of Attic sculptors in delineating the human figure. Devoted to
his art, had Maurice been asked by some fairy to name his desire, he
would certainly have demanded to be placed in kindred circumstances,
calm, untroubled, serene, to those masterly Athenian creators who
adorned the Parthenon with god-like forms. Lo! without the intervention
of an unseen power, his wish had been unexpectedly gratified, yet, now
that the boon long dreamed of was gratified, he hesitated as to the
advisability of accepting it.
It was difficult for him to make up his mind, from the very contrast of
the two existences which lay before him, either of which he could begin
from that moment, by a mere acceptance of the one or the other. On the
one hand was the turbulent nineteenth century, full of invention,
discovery, feverishness, anguish, ambition, like a terrible yet
fascinating dream, which involved the straining of every nerve to attain
a thankless end; and on the other hand were years of quietness, of
dwelling in a modern paradise under a serene sky, with all the
incentives to awaken and foster his artistic soul, a reconstruction of
that calm Attic existence which seemed so far off and mist-like beyond
the stormy waters of mediævalism and modern restlessness. Maurice,
always impressionable to his surroundings, felt as did the Ulyssean
sailors in the lotus-land, when they were loath to leave the drowsy
island for fruitless toilings on the main; he thought this serene
existence of Melnos, unvexed by the tumults of nations, was perfect: yet
the ambitious spirit of the nineteenth-century interest in his being
called out to him to come forward and take his place in the fierce fight
for fame, for gold, for bread, which vexed the world of to-day. Peace or
war—for social war it was in this modern struggle for existence—he did
not know which to choose, and, leaning against that relic of the old
classic times, when earth was young, fresh, and joyous, he dreamily
pondered over the choice offered to him.
Had Keats, that born Greek, been offered the chance of dwelling in this
Hellenic Elysium, how eagerly would he have accepted, and revelled in
the serenity of the life, like one of his own young deities, who live so
joyously in his delicate verse. Perhaps Heine, longing for the infinite
charm of the antique on his mattress-grave in the Rue d’Amsterdam, might
have accepted with joy this opportunity to dwell in the placid Greek
world he loved so well, and of which he sang so mournfully, so
exquisitely. But no!—Heine, bitter, dual soul as he was, had too much of
Judaism in his soul to accept gladly a serene existence, unflavored by
that bitter irony, those pen and ink wars, those modern sophistries in
which his spirit delighted. Keats—yes! for he was a born Hellene.
Heine—no! for the genius of the Jew fought ever with the genius of the
Greek to master his soul, and his irony, his orientalism, his Shiraz
roses, and blue Ganges, would have rendered him restless even under the
changeless blue of the Attic skies, amid the divine beauty of serene
Hellenic art.
Maurice was neither Keats nor Heine, yet partook of the nature of both.
He was not a genius, having just escaped the fatal gift of artistic
supremacy, still, he had a strong craving for the beautiful, a wish to
create, a desire to know; but in his soul the blind craving of Keats for
Beauty and Truth was marred by that fatal scepticism which blighted the
genius of Heine. He had the faith of the one, the doubt of the other,
and, drawn strongly either way by these opposing forces, paused
irresolutely between the two. First he would accept and live the old
Hellenic life, then he would refuse, lest such life should lack the
sharp, salt flavor of modern existence. An ass between two bundles of
hay was Maurice, but, unlike that animal, he knew that each bundle
contained what the other lacked, and, greedy of both, doubtful of both,
afraid of both, he was quite unable to make up his extremely unstable
mind.
A man in such an embarrassing position always makes up his otherwise
wavering mind to one thing, and that is, to ask advice, though in nine
cases out of ten he never means to take it when given. Maurice was not
sure if he would accept advice, yet nevertheless went to seek Crispin,
in order to lay the matter before him, and ask what he thought was the
best course for him to pursue. Crispin was wise, Crispin was friendly,
and, moreover, had tried both the ancient and the modern modes of
existence, as his youth had been spent in Melnos, his early manhood in
civilized Europe; so surely Crispin, with a knowledge of both sides of
the question, was the best to decide for the one or the other.
All the morning Crispin had been hard at work on a formidable-looking
epistle to Eunice, in which he told all his perils and adventures, the
departure from Southampton, the voyage down the Mediterranean, the wreck
of The Eunice, and their safe arrival at Melnos. In addition to this
narrative, worthy of Marco Polo at his best, he related the comforts in
which he and Maurice were now dwelling, in order to set the mind of that
gentleman’s friends at rest; but, with considerable craft, the wily poet
did not put in any words of loverly affection, as he knew well the Hon.
Mrs. Dengelton would read the letter before giving it to her submissive
daughter.
In order to circumvent his future mother-in-law, Crispin intended to
write a separate letter to Eunice, full of his passion, and then slip it
into an epistle by Maurice, whom he intended to get to write to the
Rector. Mr. Carriston was a friend to the lovers, and would doubtless be
able to deliver the letter unseen by the dragon; thus Mrs. Dengelton
would be thwarted should she try to destroy Eunice’s affection for the
poet by keeping back his letters.
Near Crispin sat Gurt, at the open window, chewing the quid of
reflection, and looking excessively dismal, as he found this
semi-classical existence somewhat dull, and moreover, true seaman as he
was, viewed a prolonged sojourn on land with much disgust. He brightened
up, however, when Maurice came in, and twisted his forelock in approved
forecastle fashion with a scrape of his foot.
“Which I ses t’ this ’ere gent,” growled Gurt in his raucous voice,
“‘w’ere is he?’ meanin’ you, sir, and Mr. Crispin ses he, ‘Oh, he’s gone
down t’ valley,’ so ses I, ‘He’ll see the crew,’ and ses he, ‘It’s werry
likely.’“
“I’m very sorry, Gurt,” said Maurice in some dismay, “but the fact is,
I’ve been exploring the village with Justinian, and quite forgot to see
after our mariners.”
“I wish you had done so, Maurice,” said Crispin in a vexed tone, looking
up from his writing; “the poor fellows will think we have forgotten all
about them.”
“Oh, we will go down this afternoon,” replied Maurice hastily. “I’ve no
doubt they are all right down there. Lots of food and liquor and pretty
girls! eh, Gurt?”
Crispin laughed and stroked his chin thoughtfully, while a gleam of
humor shone in the solitary eye of the mariner.
“I seed,” said Gurt, addressing no one in particular, “as light a little
craft as I ever clapped eyes on, gents. Her deck lights raked me fore
and aft, they did.”
“Justinian will rake you fore and aft,” observed Crispin dryly,
“especially if you make eyes at his womankind. This is a virtuous
island, Gurt.”
“Well, sir, I ain’t a-goin’ agin’ it, sir,” growled Gurt reproachfully.
“I care nothin’ for the petticoats. I don’t. Now if it was Dick,
now”—here the old sinner cast up his eyes, as if unable to guess at
Dick’s enormities.
“Oh, that is the smart young boatswain,” said Maurice quickly. “I’m glad
he is all right. Why don’t you go down and see him, Gurt?”
“Beggin’ your pardon, gents both, but I dunno the bearin’s of this ’ere
island.”
“Go along the mulberry avenue,” said Crispin, as Gurt waited for an
explanation, “and when you come to a flight of steps near the tunnel, go
down them. When you’re in the village, you’ll soon find out your
comrades, and tell them Mr. Roylands and myself will come down to see
them this afternoon.”
“Right y’ are, sir,” answered the seaman, going to the door with another
nautical salutation. “I don’t want Dick a-comin’ up here to cast anchor
aside my little craft.”
“You’ve begun early, Gurt,” observed Maurice, taking a seat. “What is
the name of your little craft?”
“Zoe, sir; she’s maid to Miss Helena.”
“Well, you can go away with a contented heart, Gurt,” said Crispin,
laughing. “Dick won’t see her if he comes here in your absence. She’s
gone up the mountain with her mistress.”
“Right y’ are, sir,” said Gurt again, all of him except his head behind
the curtains of the doorway. “I don’t trust Dick. He’s a fly-away chap,
gents both, and a deal sight too handsome for my idea, sirs.”
The head vanished, and Crispin laughed uproariously.
“That mahogany image is jealous, Maurice,” he said, throwing himself
back in his chair. “Behold the power of love! Why, Zoe wouldn’t look at
him; and if that good-looking young bo’swain comes on the scene, I’m
afraid old Cyclops’ chance will be but a poor one.”
“Zoe’s gone up the mountain with Helena?”
“Yes; on some flower-gathering expedition. They have been absent some
hours, so Caliphronas has gone to look for them.”
“Confound his impudence!”
“Why, you are as jealous of the mistress as Cyclops is of the maid!
However, you need not be afraid, for Helena hates our Greek friend, and
I shrewdly suspect she has taken an uncommon liking to you.”
“Nonsense!”
“It’s a fact, I assure you. Love in her eyes sits playing, so if you
love her, and she loves you, no power can cut your love in two.”
“Except Caliphronas.”
“Yes, he is rather in the way; but I’ve no doubt Justinian will settle
him. By the way, where is Justinian?”
“He left me at the steps, after making me a most extraordinary
proposal.”
“Indeed! and this proposal?”
“I’ll tell you all about it shortly. What are you doing?”
“Writing to Eunice. This,” laying his hand on the letter, “is a proper
epistle which might be published to all the world, and is prepared
especially for the pacification of my dear mother-in-law that is to be.
I, however, want you to write to our mutual friend, Mr. Carriston, and
enclose a note of mine meant for the eyes of Eunice alone. The Rector is
our friend, and will manage to give it to her unknown to Mrs.
Dengelton.”
“Oh, I will write with the greatest of pleasure, and enclose your
letter. Besides, I wish to ask the Rector’s advice on a very important
matter.”
“I can guess what that important matter is,” said Crispin gayly; “but
why not ask my advice?”
“I am going to, in a few minutes. By the way, to revert to the letters,
how are you going to get them posted?”
“Oh, Justinian has a felucca laden with currants, silks, and what not,
going to Syra to-morrow,—Syra, you know, is the great mercantile station
of the Cyclades,—and these letters will go in charge of the skipper.
From Syra they will easily go to England by the French packet, via
Marseilles.”
“Have you any other letters to write—I mean about the shipwreck?”
“Of course; I have written to my solicitors, telling them all about the
wreck, and instructing them to see the insurance people; but I suppose
nothing can be done till I go back to town myself, and take all the
survivors with me. They, I suppose, will have to give all kinds of
evidence about the smash-up of The Eunice before the insurance money
will be paid.”
“What about Martin’s relations and the dead sailors’?”
“I am writing about that also. By the way, Maurice, we must get
Justinian this afternoon to take his men and go down to the sea-shore to
look after the bodies of those poor fellows. It seems horribly heartless
of us talking and laughing like we did last night, when so many human
beings have lost their lives.”
“It does rather, Crispin; but if we had mourned it would not have made
much difference. Hang it! that sounds rather cruel. Crispin, I am afraid
a semi-barbaric life is making me heartless.”
The poet said nothing, but, with a sad expression on his face, stared at
the table. It did seem heartless for them both to be light-hearted and
merry when Martin and the majority of his brave crew had gone to the
bottom; but there was some excuse, for they themselves had narrowly
escaped a similar fate, and that in itself was enough to make them
buoyant. After all, the dead are dead, and crying will not bring them
back; but both the Englishmen determined to search for the bodies that
very afternoon, and give them Christian burial, which was the only thing
they could really do for their lost comrades.
“What about those sailors?” asked Maurice, suddenly looking up.
“Oh, they must remain here until we can find some chance of sending them
to Syra. In fact, I’m not sure if I won’t tell my agents to send me out
another yacht to replace The Eunice, and then they can all ship on board
of her.”
“You extravagant fellow; another yacht! Even twelve thousand a year will
not stand such reckless use of money.”
“Oh, I won’t lose anything,” replied Crispin cheerfully. “I am not too
much of a poet to neglect business, and The Eunice was heavily insured.
When the money is paid by the underwriters, as it must be on my return
to England, it will go a long way towards the purchase of another boat.”
“So much for the buying; but can you trust your agents to get you a
yacht as good as the one you have lost?”
“Perhaps not in an ordinary case, but fortunately the twin ship to The
Eunice is in the market, and resembles her in all respects. That was a
few months ago, so if she is still to be had, I will instruct Danton &
Slabe to purchase her on my behalf, and send her to the Piræus. Then,
when we are tired of Melnos, we can cross over to the mainland, and have
a cruise up the Black Sea before returning to England.”
“That does not sound as if you were anxious to see Eunice,” said Maurice
dryly.
“I will be very glad to see Eunice again,” answered Crispin, reddening
slightly; “but the fact is, I have a small scheme in my head to get
Eunice and her mother, in company with Mr. Carriston, to come out to
Athens in my new yacht.”
“But with what idea?”
“Well,” said Crispin, looking down, “the fact is, Maurice, I do not
trust your aunt.”
“As to that, I don’t blame you,” answered that lady’s affectionate
nephew quietly.
“If she sees a better match for Eunice than I am,” resumed Crispin
calmly, “she will force the poor child into a marriage, and give me the
go-by. Mind you, Maurice, I love Eunice dearly, and in my eyes she is
nearly perfect, but I cannot conceal from myself that she has a somewhat
weak nature, and is dominated by her terrible mother. Once she is my
wife, and away from that influence, she will learn to be more
self-reliant, and less biassed by other people. Now, I see perfectly
well that there is going to be trouble here about Caliphronas.”
“I agree with you there. Caliphronas evidently wants to marry Helena,
who does not like him; and, moreover, Justinian refuses to favor the
marriage in any marked degree, so Caliphronas is just the kind of
sneaking scamp to go over to Alcibiades, and, if possible, make
trouble.”
“If that is the case, we are here for some time, and as I see you take
the same view of it as I do, you must perceive that we are here for some
months. If, then, I am away from England all that time, Mrs. Dengelton
will certainly try to persuade Eunice that I will not come back, and
marry her to some one else. However, if I can get Eunice out here, I
think I can trump Mrs. Dengelton’s best trick. Do you think, if I
instruct my agents about the yacht, and write to Mrs. Dengelton and the
Rector, that they will come out to Athens?”
“As to that, I am not sure,” replied Maurice slowly, “but I trust so,
with all my heart, as I wish to ask the Rector’s advice.”
“So you mentioned before, and promised to ask mine. I will be delighted
to give it to you, so tell me what is the matter. Helena?”
“Partly.”
“Hum! Caliphronas?”
“Partly.”
“Ho, ho! and Justinian?”
“Yes.”
“A very pretty trinity,” said Crispin, lighting a cigarette. “Well,
what’s to do?”
Maurice tilted his chair back against the wall, and followed Crispin’s
example with regard to tobacco, and prepared for a long talk on—to him—a
serious subject, viz. the settlement of his future life in one way or
the other.
“First of all,” said Maurice slowly, “I have been all over the village
with Justinian, and I cannot tell you how amazed I am. That such a
community, that such great works, should owe their origin to one man,
is, I think, a miracle. This dream of Justinian’s regarding a new Hellas
may or may not come to pass, but he has certainly laid the foundations
of a small independent state in a wonderfully judicious manner. What his
real name is, I, of course, do not know, but the one he has taken
certainly suits him admirably; he is a Justinian—a born law-giver, and
his system meets all the requirements of this simple community. As he
says himself, so long as he is at the helm, things will go on all right,
but should he die—which at his age is not unlikely—the success or
failure of this infant intellectual state depends on his successor. A
wise, clear-headed man will carry out the scheme to a successful issue;
but a hot-tempered, selfish ruler would doom the whole thing to
destruction. Justinian told me that he had brought up both you and
Caliphronas as his successors; but as to yourself, you went in search of
fame and love in England, and severed yourself entirely from his island
community.”
“I did not know Justinian desired me to succeed him,” said Crispin in a
tone of wonderment; “but even had I known, I hardly think things would
have gone differently. I am a poet, not a ruler; and Napoleons are made
of stronger stuff than mere bards piping their idle song, and letting
the world go by. No; Justinian never hinted at such a thing; and I
always thought that he favored Caliphronas as the heir to his island
throne.”
“Caliphronas!” echoed Maurice in a tone of deep disdain. “No; Justinian
is too keen a judge of character to mistake our Greek goose for a swan.
He told me himself that he does not trust Caliphronas, and more than
suspects him of having an understanding with that rascal Alcibiades
regarding the capture of Melnos.”
“The deuce!”
“Yes; you may well be astonished; but, from what I have seen of
Caliphronas, I believe it is quite likely to happen, the more so as this
handsome Greek’s vanity will receive a severe blow when he is refused—as
he certainly will be—by Helena. Well, you can see that Justinian will
not have Caliphronas to succeed him on his island throne, so, you two
candidates for the purple being thus disposed of”—
“Yes?” asked Crispin curiously, as Roylands hesitated.
“He wants me to ascend the throne when vacant.”
“You?”
“Myself! Are you not astonished?”
Crispin twirled his cigarette in his fingers, looked thoughtfully at the
red tip as if consulting it as an oracle, and then made slow reply.
“Yes, and no. Justinian evidently sees in you a clear-headed man, who
would carry out his scheme if you honorably promised to do so. He is
English, you are English, and he trusts none but his own countrymen, so
I cannot say that his offer to make you his successor startles me very
much.”
“But, my dear Crispin, granted I have these capabilities you so kindly
gift me with, of which I am doubtful, Justinian has only known me two
days, and a clever man as he is could scarcely come to a conclusion so
quickly.”
“Justinian is a good judge of character, and can tell the nature of a
man in five minutes, where you or I would take five years in the search.
Besides,” added the poet, with an imperceptible smile, “he may have
another and stronger reason.”
“You mean Helena, I suppose?”
Now Crispin did not mean Helena at all; but as what he did allude to was
not his own secret, he let Maurice believe that his supposition
regarding Helena was the right one.
“Well, yes; I suppose Helena is a reason.”
“Do you think he would let me marry her?” asked Maurice breathlessly.
“I am certain he would,” answered Crispin, looking straight at his
companion; “quite positive. But you—what about yourself?”
“I love her dearly.”
“Two days’ acquaintance—you love her dearly! Is that not rather sharp
work?”
“Two days!” echoed Maurice contemptuously. “I have known her longer than
that. I fell in love with her portrait, as you know, and resolved, if
she had the qualities I thought she had from her face, I would marry
her. From what I have seen of her, I am certain she has those qualities,
and would make me a good wife, provided always she consents to marry me.
Beautiful, pure, charming, simplicity itself; oh, my friend, she is
indeed a prize I may think myself lucky in winning!”
“When a man is in love,” said Crispin intensively, “it is no use
reasoning with him; and, as regards Helena, I quite approve of all you
say. She will make you an admirable wife; but, think to yourself, how
will this uncultured, simple girl look beside the cultured ladies of
England?”
“That is the very point about which I desire to ask your and the
Rector’s advice,” said Maurice eagerly. “Will I marry Helena, and accept
the post of governing this island? or will I marry Helena, and go back
to Roylands?”
“In any case, I see it is ‘marry Helena,’” rejoined his companion dryly;
“but really I hardly know what to say. Life here is charming and
indolent. You like charm and indolence, so why not stay here? On the
other hand, you have your ancestral acres, your position in the world,
to think of, and if you value these more than a life in this delightful
Castle of Indolence—well, go back.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Well, I have given you my advice, and, as is usual in such cases, you
will not take it.”
“It is such a difficult question.”
“Granted! but you will have to decide one way or the other shortly. One
thing is certain, that it would be beneficial to your art.”
“That is true enough.”
“After all,” said Crispin seductively, “what better life can you desire?
A ready-made kingdom, small and compact—a delightful climate—obedient
subjects—a lotus-eating existence—and Helena!”
“It is delightful—but duty?”
“Oh!” cried Crispin, shrugging his shoulders, “of course, if you are
going to invoke that bogie, I have nothing further to say. Ask the
Rector.”
“What do you think he will say?”
Crispin burst out laughing, and, sauntering to the window, threw his
burnt-out cigarette into the green grass beyond.
“Did ever any one hear such a man? My dear fellow, I cannot tell you
what the Rector will say. He is an ardent Hellenist, with his
Aristophanic studies, and may say, ‘Stay, by all means!’ On the other
hand, he is an English Church clergyman, with strong opinions as to the
absenteeism of landlords, and the duties they owe their tenants, in
which case he will certainly make you come back. But in either event you
will have your dear Helena.”
“I’m not so sure of that, Crispin. If I refuse Justinian’s request, he
may refuse me Helena.”
“Certainly; that is not impossible,” replied Crispin, returning to his
writing. “However, I will write to my agents about the yacht, to Mrs.
Dengelton and the Rector about their joining us at Athens. At my
invitation the Rector may not come, at yours he will.”
“Why?”
“Because you, my dear, simple old Maurice, are the apple of his eye; and
if you write him on the question of your staying here, he will certainly
hurry out at once, so as to see for himself how matters stand, and
advise you for the best.”
“Will you write as you intend? and I will also send a letter to
Carriston.”
“Don’t forget to enclose mine,” said Crispin warningly. “Remember you
are to that extent responsible for my wooing with Eunice. Will you write
your letter now?”
A delicious burst of girlish laughter sounded from the court.
“Helena!” cried Maurice, rising up so quickly as to upset his chair.
“Go away! go away!” said Crispin resignedly; “no chance of your writing
now with that sound in your ears. But, as the boat does not go till
to-morrow, you can have a holiday with Helena this afternoon; therefore,
go away.”
“Caliphronas is with her,” said Maurice, hesitating.
“And has been all the morning. Faint heart never won fair lady, so if
you don’t oust your rival, I am afraid she will be married by him under
your nose.”
“I’m hanged if she will!” cried Maurice angrily.
There was a second burst of laughter, upon which Crispin, with raised
eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders, pointed to the door, and resumed his
writing.
Maurice paused irresolutely, looked at the poet, and then darted out of
the door like a swallow, to find Helena standing alone in the court,
with her arms full of flowers.
“I have been flower-hunting on the mountains,” said Helena graciously;
“and this wild rose is for you.”