THE COMING OF SILENCIEUX
The manner in which Antony had found and come to love Silencieux was a
strange illustration of that law by which one love grows out of
another--that law by which men love living women because of the dead,
and dead women because of the living.
One day as chance had sent him, picking his way among the orange boxes,
the moving farms, and the wig-makers of Covent Garden, he had come upon
a sculptor's shop, oddly crowded in among Cockney carters and decaying
vegetables. Faces of Greece and Rome gazed at him suddenly from a broad
window, and for a few moments he forsook the motley beauty of modern
London for the ordered loveliness of antiquity.
Through white corridors of faces he passed, with the cold breath of
classic art upon his cheek, and in the company of the dead who live for
ever he was conscious of a contagion of immortality.
Soon in an alcove of faces he grew conscious of a presence. Some one was
smiling near him. He turned, and, almost with a start, found that--as he
then thought--it was no living thing, but just a plaster cast among the
others, that was thus shining, like a star among the dead. A face not
ancient, not modern; but a face of yesterday, to-day, and for ever.
Instantly he knew he had seen the face before. Where?
Why, of course, it was the face of Beatrice, feature for feature. How
strange!--and, loving Beatrice, he bought it, because of his great love
for her! Who was the artist, what the time and circumstance, that had
anticipated in this strange fashion the only face he had ever really
loved on earth?
He sought information of the shopkeeper, who told him a strange little
story of an unknown model and an unknown artist, and two tragic fates.
When Antony had brought Silencieux home to Beatrice, she had at first
taken that delight in her which every created thing takes in a perfect,
or even an imperfect, reflection of itself. To have been anticipated in
a manner so unusual gave back in romantic suggestiveness what at first
sight it seemed to steal from one's personal originality. Only at first
sight--for, if like Beatrice, you were the possessor of a face so
uncommon in type that your lover might, with little fear of disproof,
declare, at all events in England, that there was none other like it,
you might grow superstitious as you looked at an anticipation so
creepily identical, and conceive strange fancies of re-incarnation. What
if this had been you in some former existence! Or at all events, if
there is any truth in those who tell us that in the mould and lines of
our faces and hands--yes! and in every secret marking of our bodies--our
fates are written as in a parchment; would it not be reasonable to
surmise, perhaps to fear, that the writing should mean the same on one
face as on the other, and the fates as well as the faces prove
identical?
Beatrice gave the mask back to Antony, with a little shiver.
"It is very wonderful, very strange, but she makes me frightened. What
was the story the man told you, Antony?"
"No doubt it was all nonsense," Antony replied, "but he said that it was
the death-mask of an unknown girl found drowned in the Seine."
"Drowned in the Seine!" exclaimed Beatrice, growing almost as white as
the image.
"Yes! and he said too that the story went that the sculptor who moulded
it had fallen so in love with the dead girl, that he had gone mad and
drowned himself in the Seine also."
"Can it be true, Antony?"
"I hope so, for it is so beautiful,--and nothing is really beautiful
till it has come true."
"But the pain, the pity of it--Antony."
"That is a part of the beauty, surely--the very essence of its beauty--"
"Beauty! beauty! O Antony, that is always your cry. I can only think of
the terror, the human anguish. Poor girl--" and she turned again to the
image as it lay upon the table,--"see how the hair lies moulded round
her ears with the water, and how her eyelashes stick to her cheek--Poor
girl."
"But see how happy she looks. Why should we pity one who can smile like
that? See how peaceful she looks;" and with a sudden whim, Antony took
the image and set it lying back on a soft cushion in a corner of the
couch, at the same time throwing round its neck his black cloak, which
he had cast off as he came in.
The image nestled into the cushion as though it had veritably been a
living woman weary for sleep, and softly smiling that it was near at
last. So comfortable she seemed, you could have sworn she breathed.
Antony lifted her head once or twice with his fingers, to delight
himself with seeing her sink back luxuriously once more.
Beatrice grew more and more white.
"Antony, please stop. I cannot bear it. She looks so terribly alive."
At that moment Antony's touch had been a little too forcible, the image
hung poised for a moment and then began to fall in the direction of
Beatrice.
"Oh, she is falling," she almost screamed, as Antony saved the cast from
the floor. "For God's sake, stop!"
"How childish of you, Beatrice. She is only plaster. I never knew you
such a baby."
"I cannot help it, Antony. I know it is foolish, but I cannot help it. I
think living in this place has made me morbid. She seems so alive--so
evil, so cruel. I am sorry you bought her, Antony. I cannot bear to look
at her. Won't you take her away? Take her up into the wood. Keep her
there. Take her now. I shall not be able to sleep all night if I know
she is in the house."
She was half hysterical, and Antony soothed her gently.
"Yes, yes, dear. I'm sorry. I'll take her up the wood now this minute.
Wait till I light the lantern. Poor Beatrice, I never dreamed she would
affect you so. I loved her, dear--because I love you; but I would rather
break her in pieces than that she should make you unhappy. Though to
break any image of you, dear," he added tenderly, "would seem a kind of
sacrilege. You know how I love you, Beatrice, don't you?"
"Of course I do, dear; and it was sweet of you to buy her for my sake,
and I'm quite silly to-night. To-morrow I shall think nothing about her.
Still, dear, she does frighten me, I can't tell why. There seems
something malignant about her, something that threatens our happiness.
Oh, how silly I am--"
Meanwhile, Antony had lit an old brass lantern, and presently he was
flashing his way up among the dark sounds of the black old wood, with
that ghostly face tenderly pressed against his side.
He stopped once to turn his lantern upon her. How mysterious she looked,
here in the night, under the dark pines!
He too felt a little haunted as he climbed his châlet staircase and
unlocked the door, every sound he made echoing fatefully in the silent
wood; and when he had found a place for the image and hung her there,
she certainly looked a ghostly companion for the midnight lamp, in the
middle of a wood.
How strangely she smiled, the smile almost of one taking possession.
No wonder Beatrice had been frightened. Was there some mysterious life
in the thing, after all? Why should these indefinite forebodings come
over him as he looked at her!--But he was growing as childish as
Beatrice. Surely midnight, a dark wood, a lantern, and a death-mask,
with two owls whistling to each other across the valley, were enough to
account for any number of forebodings! But Antony shivered, for all
that, as he locked the door and hastened back again down the wood.