went downstairs to the library and asked for a glass of fine champagne
and seltzer water. He was pained to see Dora lose her gaiety. To give
him his due, his one hope was to soon see his ambitious dreams realised,
to consecrate anew his whole existence to his wife. He hated himself for
being unable to do so at once. But he had gone too far to retrace his
steps. He seemed to be carried along by an irresistible current. In his
heart of hearts he felt poignantly how much he was in the wrong, but he
could not bring himself to break off yet and give up his darling hopes.
His behaviour had assumed a disgraceful aspect to his eyes, although he
dared not own it to himself. Often and often he longed to go and throw
himself at Dora's feet. He had not the moral courage necessary to take a
decision on which the whole happiness of his wife depended. Every
feeling of delicacy and generosity in his composition revolted within
him, for he adored her. He fought hard, but each time he returned to the
attack he was vanquished.
Philip was unhappy, in spite of the gaiety he forced himself to assume;
within him was a mortal sadness.
He swallowed his drink, sat down, and began to think over what Dora had
said to him.
"Suppose," thought he, "that General Sabaroff should turn out to be
Dora's old admirer. Well, what then? He must have forgotten her long
ago--she never had any love for him--not even a school-girl's love.
Where is the danger? She has a painful recollection of him; but she is
no longer a child, she is a woman of the world. Why should she not
conquer her antipathy for him and make use of a little diplomacy to
render me a service? I must absolutely get General Sabaroff's approval.
Everything depends on that. But, what if he should not have forgotten
her, if he still loves her? He would not feel disposed to place a
fortune in my hands. Stay, though, perhaps he would, on the contrary, to
please Dora. Another reason why she should be amiable to him" ...
His evil genius urged him on.
"It's decided," said he; "whatever it may cost, I must have the man's
approbation of my shell--and I must have that money to be rich--really
rich. Yes, my dear father, I shall be wealthy, and I will prove to you
that it is possible to make a fortune without being your slave."
His spirits brightened considerably, and, rubbing his hands cheerfully,
he strode up and down the room exultantly, perfectly convinced that he
had formed a resolution which would turn out to his advantage.
"Suppose I should succeed! Well, of course I shall succeed. I must,
something tells me I shall, I will. Yes, this man Sabre-off or Sabre-on
must be made much of. As to Dora,--with some wives it might be a risky
experiment, but with her,--why, I should as soon think of doubting my
own existence as of doubting her! 'Oh, my darling!'" said he aloud,
taking up a photograph of Dora and kissing it, "'forgive me for having
had such a thought, and still more for having expressed it.' Yes, she
must receive this man smilingly whether he turns out to be a Sir Galahad
or not. I have gone too far to draw back now. It's annoying all the
same--pity there is so much sentimental nonsense in even the best of
women, and Dora is one out of ten thousand."
The final chords of a pianoforte solo reached his ears, followed by loud
applause.
"By Jove," said he, "I was nearly forgetting all about the party."
He hurriedly left the library and went upstairs to the drawing-room.
X
BELGRAVIA
Dora was receiving her guests at the top of the staircase, at the
entrance of the large drawing-room. Philip found about thirty people
already arrived, and he proceeded to shake hands and distribute words of
welcome. At half-past ten it had become difficult to circulate in the
rooms; the staircase and hall were crowded, but a stream of carriages
still flowed up.
At eleven o'clock the fete was at its height, veritably dazzling. The
lights, the flowers, made it a fairy scene. It was a phantasmagoria of
heads, bare shoulders, black coats, diamonds, shimmering satins, and
priceless lace; and, permeating the whole, a perfume as of hot-house
flowers.
All the types of society were to be recognised in the throng--the
diplomatists, with their eternal smile and irreproachably cut clothes;
the aristocracy, with its frigid bored look, occasionally smiling, as
if by mechanism; the City by its biblical noses; the Stock Exchange by
those cold, metallic, careworn men, aged before their time by the
wrinkles that money preoccupations plough on their foreheads; literature
by men bright and interested in everything around them, cheerily
provoking ripples of laughter among the women, and recounting their best
anecdotes among the men. The fine arts were represented by a few
noble-looking heads rising out of Shakespeare collars.
On all sides were exquisite toilettes, setting off forms of dazzling
fairness and admirable poise--a complete representative crowd of that
calm, proud, haughty British nation, full of dignity, robust health, and
self-confidence; a nation that holds in its hands the destinies of half
the earth.
Lorimer and de Lussac met in a corner of the drawing-room.
"What a reception!" said de Lussac. "All London is rubbing shoulders
here, in order to have a look at the man who has invented the famous
shell."
"And his wife," added Lorimer.
"And his wife," repeated de Lussac. "I never saw her looking so lovely.
Raphael might have drawn the oval of her face, Murillo her eyes, Titian
her hair, Rubens her shoulders."
"And a modern English painter the sadness of her brow," said Lorimer.
"Doesn't she look bored, poor woman?"
"That puts the finishing touch, and helps to make her superb--ideal. A
calm, cold, sad face is the one _mieux portee_ in England. It is almost
_de rigueur_. Nothing is such bad form as to appear to enjoy life. She
is quite _a la mode_."
"_A la mort_," said Lorimer. "My dear fellow, I'll tell you what it is,
such parties as this give me shivers down the back. Your countrywoman,
Madame Vigee-Lebrun, was right when she said, 'The English amuse
themselves as the French bore themselves.'"
"Then why do you come here, old fellow?"
"Oh, I! Why, I come as a doctor. I am deeply interested in a special
case. I am studying and following carefully the progress of a malady. I
am here diagnosing."
"And your patient is" ...
"Our worthy host," said Lorimer.
"How do you find him to-day?"
"The disease is taking its course; he will get over it; but the cure
will take time."
Lorimer fixed his eyeglass in his eye, and surveyed the crowd.
"Ah," he ejaculated, letting his glass drop again, "how I preferred the
good little Bohemian Sunday suppers, the pretty little house in St.
John's Wood! The servants were dismissed, and everybody helped everybody
else. There was a house where gaiety reigned supreme, _en autocrate_!
And what music we used to have! What glorious talks, what delicious
discussions on every topic under the sun! Artists, writers, journalists,
out-vied one another in brilliancy. Politics were put aside, and the
Bourse and all that makes modern life insufferable. We were never more
than twelve of us, so that the conversation could always be general,
and, for that matter, the house did not contain a room large enough to
hold comfortably more than a dozen people. How all the guests harmonised
together! Those were parties. Here they are funereal functions. In a
small room conversation is easy, people can talk easily. In a large room
one is swamped, and feels like a solution of oneself."
"I see," said de Lussac, "that in spite of all your successes, you have
remained a philosopher."
"More than ever. But look round you. Look at all these faces. These
people touch a spring to make themselves smile. Oh, if that is your
fashion of enjoying yourself, thanks, I prefer something else. Every
time I come among this set, I am taken with furious longings every
quarter of an hour to rush into the street and shout, to assure myself
that I am alive. Poor old Grantham! It was his dream to see his wife
shine in society. Poor devil! and such a good fellow, not to speak of
his great future as a painter. However, there is our hostess coming
towards us. Look at her! How happy she looks, this queen with her new
crown--a capital model for 'Mary Stuart going to the Scaffold.'"
De Lussac, recognising some people he knew, moved off to join their
group. Lorimer went towards Dora, who smiled with relief at seeing him
in the crowd. Everyone seemed to have arrived now, and there was no need
for her to remain at her post; but, in case of possible fresh comers,
she stayed near the entrance of the room. She looked pale, her face was
drawn with fatigue, and her eyes looked unnaturally large.
"Oh, what good it does one to see an old friend's familiar face in a
crowd like this," she said to Lorimer, drawing him back towards the
doorway of the large drawing-room. "My dear Gerald, I don't believe I
know by sight the half of my guests."
The idea struck her as so funny that she began to laugh heartily.
"Do you know half?" exclaimed Lorimer; "that is very good really. As for
the crowd, don't complain of that. An English hostess is a failure if
people do not stifle in her drawing-room; and if half a dozen women
faint, then the party is a social success that covers its giver with
glory. The society papers talk of her.--You seem tired."
"Yes," said Dora, "tired--at the end of my strength and my courage."
"Let me take you to the buffet."
They went down together. Lorimer got her a biscuit, an ice, and a glass
of champagne, and this light refreshment reanimated her.
On their way back to the drawing-room Lorimer took up the thread of the
conversation again.
"Come now, my dear Dora," said he, "your lot is very enviable after all,
you know. You are young, beautiful, rich, adored--one of the queens of
society. What more do you ask?"
"I ask nothing more," replied Dora; "I ask a great deal less. A queen in
society! I had rather be queen at home, as I used to be. We were left in
peace in those times. Now all the idlers pry into our life. And why?
Oh, it is too silly! Because Philip refused to sell Sir Benjamin Pond a
picture which he was painting for me. Yes, that is what is occupying
them to-night. They all go to have a look at the portrait, one after
another, and then they laugh. Can you conceive such a thing? There
exists, or rather there existed, a painter who loved his wife, and did
not mind showing it! Is it not droll? So vulgar, you know! It appears
that it creates high fun at the clubs. Ah, you may talk about women's
tongues, but to retail rubbish and circulate scandal, you must get a
dozen men together in a club smoking-room. They are beyond competition,
my dear Gerald. I would give all my guests for a couple of intimate
friends, for a couple of devoted relatives. Ah, you may say what you
like, blood is thicker than afternoon tea."
"You were too happy," said Lorimer, who had been amused at Dora's
tirade; "now you must share your happiness a little."
"Yes, and my husband with everybody. Where is my share? How I should
like to leave this room and go and sit in a quiet corner for a good
talk, such as we used to have in the good old times in the other house."
"Why move? Stay where you are, and instead of thinking yourself on
show, try and imagine that all this crowd is here for your amusement. I
know all your guests personally or by sight. I am your 'Who's who' for
to-night. Make use of me. I will show and explain the magic lantern."
"So you shall," said Dora, amused by the suggestion. "Now, then, who is
that horrible creature painted and dyed, with eyes half out of her head
and an eternal sickly smile on her face?"
"Lady Agatha Ashby, an old grump of the fashionable world. No one knows
her age. Some say it is seventy-two, others put it at a hundred and
seventy-two. She is enamelled, and the mouth, as you see it, is fixed in
that way with a smile that lasts three hours. They say she used to be
pretty and rather witty. Makes it her duty to know everybody worth
knowing. Will probably leave memoirs behind her--a diary at anyrate."
"And those?" said Dora, indicating two couples passing near her.
"The Earl of Gampton. Behind him the Countess, a young American woman,
who brought him three million dollars, with which he has been able to
get his coat-of-arms out of pawn. Our British aristocracy gets regilded
in Chicago and New York."
"How can a woman love or respect a man who allows himself to be
purchased for a title of nobility?"
"And," said Lorimer, "how can a man love or respect a woman who buys
him, and degrades him in his own eyes?"
"You are right," responded Dora. "I cannot see any possible element of
happiness in such marriages. She is ugly," she added, after taking a
second look at the Countess.
"Beauty fades," said Lorimer, in excuse for Lord Gampton.
"Yes, but ugliness remains," replied Dora.
"And the dollars, too, happily--it is a compensation--a fine indemnity."
"Not always; fortunes have been known to fade too."
"Ah," ejaculated Lorimer, as there passed by him a middle-aged man,
fairly good-looking, but wearing a forbidding, sulky expression, "there
is Sir George Hardy. He has not inflicted his wife on you."
"No, thank Heaven!--if what people say is true."
"True enough. People don't ask Lady Hardy, but Sir George is a
philosopher; he does not resent being asked out alone; and he has the
good sense never to try and introduce one to his wife. There are two
kinds of women--those you marry, and those you don't introduce to your
friends. Sir George has them both in one."
"What a dead-weight such a woman must be! To be proud of one's wife, to
be proud of one's husband--that is one of the great keys to happiness in
married life. Oh, Gerald, do look at that imposing-looking matron; who
is she?"
"The Dowager-Countess of Chausey, pretty well known for her serious
flirtations in 1850."
"How can a woman of her age go about so outrageously uncovered? So long
as English women do not show their feet, they think they are all right.
Her dress is perfectly indecent."
"Not the dress, but its contents," said Lorimer. "The Countess might, it
is true, draw a veil across the past and leave something to the
imagination of the beholder. But the fun of the thing is, that the
dowager is one of the vice-presidents of the society recently founded
for the suppression of the nude in our museums and picture galleries. O
the British matron!"
"What a proud carriage she has for a woman of her age," said Dora.
"One would think she was carrying the Holy Grail--two Holy Grails in a
Parsifal procession."
"Upon my word, I do believe," said Dora, "that women nowadays trust to
providence to keep their dresses on their backs! But what lovely frocks!
I do not understand how there can still be people who say that the
English woman does not know how to dress."
"Not now. A few years back one might have said with truth that the
German woman was covered, the English woman was clothed!"
"Not always," said Dora, laughing.
"The American was arrayed, but the French woman alone was dressed. In
the present day, the English woman of good society dresses as tastefully
as her French sisters, and this fact would be known in France, if
English women had not that bad habit of putting all their oldest
garments into requisition when they travel."
"French women have not much to teach us now."
"One or two things still. A little Parisian dressmaker, who would come
over and set up in England to teach English women to hold their dresses
up in the street, ought to make a fortune in no time. It is the most
graceful, artistic, and typical movement of the French woman."
"On the other hand, my dear Gerald," said Dora, "French women mince or
trot or proceed, English women walk. We are their superiors in many
things."
"We might make comparisons without end, and finally be sorely puzzled
where to award the prize."
Here the servant announced "Mrs. Van der Leyd Smith."
"Smythe--not Smith," said the new arrival, indignantly turning to the
domestic.
"That is the mother of Lady Gampton," whispered Lorimer to Dora.
Dora rose and went to shake hands with her.
"I am a little late," she said; "I have been to the Queen's Theatre to
see _Majella_. It is a play that will draw crowded houses till the end
of next season. You have seen it, of course."
"Yes," said Dora, "I was at the first night--allow me to introduce its
author--Mr. Gerald Lorimer."
"What a pleasure to meet you!" said she, as Lorimer came forward and
bowed. "I congratulate you sincerely; your play is a _chef-d'oeuvre_.
The house was packed to-night, and the enthusiasm boundless."
"I am happy the public appreciate the play," said Lorimer, bowing his
acknowledgments of her compliments.
"_Majella_ will place our old friend in the front rank of the dramatic
authors of the day."
"And fill his coffers to the brim," said the American lady, with a
knowing glance, which meant, "that is the main thing."
Lorimer and Dora exchanged comprehensive looks. The lady's wink had
explained in one flash the motto of New York. Not _who are you?_ nor
_what are you?_ nor yet _what have you done?_ but _how much do you
make?_
Loud and evidently sincere applause was heard coming from the smaller
drawing-room where the concert was being given. Presently there
appeared, making towards the staircase, a tall fair young man who
replied by smiles and repeated bows to the bravos which were accorded to
him by this _blase_ audience of people, little accustomed to lavish
applause on anyone. It was Schowalski, a well-known pianist who came to
London every year to give a concert, and play in drawing-rooms during
the season. At a certain distance, Schowalski's head recalled that of
his celebrated compatriot and confrere Paderewski; however, he had not
the delicate, finely chiselled profile which gives the latter his
striking and unforgetable physiognomy. Taller, more vigorous, more
solidly and massively built, with long light hair, straight and thick,
and his enormous moustache falling in a semicircle around the mouth, he
might have sat for Brennus or Vercingetorix.
Dora held out her hand as he was about to go downstairs.
"Thanks a thousand times," said she; "you have played like an angel."
And she introduced him to the American lady still at her side.
"I had the honour of making madame's acquaintance in New York," said
Schowalski, bowing.
"Really," replied Mrs. W. G. van der Leyd Smythe, "when was that?"
"Why, two years ago in New York, in your drawing-room, where I had the
honour of playing."
"That's true--I think I remember--in January 1896; yes, yes--delighted
to meet you again, Mr. ... I never can remember names--what is his name
again?" asked she of Dora.
Schowalski heard no more. He bowed, shook hands with a few friends and
disappeared.
"Schowalski is one of the greatest pianists of the day," said Dora.
"I know, I know," said the lady with the string of names, "but what
impertinence to enter into conversation with your guests, as if he had
been invited. Upon my word, the effrontery of these musicians!"
She followed him with her eyes as she stared through a pair of
long-handled glasses, that are a weapon of offence in the fingers of
some women.
"Well, to be sure," she cried, "if he isn't shaking hands with Lady
Gampton now! My dear Mrs. Grantham, in New York we do not entertain
musicians, we engage them to entertain us--we pay them and we are
quits."
"My dear Mrs. Van der Leyd Smith"--
"Smythe," said the lady, correcting Dora.
"Excuse me, I never can remember names. In England, artists like
Schowalski are received by the aristocracy and even at Court. Perhaps
that makes them so bold as to think they may be fit to associate with
the aristocracy of New York."
"Take that," she said to herself.
The magnificent New Yorker fanned herself, smiled a little awry, and
went to join the group which held her daughter, the Countess of Gampton.
Lorimer had not lost a word of the conversation. He would fain have
cried "Bravo."
"For a _debutante_," said he, "you are going strong--that was
promising."
"My dear Gerald, I feel that I am getting spiteful--I shall bite soon."
Just at this moment, quite near the door, she perceived a lady taking
notes. She had already noticed her before--this person who drew up every
now and then near certain groups, carefully studied the dresses, and
looked up and down the people whom she did not seem to know.
"Do tell me," Dora said to Lorimer, "who is that woman who puzzles me
so? What is she doing? She seems to be taking notes; just now she was
making little sketches--she is an artist, no doubt."
"How innocent you are!" cried Lorimer, laughing loudly. "Yes, she is an
artist, if you will--who works for some fashion paper--or a lady
reporter taking notes for a society paper."
"But I do not know her," said Dora; "I am perfectly sure I never asked
her here."
"You, no; but perhaps someone else. For that matter reporters find
their way pretty nearly everywhere without invitation. It is their
calling. This one is taking notes, to publish in her paper an account of
your party."
"But it is an insult," cried Dora; "I wish they would leave me alone. I
don't want accounts in papers--my house is private."
"Wait a moment--why, yes," exclaimed Lorimer, who had just put up his
eyeglass to look at the lady in question; "yes, of course, I know her,
she writes for _The Social Wave_, a paper for people in the swim. Shall
I introduce her to you?"
"Oh, no thank you, please don't," replied Dora.
"Some time ago," continued Lorimer, "I used to meet her often at
parties. She is a rather clever little woman, and has the knack of
turning out readable paragraphs. She is tolerated everywhere for the
sake of what she writes--you know, there are plenty of people who like
publicity."
Lorimer had noticed that the lady reporter had let fall two leaves from
her notebook. He watched his opportunity, picked them up, and brought
them to Dora.
"Look, we are going to have some fun. I have samples. Listen, 'Lady
Mardon looked thrillingly lovely in electric blue ... her superb
shoulders'" ...
"Enough, enough," said Dora. "The idea of it."
"Wait a minute; here is something else. 'Lady Margaret Solby wore a
dream of sea-green and salmon, and was the admiration of everyone. Mrs.
Van der Leyd Smythe received congratulations on all sides on the subject
of her daughter's marriage with the young Earl of Gampton.'"
"And people read that!" said Dora.
"Certainly, and, more wonderful still, people buy it. Oh, listen to
this, here is something that concerns you personally. 'Mrs. Philip
Grantham wore a dress of white satin, trimmed with lace and silver
embroidery, and, blazing with diamonds and emeralds, received her guests
with a simplicity and a grace which will speedily make her one of the
most popular hostesses in London.' Now, that is what I call amiable; she
treats you with generosity." And seeing that Dora seemed very much
annoyed, he added, "That is the kind of literature that delights our
modest countrywomen."
"There are no more journalists," said Dora, with disgust, "there are
only _concierges_."
She took the pages and tore them in shreds. Then, with a little feeling
of shame at having been amusing herself at the expense of her guests,
she rose, made a little sign to Lorimer, and was soon swallowed up in
the crush, saying a few pleasant words here and there to her
acquaintances as she went.
Lorimer went down to the buffet, where he found Schowalski, who was
going in heavily for sandwiches, cakes and ices and champagne. The
appetite of musicians is proverbial!
"Ah, Monsieur Lorimer," said he, "I am so glad to see you, you will be
the very man to render me a little service. I have just finished," he
added in confidence, "a grand concerto in four parts for the piano. In
that concerto I have expressed all the great sorrows of life: First, an
adagio--sad, full of tears; then a grand allegro, full of despair. You
understand, don't you? Well, what I am trying to find is a title, a
telling title. As a playwright you know the importance of a good title.
Can you suggest something?"
"My dear sir," said Lorimer, "great sorrows are silent."
"What do you mean?" asked the pianist, for whom British humour was a
closed letter. "Are you joking with me? How can one be silent and make
music?"