THE DINNER AT THE VILLEBOIS' HOUSE
Ce qu'il y a de plus beau dans la vie c'est les illusions de la vie.
Balzac, _Physiologie du Marriage_, Med. iv.
Since Eve ate apples much depends on dinner.
Byron, _Don Juan_, Cant. viii.
Wine whets the wit, improves its native force,
And gives a pleasant flavour to discourse.
Pomfret (_The Choice._)
"Allons, allons," said Madame Villebois, "we can discuss all about
dress while we are having our dinner, although I really think that
people in these days give too much attention to both dress and eating."
"Ah, no, madame, permit me to disagree," said Marcel, smiling. "It
seems to me that this is becoming the age of small things. The modern
man can now without discomfort carry his dinner in a sandwich-case, and
the modern woman considers her luggage complete if she is carrying her
latest dress creation in her handbag."
"Dinner is the greatest peacemaker of civilisation yet invented," said
Villebois; "together with a good glass of red wine it makes us, for the
time being, friends with all the world. The busy man may consider it a
trifle, but to my mind it is only the trifles after all which count.
Nations, for instance, never go to war about important matters. What
was the cause of the Franco-German war? Merely an absurd argument about
the candidates for the Spanish throne, a matter that few cared two
sous about. Is not the entire human race (according to the authority
of the Holy Church) doomed to everlasting perdition simply because a
woman ate an apple, or something which she was told not to--goodness
only knows how many centuries ago? Did not England become a Protestant
country simply because the Pope refused to allow Henry the Eighth to
divorce his wife Katherine?"
"But I can give you a better instance," said Riche. "If we are to
believe Dr. Ross, the decline and fall of the glorious Greek nation was
due to the merest trifle in the world--a tiny insect--the Anopheles, a
malaria-carrying mosquito."
"Really, is that a fact?" interposed Marcel, "but talking of trifles,
what do you think of Napoleon having to abdicate simply because his
cook roasted a fowl in too great a hurry, and so caused him to have an
attack of indigestion, whereby he lost the great battle of the Nations
at Leipzig."
"This sounds like trifling with our common-sense," said Pierre to Renée
in the hope of attracting her attention away from Marcel.
"Yes," said Delapine who had just caught the word 'trifles,' "I owe
everything to trifles. They control the essentials of life. The man who
can see further than other men is doubtless a genius, but he who can
do that and at the same time attend to trifles and details goes much
further; he not only rises to the top, but he stays there."
"Details are always vulgar," whispered Pierre to Renée, as he helped
himself to a slice of pheasant stuffed with truffles.
"Did you say vulgar?" asked Marcel, who had just managed to catch the
last word of the whispered conversation, "I agree with our friend
Villebois that our happiness is largely made up of trifles: perhaps
that accounts for the fact that lovely woman has devoted her life to
trifling. The divine creatures trifle with our hearts, and then when
they have stolen them, they make tire-lires of them."
"I have studied the fair sex all my life," said Riche, "and I assure
you I understand them less now than ever. When a man flatters himself
that he understands a woman, he----"
"Merely flatters himself?" interposed Marcel laughing.
"Woman generally tries to attract a man's eye, by means of her feminine
magnetism and then blames him for being caught by prettiness and
superficial charms. But she rarely tries to appeal to his better self,"
said Delapine.
"Life, after all," interposed Riche, "is a tragedy to those who feel,
but to those who think, it is only a huge comedy. My rule is never to
appear in earnest, except, of course, when seeing my patients. If a man
is serious, everyone votes him a bore, and the ladies only laugh at
him. An over-sensitive conscience is simply the evidence of spiritual
dyspepsia. The man who has it is no better than his fellows."
"A man considers his little weaknesses mere amiable traits," said
Pierre, "whereas a woman----"
"Will not admit that she has any," said Marcel.
"A woman is invariably right," said Dr. Riche with a sigh. "A woman is
guided by instinct, a man by reason, and for the good it does him he
might as well have never thought at all."
"Yes," interrupted Marcel, "and if you prove that she is in the wrong,
she will become the more convinced that she was right all the time, and
you will only get laughed at for your pains."
"My dear Marcel," said Villebois, "you will be making enemies of the
ladies if you say that, and to make them your enemies is worse than a
crime--it is a folly!"
"The gentle art of making enemies is the only natural accomplishment
which is common to all sorts and conditions of men," added Riche.
"One can never be too careful in the choice of one's enemies," said
Marcel, toying with a dish of salted almonds. "I always choose my
enemies more carefully than I do my friends, and therefore they respect
and appreciate me. Isn't that so, Monsieur Duval?"
"At any rate," replied the young advocate, "one's enemies are much the
more useful--they can be counted on to advertise us behind our backs,
whereas our friends merely flatter us to our faces."
"How tasteless is the soup unless flavoured by the sauce of our
enemies," said Marcel.
"You seem to be taking a very pessimistic view of mankind," exclaimed
Villebois. "I believe there is a sub-stratum of good in all bad people,
and if one makes enemies it is to a great degree one's own fault."
"From all our enemies, and most of our friends, good Lord deliver us,"
added Riche.
"To my mind," said Villebois, "bad and good men are only a matter of
degree. It entirely depends upon the point of view, and there is a
great deal more in the point of view than is generally admitted."
"Yes," said Marcel, "our weaknesses we regard as misfortunes from
which we cannot escape; whereas the weaknesses of others we consider
to be shocking crimes. While we all pretend to hate sin, we are only
charitable to the sinner when we happen to be the one in question."
"Ah, well, the devil is never so black as he is painted, in fact he is
far more like us than we care to admit," said Delapine. "I feel sure,"
he added, "if we saw ourselves as others see us, we should refuse to
believe our own eyes. If we could only combine what others think of us
with what we think of ourselves we should probably get at the truth."
"Good and bad are only abstracts," interrupted Pierre, "but money, good
solid tangible money, is, after all, the only thing of real importance
in this world."
"But surely there are things of more value than money," said Riche
enquiringly.
"Of course there are," replied Pierre, "and that is why I need all the
money I can get to acquire them. Take lovely woman, for example. A man
with money can marry any girl he pleases."
"Ah! you are right there," interrupted Marcel. "I for one believe that
women only admire the gilded youth because he is a golden calf!"
"Important things are out of fashion," said Delapine. "People
now-a-days will argue for hours about such things as the flavour of
wines, the latest novel, or a new way of driving a golf ball; but
deadly serious matters, such as being married or hanged, or the chances
of a future life in Heaven or Hell are treated as a huge joke, if they
are ever referred to at all."
"I still maintain that money comes before everything," said Duval.
"With money one can buy everything worth having: pleasures, friendship,
and even love. As Goethe says:
"Ja! wenn zu Sol sich Luna fein gesellt,
Zum Silber, Gold, dann ist es heitre Welt;
Das Ubrige ist alles zu erlangen;
Paläste, Gärten, Brüstlein, rote Wangen."
"No, no, a thousand times no," cried Delapine, "that I never can agree
to. Riches will not buy everything, in fact they will scarcely buy
anything that is genuine, or worth having--neither real pleasures,
friends, nor genuine love--nor is it essential to success. A man's
life should be judged by the results obtained, or by the work he has
achieved, not by the amount of money he has accumulated. Happiness is
not obtained by money, but is the outcome of conscious usefulness. The
accomplishment of good work of any kind produces more solid contentment
and satisfaction than all the money in the world. True happiness
lies in content, and sweet content finds everywhere enough. Nearly
all the really great men have been poor, or at least have begun life
handicapped for want of money," continued the professor. "It looks
like a decree of nature in order to give them that stimulus and grit
necessary to carry them over all obstacles."
"I know from my own experiences," said Riche, "the wealthy man does
not care for the things which only require his filling in a cheque
to acquire; and to the poor man the most acute pleasure lies in
anticipation."
"That is quite true," added the professor. "If one possessed all,
everything would be mere discontent and disillusion. A surfeit of
happiness is fatal. If there is nothing left to desire, there is
everything to fear."
"Everything comes to the man who knows how to wait, but it is no
inducement to wait, for no man wants everything," said Villebois. "Yes,
he usually wants one thing in particular--just that one thing which he
never gets, no matter how long he waits," said Marcel, laughing.
"Have you been to the comédie lately?" asked Renée of Madame Villebois
who was sitting opposite to her, looking extremely bored, and
apparently utterly unable to follow the conversation.
"Yes, my dear, we went to see Yvette Guilbert, and she looked just too
lovely in a dress specially created for her by Worth. The gown had a
white sponge skirt with basque bodice of mulberry satin, and such a
love of a bodice carried out in pink geranium brocaded crêpe. The right
hip was swathed in black satin, and the left side had the material
draped and caught up above the hem with a gold buckle and fringe of
black silk. Then Mademoiselle Patel had a delightful three piece gown
of pale green poplin, with a corsage of old filigree tissue showing
just a touch of chêne ribbon on each side, while the neck ended in a
creamy white lace ruffle. And, Renée dear, you should have seen her
hat. It was a perfect poem. Just think of this:--Swathed crêpe de
chine, with shaded flowers laid flat all along the rim, which she wore
slightly tilted up at the back so as to show a pale green lining to
match the gown.
"Oh! how lovely," exclaimed Renée, clapping her hands, "I wish I had
been there, but what I want most to hear is what the play was about,
and how you liked it."
"Really, Renée, you should not ask such absurd questions. I was so
taken up with the dresses that I forgot all about the play. By the way,
I have just ordered a frock like Mademoiselle Patel's for myself. You
must come with me and see it tried on."
"Of course, I like pretty frocks, what girl doesn't? But I like a good
play ever so much more. I get so carried away with the acting that
I never notice what the people wear so long as they are not out of
harmony with the play or the music. I went to see Romeo and Juliet for
the first time last Saturday, and you can't think how I enjoyed it. But
I was so sorry for poor Juliet, and felt drawn to her right away. I
even found myself weeping. That speech of Friar Lawrence to her was so
fine that I learnt it off by heart as soon as I got home. Of course you
know it--don't you, madame," she asked enquiringly.
"What was it again? I am afraid I have forgotten it," said madame, who
had not the remotest idea of what Renée was talking about.
"You must remember, in order to stop her marrying Paris whom she
loathed, the Friar gave her a drug to swallow, which he told her would
leave her to all appearances dead, and then she would wake up again
quite well as soon as the danger was over; you know, it runs like
this:--
"Hold, then; go home, be merry, give consent
To marry Paris; Wednesday is to-morrow;
To-morrow night look that thou lie alone
Let not thy nurse lie with thee in thy chamber:
Take thou this vial being then in bed,
And this distilled liquor drink thou off:
When, presently through all thy veins shall run
A cold and drowsy humour: for no pulse
Shall keep his native progress, but surcease;
No warmth, no breath shall testify thou liv'st.
The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade
To paly ashes: thy eyes' windows fall
Like death, when he shuts up the day of Life.
Each part, deprived of supple government,
Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death:
And in this borrowed likeness of shrunk death:
Thou shalt continue two-and-forty hours.
And then awake as from a pleasant sleep."
"I have often thought," interrupted Delapine who was listening most
intently, "how I should like to leave this life, and then after a long
sojourn in some other world, to wake up and find myself, like Juliet,
once more at home. What countless problems one could solve, problems
which have occupied the scientists for years. You cannot imagine,
Renée, my intense longing to enter into the unknown and penetrate into
the sealed mysteries of Nature. Alas, that exquisite joys should be
denied to us, who are the first and last of all things, the Ultima
Thule of evolution. I feel sometimes that in some extraordinary way
I shall see it, Renée, but how, where, or when is more than I can
conceive even in my wildest dreams."
So earnest and so wrapt was the young professor, and so apparently
far away mentally while giving voice to his feelings, that a silence
fell upon the assembled guests, and each one in turn leaned forward
expectantly for what was to follow. The first, however, to break the
spell was Renée.
"Something tells me, in fact has been telling me for some time, that
you will have your wish, dear professor. It was only a couple of nights
ago that I dreamt----"
"Really, Renée, you ought to----"
"Oh, please let me, Madame Villebois, I was only going to say that I
dreamt that you, professor, had left this world and had gone so far,
far away, that you were so happy; and then I saw you lying down so
peacefully and you were fast asleep, and when I went up and spoke to
you, you never answered, and they told me that you were dead."
"Renée, how can you tell such things," cried Madame Villebois.
"Pray allow her, madame," interjected Riche, deeply interested himself,
and finding support in the approved murmur around him.
"Oh, how I cried when they told me that," continued Renée, "and then a
stranger came up and comforted me, and told me to dry my tears, and I
should soon be quite happy again. I remember turning round to see who
he was, but he had vanished, and then I woke up."
"My dear Renée," said Madame terribly shocked, "you must not let the
professor put such dreadful things into your little head, such dreams
and ideas are only fit for crazy philosophers and not for young ladies
in good society like yourself."
"I am quite old enough to take care of myself," said Renée, a little
huffed, especially as she felt the remark was meant as much for
Delapine as for herself.
Madame Villebois shrugged her shoulders and became suddenly occupied in
absorbing her crême de vanille glacée. She tried to think of something
to say in reply, but on looking up she caught Delapine's eye, and
noticed a peculiar smile on his lips which entirely dumfounded her,
and caused her to make a sign that dinner was over, as her only way of
escape from the dilemma.
Doctor Villebois removed his napkin from his chin, whereupon the other
gentlemen did likewise, and taking the hint from the host, they all
rose and bowed as the ladies left the room.
"Come, let us follow the ladies to the drawing-room," said Villebois
after a short pause, for the doctor being an ardent admirer of the
English, endeavoured, as far as his wife would permit him, to follow
the English customs. "I like England," he would say, "because there
every man is allowed the possibility of becoming a gentleman."
"Dreams are mysterious things" said Delapine, nervously fingering
his cigarette, as soon as the party had reassembled in the next
room. "Sometimes the cause is purely physiological. Overstudy, an
attack of indigestion, some disturbance of the circulation, or even
some physical pressure may cause a dream or a nightmare. But again,
there are other dreams widely different from these which often prove
prophetic. In these one's real consciousness may be lost in sleep while
the subliminal self, the alter-ego which never slumbers nor sleeps,
rises to the surface and speaks in no uncertain tones. The mind sees
with the startling clearness as if in a vision. Voices are heard as if
from another world, while strange figures, and scenes of unknown places
slowly rise before the dreamer. I can vouch for this, many a time it
has occurred to me. Only the other day I had worked in vain for many
hours trying to solve a physical problem, when suddenly I fell asleep,
and in a dream I saw the changes take place, and the formula plainly
worked out before my eyes. So clear was it that when I awoke I was able
to copy what my mental vision had seen, and on trying the experiment, I
found, to my great delight and relief, that the problem was solved."
"My dear Delapine," said Riche, "you surely do not believe in
clairvoyance, thought-reading, telepathy, apparitions, and all that
sort of thing?"
"Why not? Are we to doubt a thing merely because it is contrary to our
experience? If you had stated thirty years ago that you would be able
to converse with a friend on board a ship nearly four hundred miles
away, or that you could see a man's bones in his body, or photograph
the contents of a sealed wooden box, would not everyone have declared
you mad? And yet these things are being done every day. Why then should
the things you have just mentioned be less credible? The evidence in
their favour is overwhelming. There is hardly a family in the world
but contains some member who has experienced such things. Nay, I will
go farther, there is not a tribe in any nation, at any period of the
world's history which has not believed in these things. As Abraham
Lincoln once said, 'You may fool all men some time, you may fool some
men for all time, but you cannot fool all men for all time.' No,
sir, the things men laugh at to-day as impossible will be improbable
to-morrow, conceivable the day after, and a little later everyone
accepts them as a matter of course, and wonders how people could ever
have been such fools as to have doubted them."
"But what evidence is there," said Riche, "that these apparitions and
marvellous phenomena really occur? Why are séances held in the dark, or
in merely a dull red light? If the performers were not tricksters could
they not show these things in full daylight?"
"Permit me to ask you one question, my dear doctor," said Delapine.
"Why do you develop your photographic plate in the dark and not in
broad daylight?"
"The reason is obvious--the light would spoil the plate."
"Well then, might not the light interfere with the success of the
phenomena of a séance in the same way? The one is just as logical as
the other."
"Bravo, bravo," cried Renée, clapping her hands.
"Pardon me," said Riche, anxious to justify himself, "but what I
complain of is the absence of any proof. What I demand is evidence that
is unimpeachable and crushing before I can believe any of these things.
All I ask for is some proof, some message purporting to come from the
other world through spirits who will convince me that the dead live,
and that they can communicate with us."
"You shall have it, you shall have it," cried the professor, rubbing
his hands. "Have you ever heard the story of the Widow's Mite?"
"No" they all cried out together.
"Well, then, if you allow me, I will relate it to you."