MARIGOLD
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
------------------
JEWEL SOWERS
A Story
Weekly Survey.
“An original and intensely interesting novel. We should welcome
anything further from the pen of this anonymous writer who has
produced a book that any one might be proud to sign.”
Sunday Times.
“It is permeated with the spirit of adventure, so that one is
interested in the characters and their doings. Those who like the
marvellous and have no objection to considering the impossible, will
find a certain fascination about the story, which they will read to
the end.”
Glasgow Herald.
“The author of this anonymous book need not have hesitated to own
it, for it is thoroughly readable, and its artistic merits are very
considerable. It is at once a somewhat ambitious allegory and a satire
with a fair measure of point and vigour.”
Morning Post.
“We cannot help noting that the writer has no little power both of
description and character drawing, or that the whole book has been
most carefully elaborated.”
Onlooker.
“The author hides her--is it her?--identity under anonymity but has
no reason to fear criticism. Though called a ‘novel’ it is a clever
parable and deals with the evil of selfishness, and the blessings
resulting from works for work’s sake.”
T.P.’s Weekly.
“There is good writing in this story, which undoubtedly shows
imaginative power.”
Manchester Guardian.
“‘The Jewel Sowers’ is wholly fantastic in its incidents, but its
characters are those of our society; and with all the machinery of a
fairy tale, the book still belongs to the realms of daily fiction.
Appropriately enough the scene is laid in another world, one in which
everything is said to be the opposite of the life of this planet. But
this is a mere warning that the tale is fantastic; men and women in
Lucifram, as the new world is called, are even too much like those on
this, and if their powers are strangely superior, their motives are
entirely familiar. The book, in fact, is an experiment in fantasy, and
none the less pleasant on that account. It is neither an allegory,
as are other tales similarly constructed, nor yet a satire, though
there are elements of both interwoven with the adventures and the
incidents. The anonymous authoress has demanded a wider sphere for
the evolution of her characters, and no one who feels the charms of
her pleasantly depicted heroine will grudge the novel atmosphere in
which she is forced to suffer and to act. The book is lightly written,
bright, and entertaining, and almost every character introduced is
neatly characterised. Perhaps the best of them is the fairy frog,
whose cheerful temper is the result of martyrdom, and who should earn
a place among the favourite heroes of the fairy world.”
MARIGOLD
A Story
BY
THE AUTHOR OF
“JEWEL SOWERS”
LONDON
GREENING & CO., LTD.
1905
(_All Rights Reserved_)
TABLE OF CONTENTS
AN INTRODUCTION
AN INTERLUDE
THE AFTERTHOUGHT
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
_SCENE_
LUCIFRAM:--_A World of Shadows and contrariness, situate
near to Hell--not meant for an indifferent caricature of another
sphere_.
_PERSONS_
ST ARMAND:--_The voice of one crying in the Spirits’
Wilderness. When undisguised, Plucritus, Prince of Lucifram._
VESTNE:--_His wife_.
MARIGOLD:--_Princess of Ellel (an estate in Lucifram).
Subsisting of a “reasonable soul” and flesh to correspond._
ALICE:--_A lady’s maid who, amongst other things, had learnt
the art of cooking_.
TIMOTHY:--_One, not by conversion of the godhead into flesh,
but by taking of Childhood into God_.
ALPHONSO:--_High Priest of the Golden Serpent_.
VESTASIAN:--_The Supreme Disposer of Gifts to those on
Lucifram_.
MR BARRINGCOURT:--_One of Vestasian’s household_.
MARIGOLD
AN INTRODUCTION
THE PRINCE OF LUCIFRAM
Nature, expressionless and even, had obeyed the even rule. Never
richest curtain in the hall of richest king fell so softly, in such
luxuriance, as this one of dusky night--glittering with diamonds, in
the dull, blue flights of space. A million times and more the mute deft
slave had drawn the heavy folds, clasped to her ankle-chains, across
the spinning world. Tongueless, soulless, brainless, the machine of
ordered motion--possessing no heart, knowing no pulse--the world’s
great mother--most infinitely small.
There over Lucifram, the night descended. The night-winds sang
because the angel harps once rustled in the breeze--years since, no
doubt. The sound remained, an echo, from which all joyousness had
vanished--unutterably sad--and something sweet.
And each went his own way, now that the sober light of day had
failed--tired or gay. For being contrary, a portion of them never
really lived till the sun set, and then like moths at a candle--having
some vague notion of the gloriousness of light.
There in his great palace, turreted, God-built (before the powers of
Hell and Heaven had separated, to play the “Human” game on Lucifram),
embowered in trees of Paradise, pearl-glistening fountains, the
heaven-taught song of birds, and the deep rocks of Hell on the Planet
side leading down by steepest paths to that “Silent Forest” with its
gurgling streams of pain, and heavy foliage, and deadly paths, and
unheard sighs, and the low quivering cry of the heart-broken--there in
his dusky palace, glittering with light, subdued and softly shaded,
lives the great Prince of Lucifram within easy reach of his little
serfdom. You see that glistening sheen of mist, silver, and pearl? That
is his web--he, the Great Spider--godlike. See how it wraps around the
whole great planet!
Put your jewelled hand upon that flimsy net; how awkwardly it sticks
to the gold intricacies! How awkwardly it sticks--like the blood on
Bluebeard’s key--flimsy as driven snow and striking to the bone. Draw
your hand away! Ah! laughing innocence, there is no terror--it has
chilled and deadened--a powerful anesthetic that makes you brave, even
when it sticks--and it does stick so awkwardly.
He loves the night. ’Twas he who helped to plan it--before our
worlds were made--the master-mind. The “Great Unknown” for certain
unbelievers. Such a proud retreat, as only ostrich brain would share
with them. Why the Great Unknown? To _know_ it, must you feel it,
handle it, decompose it--experiment with it? Oh, sad presumption!
There was once a little ant with a very clever brain (for its size),
and one day it thought it would like to find out what a man was
like--in what respect he differed from an ant. So it went out and crept
on to one--quite an ordinary kind of man, with a skin. Experiment No.
1 must be with the mouthpiece, for it had no finer instrument. The man
made a vigorous and violent search--his finger and thumb did the rest,
for he resented vulgar intrusion.
Moral:--No, allow me, you are quite wrong--yet remain good-tempered. I
was not measuring God’s superiority by man’s.
To return to the Prince Plucritus. He stood by that same window
that commands the whole compass of Lucifram--no disfiguring
telescope--nothing but beauty round about. And now that the mists of
night have settled, and the web is floating like a veil in the light
of the moon, steal up an inch or two with me and look. Will you, or
won’t you, Monsieur Scientist? Come along with Art, because at South
Kensington they’ve linked you both together, like a household word.
Hush! The forest is still! Never shudder at its depths! Hush! Hush!
Break no twig, but come inside the magic circle, whoever will. See!
the ring wheels round like that at Earl’s Court, but with no sound of
motion, nor lumbersome effect. Mists and miles are between you and that
solitary figure, so there is no sacrilege in that you stare. Mists
and miles and the moon! Well, and what is the great Prince like? “No
different from a man,” you say. No, no different--and you know why,
because a man can’t conceive anything with an intellect more beautiful
than himself. It is one of his limitations--and there is wisdom and
beauty in it; and Nature hasn’t had a finger in it--only God. So draw
a little closer--keep your feet well on the rim, and look through
the mists and miles and moonbeams. You see indistinctly? Here is my
hand--_now_ is the vision clearer?
Look on that perfect head and graceful figure. You perceive he stands
full-length by the full-length window, looking on Lucifram with the
expression that Lucifram itself has taught him--Serfdom containing
possibilities. For those eyes--do you feel their fascination?--full of
intellect, full of soul, full of power, and, far away back under the
coldness that looks like softness to the inexperienced eye, full of
cruelty, and deep-laid plots and plans--by which the master-game is
played. Will you take more, or is thus much of the vision quite enough?
A little more? Quick! Did you catch that little smile, the delicate
contemptuous curve of that fine nostril--the straight commanding line
of a strong nose? But is it _kind_? Still for the mouth. One
forgives undoubtedly the man who has a sense of humour--the corners of
whose mouth can twist a little humorously, just now and then. Look at
this Prince of immortality. Do you not see the thin lips, formed like
a fine-strung bow on arrow, twisted into a most interested smile? One
shapely corner turning up--one, alas! turning down--a little awry,
like the mouths of great men often are who copy him--unconsciously,
of course. For the pride of that downward droop loves not imitation,
though the upward corner winks (if the mouth can wink) at the humour
of it. There then, the Prince. And you turn away shivering, and blame
the cold moon mists and the night-wafted winds. Blame nothing but that
face. Look at it long enough, and you will harden into ice, frozen
blood and stony flesh--a death-like monument.
The Prince stands full-length, and, though taller and slimmer than
men are, he has shoulders that athletes might envy, and artists
search in vain. Your women looking at them, however chaste and sober,
however work-a-day, would suddenly grow weak, in admiration of so much
strength, moulded in God-like beauty. True, he has walked on Lucifram
stunted and dwarfed--a joke, a laughable affair--yet, when they saw
him, woman-like they loved him all the more--they being contrary, and
having the biggest share, the silent share, in the making of the world.
For his dress. To-night he wears the long black cloak--the robe
invisible which spirits wear--fastened at either shoulder by three
great glowing clasps of ruby-red that shine out danger-signals in the
darkness, below the olive face and sculptured neck. And those strong
hands, white as marble, firm as death--instinct with the beauty of a
great perfection; and then the ruby ring! The powerful talisman that
kings and queens have cried for, statesmen too; and he, indulgent
master, has given them a little sham affair, to stop their tears and
make a seeming happy world, just for appearance’ sake.
There is the picture of the great Prince Plucritus, standing at one of
Hell’s majestic windows--looking across the Silent Forest--looking on
Lucifram. Sheer down below the awful rocks, grey and purple, with the
Spirit paths--none other--by which they come and go.
Behind him home. Now, Mr Scientist, what shall it be? You wouldn’t feel
at home on a golden floor, would you?--A throne’s a trivial, irksome
thing. Harps?--Your ears were never exactly cultivated to appreciate
a tune. Hallelujah?--Such conversation deadens the finer intellect,
and reminds one rather of the braying of an ass--omitting fine
distinctions, certainly.
No--at home the Prince Plucritus is a simple gentleman, with simple
tastes and unchanged fashion. This suite of rooms he dedicates to
Lucifram--not neglecting his estates. Here is his study--his own
simple, homely room. That chair--he’s sat in it over three thousand
years--not bad for household furniture. And that writing-desk was
ready there to record in simple language the first effects of conscious
sin. “How often used it must have been since then!” think you. Ah yes!
and how well it’s stood the test of time!
Out there is his experimenting chamber, for you must know he
dabbles now and then in science, and he has friends who more than
dabble in it. Out there his picture-galleries. All Lucifram’s great
works--toned to the understanding of the gods. The pictures bought
with souls and heart-blood--no trivial affairs--each in itself a
silent history--bearing alike the one inscription “Failure” or
“Success”--judged from the understanding of the gods.
Through there his library--Lucifram’s library, not his own. These being
business quarters. So Publishers, beware! As you send out books, so
they go up to Heaven--down to Hell, mean I--silently, without comment
or criticism.
Over there his music-room--with every tune and song and great composer
immortalised therein--and curious little histories attached to each,
that Lucifram has never heard, and perhaps will never hear. And so all
down the corridor and suite of rooms, with other chambers for every
branch of work worthy being called such, and everything in godlike
order.
AN INTERLUDE
When God made man, we are next given to understand he paused and,
seemingly, he thought. Up to then he somewhat rushed it--the Bible
tells us so--and in the rapid race one thing had been forgotten--Woman.
But the loving God never yet forgot a thing--even German thinkers tell
us that--except the little blue-eyed flower, that gained thereby the
loveliest name that coarser sentiment ignores for something showier.
No, last of all came woman--in orthodox religion, the Afterthought. And
Adam most thoughtfully had chanced upon an extra rib--in the haste, no
doubt, they hadn’t counted them. So Adam slept, and woke to find the
whole world altered. Thus gracefully, unwittingly, the world’s great
sage paid the unconscious compliment--erring too much on the other
side. Man came from dust--woman from flesh and blood and actual bone,
so says the Bible--high in the scale of general development. And for
the privilege, the right of “entry,” how dearly she has paid! Man
never knows--man perhaps will never know. For Eve was made whilst Adam
slept. He should have been awake. Eve was born whilst Adam slept--then
as now. And Eve brought Trouble--the rickety ladder before which
Jacob’s was a child’s toy, and the ladder led to Heaven, and many and
many a time it fell and led to Hell.
Eve, wide-eyed and untutored, except for certain instincts inherited
from man. Eve knowing very little of herself except what man told her;
and he--why, he slept whilst she was born--how should he know? And
all the time has Eve looked up to man, and God has stood aside--the
Afterthought.
And saddest thing of all perhaps--that now the men and women quarrel
on equality--equality of sexes--showing how ineffectual is that common
chord they miscall love. Think of that little vexing word that rankles
in the minds of modern women--the word “Obey.” Think of it. That the
Church itself should be so blind as to set a man where God should be!
The obedience of the Free Spirit is given to God and God alone--who
dares say otherwise? And God’s laws are so simple, kind, and full
of love--a wiping-out of self, the training of a woman’s heart, a
mother’s gentleness and strength. What more would man have? Some
courtesan--polished or otherwise--to trick him when she fawns? To cow
him when her tongue is loose in ribald fury?
Let no woman speak then of the word “obey” insulting her. What if it
does? The word “obey” goes deeper. It strikes at the authority of God,
and has done all the ages down. And now “woman” rises and says, with a
womanly desire to squabble with the man, “I’ll obey man no longer--I’ll
obey myself.” And God stands by--the Afterthought.
So much for Genesis and the Matrimonial Service.
Suppose you and I go our own way and “believe” to please ourselves.
Suppose we think Adam and Eve were two little monkeys--not big
gorillas, they are so very, very plain.
Suppose--no; you are locked in, you _cannot_ get away--suppose,
suppose one day Eve felt weak and not at all well, and, instead of
getting better, she went on day after day. Then Eve would learn what
sadness was--a dull, unintelligible feeling to her, poor little
animal--but still a real one. And Adam, being a good little husband
as monkey husbands go, would feel in his little monkey heart that Eve
was--well, he’d have to scratch his little monkey head because he
hadn’t learnt to talk--not even to say that little tiny word called
“sad.”
Eve’s suffering was the first tiny ray of light on the Dark Path--very
tiny, no doubt, but with a tiny influence of refinement. Man’s thumbs
developed later.
Now listen! Hark! That is thunder cracking over the Silent Forest. See
that forked lightning, like a sword flashed into the dense black night.
What if a tree falls? Listen the poor cramped souls what they pray
for--air--God’s air and light.
Adam and Eve--or, ages long before them, great Darwin’s monkey
species--who dares presume to laugh? Adam and Eve hidden among the
other animals like needles in a haystack--Adam and Eve meaning
_man_.
Who made them? The God of beauty and love? Oh! tear away that veil and
see things as they are. Watch animals--their jealousy, their greed--the
way they prey on one another, the monotonous and soulless day. Many
are beautiful, some most repulsive. Think seriously about them, and
they make you sad--unutterably sad, like their own weird voices in that
strange and universal minor key. You say it is because a curse has come
upon them--that in the first place they were innocent and gentle too.
If it be so, what a disgraceful mull that God omnipotent has made
of His creation--within so short a time everything tainted that once
was good. Could God so err with more than _human_ foolishness?
Could God so err, and pander to the Devil, as, the good books say,
unconsciously He has done? Oh, sacrilegious thought! Who made the
world? The world of Living Things? Who made it? God, I will grant
you--but _which_ God? The God--Gods if you will--of Hell.
And Man--the Animal as other animals, lost like a needle in a
haystack--ugly and soulless. The Animal with possibilities. Now look
on Adam and on Eve, the first gleam of light gained by continuous
suffering, not wounds in a free fight. And though Adam gained thus much
from Eve, he never saw it, but treated her contemptuously--as through
that very suffering and weakness his inferior. And that picture. Think
of it, if you have any time for thought. The long, long ages back--the
wild, illimitable forests, the jungles that obscured the pure blue sky,
the savage, lustful sighs of the great lion, the whining growl of the
sinuous tiger, the gliding, silent serpent, the animals innumerable,
see how they come in phantom form before your eye. The wicked, impish
monkey--most hideous perhaps of all--the subtle master-jest of Hell.
And by the side of it--hidden, almost heartrendingly hidden--its
savage, impish cousin Man--at present unknown--one among many animals.
And look! One day, like Satan into Paradise, came Light--the Spirit
of Light and Purity, with the magnet Heaven’s greatest scientists
had taken years to mould, made to attract the weak spot--in the
Hell-entangled maze. And the weak spot was Eve, and, through Eve, Adam.
And so Eve brought suffering in the world, the real suffering, and
thereby incurred Hell’s displeasure, and was thereby made the slave of
man.
Read Genesis, that little chapter Topsy Turvy, it explains it all.
And what was Hell about to let the other spirits in? It had none of
Heaven’s “man-theorised” omnipotence. It stood to fight the even fight,
by skill and skill alone.
So now you know a little about Eve. Has it tired you? Do you like her
less because she once went about like a little monkey, instead of _à
la_ Milton--I mean a monkey moderate-sized, of course--but they’re
so ugly.
And the spirit has done the rest. The spirit that Professor Drummond,
one of God’s latter-day disciples, has learned plays such a great part
in the world’s sad history.
THE AFTERTHOUGHT
That was of Eve; now follow with your best apologies and look across
the mists and moonbeams and behold a lady fair. For the Prince stood
alone, looking on Lucifram with an expression hardly kind upon his
face, when last you stood within the magic circle. And now you see
behind him a lesser form though tall--a slightly different beauty.
It is the Princess Vestné--bend your head--his wife. Not like him in
sombre black, with the bright blood-stones as an only ornament--she
stands there the personification of light. A diamond crescent of
purest light, as far removed from earth gems as they are from glass,
shines in her silken hair, that dusky rich shade, one of Heaven’s own
hues--Hell’s too, for both in beauty are alike. Then for her face--you
saw that of the Prince quite plainly--would you look on hers? See, that
contemptuous smile of pride has deepened--you may not see so plain--for
Heaven seems quite made up of the male persuasion, but that’s because
the lovelier half--I mean the gentler, tenderer half--is hidden away
from our coarse sight--rarest of rarest visions. Tender and gentle
were the words, and yet, look through this gathering, deepening mist
that blurs the picture. Your impression of that face? Oh, very cold
and proud and cruel, a winsome grace, a silent fascination, that draws
every chord of your spirit towards that princely watching-place.
What music fell upon the forest’s silence! A laugh that the crawling
spirits never heard--hidden under the thick-roofed foliage.
The Princess laughed, and went close up to him, slipping her hand in
his, as loving as a child might be, as simple.
But oh! no, no, she _didn’t_ talk like Milton, because she wasn’t
dressed in stiff brocade, nor in the naked beauty of long curls.
No; the Princess talked (she was admirably well-bred) just as they
talked on Lucifram, because she looked that way, and, as she spoke, she
raised her hands and clasped them lazily behind her head.
“The net wants repairing,” she said. “I stood here yesterday and looked
at it--a beastly, little fly has struggled through.”
He laughed, as one just married yesterday instead of years past
counting, and the humour in his eyes dimmed for a little time their
hardness.
“A butterfly, you mean. I watched the turn-out. It was a radiant
one--worthy our--our nephew.”
But she shook her head, and answered, with a touch of chilling hauteur:
“He’s no relation. On Lucifram he would be called a natural son--or
what’s that other word?--a rather ugly one. They have so many ugly
words, one really loses count of them.”
He let the light question pass unanswered, but the smile died from his
eyes and lips, and, in response to his changing humour, she changed too.
“I can’t understand,” she said, with a faint intonation of passion that
reached you echoing on the trembling air,--“I cannot understand the
fairness or the justness of it. He should be obliged to play upon our
side or on the other.”
“But he is neutral; equal for both sides upon occasion. It’s fair
enough. We have him to thank for the gentleness and amiability of the
great High Priest, you know.”
His tone was hard and mocking; her laugh, a subtler note, not less
intense.
“Yes, he has been very docile.” She leant out on the balcony, her white
arms pressed against the blackness, her face bent towards Lucifram.
“He has been very docile, and he must mend the net. I cannot stand to
see flies escaping. You must give him injunctions to tear off their
legs and wings first. Why weren’t they made like worms?”
“They are worms, dearest--with great capabilities of wriggling upwards
now and then. Who but a worm would worship the Serpent?”
“Who indeed? Many a time I sicken of them--the uninteresting swarm! Oh,
why did my brother--why did Vestasian play this trick on us, of all
gods--he the most trusted in, the best beloved?”
“Precisely why the heavenly Councils hit on him. Now, had it been I----”
“You? But tell me of this net--how must it be mended?”
“Exactly as every other microscopic hole has been, with a damned
soul--I mean a well-seasoned one. The worst of it is they take some
time preparing.”
“Are there none ready?”
“None for that particular hole. It was a rather big one, and will take
something pretty strong, I find. A High Priest is the very least I
could put to it--it befits his office. In time he shall guard the road
to Heaven from all intruders.”
“Just in the same way as a High Priest guards the other.”
“No, Vestné. There are two put on to guard the other. It was admirably
arranged there should be two.”
“And they’ve done their business disgracefully.”
“The clergy, with few exceptions, always do. I mean those we are
obliged to put on to our business. They soap so, and insolently refuse
to be too hard worked.”
“Alphonso has not erred in that respect.”
“No; he shall be honoured. He shall guard the gate.”
“It is no gate. It is a paltry hole.”
“Large enough for Vestasian’s son to drive through--we must remember
that.”
“He is no son. Vestasian has no son. I doubt in harder moments if he
has a wife.”
But he laughed and drew her to him.
“My wife talks for the sake of talking, and I listen because her voice
is sweet even in these harder moments. We will guard the hole--we
cannot mend it. It is one of the rules of the game.”
CHAPTER I
How the bright flowers were springing up after the rain, and how the
birds were singing in the sunshine! The Princess of Ellel looked out of
a window, and plucked some cherries off a tree and ate them with the
appetite of youth. Then she drew in her head and made a wry face at her
maid.
“What sickly fruit you grow here; it almost beats your champagne.
There’s no flavour about it--there’s no flavour about anything at all.”
“Madam!”
“I’m not. I won’t be called names. I’m not married. I never intend to
be.”
“Marriage is a wonderful sweetener, lady. It takes all the unripeness
off the tongue.”
“I’ll never marry, Alice.”
“But why, Princess?”
“Because I’m too--too clever. Why do you smile?”
“I was thinking of the letters, and your royal spelling.”
“I never went to a charity school, and the nation didn’t pay for my
education, therefore my education was neglected. Shall I tell you a
secret, Alice?”
“Yes, Princess.”
“I’m tired of being rich; I’m tired of being good. Well--why don’t you
say something?”
“I’m waiting for the secret.”
“I’ve told you it. Why don’t you say something?”
“I misunderstood.”
“Oh, you uneducated charity girl! you Board-School paragon of perfect
spelling! I’m tired of riches, I’m tired of virtues--can’t you
understand me?”
“Not at all.”
“Then listen!” And she rested her rounded chin on a hand you longed
to eat ice-cream out of--quite a shell-like miniature affair. “Here
you see me dressed in gold and silver, and looking beautiful. Many a
time you long to box my ears, but my position and my riches frighten
you. Now, I’m going to dress in rags and leave all my money with the
estate-agent. But I’m not going to tell him about the rags--I’m going
to make out I’ve travelled back to Fairy Sky.”
“Must I come with you, Princess?”
“Of course--but you’ll remain a cypher in the background. You needn’t
dress in rags. You can have coarse fustian, it’s more respectable and
less becoming.”
“I shall be able to look after you better, dressed so.”
“I shan’t need looking after. However wicked I am, I shall say my
prayers night and morning. But I’ve fallen in love. After all, a man
has a certain amount of interest for a woman--if she keeps him at the
specimen stage.”
Alice raised her hands and eyes in pious opposition--quite unfeigned.
“Alice, listen! I’ve fallen in love with the great High Priest. Fallen
in love with him. I can feel the throb of the pulse in my heart and
head now, whilst I speak.”
“But--but Princess, he cannot marry. He is too high, too holy.”
“Just why I’ve fallen in love with him. I like highness--I like
holiness. You stick a pin in them, and it’s wonderful how soon you find
the under-surface jump.”
“You would not prick the High Priest, Princess?”
“With a dummy pin, Alice. No one would object to a dummy pin, would
they?”
“I never heard of one.”
“What did they teach you at that big Board-School you say you one time
went to?”
“They led us from the known to the Unknown, madam. I am ready to follow
you.”
“Well, I have fallen in love unfortunately with a man I cannot
marry--and he’s growing old!”
“The great High Priest?”
“Yes, the great High Priest. Has he not a noble face? Give me that red
counterpane. See here, I’ll act him for you. I’ve studied his face so
often during the services, his figure too, and the exact way he walks.”
“Excellent, my lady, excellent! Who could imagine five feet so like
six? Where did you learn it? You had his very nose and mouth, and your
eye, as you passed me, made me shiver, just like his has often done.
Where did you learn that walk? The High Priest walks like one man in a
hundred.”
“Bless you, Alice, I learnt it looking at him in the Temple--when the
prayers were dull. I haven’t come under the Litany headings yet; I
haven’t need of any of the things they pray for.”
“Can you seriously love a man, Princess, when you take him off like
that?”
“Believe me it is the only true love. If I were married to a man, I
should become his walking image--that’s why I prefer to remain single.
He would abuse and neglect me more than his own shadow--and end by
killing me.”
“Killing you?”
“Of course. Wouldn’t you kill your double if you had one?--I mean
the one who doubled you every time you turned your back by way of
recreation.”
“For my peace of mind I’d never turn round to see.”
“Not bad for the Board-School at all, Alice. Oh! I love the great High
Priest; I simply, simply love him.”
“At the Board-School they taught us a little self-control--to make us
good citizens.”
“Ah! what is self-control?”
“Holding down the boiler lid to keep the steam in.”
“And who sits on the boiler lid?”
“Yourself.”
“But the boiler will burst.”
“Not if the fire is dead. You never sit on the boiler till the fire is
out. It is rashness. If there is a fire you must have a safety-valve,
and then you may sit on the lid again.”
“I like the way they taught you, Alice. The great High Priest shall be
my safety-valve, then I will sit on the lid and they will say the fire
is out.”