The funeral was a roaring success. The display of ecclesiastics and
choristers was unusually fine. Torquemada had seen to that part of the
business. It was his duty henceforward to cherish the bereaved
representative of Nicaragua--a possible convert, at his hand, to the
true faith. The Clubmen, headed by the excellent Mr. Richards, wore
their gravest faces. Furthermore, in view of the lady's quasi-official
position, the authorities of the island were present in full numbers;
the Militia, too, looked superb in their picturesque uniforms. And so
large was the unofficial attendance, so deafening the music, so
brilliant the sunshine, so perfect the general arrangements that even
the deceased, captious as she was, could hardly (under other
circumstances) have avoided expressing her approval of the performance.
There was an adequate display of fictitious grief among her social
equals. Madame Steynlin, in particular, carried it off--to outward
appearances--with remarkable success. She looked really quite upset, and
her hat, as usual, attracted the attention of all the ladies. Madame
Steynlin's hats were proverbial. She was always appearing in new ones
of the most costly varieties. And never, by any chance, did they accord
with her uncommon and rather ripe style of beauty. Madame Steynlin was
too romantic to dress well. She trimmed her heart, and not her
garments. A tidy little income, however, enabled her to eke out lack of
taste by recklessness of expenditure. This particular hat, it was
observed, must have cost a fortune. And yet it was a perfect fright; it
made her look fifteen years older, to the delight of all the other
women.
What cared Madame Steynlin about hats? Her distressful appearance was
not feigned; she was truly upset, though not about the death of the
Commissioner's lady. With an effort whose violence nobody but herself
could appreciate she had managed to extricate herself from the
lion--like embraces of Peter the Great--to what purpose? To perform an
odious social duty; to waste a fair morning in simulating grief for the
death of a woman whom she loathed like poison. Nobody would ever
understand what a trial in altruism had been. Nobody, in fact, ever
gave her credit for a grain of self-abnegation. And yet she was always
trying to please people--denying herself this and that. How harshly the
world judged!
She was also troubled in mind, though in a lesser degree, about the
fate of the remainder of the Russian colony. Were they not all her
brothers and sisters--these laughing, round-cheeked primitives? The
magistrate, that caricature of a man, that vindictive and corrupt
atheist, that tiger in human form, was doubtless thirsting for the
blood of those still at liberty on Nepenthe. How much longer would
Peter escape his malice? The dear boy! Her lambkin, her little soul--she
had learnt to babble a few words of Russian--her play for, harmless,
ever-hungry Peter! On this lovely island, where all men should be at
peace--how harshly they dealt with one another!
The rest of the foreign colony, undisturbed by such bitter personal
reflections, appeared to bear the loss of the lady with praiseworthy
equanimity. They were, in truth, considerably relieved in mind. Death
is the great equalizer. In his pale presence they forgot their old
squabbles and jealousies; they forgot their numberless and legitimate
complaints against this woman. All honoured the defunct who had now
lost, presumably for ever, the capacity of mischief-making.
There was undisguised sorrow among the trades-people and Residency
servants. They flocked to the procession in crowds, desiring by this
last mark of respect to attract the benevolent notice of the
Commissioner and to be remembered in the event of some future
settling-up of accounts. To their tear-stained eyes, it looked as if
this happy event were receding further and further away into the dim
distance. Hoping against hope, they mourned sincerely. And none wept
more convincingly that the little maid Enrichetta, an orphan of tender
years whom the lady had taken into her service as an act of charity and
forthwith set to work like a galley-slave. The child was convulsed with
sobs. She foresaw, with the intuition of despair, that instead of being
paid her miserable wages for the last five months she would have to
content herself with a couple of her deceased mistress's skirts,
thirty-eight inches too wide round the waist.
There were wreaths--abundance of wreaths. Noticeable among them was an
enormous floral tribute from the owner of the FLUTTERBY. It attracted
the most favourable comment. People said that nobody but a
multi-multi-multi-millionaire could afford to forgive an affront like
that affair of the CREPE DE CHINE. As a matter of fact, old Koppen
would have been the last person on earth to forgive an injury of this
particular kind. He was a good American; he never permitted loose talk
about women, least of all if they were in any way connected with
himself; he would get purple in the face, he would ramp and rage and
hop about like a veritable Sioux, in the face of any suggestion of
improprieties on board his yacht. No, Cornelius van Koppen had acted in
all innocence, from natural kindliness of heart. The legend had never
reached his hears, nobody (for a wonder) having dared to mention it to
him.
Another wreath, from Count Caloveglia--an uncommonly pretty one, with a
simple but heartfelt inscription--created legitimate surprise. Those
white camellias, people reckoned, could not have cost less than twenty
francs, and everybody knew that the dear old boy was as poor as a
church mouse and that, moreover, he had enjoyed nothing but a bowing
acquaintance with the deceased lady. He had indeed only spoken to her
once in his life. But her face--her face had left an indelible
impression on his sensitive and artistic mind.
There was something Greek about Count Caloveglia. His pedigree,
uncontaminated by Moor or Spaniard, went back to hoariest antiquity.
Many people said he was a reincarnation of old Hellas. Elbowing his way
through crowded cities or chatting with sunburnt peasant-lads among the
vineyards, he received thrills of pleasurable inspiration--thrills to
which grosser natures are inaccessible. He loved to watch the bodily
movements of his fellow-creatures and all the eloquent gestures of
Southern life--the lingering smile, the sullen stare of anger, the firm
or flaccid step. Within this world of humdrum happenings he created a
world of his own, a sculptor's paradise. Colour said little to him. He
was enamoured of form, the lively passion of the flesh, the tremulous
play of nerve and muscle. A connoisseur of pose and expression, he
looked at mankind from the plastic point of view, peering through
accidentals into what was spiritual, pre-ordained, inevitable; striving
to interpret--to waylay and hold fast--that divinity, fair or foul, which
resides within one and all of us. How would this one look, divested of
ephemeral appurtenances and standing there, in bronze or marble; what
were the essential qualities of those features--their aesthetic mission
to men like himself; to what type or relic of the classic age might
they be assimilated? He was for ever disentangling the eternal from
mundane accessories. And there was an element of the eternal, he used
to declare, in every creature of earth.
His was an enviable life. He dwelt among masterpieces. They were his
beacons, his comrades, his realities. As for other things--the social
accidents of time and place, his cares and his poverty--he wore them
lightly; they sat upon his shoulders with easy grace, like his own
threadbare coat. When he walked among men he could not help contriving
imaginary statuary in his head, historical portraits or legendary
groups; the faces and attitudes of those he encountered--each one found
a place in the teeming realm of his creative phantasy, each one
beckoned to him, from afar, as a joyous and necessary revelation.
An enviable life; and never more enviable than on the occasion when he
was introduced, at some absurd tea-party to the lady known as the
Commissioner's stepsister. The face! It took possession of him. It
haunted his artistic dreamings from the same day onwards. He had always
cherished ambitious designs--none more ambitious than a certain piece of
work conceived in the bold Pergamese manner, a noble cluster of women
to be entitled "The Eumenides." ... Her face! That wonderful face
proclaimed itself the keynote of the group. If he lived a thousand
years he would never behold its like again. What would he not have
given to model the lady, then and there!
But modeling was out of the question for the present. It must never be
known that he was still capable of such an effort; it might spoil all
his chances for the business in hand. He must continue to pose as
heretofore for a harmless antiquarian, a dreamer. Nobody, save old
Andrea the servant, must know the secret of his life. Yet he was not
without hopes of being able to reveal himself ere long in his true
character of creator. The day was perhaps not far distant when a
pecuniary transaction between himself and his respected American
friend, Mr. van Koppen, would ease the burdensome poverty of his life.
Then--then he would return to the gold projects of his youth; to the
"Eumenides," first of all. Light-hearted with bright expectancy, he saw
the financial deal well-nigh concluded; the cheque might be in his
pocket within a week; and now already he saw himself, in imagination,
donning his faded frock-coat and wending his way down to the Residency
to lay the foundations of his heart's desire. He would broach the
subject with that insinuating Southern graciousness which was part and
parcel of his nature; the lady's vanity could be trusted to do the
rest. He knew of old that no woman, however chaste and winsome, can
resist the temptation of sitting as model to a genuine Count--and such a
handsome old Count, into the bargain.
And now suddenly she had died--died, it might be, only a few days too
soon. That face, that peerless face, was lost for ever to the world of
art--his ideal snatched away by the relentless hand of fate. He mourned
as only a sculptor can mourn. Thus it came about that something
stronger than himself impelled him to manifest his grief. Despite
Andrea's respectful but insistent remonstrances as to the appalling
outlay, the wreath of camellias was ordered and dispatched. An artist's
tribute....
It created both surprise and a most excellent impression. What a
gentleman he was! Always doing the right thing. How splendid of him. So
they reasoned, though the wiser ones added that if he had known the
deceased lady a little better he might have hit upon a more sensible
way of spending his money.
The fact that there was a good deal of social gossip like this, that
appointments for picnics and other functions were being made, would go
alone to prove the advantages of a funeral of this kind, quite apart
from the universal relief experienced when the coffin was lowered into
the earth, and bystanders realized that the lady was at last definitely
transferred into Abraham's bosom.