A SOUL'S BATTLE
Evarne grew steadily more troubled--more unhappy--more shaken in her
once firm convictions. Up to the present, save in a few unconsidered
trifles, she had always obeyed the dictates of her conscience. Now this
prop failed her; indeed, she seemed to have two opposing consciences,
each struggling for supremacy.
While one inward voice would desperately recall the existence of Mrs.
Kenyon, the other would reply by scornfully declaring that it was but
selfishness, cowardice, calculating prudence and cold lack of trust,
that clutched hold of the vision of the distant invalid whose finger
bore the only wedding ring that Morris could give, and that these
contemptible qualities used the wife but as a moral shield behind which
to conceal their own mean, hideous forms. There was no breaking up of a
previously happy home involved, no ruthless destroying of another
woman's peace of mind; while beyond a doubt she was depriving the man
she professed to love--and to whom she owed everything--of the only
return she could make for all his kindness and devoted affection.
Obviously this spiritual civil war could not forever consist of
drawn battles between the rival forces. Ere long even her own
self-respect--the chief bulwark of the defending army--trembling beneath
resistless attacks, was on the verge of capitulation. True, she might
have fled from "Mon Bijou," but convinced of Morris's engrossing love,
she could not do this without likening herself to the snake of the
fable, who, warmed back to life in its rescuer's bosom, then turned and
stung him.
But unless she thus left Morris desolate, and cast herself helpless and
penniless upon the world, she was forced to continue to accept
everything--mere food and raiment, let alone luxury--at his hands, and
above all to receive daily and hourly that care and devotion that can
only be repaid in coin of the same nature. He so obviously delighted in
giving; was she, for her part, empty of all sense of gratitude, of all
generosity?
Almost she began to deem herself something to be despised, and
self-reproaches bordering upon remorse caused the bread of charity to
taste bitter in her mouth. At times every sentiment that is most
ennobling seemed ranged amongst the forces that bade her let love pay
its debt. This veering of the tide of battle was not very visible, even
to the man's watchful and experienced eye. His patience was getting
exhausted. He had been fully prepared to wait, but with the passing of
time, the light in which Warren Hastings regarded the questionable
acquirement of his much-discussed Indian fortune became applicable to
Morris Kenyon's state of mind concerning his dealings with Evarne. He
began to feel "surprised at his own moderation."
Therefore, on coming up quietly behind her one afternoon as she sat
sketching in the garden, he overheard with some satisfaction the words
she was softly singing as she worked. It was the beginning of Emerson's
little poem--
"Give all to love;
Obey thy heart;
Friends, kindred, days,
Estate, good-fame,
Plans, credit, and the Muse,
Nothing refuse."
When a fair maiden beguiles her solitude by dwelling tunefully upon such
sentiments, it may reasonably be supposed that they are not altogether
uncongenial to her mind.
He announced his presence by covering her eyes with his hands, and
lightly dropping a kiss on the top of her head. When she had laughingly
shaken herself free he lay down on the grass at her feet, and, plucking
a flower, commenced to pull it to pieces.
"You need not have sung that song to the birds," he declared, after a
protracted survey of her fair face. "They need no such promptings,
sweetest. They do obey their hearts."
"I suppose it is only meant for selfish human beings, then," she
answered somewhat plaintively. Then, moved to a sudden impatience at her
burden of doubts, she threw her drawing-book on the ground, crying, "But
how very futile to speak of birds. There is no comparison. What concern
have they with 'good-fame,' or with any other splendid responsibilities?
We human beings have got souls--or--or something of that sort, that we
must consider, haven't we?"
"You think so!" and the man's tone was mocking.
"And so do you," came the quick retort. "You remember that picture we
looked at the other day? You yourself said it had no soul in it."
"That's altogether different. The sort of soul I meant is the gift of
the Muses. Come, my Greek girl, have you forgotten what you yourself
told me about your precious Socrates and his views on the necessity of
'divine madness' in creative work? Now I, in my turn, assure you that
the brightest amid the Nine never bestows souls on those who refuse
submission to Venus. Those who will not bend the knee at that shrine
remain forever sane--but uninspired! You see, I know more of the
classics than you give me credit for."
"Don't you believe that I love you, that you tell me this? Oh, Morris,
Morris dear, do understand!"
"Little darling, it is you who do not understand. Your love for me is
but that of a sweet child; you know nothing yet of that irresistible
force that dominates the life of the world. The soul, as you like to
call it, that you already possess, is sleeping. It has slept long
enough, Evarne; you must not be afraid of its awakening."
The girl shook her head.
"How little you know me, it seems. I could never care for you more than
I do already. I'm sure--oh, you can't tell--but I'm sure I bear already
the very fullest extent of love that my nature is capable of ever
producing."
"Your believing that only proves the finite capacities of the powers of
imagination! You see, you cannot even realise that there may be--and I
assure you there are--possibilities of emotion lying dormant within your
mind more powerful than you can even conceive of at present. Only those
who can, and who will, shake themselves free from all hampering
limitations ever become truly great in any direction. It is quite
useless to hope that the 'divine madness' of the Muses may be given to
you, unless you are already possessed of courage to seize on true
freedom, for that is the only soil in which anything worth having can
ever take root, thrive and grow."
"I don't quite understand," she murmured nervously, reluctant to
believe.
"In refusing to accept the full companionship of the man who loves you,
Evarne, and whom you love in return, you are simply enslaving your
emotions, enchaining them, and hopelessly preventing their perfect
development. The technique of your chosen Art you will doubtless gain by
time and perseverance, but you are scornfully neglecting to bring to
fruition a far more subtle source of power--the rich ripeness of soul
that alone can appeal to humanity's soul--the flame that can set blazing
the fire that lies at the heart of the race of man."
Evarne again parted her lips as if to speak, but without hesitation
Morris went on with his homily.
"Whether you set forth to create pictures or books or music, you cannot
possibly give more to the children of your brain than is to be found
within your own innermost self. Only by having known the most intense,
the loftiest, the deepest, in the whole range of emotional experience
will you be enabled to put knowledge into your work, and without that,
what worth has any work of Art? Believe me, ignorance cannot possibly
ring true--truth alone can live and enthral.
"Now, believe me or not, as you like, Evarne, but I assure you that
because of all this, love is the one and only teacher that can really
evolve a great artist. Forgive me for thus assailing you on all sides,
my sweet iceberg, but your happiness and success are very dear to me. I
simply cannot bear to see you thus blindly and ignorantly opposing the
unfolding of the bright flower of your genius. As I started by saying,
your soul is still sleeping, and it will slumber on until you can become
reconciled to letting love awaken it."
A protracted silence followed these last words. Evarne continued to gaze
at Morris with the rapt expression she always wore when he was pouring
fresh thoughts into her mind. This suggestion of a triple alliance
between illicit love, the possession of a soul, and success in Art,
possessed all the charms and the startling qualities of novelty.
"You are trying to make me think selfishly," she murmured at last, "but
you must never believe that my own progress is of more consequence to me
than----" She looked at him in silence again, and her eyes and her
thoughts grew full of tenderness. Clasping her hands together, she went
on, "And oh! if it were, I'm sure, oh! so sure, that the love I feel for
you already is--is----"
"It is not of the sort that counts."
"But Socrates says that pure love----"
Morris interrupted her. He felt that this troublesome antique
philosopher must be resolutely suppressed once and for all.
"I cannot claim as intimate an acquaintance with the opinions of that
gentleman as you possess, little sage; nevertheless, I'll be bound that
he supports my opinion. I can't definitely remember, mark you; I am only
sure on general principles that no one who taught your pretty,
sentimental rubbish--forgive me, sweetheart--could have contrived to get
himself accepted for so long. You look--or rather we will seek
together--and I'll warrant that I find and show you confirmation of my
words."
* * * * *
That night Evarne retired considerably earlier than usual, but unable to
sleep, and soon utterly weary of the darkness and her own tangled
thoughts, she resolved to follow Morris's advice of the afternoon. She
would delve once more into that master-mind that they had both invoked
as upholding their contrary ideals.
Flashing on the light, she went into the red room, and returned with her
arms filled with the six big volumes of Plato. Tumbling them all on the
table by her side she slipped into bed again, and reclining comfortably
amid her soft, faintly-perfumed pillows, drew a volume at random from
the pile, then hesitated a moment before opening it.
She had perfect confidence that in these works of Plato no sentiments
would be found of the nature that Morris sought.
"My dear one is unwise, after holding up fame and success as a bribe, to
send me to read this--which is my Bible--and which teaches that
happiness lies only in the pursuit of wisdom, of virtue, of all that is
good," was her thought, as she lazily laid open the pages. Little did
she deem that her bewildering doubts and difficulties were at length to
be definitely solved.
It is hard to avoid the terrible belief that there exists a malign
omnipotent Spirit at enmity with the race of man; an evil Power
untiringly concentrated on watching for and contriving opportunities to
work dire mischief--to create miseries of all kinds--to impose agony of
mind and body upon all that has life. Not without some show of reason
have there ever been secret sects of devil-worshippers, who recognise
the existence of, and seek to propitiate, this force so hostile to
humanity, this merciless Something that works with superhuman ingenuity
to aid and bring to fruition that which is of itself--evil--to conquer,
to destroy, to render impotent all that which is of a contrary nature;
or more terrible still, to bend such to its own purposes, employing all
that is best and noblest and sweetest in life and human nature as tools
wherewith to work destruction.
Within a few minutes of opening the Oracle, Evarne was sitting erect,
all her sleepy indifference and listlessness gone. Throughout all the
time of her mental stress she had not appealed to these familiar works.
What more could a further study of Socrates do than intensify her desire
to remain his faithful disciple? She had deemed it quite useless to look
for special guidance as to which of the two opposing courses open to her
really led to the acquisition of true wisdom, virtue, and spiritual
beauty. That she should now open directly at one of those strangely rare
definite statements concerning right and wrong, was a coincidence so
extraordinary that it is difficult to believe that a controlling
intelligence had not arranged this apparent chance.
She re-read the sentence upon which her eye had fallen, vaguely
wondering how she could ever have forgotten its doctrine. It was a
portion of the "Phædrus," and referred to that eternal topic, love, or
rather to a certain imitation of the glorious reality. This semblance
was characterised as "being mingled with mortal prudence, and dispensing
mortal and niggardly gifts," and its dire result was "to generate in the
soul an illiberality which is praised by the multitude as virtue, but
which will cause it to be tossed about the earth and beneath the earth
for nine thousand years, devoid of intelligence."
Naturally, it was not a belief in the threatened aftermath of harbouring
this "illiberality" that appalled her. It was the sudden revelation that
the inspired Socrates--far from upholding and approving her present
discreet line of conduct--would have condemned her for "illiberality
praised by the multitude as virtue," as unhesitatingly as she was now
willing to confess that she herself held it in contempt! After the first
moment's shock she found comfort in the reflection that the opinion at
which she had arrived independently, albeit slowly and reluctantly,
found confirmation in the words of this great teacher.
Something outside herself now seemed to take possession of her body, and
to control her deeds. Immediate action became imperative. Instinctively,
almost mechanically, she sprang out of bed, flung her white silk
dressing-gown around her, and sped barefooted along the corridor and up
the little flight of stairs that led to Morris's rooms.
There was still a light showing under the door; quite steadfastly and
without hesitation she turned the handle, and when it refused to yield
she rattled it violently. Hearing a quick step inside she felt the blood
surge to her head, but no suggestion of faltering or regret came to
trouble her finally settled conviction. This seemingly wild
impulse--being in reality the climax of long reflection--was far from
being a transient ebullition of feeling. It was rooted in her will; and
Evarne's will, once fairly turned in any direction, was impervious to
conflicting influences.
In the unnaturally exalted state to which her highly-strung nervous
system had now lifted her, it would have seemed a mere nothing to
have walked into an arena of wild beasts for the sake of the man
she loved--easy to have flung herself upon swords to give him
happiness--yea, she would unhesitatingly have followed him to hell
itself had he beckoned. Are those amid mankind who never knew the
"madness" of Eros to be pitied or envied?