XII.

The journey over was precisely like any other, except in this, that, the

tide of travel being in the contrary direction, the number of cabin

passengers was limited. Among them there was no one whom Tristrem had

met before; yet, after the second day out, there were few whom his

appearance and manner had not attracted and coerced into some overture

to better acquaintance. Of these his attention was particularly claimed

by an Englishman who sat next to him at table, and a young lady who

occupied the seat opposite to his own. In the eyes of the latter was the

mischievous look of a precocious boy. She was extremely pretty; blonde,

fair, with a mouth that said Kiss me--what the French call a _frimousse

frottée de champagne_; and her speech was marked by great vivacity. She

was accompanied by an elderly person who appeared at table but once, and

who during the rest of the voyage remained bundled in shawls in the

ladies' cabin, where refreshments were presumably brought her.

It was rumored that this young lady was an ex-star of the Gaiety, and

more recently a member of a burlesque troupe that had disbanded in the

States. It was added--but then, are not ill-natured things said about

everybody? You, sir, and you, madam, who happen to read this page, have

never, of course, been spoken of other than with the greatest respect,

but what is said of your neighbor? and what have you said yourself?

Tristrem, unaffected by the gossip of the smoking-room, to which,

indeed, he lent but an inattentive ear, allowed the young lady to march

him up and down the deck and, as was his wont, permitted himself to be

generally made use of. Yet if the elderly person in the ladies' cabin

had exacted of him similar attentions, the attentions would have been

rendered with the same prompt and diligent willingness. He was not a

good listener, although he seemed one, but there was a breeziness in the

young lady's conversation which helped him not a little to forget the

discomforts of ocean travel. He walked with her, in consequence, mile

after mile, and when she wearied of that amusement, he got her

comfortably seated and, until she needed him again, passed the time in

the smoking-room.

It was there that he became acquainted with the Englishman who sat next

to him at table. His name, he learned, was Ledyard Yorke. He was an

artist by profession, and in the course of a symposium or two Tristrem

discovered that he was a very cultivated fellow besides. He seemed to be

well on in the thirties, and it was evident that there were few quarters

of the globe with which he was not familiar. He was enthusiastic on the

subject of French literature, but the manufactures of the pupils of the

Beaux Arts he professed to abominate.

"The last time I was at the Salon," he said, one evening, "there were in

those interminable halls over three thousand pictures. Of these, there

were barely fifty worth looking at. The others were interesting as

colored lithographs on a dead wall. There was a Manet or two, a Moreau,

and a dozen or more excellent landscapes, but the rest represented the

apotheosis of mediocrity. The pictures which Gérôme, Cabanel,

Bouguereau, and the acolytes of those pastry-cooks exposed were stupid

and sterile as church doors. What is art, after all, if it be not an

imitation of nature? To my thinking, the greater the illusion, the

nearer does the counterfeit approach the model. And look at the nymphs

and dryads which those hair-dressers present. In the first place, nymphs

and dryads are as overdone as the assumption of Virgins and the loves of

Leda. Besides they were not modern, but even if they were, fancy a girl

who lives in the open air in her birthday costume, and who, exposed to

the sun, to say nothing of the wind, still preserves the pink and white

skin of a baby--and a skin, mind you, that looks as though it had been

polished and pinched by a masseur; however, place a dozen of them

lolling in conventional attitudes in a glade, or represent them bathing

in a pond, and although the sun shines on them through the foliage, be

careful not to get so much as the criss-cross of a shadow on their

bodies, smear the whole thing with cold cream, label one 'Arcadia,' and

the other 'Nymphs surprised,' and you have what they call in France the

_faire distingué_."

There was nothing particularly new in what Mr. Yorke had to say, and if,

like the majority of men whose thoughts run in a particular channel, he

was apt to be dogmatic in his views, he yet possessed that saving

quality, which consists in treating the subject in hand not as were it a

matter of life and death, but rather as one which is as unimportant as

the gout of a distant relative. And it was in the companionship of this

gentleman, and that of the young lady alluded to, that Tristrem passed

the six days which separated him from the Irish coast.

On the day preceding the debarcation he was in great and expectant

spirits, but as the sun sank in the ocean his light-heartedness sank

with it. During dinner his charming _vis-à-vis_ rallied him as best she

might, but he remained unresponsive, answering only when civility made

it necessary for him to do so. It is just possible that the young lady

may have entertained original ideas of her own on the subject of his

taciturnity, but, however that may be, it so happened that before the

meal was done Tristrem went up on deck, and seeking the stern of the

ship, leaned over the gunwale.

So far in the distance as his eyes could reach was a trail of glistening

white. On either side were impenetrable wastes of black. In his ears was

the sob of water displaced, the moan of tireless discontent, and

therewith the flash and shimmer of phosphorus seemed to invite and tell

of realms of enchanted rest beneath. And, as Tristrem watched and

listened, the sibilants of the sea gurgled in sympathy with his

thoughts, accompanying and accentuating them with murmurs of its own.

Its breast was bared to him, it lay at his feet, open-armed as though

waiting his coming, and conjuring him to haste. "There is nothing

sweeter," it seemed to say, "nothing swifter, and naught more still. I

feed my lovers on lotus and Lethe. There is no fairer couch in the world

than mine. A sister's kiss is not more chaste. I am better than fame,

serener than hope; I am more than love, I am peace. I am unforsakable,

and I never forsake."

And as the great ship sped on in fright, it almost seemed to Tristrem

that the sea, like an affianced bride, was rising up to claim and take

him as her own. Many months later, he thought of the sensation that he

then experienced, the query that came to his mind, he knew not how or

whence, whether it were not better perhaps--and then the after-shudder

as he started back, wondering could it be that for the moment he was

mad, and telling himself that in a few hours, a few days at most, he

would be with Her. And what had the sea to do with him? Many months

after he thought of it.

And as he still gazed at the tempting waters, he felt a hand touch his

own, rest on, and nestle in it. He looked around; it was his charming

_vis-à-vis_ who had sought him out and was now looking in his face. She

did not speak; her eyes had lost their mischief, but her mouth framed

its message as before. Awkwardly as men do such things, Tristrem

disengaged his hand. The girl made one little effort to detain it, and

for a moment her lips moved; but she said nothing, and when the hand had

gone from her, she turned with a toss of the head and disappeared in the

night.

Soon after, Tristrem turned, too, and found his way to the smoking-room.

In some way the caress which he had eluded had left a balm. He was as

hopeful as before, and he smiled in silent amusement at the ups and

downs of his needless fears. In a corner of the room was Yorke.

"I have been looking at the sea," he said, as he took a seat at his

side; "it is captious as wine."

"You are a poet, are you not?" Yorke spoke not as though he were paying

a compliment, but in the matter-of-fact fashion in which one drummer

will say "Dry goods?" to another.

"No; I wish I were. I have never written."

"It's a popular prejudice to suppose that a poet must write. The

greatest of all never put pen to paper. What is there left to us of

Linus and Musæus? Siddartha did not write, Valmiki did not know how. The

parables of the Christ were voiced, not written. Besides, the poet

feels--he does not spend a year, like Mallarmé, in polishing a sonnet.

De Musset is certainly the best example of the poet that France has to

offer; with him you always catch the foot-fall of the Muse--you feel, as

he felt, the inspiration. And all the more clearly in that his verses

limp. He never would have had time to express himself if he had tried to

sand-paper his thoughts. Don't you suppose that Murillo was a poet?

Don't you suppose that Guido was? Don't you think that anyone who is in

love with beauty must be? I say beauty where I might say the ideal. That

is the reason I thought you a poet. You have in your face that constant

preoccupation which is distinctive of those who pursue the intangible."

"I am not pursuing the intangible, though," Tristrem answered, with a

little sententious nod.

"Ah, who shall say? We all do. I am pursuing it myself, though not in

the sense that I attribute to you. Did you ever read Flaubert's

_Tentation_? No? Well, fancy the Sphinx crouching at sunset in the

encroaching sand. In the background is a riot of color, and overhead a

tender blue fading into salmon and the discreetest gray. Then add to

that the impression of solitude and the most absolute silence. In the

foreground flutters a Chimera, a bird with a dragon's tail and the

rainbow wings of a giant butterfly. The Sphinx is staring at you, and

yet through and beyond, as though her eyes rested on some inaccessible

horizon. Cities crumble, nations rise and subside, and still that

undeviating stare! And in her face the unroutable calm of fabulous

beauty. I want those eyes, I want that face. You never heard the duo

which Flaubert gives, did you? It runs somewhat this way: The motionless

Sphinx calls: 'Here, Chimera, rest a while.'

"The Chimera answers: 'Rest? Not I.'

"_The Sphinx._ Whither goest thou in such haste?

"_The Chimera._ I gallop in the corridors of the labyrinth. I soar to

the mountain-tops. I skim the waves. I yelp at the foot of precipices. I

cling to the skirt of clouds. With my training tail I sweep the shores.

The hills have taken their curve from the form of my shoulders. But

thou--I find thee perpetually immobile, or else with the end of thy claw

drawing alphabets in the sand.

"_The Sphinx._ I am guarding my secret, I calculate and I dream.

"_The Chimera._ I--I am joyous and light of heart. I discover to man

resplendent perspectives, Utopias in the skies, and distant felicities.

Into his soul I pour the eternal follies, projects of happiness, plans

for the future, dreams of fame, and the vows of love and virtuous

resolutions. I incite to perilous journeys, to great undertakings. It is

I that chiselled the marvels of architecture. It is I that hung bells on

the tomb of Porsenna, and surrounded with an orchalc wall the quays of

the Atlantides. I seek new perfumes, larger flowers, and pleasures

unenjoyed. If anywhere I perceive a man whose mind rests in wisdom, I

drop from space and strangle him.

"_The Sphinx._ All those whom the desire of God torments, I have

devoured."

Yorke had repeated these snatches from the duo in French. He had

repeated them well, bringing out the harmony of the words in a manner

which in our harsher tongue would have been impossible. And now he felt

parched, and ordered some drink of the steward.

"It is the face of that Sphinx that I want," he continued. "If I were a

composer I would put the duo itself to music. I know of no prose more

admirable. I have the scene on canvas, all of it, that is, except the

Sphinx's face, and that, of course, is the most important. I want a face

that she alone could possess. I may find it, I may not. At all events,

you see that just at present I too am in pursuit of the intangible. But

there, tell me of the artist who is not. It is true, you go to the

Academy, and in the Cleopatras and Psyches you recognize the same Mary

Jane who the day before offered herself as model to you. My Sphinx,

however, was not born in Clapham. Nor does she dwell in Pimlico. But,

apropos to Pimlico, I have a fancy that that little friend of yours is

on her way to St. John's Wood."

"What little friend?"

"Why, the girl that sits opposite. And what's more to the point, she's

in love with you. _Tous mes compliments, c'est un vrai morceau de roi._"

At this Tristrem blushed in spite of himself. She might have been the

Helen for whom the war of the world was fought; she might have been

Mylitta or Venus Basilea, and still would she have left him unimpressed.

He would not have recognized the divinity--he bowed but to one.

"You remind me," said Yorke, who had watched his expression--"you remind

me of De Marsay, who did not know what he did to the women to make them

all fall in love with him. There is nothing as fetching as that. And

there is nothing, at least to my thinking, that compares with that charm

which a woman in love exhales to her lover. It is small matter whether

the woman is the daughter of an earl or whether she is a cocotte. There

are, I know, people who like their claret in decanters, but so long as

the wine is good, what does the bottle matter?

"'_Aimer est le grand point, qu' importe la maitresse?

Qu' importe le flacon, pourvu qu'on ait l'ivresse_?'"

"De Musset was drunk when he wrote that," said Tristrem. "But whether he

was drunk or sober, I don't agree with him. I don't agree with him at

all. It is the speech of a man who can think himself in love over and

over again, and who discovers in the end that through all his affairs he

has loved no one but himself."

All of which Mr. Yorke pooh-poohed in the civilest manner, and when

Tristrem had finished his little speech, expounded the principles of

love as they are formulated in the works of a German metaphysician,

supporting them as he did so with such clarity and force of argument

that Tristrem, vanquished but unconvinced, left him in disgust.

The next day they were at Liverpool. In the confusion that is incidental

to every debarcation Tristrem had had no opportunity of exchanging a

word with his _vis-à-vis_. But in the custom-house he caught sight of

her, and went forward to bid her good-bye.

"Good-bye," she answered, when he had done so, and putting out her hand,

she looked at him with mischievous eyes. "Good-bye," she repeated,

lightly, and then, between her teeth, she added, "Imbecile that you

are!"

Though what she may have meant by that, Tristrem never understood.