Delphi collected works o.., p.188
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 188
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
“Dear old boy!” he said, with a very tender inflection in his mellow, mirthful voice— “You are the best of good fellows, and I thank you heartily for your news, which, if it seems satisfactory to you, ought certainly to be satisfactory to me! But tell me frankly, if I am as famous as you say, how did I become so? … how was it worked up?”
“Worked up!” Villiers was completely taken back by the oddity of this question.
“Come!” continued Alwyn persuasively, his fine eyes sparkling with mischievous good-humor.. “You can’t make me believe that ‘All England’ took to me suddenly of its own accord, — it is not so romantic, so poetry-loving, so independent, or so generous as THAT! How was my ‘celebrity’ first started? If my book, — which has all the disadvantage of being a poem instead of a novel, — has so suddenly leaped into high favor and renown, why, then, some leading critic or other must have thought that I myself was dead!”
The whimsical merriment of his face seemed to reflect itself on that of
Villiers.
“You’re too quick-witted, Alwyn, positively you are!” he remonstrated with a frankly humorous smile.. “But as it happens, you’re perfectly right! Not ONE critic, but THREE, — three of our most influential men, too — thought you WERE dead! — and that ‘Nourhalma’ was a posthumous work of PERISHED GENIUS!”
CHAPTER XXXII.
ZABASTESISM AND PAULISM.
The delighted air of triumphant conviction with which Alwyn received this candid statement was irresistible, and Villiers’s attempt at equanimity entirely gave way before it. He broke into a roar of laughter, — laughter in which his friend joined, — and for a minute or two the room rang with the echoes of their mutual mirth.
“It wasn’t MY doing,” said Villiers at last, when he could control himself a little,— “and even now I don’t in the least know how the misconception arose! ‘Nourhalma’ was published, according to your instructions, as rapidly as it could be got through the press, and I had no preliminary ‘puffs’ or announcements of any kind circulated in the papers. I merely advertised it with a notable simplicity, thus: ‘Nourhalma. A Love-Legend of the Past. A Poem. By Theos Alwyn.’ That was all. Well, when it came out, copies of it were sent, according to custom, round to all the leading newspaper offices, and for about three weeks after its publication I saw not a word concerning it anywhere. Meanwhile I went on advertising. One day at the Constitutional Club, while glancing over the Parthenon, I suddenly spied in it a long review, occupying four columns, and headed ‘A Wonder-Poem’; and just out of curiosity, I began to read it. I remember — in fact I shall never forget, — its opening sentence, . . it was so original!” and he laughed again. “It commenced thus: ‘It has been truly said that those whom the gods love die young!’ and then on it went, dragging in memories of Chatterton and Shelley and Keats, till I found myself yawning and wondering what the deuce the writer was driving at. Presently, about the end of the second column, I came to the assertion that ‘the posthumous poem of “Nourhalma” must be admitted as one of the most glorious productions in the English language.’ This woke me up considerably, and I read on, groping my way through all sorts of wordy phrases and used-up arguments, till my mind gradually grasped the fact that the critic of the Parthenon had evidently never heard of Theos Alwyn before, and being astonished, and perhaps perplexed, by the original beauty and glowing style of ‘Nourhalma,’ had jumped, without warrant, to the conclusion that its author must be dead. The wind-up of his lengthy dissertation was, as far as I can recollect, as follows:
“‘It is a thousand pities this gifted poet is no more. Splendid as the work of his youthful genius is, there is no doubt but that, had he lived, he would have endowed the world anew with an inheritance of thought worthy of the grandest master-minds.’ Well, when I had fully realized the situation, I began to think to myself, Shall I enlighten this Sir Oracle of the Press, and tell him the ‘DEAD’ author he so enthusiastically eulogizes, is alive and well, or was so, at any rate, the last time I heard from him? I debated the question seriously, and, after much cogitation, decided to leave him, for the present, in ignorance. First of all, because critics like to consider themselves the wisest men in the world, and hate to be told anything, — secondly, because I rather enjoyed the fun. The publisher of ‘Nourhalma’ — a very excellent fellow — sent me the critique, and wrote asking me whether it was true that the author of the poem was really dead, and if not, whether he should contradict the report. I waited a bit before answering that letter, and while I waited two more critiques appeared in two of the most assertively pompous and dictatorial journals of the day, echoing the eulogies of the Parthenon, declaring ‘this dead poet’ worthy ‘to rank with the highest of the Immortals,’ and a number of other similar grandiose declarations. One reviewer took an infinite deal of pains to prove ‘that if the genius of Theos Alwyn had only been spared to England, he must have infallibly been elected Poet Laureate as soon as the post became vacant, and that too, without a single dissentient voice, save such as were raised in envy or malice. But, being dead ‘ — continued this estimable scribe— ‘all we can say is that he yet speaketh, and that “Nourhalma” is a poem of which the literary world cannot be otherwise than justly proud. Let the tears that we shed for this gifted singer’s untimely decease be mingled with gratitude for the priceless value of the work his creative genius has bequeathed to us!’”
Here Villiers paused, his blue eyes sparkling with inward amusement, and looked at Alwyn, whose face, though perfectly serene, had now the faintest, softest shadow of a grave pathos hovering about it.
“By this time,” he continued.. “I thought we had had about enough sport, so I wrote off to the publisher to at once contradict the erroneous rumor. But now that publisher had HIS story to tell. He called upon me, and with a blandly persuasive air, said, that as ‘Nourhalma’ was having an extraordinary sale, was it worth while to deny the statement of your death just yet? … He was very anxious, . . but I was firm, . . and lest he should waver, I wrote several letters myself to the leading journals, to establish the certainty, so far as I was aware, of your being in the land of the living. And then what do you think happened?”
Alwyn met his bright, satirical glance with a look that was half-questioning, half-wistful, but said nothing.
“It was the most laughable, and at the same time the most beautifully instructive, lesson ever taught by the whole annals of journalism! The Press turned round like a weathercock with the wind, and exhausted every epithet of abuse they could find in the dictionaries. ‘Nourhalma’ was a ‘poor, ill-conceived work,’— ‘an outrage to intellectual perception,’— ‘a good idea, spoilt in the treatment; an amazingly obscure attempt at sublimity’ — et cetera, . . but there! you can yourself peruse all the criticisms, both favorable and adverse, for I have acted the part of the fond granny to you in the careful cutting out and pasting of everything I could find written concerning you and your work in a book devoted to the purpose, . . and I believe I’ve missed nothing. Mark you, however, the Parthenon never reversed its judgment, nor did the other two leading journals of literary opinion, — it wouldn’t do for such bigwigs to confess they had blundered, you know! … and the vituperation of the smaller fry was just the other weight in the balance which made the thing equal. The sale of ‘Nourhalma’ grew fast and furious; all expenses were cleared three times over, and at the present moment the publisher is getting conscientiously anxious (for some publishers are more conscientious than some authors will admit!) to hand you over a nice little check for an amount which is not to be despised in this workaday world, I assure you!”
“I did not write for money,” — interrupted Alwyn quietly.. “Nor shall I ever do so.”
“Of course not,” assented Villiers promptly. “No poet, and indeed no author whatsoever, who lays claim to a fraction of conscience, writes for money ONLY. Those with whom money is the first consideration debase their Art into a coarse huckstering trade, and are no better than contentious bakers and cheesemongers, who jostle each other in a vulgar struggle as to which shall sell perishable goods at the highest profit. None of the lasting works of the world were written so. Nevertheless, if the public voluntarily choose to lavish what they can of their best on the author who imparts to them inspired thoughts and noble teachings, then that author must not be churlish, or slow to accept the gratitude implied. I think the most appropriate maxim for a poet to address to his readers is, ‘Freely ye have received, freely give.’”
There was a moment’s silence. Alwyn resumed his seat in the chair near the fire, and Villiers, leaning one arm on the mantelpiece, still stood, looking down upon him.
“Such, my dear fellow,” he went on complacently.. “is the history of the success of ‘Nourhalma.’ It certainly began with the belief that you were no longer able to benefit by the eulogy received. — but all the same that eulogy has been uttered and cannot be UNuttered. It has led all the lovers of the highest literature to get the book for themselves, and to prove your actual worth, independently of press opinions, — and the result is an immense and steadily widening verdict in your favor. Speaking personally, I have never read anything that gave me quite so much artistic pleasure as this poem of yours except ‘Hyperion,’ — only ‘Hyperion’ is distinctly classical, while ‘Nourhalma’ takes us back into some hitherto unexplored world of antique paganism, which, though essentially pagan, is wonderfully full of pure and lofty sentiment. When did the idea first strike you?”
“A long time ago!” returned Alwyn with a slight, serious smile— “I assure you it is by no means original!”
Villiers gave him a quick, surprised glance.
“No? Well, it seems to me singularly original!” he said.. “In fact, one of your critics says you are TOO original! Mind you, Alwyn, that is a very serious fault in this imitative age!”
Alwyn laughed a little. His thoughts were very busy. Again in imagination he beheld the burning “Temple of Nagaya” in his Dream of Al-Kyris, — again he saw himself carrying the corpse of his FORMER Self through fire and flame, — and again he heard the last words of the dying Zabastes— “I was the Poet’s adverse Critic, and who but I should write his Eulogy? Save me, if only for the sake of Sah-luma’s future honor! — thou knowest not how warmly, how generously, how nobly, I can praise the dead!”
True! … How easy to praise the poor, deaf, stirless clay when sense and spirit have fled from it forever! No fear to spoil a corpse by flattery, — the heavily sealed-up eyes can never more unclose to lighten with glad hope or fond ambition; the quiet heart cannot leap with gratitude or joy at that “word spoken in due season” which aids its noblest aspirations to become realized! The DEAD poet? — Press the cold clods of earth over him, and then rant above his grave, — tell him how great he was, what infinite possibilities were displayed in his work, what excellence, what merit, what subtlety of thought, what grace of style! Rant and rave! — print reams of acclaiming verbosity, pronounce orations, raise up statues, mark the house he lived and starved in, with a laudatory medallion, and print his once-rejected stanzas in every sort of type and fashion, from the cheap to the costly, — teach the multitude how worthy he was to be loved, and honored, — and never fear that he will move from his rigid and chill repose to be happy for once in his life, and to learn with amazement that the world he toiled so patiently for is actually learning to be grateful for his existence! Once dead and buried he can be safely made glorious, — he cannot affront us either with his superior intelligence, or make us envy the splendors of his fame!
Some such thoughts as these passed through Alwyn’s mind as he dreamily gazed into the red hollows of the fire, and reconsidered all that his friend had told him. He had no personal acquaintances on the press, — no literary club or clique to haul him up into the top-gallant mast of renown by persistent puffery; he was not related, even distantly, to any great personage, either statesman, professor, or divine — he had not the mysterious recommendation of being a “university man”; none of the many “wheels” within wheels which are nowadays so frequently set in motion to make up a momentary literary furore, were his to command, — and yet — the Parthenon had praised him! … Wonder of wonders! The Parthenon was a singularly obtuse journal, which glanced at the whole world of letters merely through the eyes of three or four men of distinctly narrow and egotistical opinions, and these three or four men kept it as much as possible to themselves, using its columns chiefly for the purpose of admiring one another. As a consequence of this restricted arrangement, very few outsiders could expect to be noticed for their work, unless they were in the “set,” or at least had occasionally dined with one of the mystic Three or Four, . . and so it had chanced that Alwyn’s first venture into literature had been totally disregarded by the Parthenon. In fact, that first venture, being a small and unobtrusive book, had, most probably, been thrown into the waste-paper basket, or sold for a few pence to the second-hand dealer. And now, — now because he had been imagined DEAD, — the Parthenon’s leading critic had singled him out and held him up for universal admiration!
Well, well! … after all, Nourhalma WAS a posthumous work, — it had been written before, ages since, when he, as Sah-luma, had perished ere he had had time to give it to the world! He had merely REMEMBERED it.. drawn it forth again, as it were, from the dim, deep vistas of past deeds; — so those who had reviewed it as the production of one dead in youth, were right in their judgment, though they did not know it! … It was old, — nothing but repetition, — but now he had something new and true and passionate to say, . . something that, if God pleased, it should be his to utter with the clearness and forcibleness common to the Greek thunderers of yore, who spoke out what was in them, grandly, simply, and with the fearless majesty of thought that reeked nothing of opinions. Oh, he would rouse the hearts of men from paltry greed and covetousness, . . from lust, and hatred, and all things evil, — no matter if he lost his own life in the effort, he would still do his utmost best to lift, if only in a small degree, the deepening weight of self-wrought agony from self-blinded mankind! Yes! … he must work to fulfil the commands and deserve the blessings of Edris!
Edris! … ah, the memory of her pure angel-loveliness rushed upon him like a flood of invigorating warmth and light, and when he looked up from his brief reverie, his countenance, beautiful, and kindling with inward ardor, affected Villiers strangely, — almost as a very grand and perfect strain of music might affect and unsteady one’s nerves. The attraction he had always felt for his poet-friend deepened to quite a fervent intensity of admiration, but he was not the man to betray his feelings outwardly, and to shake off his emotion he rushed into speech again.
“By the by, Alwyn, your old acquaintance, Professor Moxall, is very much ‘down’ on your book. You know he doesn’t write reviews, except on matters connected with evolutionary phenomena, but I met him the other day, and he was quite upset about you. ‘Too transcendental’! he said, dismally shaking his bald pate to and fro— ‘The whole poem is a vaporous tissue of absurd impossibilities! Ah dear, dear me! what a terrible falling-off in a young man of such hopeful ability! I thought he had done with poetry forever! — I took the greatest pains to prove to him what a ridiculous pastime it was, and how unworthy to be considered for a moment seriously as an ART, — and he seemed to understand my reasoning thoroughly. Indeed he promised to be one of our most powerful adherents, . . he had an excellent grasp of the material sciences, and a fine contempt for religion. Why, with such a quick, analytical brain as his, he might have carried on Darwin’s researches to an extremer point of the origination of species than has yet been reached! All a ruin, sir! a positive ruin, — a man who will in cold blood write such lines as these …
‘“Grander is Death than Life, and sweeter far The splendors of the Infinite Future, than our eyes, Weary with tearful watching, yet can see” —
condemns himself as a positive lunatic! And young Alwyn too! — he who had so completely recognized the foolishness and futility of expecting any other life than this one! Good heavens! … “Nourhalma,” as I understand it, is a sort of pagan poem — but with such incredible ideas and sentiments as are expressed in it, the author might as well go and be a Christian at once!’ And with that he hobbled off, for it was Sunday afternoon, and he was on his way to St. George’s Hall to delight the assembled skeptics, by telling them in an elaborate lecture what absurd animalculae they all were!”
Alwyn smiled. There was a soft light in his eyes, an expression of serene contentment on his face.
“Poor old Moxall!” he said gently— “I am sorry for him! He makes life very desolate, both for himself and others who accept his theories. I’m afraid his disappointment in me will have to continue, . . for as it happens I AM a Christian, — that is, so far as I can, in my unworthiness, be a follower of a faith so grand, and pure, and TRUE!”
Villiers started, . . his month opened in sheer astonishment, . . he could scarcely believe his own ears, and he uttered some sound between a gasp and an exclamation of incredulity. Alwyn met his widely wondering gaze with a most sweet and unembarrassed calm.
“How amazed you look!” he observed, half playfully,— “Religion must be at a very low ebb, if in a so-called Christian country you are surprised to hear a man openly acknowledge himself a disciple of the Christian creed!”
There was a brief pause, during which the chiming clock rang out the hour musically on the stillness. Then Villiers, still in a state of most profound bewilderment, sat down deliberately in a chair opposite Alwyn’s, and placed one hand familiarly on his knee.
“Look here, old fellow,” he said impressively, “do you really MEAN it!
… Are you ‘going over’ to some Church or other?”
Alwyn laughed — his friend’s anxiety was so genuine.
