Delphi collected works o.., p.193
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 193
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
“And to-night we are to go in for them thoroughly, I suppose?” — inquired Villiers with a quick look. “To-night, my dear boy, you will have to decide whether you consider me mad or sane,” said Alwyn cheerfully— “I shall tell you truths that seem like romances — and facts that sound like fables, — moreover, I shall have to assure you that miracles DO happen whenever God chooses, in spite of all human denial of their possibility. Do you remember Whately’s clever skit— ‘Historical Doubts of Napoleon I’? — showing how easy it was to logically prove that Napoleon never existed? — That ought to enlighten people as to the very precise and convincing manner in which we can, if we choose, argue away what is nevertheless an incontestible FACT. Thus do skeptics deny miracles — yet we live surrounded by miracles! … do you think me crazed for saying so?”
Villiers laughed. “Crazed! No, indeed! — I wish every man in London were as sane and sound as you are!”
“Ah, but wait till to-night!” and Alwyn’s eyes sparkled mirthfully— “Perhaps you will alter your opinion then!” — Here, collecting his scattered manuscripts, he put them by— “I’ve done work for the present,” — he said— “Shall we go for a walk somewhere?”
Villiers assented, and they left the room together.
CHAPTER XXXV.
ONE AGAINST MANY.
The beautiful and socially popular Duchess de la Santoisie sat her at brilliantly appointed dinner-table, and flashed her bright eyes comprehensively round the board, — her party was complete. She had secured twenty of the best-known men and women of letters in all London, and yet she was not quite satisfied with the result attained. One dark, splendid face on her right hand had taken the lustre out of all the rest, — one quiet, courteous smile on a mouth haughty, yet sweet, had somehow or other made the entertainment of little worth in her own estimation. She was very fair to look upon, very witty, very worldly-wise, — but for once her beauty seemed to herself defective and powerless to charm, while the graceful cloak of social hypocrisy she was always accustomed to wear would not adapt itself to her manner tonight so well as usual. The author of “Nourhalma” the successful poet whose acquaintance she had very eagerly sought to make, was not at all the kind of man she had expected, — and now, when he was beside her as her guest, she did not quite know what to do with him.
She had met plenty of poets, so called, before, — and had, for the most part, found them insignificant looking men with an enormous opinion of themselves, and a suave, condescending contempt for all others of their craft; but this being, — this stately, kingly creature with the noble head, and far-gazing, luminous eyes, — this man, whose every gesture was graceful, whose demeanor was more royal than that of many a crowned monarch, — whose voice had such a singular soft thrill of music in its tone, — he was a personage for whom she had not been prepared, — and in whose presence she felt curiously embarrassed and almost ill at ease. And she was not the only one present who experienced these odd sensations. Alwyn’s appearance, when, with his friend Villiers, he had first entered the Duchess’s drawing-room that evening, and had there been introduced to his hostess, had been a sort of revelation to the languid, fashionable guests assembled; sudden quick whispers were exchanged — surprised glances, — how unlike he was to the general type of the nervous, fagged, dyspeptic “literary” man!
And now that every one was seated at dinner, the same impression remained on all, — an impression that was to some disagreeable and humiliating, and that yet could not be got over, — namely, that this “poet,” whom, in a way, the Duchess and her friends had intended to patronize, was distinctly superior to them all. Nature, as though proud of her handiwork, proclaimed him as such, — while he, quite unconscious of the effect he produced, wondered why this bevy of human beings, most of whom were more or less distinguished in the world of art and literature, had so little to say for themselves. Their conversation was BANAL, — tame, — ordinary; they might have been well-behaved, elegantly dressed peasants for aught they said of wise, cheerful, or witty. The weather, — the parks, — the theatres, — the newest actress, and the newest remedies for indigestion, — these sort of subjects were bandied about from one to the other with a vaguely tame persistence that was really irritating, — the question of remedies for indigestion seemed to hold ground longest, owing to the variety of opinions expressed thereon.
The Duchess grew more and more inwardly vexed, and her little foot beat an impatient tattoo under the table, as she replied with careless brevity to a few of the commonplace observations addressed to her, and cast an occasional annoyed glance at her lord, M le Duc, a thin, military-looking individual, with a well waxed and pointed mustache, whose countenance suggested an admirably executed mask. It was a face that said absolutely nothing, — yet beneath its cold impassiveness linked the satyr-like, complex, half civilized, half brutish mind of the born and bred Parisian, — the goblin-creature with whom pure virtues, whether in man or woman, are no more sacred than nuts to a monkey. The suave charm of a polished civility sat on M le Due’s smooth brow, and beamed in his urbane smile, — his manners were exquisite, his courtesy irreproachable, his whole demeanor that of a very precise and elegant master of deportment. Yet, notwithstanding his calm and perfectly self-possessed exterior, he was, oddly enough, the frequent prey of certain extraordinary and ungovernable passions; there were times when he became impossible to himself, — and when, to escape from his own horrible thoughts, he would plunge headlong into an orgie of wild riot and debauchery, such as might have made the hair of his respectable English acquaintances stand on end, had they known to what an extent he carried his excesses. But at these seasons of moral attack, he “went abroad for his health,” as he said, delicately touching his chest in order to suggest some interesting latent weakness there, and in these migratory excursions his wife never accompanied him, nor did she complain of his absence. When he returned, after two or three months, he looked more the “chevalier sans peur et sans reproche” than ever; and neither he, nor the fair partner of his joys and sorrows, even committed such a breach of politeness as to inquire into each other’s doings during the time of their separation. So they jogged on together, presenting the most delightful outward show of wedded harmony to the world, — and only a few were found to hazard the remark, that the “racy” novels Madame la Duchesse wrote to wile away her duller hours were singularly “bitter” in tone, for a woman whose lot in life was so extremely enviable!
On this particular evening, the Duke affected to be utterly unconscious of the meaning looks his beautiful spouse shot at him every now and then, — looks which plainly said— “Why don’t you start some interesting subject of conversation, and stop these people from talking such every-day twaddle?” He was a clever man in his way, and his present mood was malign and mischievous; therefore he went on eating daintily, and discussing mild platitudes in the most languidly amiable manner imaginable, enjoying to the full the mental confusion and discomfort of his guests, — confusion and discomfort which, as he very well knew, was the psychological result of their having one in their midst whose life and character were totally opposite to, and distinctly separate from, their own. As Emerson truly says, “Let the world beware when a Thinker comes into it!”.. and here WAS this Thinker, — this type of the Godlike in Man, — this uncomfortably sincere personage, whose eyes were clear of falsehood, whose genius was incontestable, whose fame had taken society by assault, and who, therefore, was entitled to receive every attention and consideration.
Everybody had desired to see him, and here he was, — the great man, the new “celebrity” — and now that he was actually present, no one knew what to say to him; moreover, there was a very general tendency in the company to avoid his direct gaze. People fidgeted on their chairs and looked aside or downward, whenever his glance accidentally fell on them, — and to the analytical Voltairean mind of M. le Duc there was something grimly humorous in the whole situation. He was a great admirer of physical strength and beauty, and Alwyn’s noble face and fine figure had won his respect, though of the genius of the poet he knew nothing, and cared less. It was enough for all the purposes of social usage that the author of “Nourhalma” was CONSIDERED illustrious, — no matter whether he deserved the appellation or not. And so the Duke, satirically amused at the obvious embarrassment of the other “notabilities” assembled, did nothing whatsoever to relieve or to lighten the conversation, which remained so utterly dull and inane that Alwyn, who had been compelled, for politeness’ sake, to appear interested in the account of a bicycle race detailed to him by a very masculine looking lady-doctor whose seat at table was next his own, began to feel a little weary, and to wonder dismally how long this “feast of reason and flow of soul” was going to last.
Villiers, too, whose easy, good-natured, and clever talk generally gave some sparkle and animation to the dreariest social gathering, was to-night unusually taciturn: — he was bored by his partner, a middle-aged woman with a mania for philology, and, moreover, his thoughts, like those of most of the persons present, were centered on Alwyn, whom every now and then he regarded with a certain wistful wonder and reverence. He had heard the whole story of the Field of Ardath; and he knew not how much to accept of it as true, or how much to set down to his friend’s ardent imagination. He had come to a fairly logical explanation of the whole matter, — namely, that as the City of Al-Kyris had been proved a dream, so surely the visit of the Angel-maiden Edris must have been a dream likewise, — that the trance at the Monastery of Dariel, followed by the constant reading of the passages from Esdras, and the treatise of Algazzali, had produced a vivid impression on Alwyn’s susceptible brain, which had resolved itself into the visionary result narrated.
He found in this the most practical and probable view of what must otherwise be deemed by mortal minds incredible; and, being a frank and honest fellow, he had not scrupled to openly tell his friend what he thought. Alwyn had received his remarks with the most perfect sweetness and equanimity, — but, all the same, had remained unchanged in his opinion as to the REALITY of his betrothal to his Angel-love in Heaven. And one or two points had certainly baffled Villiers, and perplexed him in his would-be precise analysis of the circumstances: first, there was the remarkable change in Alwyn’s own nature. From an embittered, sarcastic, disappointed, violently ambitious man, he had become softened, gracious, kindly, — showing the greatest tenderness and forethought for others, even in small, every-day trifles; while for himself he took no care. He wore his fame as lightly as a child might wear a flower, just plucked and soon to fade, — his intelligence seemed to expand itself into a broad, loving, sympathetic comprehension of the wants and afflictions of human-kind; and he was writing a new poem, of which Villiers had seen some lines that had fairly amazed him by their grandeur of conception and clear passion of utterance. Thus it was evident there was no morbidness in him, — no obscurity, — nothing eccentric, — nothing that removed him in any way from his fellows, except that royal personality of his, — that strong, beautiful, well-balanced Spirit in him, which exercised such a bewildering spell on all who came within its influence, He believed himself loved by an Angel! Well, — if there WERE angels, why not? Villiers argued the proposition thus:
“Whether we are Christians, Jews, Buddhists, or Mahometans, we are supposed to accept angels as forming part of the system of our Faith. If we are nothing, — then, of course, we believe in nothing. But granted we are SOMETHING, then we are bound in honor, if consistent, to acknowledge that angels help to guide our destinies. And if, as we are assured by Holy Writ, such loftier beings DO exist, why should they not communicate with, and even love, human creatures, provided those human creatures are worthy of their tenderness? Certainly, viewed by all the chief religions of the world, there is nothing new or outrageous in the idea of an angel descending to the help of man.”
Such thoughts as these were in his mind now, as he ever and anon glanced across the glittering table, with its profusion of lights and flowers, to where his poet-friend sat, slightly leaning back in his chair, with a certain half-perplexed, half-disappointed expression on his handsome features, though his eyes brightened into a smile as he caught Villiers’s look, and he gave the smallest, scarcely perceptible shrug, as who should say, “Is this your brilliant Duchess? — your witty and cultured society?”
Villiers flashed back an amused, responsive glance, and then conscientiously strove to pay more attention to the irrepressible feminine philologist beside him, determining to take her, as he said to himself, by way of penance for his unremembered sins. After a while there came one of those extraordinary, sudden rushes of gabble that often occur at even the stiffest dinner-party, — a galloping race of tongues, in which nothing really distinct is heard, but in which each talks to the other as though moved by an impulse of sheer desperation. This burst of noise was a relief after the strained murmurs of trite commonplaces that had hitherto been the order of the hour, and the fair Duchess, somewhat easier in her mind, turned anew to Alwyn, with greater grace and gentleness of manner than she had yet shown.
“I am afraid,” she said smilingly, “you must find us all very stupid after your travels abroad? In England we ARE dull, — our tristesse cannot be denied. But, really, the climate is responsible, — we want more sunshine. I suppose in the East, where the sun is so warm and bright, the people are always cheerful?”
“On the contrary, I have found them rather serious and contemplative than otherwise,” returned Alwyn,— “yet their gravity is certainly of a pleasant, and not of a forbidding type. I don’t myself think the sun has much to do with the disposition of man, after all, — I fancy his temperament is chiefly moulded by the life he leads. In the East, for instance, men accept their existence as a sort of divine command, which they obey cheerfully, yet with a consciousness of high responsibility: — on the Continent they take it as a bagatelle, lightly won, lightly lost, hence their indifferent, almost childish, gayety; — but in Great Britain” — and he smiled,— “it looks nowadays as if it were viewed very generally as a personal injury and bore, — a kind of title bestowed without the necessary money to keep it up! And this money people set themselves steadily to obtain, with many a weary grunt and groan, while they are, for the most part, forgetful of anything else life may have to offer.”
“But what IS life without plenty of money?” inquired the Duchess carelessly— “Surely, not worth the trouble of living!”
Alwyn looked at her steadily, and a swift flush colored her smooth cheek. She toyed with the magnificent diamond spray at her breast, and wondered what strange spell was in this man’s brilliant gray-black eyes! — did he guess that she — even she — had sold herself to the Duc de la Santoisie for the sake of his money and title as easily and unresistingly as though she were a mere purchasable animal?
“That is an argument I would rather not enter into,” he said gently— “It would lead us too far. But I am convinced, that whether dire poverty or great riches be our portion, life, considered apart from its worldly appendages, is always worth living, if lived WELL.”
“Pray, how can you separate life from its worldly appendages?” — inquired a satirical-looking gentleman opposite— “Life IS the world, and the things of the world; when we lose sight of the world, we lose ourselves, — in short, we die, — and the world is at an end, and we with it. That’s plain practical philosophy.”
“Possibly it may be called philosophy” — returned Alwyn— “It is not
Christianity.”
“Oh, Christianity!” — and the gentleman gave a portentous sniff of contempt— “That is a system of faith that is rapidly dying out; fast falling into contempt! — In fact, with the scientific and cultured classes, it is already an exploded doctrine.”
“Indeed!” — Alwyn’s glance swept over him with a faint, cold scorn— “And what religion do the scientific and cultured classes propose to invent as a substitute?”
“There’s no necessity for any substitute,” — said the gentleman rather impatiently.. For those who want to believe in something supernatural, there are plenty of different ideas afloat, Esoteric Buddhism for example, — and what is called Scientific Religion and Natural Religion, — any, or all, of these are sufficient to gratify the imaginative cravings of the majority, till they have been educated out of imagination altogether: — but, for advanced thinkers, religion is really not required at all.” [Footnote: The world is indebted to Mr. Andrew Lang for the newest “logical” explanation of the Religious Instinct in Man: — namely, that the very idea of God first arose from the terror and amazement of an ape at the sound of the thunder! So choice and soul-moving a definition of Deity needs no comment!]
“Nay, I think we must worship SOMETHING!” retorted Alwyn, a fine satire in his rich voice, “if it be only SELF! — Self is an excellent deity! — accommodating, and always ready to excuse sin, — why should we not build temples, raise altars, and institute services to the glory and honor of SELF? — Perhaps the time is ripe for a public proclamation of this creed? — It will be easily propagated, for the beginnings of it are in the heart of every man, and need very little fostering!”
His thrilling tone, together with the calm, half-ironical persuasiveness of his manner, sent a sudden hush down the table. Every one turned eagerly toward him, — some amused, some wondering, some admiring, while Villiers felt his heart beating with uncomfortable quickness, — he hated religious discussions, and always avoided them, and now here was Alwyn beginning one, and he the centre of a company of persons who were for the most part avowed agnostics, to whose opinions his must necessarily be in direct and absolute opposition! At the same time, he remembered that those who were sure of their faith never lost their temper about it, — and as he glanced at his friend’s perfectly serene and coldly smiling countenance, he saw there was no danger of his letting slip, even for a moment, his admirable power of self-command. The Duc de la Santoisie, meanwhile, settling his mustache, and gracefully waving one hand, on which sparkled a large diamond ring, bent forward a little with a courteous, deprecatory gesture.
