The Sorrows of Satan Part 23

"You wrote this!" he said, fixing his eyes upon me,--"It must have been a great relief to your mind!"

I said nothing.

He read on in silence for a little; then laying down the magazine looked at me with a curiously scrutinizing expression.

"There are some human beings so const.i.tuted," he said, "that if they had been with Noah in the ark according to the silly old legend, they would have shot the dove bearing the olive-leaf, directly it came in sight over the waste of waters. You are of that type Geoffrey."

"I do not see the force of your comparison," I murmured.

"Do you not? Why, what harm has this Mavis Clare done to you? Your positions are entirely opposed. You are a millionaire; she is a hard-working woman dependent on her literary success for a livelihood, and you, rolling in wealth do your best to deprive her of the means of existence. Does this redound to your credit? She has won her fame by her own brain and energy alone,--and even if you dislike her book need you abuse her personally as you have done in this article? You do not know her; you have never seen her, ..."

"I hate women who write!" I said vehemently.

"Why? Because they are able to exist independently? Would you have them all the slaves of man's l.u.s.t or convenience? My dear Geoffrey, you are unreasonable. If you admit that you are jealous of this woman's celebrity and grudge it to her, then I can understand your spite, for jealousy is capable of murdering a fellow-creature with either the dagger or the pen."

I was silent.

"Is the book such wretched stuff as you make it out to be?" he asked presently.

"I suppose some people might admire it,"--I said curtly, "I do not."

This was a lie; and of course he knew it was a lie. The work of Mavis Clare had excited my most pa.s.sionate envy,--while the very fact that Sibyl Elton had read her book before she had thought of looking at mine, had accentuated the bitterness of my feelings.

"Well," said Rimanez at last, smiling as he finished reading my onslaught--"all I can say Geoffrey, is that this will not touch Mavis Clare in the least. You have overshot the mark, my friend! Her public will simply cry "what a shame!" and clamour for her work more than ever.

And as for the woman herself,--she has a merry heart, and she will laugh at it. You must see her some day."

"I don't want to see her," I said.

"Probably not. But you will scarcely be able to avoid doing so when you live at Willowsmere Court."

"One is not obliged to know everybody in the neighbourhood,"--I observed superciliously.

Lucio laughed aloud.

"How well you carry your fortunes, Geoffrey!" he said--"For a poor devil of a Grub-street hack who lately was at a loss for a sovereign, how perfectly you follow the fas.h.i.+ons of your time! If there is one man more than another that moves me to wondering admiration it is he who a.s.serts his wealth strenuously in the face of his fellows, and who comports himself in this world as though he could bribe death and purchase the good-will of the Creator. It is such splendid effrontery,--such superlative pride! Now I, though over-wealthy myself, am so curiously const.i.tuted that I cannot wear my bank-notes in my countenance as it were,--I have put in a claim for intellect as well as gold,--and sometimes, do you know, in my travels round the world, I have been so far honoured as to be taken for quite a poor man! Now _you_ will never have that chance again;--you are rich and you look it!"

"And you,--" I interrupted him suddenly, and with some warmth--"do you know what _you_ look? You imply that I a.s.sert my wealth in my face; do you know what _you_ a.s.sert in your every glance and gesture?"

"I cannot imagine!" he said smiling.

"Contempt for us all!" I said--"Immeasurable contempt,--even for me, whom you call friend. I tell you the truth, Lucio,--there are times, when in spite of our intimacy I feel that you despise me. I daresay you do; you have an extraordinary personality united to extraordinary talents; you must not however expect all men to be as self-restrained and as indifferent to human pa.s.sions as yourself."

He gave me a swift, searching glance.

"Expect!" he echoed--"My good fellow, I expect nothing at all,--from men. They, on the contrary,--at least all those _I_ know--expect everything from me. And they get it,--generally. As for 'despising' you, have I not said that I admire you? I do. I think there is something positively stupendous in the brilliant progress of your fame and rapid social success."

"My fame!" I repeated bitterly--"How has it been obtained? What is it worth?"

"That is not the question;" he retorted with a little smile; "How unpleasant it must be for you to have these gouty twinges of conscience Geoffrey! Of course no fame is actually worth much now-a-days,--because it is not cla.s.sic fame, strong in reposeful old-world dignity,--it is blatant noisy notoriety merely. But yours, such as it is, is perfectly legitimate, judged by its common-sense commercial aspect, which is the only aspect in which anyone looks at anything. You must bear in mind that no one works out of disinterestedness in the present age,--no matter how purely benevolent an action may appear on the surface, Self lies at the bottom of it. Once grasp this fact, and you will perceive that nothing could be fairer or more straightforward than the way you have obtained your fame. You have not 'bought' the incorruptible British Press; you could not do that; that is impossible, for it is immaculate, and bristles stiffly all over with honourable principles. There is no English paper existing that would accept a cheque for the insertion of a notice or a paragraph; not one!" His eyes twinkled merrily,--then he went on--"No,--it is only the Foreign Press that is corrupt, so the British Press says;--John Bull looks on virtuously aghast at journalists who, in dire stress of poverty, will actually earn a little extra pay for writing something or somebody 'up' or 'down.' Thank Heaven, _he_ employs no such journalists; his pressmen are the very soul of rect.i.tude, and will stoically subsist on a pound a week rather than take ten for a casual job 'to oblige a friend.' Do you know Geoffrey, when the Judgment Day arrives, who will be among the first saints to ascend to Heaven with the sounding of trumpets?"

I shook my head, half vexed, half amused.

"All the English (not foreign) editors and journalists!" said Lucio with an air of pious rapture--"and why? Because they are so good, so just, so unprejudiced! Their foreign brethren will be reserved for the eternal dance of devils of course--but the Britishers will pace the golden streets singing Alleluia! I a.s.sure you I consider British journalists generally the n.o.blest examples of incorruptibility in the world--they come next to the clergy as representatives of virtue, and exponents of the three evangelical counsels,--voluntary poverty, chast.i.ty, and obedience!" Such mockery glittered in his eyes, that the light in them might have been the reflection of clas.h.i.+ng steel. "Be consoled, Geoffrey," he resumed--"your fame is honourably won. You have simply, through me, approached one critic who writes in about twenty newspapers and influences others to write in other twenty,--that critic being a n.o.ble creature, (all critics are n.o.ble creatures) has a pet 'society'

for the relief of authors in need (a n.o.ble scheme you will own) and to this charity I subscribe out of pure benevolence, five hundred pounds.

Moved by my generosity and consideration, (particularly as I do not ask what becomes of the five hundred) McWhing 'obliges' me in a little matter. The editors of the papers for which he writes accept him as a wise and witty personage; _they_ know nothing about the charity or the cheque,--it is not necessary for them to know. The whole thing is really quite a reasonable business arrangement;--it is only a self-tormenting a.n.a.lyst like you who would stop to think of such a trifle a second time."

"If McWhing really and conscientiously admired my book for itself;" I began.

"Why should you imagine he does not?" asked Lucio--"Myself, I believe that he is a perfectly sincere and honorable man. I think he means all he says and writes. I consider that if he had found your work not worthy of his commendation, he would have sent me back that cheque for five hundred pounds, torn across in a n.o.ble scorn!"

And with this, throwing himself back in his chair, he laughed till the tears came into his eyes.

But I could not laugh; I was too weary and depressed. A heavy sense of despair was on my mind; I felt that the hope which had cheered me in my days of poverty,--the hope of winning real Fame, so widely different a thing to notoriety, had vanished. There was some quality in the subtle glory which could not be won by either purchase or influence. The praise of the press could not give it. Mavis Clare, working for her bread, had it,--I, with millions of money, had not. Like a fool I had thought to buy it; I had yet to learn that all the best, greatest, purest and worthiest things in life are beyond all market-value and that the gifts of the G.o.ds are not for sale.

About a fortnight after the publication of my book, we went to Court, my comrade and I, and were presented by a distinguished officer connected with the immediate and intimate surroundings of the Royal household. It was a brilliant scene enough,--but, without doubt, the most brilliant personage there was Rimanez. I was fairly startled at the stately and fascinating figure he made in his court suit of black velvet and steel ornaments; accustomed as I was to his good looks, I had never seen them so enhanced by dress as on this occasion. I had been tolerably well satisfied with my own appearance in the regulation costume till I saw him; then my personal vanity suffered a decided shock, and I realized that I merely served as a foil to show off and accentuate the superior attractions of my friend. But I was not envious of him in any way,--on the contrary I openly expressed the admiration I frankly felt.

He seemed amused. "My dear boy, it is all flunkeydom;" he said--"All sham and humbug. Look at this--" and he drew his light court rapier from its sheath--"There is no real use in this flimsy blade,--it is merely an emblem of dead chivalry. In old times, if a man insulted you, or insulted a woman you admired, out flashed a s.h.i.+ning point of tempered Toledo steel that could lunge--so!" and he threw himself into a fencing att.i.tude of incomparable grace and ease--"and you p.r.i.c.ked the blackguard neatly through the ribs or arm and gave him cause to remember you. But now--" and he thrust the rapier back in its place--"men carry toys like these as a melancholy sign to show what bold fellows they were once, and what spiritless cravens they are now,--relying no more on themselves for protection, but content to go about yelling 'Police! Police!' at the least threat of injury to their worthless persons. Come, it's time we started, Geoffrey!--let us go and bow our heads before another human unit formed precisely like ourselves, and so act in defiance of Death and the Deity, who declare all men to be equal!"

We entered our carriage and were soon on our way to St James's Palace.

"His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales is not exactly the Creator of the universe;"--said Lucio suddenly, looking out of the window as we approached the line of soldiery on guard outside.

"Why no!" I answered laughing--"What do you say that for?"

"Because there is as much fuss about him as if he were,--in fact, more.

The Creator does not get half as much attention bestowed upon Him as Albert Edward. We never attire ourselves in any special way for entering the presence of G.o.d; we don't put so much as a clean mind on."

"But then,"--I said indifferently--"G.o.d is _non est_,--and Albert Edward is _est_."

He smiled,--and his eyes had a scornful gleam in their dark centres.

"That is your opinion?" he queried--"Well, it is not original,--many choice spirits share it with you. There is at least one good excuse for people who make no preparation to enter the presence of G.o.d,--in going to church, which is called the 'house of G.o.d,' they do not find G.o.d at all; they only discover the clergyman. It is somewhat of a disappointment."

I had no time to reply, as just then the carriage stopped, and we alighted at the palace. Through the intervention of the high Court official who presented us, we got a good place among the most distinguished arrivals, and during our brief wait, I was considerably amused by the study of their faces and att.i.tudes. Some of the men looked nervous,--others conceited; one or two Radical notabilities comported themselves with an air as if they and they alone were to be honoured for allowing Royalty to hold these functions at all; a few gentlemen had evidently donned their Levee dress in haste and carelessness, for the pieces of tissue-paper in which their steel or gilt coat-b.u.t.tons had been wrapped by the tailor to prevent tarnish, were still unremoved.

Discovering this fortunately before it was too late, they occupied themselves by taking off these papers and casting them on the floor,--an untidy process at best, and one that made them look singularly ridiculous and undignified. Each man present turned to stare at Lucio; his striking personality attracted universal attention. When we at last entered the throne-room, and took our places in line, I was careful to arrange that my brilliant companion should go up before me, as I had a strong desire to see what sort of an effect his appearance would produce on the Royal party. I had an excellent view of the Prince of Wales from where I myself waited; he made an imposing and kingly figure enough, in full uniform with his various Orders glittering on his broad breast; and the singular resemblance discovered by many people in him to Henry VIII.

struck me more forcibly than I should have thought possible. His face however expressed a far greater good-humour than the pictured lineaments of the capricious but ever popular 'bluff King Hal,'--though on this occasion there was a certain shade of melancholy, even sternness on his brow, which gave a firmer character to his naturally mobile features,--a shadow, as I fancied of weariness, tempered with regret,--the look of one dissatisfied, yet resigned. A man of blunted possibilities he seemed to me,--of defeated aims, and thwarted will. Few of the other members of the Royal family surrounding him on the das, possessed the remarkable attraction he had for any observant student of physiognomy,--most of them were, or a.s.sumed to be, stiff military figures merely who bent their heads as each guest filed past with an automatic machine-like regularity implying neither pleasure, interest, nor good-will. But the Heir-Apparent to the greatest Empire in the world expressed in his very att.i.tude and looks, an unaffected and courteous welcome to all,--surrounded as he was, and as such in his position must ever be, by toadies, parasites, sycophants, hypocritical self-seekers, who would never run the least risk to their own lives to serve him, unless they could get something personally satisfactory out of it, his presence impressed itself upon me as full of the suggestion of dormant but none the less resolute power. I cannot even now explain the singular excitation of mind that seized me as our turn to be presented arrived;--I saw my companion advance, and heard the Lord Chamberlain announce his name;--'Prince Lucio Rimanez'; and then;--why then,--it seemed as if all the movement in the brilliant room suddenly came to a pause! Every eye was fixed on the stately form and n.o.ble countenance of my friend as he bowed with such consummate courtliness and grace as made all other salutations seem awkward by comparison. For one moment he stood absolutely still in front of the Royal das,--facing the Prince as though he sought to impress him with the fact of his presence there,--and across the broad stream of suns.h.i.+ne which had been pouring into the room throughout the ceremony, there fell the sudden shadow of a pa.s.sing cloud. A fleeting impression of gloom and silence chilled the atmosphere,--a singular magnetism appeared to hold all eyes fixed on Rimanez; and not a man either going or coming, moved. This intense hush was brief as it was curious and impressive;--the Prince of Wales started slightly, and gazed at the superb figure before him with an expression of eager curiosity and almost as if he were ready to break the frigid bonds of etiquette and speak,--then controlling himself with an evident effort he gave his usual dignified acknowledgment of Lucio's profound reverence, whereupon my comrade pa.s.sed on,--slightly smiling. I followed next,--but naturally made no impression beyond the fact of exciting a smothered whisper from some-one among the lesser Royalties who caught the name 'Geoffrey Tempest,' and at once murmured the magic words "Five millions!"--words which reached my ears and moved me to the usual weary contempt which was with me growing into a chronic malady. We were soon out of the palace, and while waiting for our carriage in the covered court-yard entrance, I touched Rimanez on the arm.

"You made a veritable sensation Lucio!"

"Did I?" He laughed. "You flatter me Geoffrey."

"Not at all. Why did you stop so long in front of the das?"

"To please my humour!" he returned indifferently--"And partly, to give his Royal Highness the chance of remembering me the next time he sees me."

"But he seemed to recognise you,"--I said--"Have you met him before?"

His eyes flashed. "Often! But I have never till now made a public appearance at St James's. Court costume and 'company manners' make a difference to the looks of most men,--and I doubt,--yes, I very much doubt, whether, even with his reputed excellent memory for faces, the Prince really knew me to-day for what I am!"