Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 342
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
I sat silent, — inwardly chafing under his remarks.
“I am afraid—” he resumed, rising and taking a white flower from one of the vases on the table to pin in his button-hole— “that Miss Clare is going to be a thorn in your side, my friend! A man rival in literature is bad enough, — but a woman rival is too much to endure with any amount of patience! However you may console yourself with the certainty that she will never get ‘boomed,’ — while you — thanks to my tender fostering of the sensitive and high-principled McWhing, will be the one delightful and unique ‘discovery’ of the press for at least one month, perhaps two, which is about as long as any ‘new star of the first magnitude’ lasts in the latter-day literary skies. Shooting-stars all of them! — such as poor old forgotten Béranger sang of —
“les etoiles qui filent,
‘Qui filent, — qui filent — et disparaissent!’”
“Except — Mavis Clare!” I said.
“True! Except Mavis Clare!” and he laughed aloud, — a laugh that jarred upon me because there was a note of mockery in it— “She is a small fixture in the vast heavens, — or so it seems — revolving very contentedly and smoothly in her own appointed orbit, — but she is not and never will be attended by the brilliant meteor-flames that will burst round you, my excellent fellow, at the signal of McWhing! Fie Geoffrey! — get over your sulks! Jealous of a woman! Be ashamed, — is not woman the inferior creature?, and shall the mere spectre of a feminine fame cause a five-fold millionaire to abase his lofty spirit in the dust? Conquer your strange fit of the spleen, Geoffrey, and join me at dinner!”
He laughed again as he left the room, — and again his laughter irritated me. When he had gone, I gave way to the base and unworthy impulse that had for some minutes been rankling within me, and sitting down at my writing table, penned a hasty note to the editor of a rather powerful magazine, a man whom I had formerly known and worked for. He was aware of my altered fortunes and the influential position I now occupied, and I felt confident he would be glad to oblige me in any matter if he could. My letter, marked ‘private and confidential’ contained the request that I might be permitted to write for his next number, an anonymous ‘slashing’ review of the new novel entitled ‘Differences’ by Mavis Clare.
XVI
It is almost impossible for me to describe the feverish, irritated and contradictory state of mind in which I now began to pass my days. With the absolute fixity of my fortunes, my humours became more changeful than the wind, and I was never absolutely contented for two hours together. I joined in every sort of dissipation common to men of the day, who with the usual inanity of noodles, plunged into the filth of life merely because to be morally dirty was also at the moment fashionable and much applauded by society. I gambled recklessly, solely for the reason that gambling was considered by many leaders of the ‘upper ten’ as indicative of ‘manliness’ and ‘showing grit.’
“I hate a fellow who grudges losing a few pounds at play,” — said one of these ‘distinguished’ titled asses to me once— “It shows such a cowardly and currish disposition.”
Guided by this ‘new’ morality, and wishing to avoid the possibility of being called “cowardly and currish,” I indulged in baccarat and other ruinous games almost every night, willingly losing the ‘few pounds’ which in my case meant a few hundreds, for the sake of my occasional winnings, which placed a number of ‘noble’ rakes and blue-blooded blacklegs in my power for ‘debts of honour,’ which are supposed to be more strictly attended to and more punctually paid than any debts in the world, but which, as far as I am concerned, are still owing. I also betted heavily, on everything that could be made the subject of a bet, — and not to be behind my peers in ‘style’ and ‘knowledge of the world’ I frequented low houses and allowed a few half-nude brandy-soaked dancers and vulgar music-hall ‘artistes’ to get a couple of thousand pounds worth of jewels out of me, because this sort of thing was called ‘seeing life’ and was deemed part of a ‘gentleman’s’ diversion. Heavens! — what beasts we all were, I and my aristocratic boon companions! — what utterly worthless, useless, callous scoundrels! — and yet, — we associated with the best and the highest in the land; — the fairest and noblest ladies in London received us in their houses with smiles and softly-worded flatteries — we — whose presence reeked with vice; we, ‘young men of fashion’ whom, if he had known our lives as they were, an honest cobbler working patiently for daily bread, might have spat upon, in contempt and indignation that such low rascals should be permitted to burden the earth! Sometimes, but very seldom, Rimânez joined our gambling and music-hall parties, and on such occasions I noticed that he, as it were, ‘let himself go’ and became the wildest of us all. But though wild he was never coarse, — as we were; his deep and mellow laughter had a sonorous richness in it that was totally unlike the donkey’s ‘hee-haw’ of our ‘cultured’ mirth, — his manners were never vulgar; and his fluent discourse on men and things, now witty and satirical, now serious almost to pathos, strangely affected many of those who heard him talk, myself most of all. Once, I remember, when we were returning late from some foolish carouse, — I with three young sons of English peers, and Rimânez walking beside us, — we came upon a poorly clad girl sobbing and clinging to the iron railing outside a closed church door.
“Oh God!” she wailed— “Oh dear God! Do help me!”
One of my companions seized her by the arm with a lewd jest, when all at once Rimânez stepped between.
“Leave her alone!” he said sternly— “Let her find God if she can!”
The girl looked up at him terrified, her eyes streaming with tears, and he dropped two or three gold pieces into her hand. She broke out crying afresh.
“Oh God bless you!” she cried wildly— “God bless you!”
He raised his hat and stood uncovered in the moonlight, his dark beauty softened by a strangely wistful expression.
“I thank you!” he said simply— “You make me your debtor.”
And he passed on; we followed, somewhat subdued and silenced, though one of my lordling friends sniggered idiotically.
“You paid dearly for that blessing, Rimânez!” he said— “You gave her three sovereigns; — by Jove! I’d have had something more than a blessing if I had been you.”
“No doubt!” returned Rimânez— “You deserve more, — much more! I hope you will get it! A blessing would be of no advantage whatever to you; — it is, to me.”
How often I have thought of this incident since! I was too dense to attach either meaning or importance to it then, — self-absorbed as I was, I paid no attention to circumstances which seemed to have no connection with my own life and affairs. And in all my dissipations and so-called amusements, a perpetual restlessness consumed me, — I obtained no real satisfaction out of anything except my slow and somewhat tantalizing courtship of Lady Sibyl. She was a strange girl; she knew my intentions towards her well enough; yet she affected not to know. Each time I ventured to treat her with more than the usual deference, and to infuse something of the ardour of a lover into my looks or manner, she feigned surprise. I wonder why it is that some women are so fond of playing the hypocrite in love? Their own instinct teaches them when men are amorous; but unless they can run the fox to earth, or in other words, reduce their suitors to the lowest pitch of grovelling appeal, and force them to such abasement that the poor passion-driven fools are ready to fling away life, and even honour, dearer than life, for their sakes, their vanity is not sufficiently gratified. But who, or what am I that I should judge of vanity, — I whose egregious and flagrant self-approbation was of such a character that it blinded me to the perception and comprehension of everything in which my own Ego was not represented! And yet, — with all the morbid interest I took in myself, my surroundings, my comfort, my social advancement, there was one thing which soon became a torture to me, — a veritable despair and loathing, — and this, strange to say, was the very triumph I had most looked forward to as the crown and summit of all my ambitious dreams. My book, — the book I had presumed to consider a work of genius, — when it was launched on the tide of publicity and criticism, resolved itself into a sort of literary monster that haunted my days and nights with its hateful presence; the thick, black-lettered, lying advertisements scattered broadcast by my publisher, flared at me with an offensive insistence in every paper I casually opened. And the praise of the reviewers! ... the exaggerated, preposterous, fraudulent ‘boom’! Good God! — how sickening it was! — how fulsome! Every epithet of flattery bestowed upon me filled me with disgust, and one day when I took up a leading magazine and saw a long article upon the ‘extraordinary brilliancy and promise’ of my book, comparing me to a new Æschylus and Shakespeare combined, with the signature of David McWhing appended to it, I could have thrashed that erudite and assuredly purchased Scot within an inch of his life. The chorus of eulogy was well-nigh universal; I was the ‘genius of the day’ — the ‘hope of the future generation,’ — I was the “Book of the Month,” — the greatest, the wittiest, most versatile, most brilliant scribbling pigmy that had ever honoured a pot of ink by using it! Of course I figured as McWhing’s ‘discovery,’ — five hundred pounds bestowed on his mysterious ‘charity’ had so sharpened his eyesight that he had perceived me shining brightly on the literary horizon before anyone else had done so. The press followed his ‘lead’ obediently, — for though the press, — the English press at least, — is distinctly unbribable, the owners of newspapers are not insensible to the advantages of largely paying advertisements. Moreover, when Mr McWhing announced me as his ‘find’ in the oracular style which distinguished him, some other literary gentlemen came forward and wrote effective articles about me, and sent me their compositions carefully marked. I took the hint, — wrote at once to thank them, and invited them to dinner. They came, and feasted royally with Rimânez and myself; — (one of them wrote an ‘Ode’ to me afterwards), — and at the conclusion of the revels, we sent two of the ‘oracles’ home, considerably overcome by champagne, in a carriage with Amiel to look after them, and help them out at their own doors. And my ‘boom’ expanded, — London ‘talked’ as I had said it should; the growling monster metropolis discussed me and my work in its own independent and peculiar fashion. The ‘upper ten’ subscribed to the circulating libraries, and these admirable institutions made a two or three hundred copies do for all demands, by the simple expedient of keeping subscribers waiting five or six weeks till they grew tired of asking for the book, and forgot all about it. Apart from the libraries, the public did not take me up. From the glowing criticisms that appeared in all the papers, it might have been supposed that ‘everybody who was anybody’ was reading my ‘wonderful’ production. Such however was not the case. People spoke of me as ‘the great millionaire,’ but they were indifferent to the bid I had made for literary fame. The remark they usually made to me wherever I went was— “You have written a novel, haven’t you? What an odd thing for you to do!” — this, with a laugh;— “I haven’t read it, — I’ve so little time — I must ask for it at the library.” Of course a great many never did ask, not deeming it worth their while; and I whose money, combined with the resistless influence of Rimânez, had started the favourable criticisms that flooded the press, found out that the majority of the public never read criticisms at all. Hence, my anonymous review of Mavis Clare’s book made no effect whatever on her popularity, though it appeared in the most prominent manner. It was a sheer waste of labour, — for everywhere this woman author was still looked upon as a creature of altogether finer clay than ordinary, and still her book was eagerly devoured and questioned and admired; and still it sold by thousands, despite a lack of all favourable criticism or prominent advertisement. No one guessed that I had written what I am now perfectly willing to admit was a brutally wanton misrepresentation of her work, — no one, except Rimânez. The magazine in which it appeared was a notable one, circulating in every club and library, and he, taking it up casually one afternoon, turned to that article at once.
“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 constituted,” 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 lust 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 passionate 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 Rimânez 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 fashions of your time! If there is one man more than another that moves me to wondering admiration it is he who asserts 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 constituted 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 assert my wealth in my face; do you know what you assert 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 passions 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 classic 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 rectitude, 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?”
