CHAPTER XXXI.
FRESH LAURELS.
It was a dismal March evening. London lay swathed in a melancholy fog,—a fog too dense to be more than temporarily disturbed even by the sudden gusts of the bitter east wind. Rain fell steadily, sometimes changing to sleet, that drove in sharp showers on the slippery roads and pavements, bewildering the tired horses, and stirring up much irritation in the minds of those ill-fated foot-passengers whom business, certainly not pleasure, forced to encounter the inconveniences of the weather. Against one house in particular—an old-fashioned, irregular building situated in a somewhat out-of-the-way but picturesque part of Kensington—the cold, wet blast blew with specially keen ferocity, as though it were angered by the sounds within,—sounds that in truth rather resembled its own cross groaning. Curious short grunts and plaintive cries, interspersed with an occasional pathetic long-drawn whine, suggested dimly the idea that somebody was playing, or trying to play, on a refractory stringed instrument, the well-worn composition known as Raff's "Cavatina." And, in fact, had the vexed wind been able to break through the wall and embody itself into a substantial being, it would have discovered the producer of the half-fierce, half-mournful noise, in the person of the Honorable Frank Villiers, who, with that amazingly serious ardor so often displayed by amateur lovers of music, was persistently endeavoring to combat the difficulties of the violoncello. He adored his big instrument,—the more unmanageable it became in his hands, the more he loved it. Its grumbling complaints at his unskilful touch delighted him,—when he could succeed in awakening a peevish dull sob from its troubled depths, he felt a positive thrill of almost professional triumph,—and he refused to be daunted in his efforts by the frequently barbaric clamor his awkward bowing wrung from the tortured strings. He tried every sort of music, easy and intricate—and his happiest hours were those when, with glass in eye and brow knitted in anxious scrutiny, he could peer his way through the labyrinth of a sonata or fantasia much too complex for any one but a trained artist, enjoying to the full the mental excitement of the discordant struggle, and comfortably conscious that as his residence was "detached," no obtrusive neighbor could either warn him to desist, or set up an opposition nuisance next door by constant practice on the distressingly over-popular piano. One thing very much in his favor was, that he never manifested any desire to perform in public. No one had ever heard him play, . . he pursued his favorite amusement in solitude, and was amply satisfied, if when questioned on the subject of music, he could find an opportunity to say with a conscious-modest air, "MY instrument is the 'cello." That was quite enough self-assertion for him, . . and if any one ever urged him to display his talent, he would elude the request with such charming grace and diffidence, that many people imagined he must really be a great musical genius who only lacked the necessary insolence and aplomb to make that genius known.
The 'cello apart, Villiers was very generally recognized as a discerning dilettante in most matters artistic. He was an excellent judge of literature, painting, and sculpture, . . his house, though small, was a perfect model of taste in design and adornment, . . he knew where to pick up choice bits of antique furniture, dainty porcelain, bronzes, and wood-carvings, while in the acquisition of rare books he was justly considered a notable connoisseur. His delicate and fastidious instincts were displayed in the very arrangement of his numerous volumes, … none were placed on such high shelves as to be out of hand reach, . . all were within close touch and ready to command, ranged in low, carved oak cases or on revolving stands, … while a few particularly rare editions and first folios were shut in curious little side niches with locked glass-doors, somewhat resembling small shrines such as are used for the reception of sacred relics. The apartment he called his "den"—where he now sat practising the "Cavatina" for about the two-hundredth time—was perhaps the most fascinating nook in the whole house, inasmuch as it contained a little bit of everything, arranged with that perfect attention to detail which makes each object, small and great, appear not only ornamental, but positively necessary. In one corner a quaint old jar overflowed with the brightness of fresh yellow daffodils; in another a long, tapering Venetian vase held feathery clusters of African grass and fern, . . here the medallion of a Greek philosopher or Roman Emperor gleamed whitely against the sombrely painted wall; there a Rembrandt portrait flashed out from the semi-obscure background of some rich, carefully disposed fold of drapery,—while a few admirable casts from the antique lit up the deeper shadows of the room, such as the immortally youthful head of the Apollo Belvedere, the wisely serene countenance of the Pallas Athene that Goethe loved, and the Cupid of Praxiteles.
Judging from his outward appearance only, few would have given Villiers credit for being the man of penetrative and almost classic refinement he really was,—he looked far more athletic than aesthetic. Broad-shouldered and deep-chested, with a round, blunt head firmly set on a full, strong throat, he had, on the whole, a somewhat obstinate and pugilistic air which totally belied his nature. His features, open and ruddy, were, without being handsome, decidedly attractive—the mouth was rather large, yet good-tempered; the eyes bright, blue, and sparklingly suggestive of a native inborn love of humor. There was something fresh and piquant in the very expression of naive bewilderment with which he now adjusted his eyeglass—a wholly unnecessary appendage—and set himself strenuously to examine anew the chords of that extraordinary piece of music which others thought so easy and which he found so puzzling, . . he could manage the simple melody fairly well, but the chords!
"They are the very devil!".. he murmured plaintively, staring at the score, and hitching up his unruly instrument more securely against his knee, . . "Perhaps the bow wants a little rosin."
This was one of his minor weaknesses,—he would never quite admit that false notes were his own fault. "They COULDN'T be, you know!" he mildly argued, addressing the obtrusive neck of the 'cello, which had a curious, stubborn way of poking itself into his chin, and causing him to wonder how it got there, . . surely the manner in which he held it had nothing to do with this awkward occurrence! "I'm not such a fool as not to understand how to find the right notes, after all my practice! There's something wrong with the strings,—or the bridge has gone awry,—or"—and this was his last resource—"the bow wants more rosin!"
Thus he hugged himself in deliciously wilful ignorance of his own shortcomings, and shut his ears to the whispered reproaches of musical conscience. Had he been married his wife would no doubt have lost no time in enlightening him,—she would have told him he was a wretched player, that his scrapings on the 'cello were enough to drive one mad, and sundry other assurances of the perfectly conjugal type of frankness,—but as it chanced he was a happy bachelor, a free and independent man with more than sufficient means to gratify his particular tastes and whims. He was partner in a steadily prosperous banking concern, and had just enough to do to keep him pleasantly and profitably occupied. Asked why he did not marry, he replied with blunt and almost brutal honesty, that he had never yet met a woman whose conversation he could stand for more than an hour.
"Silly or clever," he said, "they are all possessed of the same infinite tedium. Either they say nothing, or they say everything; they are always at the two extremes, and announce themselves as dunces or blue-stockings. One wants the just medium,—the dainty commingling of simplicity and wisdom that shall yet be pure womanly,—and this is precisely the jewel 'far above rubies' that one cannot find. I've given up the search long ago, and am entirely resigned to my lot. I like women very well—I may say very much—as friends, but to take one on chance as a comrade for life! … No, thank you!"
Such was his fixed opinion and consequent rejection of matrimony; and for the rest, he studied art and literature and became an authority on both; so much so that on one occasion he kept a goodly number of people away from visiting the Royal Academy Exhibition, he having voted it a "disgrace to Art."
"English artists occupy the last grade in the whole school of painting," he had said indignantly, with that decisive manner of his which somehow or other carried conviction, . . "The very Dutch surpass them; and instead of trying to raise their standard, each year sees them grovelling in lower depths. The Academy is becoming a mere gallery of portraits, painted to please the caprices of vain men and women, at a thousand or two thousand guineas apiece; ugly portraits, too, woodeny portraits, utterly uninteresting portraits of prosaic nobodies. Who cares to see 'No. 154. Mrs. Flummery in her presentation-dress'.. except Mrs. Flummery's own particular friends? … or '283. Miss Smox, eldest daughter of Professor A. T. Smox,' or '516. Baines Bryce, Esq.'? … Who IS Baines Bryce? … Nobody ever heard of him before. He may be a retired pork-butcher for all any one knows! Portraits, even of celebrities, are a mistake. Take Algernon Charles Swinburne, for instance, the man who, when left to himself, writes some of the grandest lines in the English language, HE had his portrait in the Academy, and everybody ran away from it, it was such an unutterable hideous disappointment. It was a positive libel of course, . . Swinburne has fine eyes and a still finer brow, but instead of idealizing the POET in him, the silly artist painted him as if he had no more intellectual distinction than a bill-sticker! … English art! … pooh! … don't speak to me about it! Go to Spain, Italy, Bavaria—see what THEY can do, and then say a Miserere for the sins of the R A's!"
Thus he would talk, and his criticisms carried weight with a tolerably large circle of influential and wealthy persons, who when they called upon him, and saw the perfection of his house and the rarity of his art collections, came at once to the conclusion that it would be wise, as well as advantageous to themselves, to consult him before purchasing pictures, books, statues, or china, so that he occupied the powerful position of being able with a word to start an artist's reputation or depreciate it, as he chose,—a distinction he had not desired, and which was often a source of trouble to him, because there were so few, so very few, whose work he felt he could conscientiously approve and encourage. He was eminently good-natured and sympathetic; he would not give pain to others without being infinitely more pained himself; and yet, for all his amiability, there was a stubborn instinct in him which forbade him to promote, by word or look, the fatal nineteenth century spread of mediocrity. Either a thing must be truly great and capable of being measured by the highest standards, or for him it had no value. This rule he carried out in all branches of art,—except his own 'cello-playing. That was NOT great,—that would never be great,—but it was his pet pastime; he chose it in preference to the billiards, betting, and bar-lounging that make up the amusements of the majority of the hopeful manhood of London, and, as has already been said, he never inflicted it upon others.
He rubbed the rosin now thoughtfully up and down his bow, and glanced at the quaint old clock—an importation from Nurnberg—that ticked solemnly in one corner near the deep bay-window, across which the heavy olive green plush curtains were drawn, to shut out the penetrating chill of the wind. It wanted ten minutes to nine. He had given orders to his man servant that he was on no account to be disturbed that evening, . . no matter what visitors called for him, none were to be admitted. He had made up his mind to have a long and energetic practice, and he felt a secret satisfaction as he heard the steady patter of the rain outside, . . the very weather favored his desire for solitude,—no one was likely to venture forth on such a night.
Still gravely rubbing his brow, his eyes travelled from the clock in the corner to a photograph on the mantel-shelf—the photograph of a man's face, dark, haughty, beautiful, yet repellent in its beauty, and with a certain hard sternness in its outline—the face of Theos Alwyn. From this portrait his glance wandered to the table, where, amid a picturesque litter of books and papers, lay a square, simply bound volume, with an ivory leaf-cutter thrust in it to mark the place where the reader left off, and its title plainly lettered in gold at the back—"NOURHALMA."
"I wonder where he is!" … he mused, his thoughts naturally reverting to the author of the book.. "He cannot know what all London knows, or surely he would be back here like a shot! It is six months ago now since I received his letter and that poem in manuscript from Tiflis in Armenia,—and not another line has he sent to tell me of his whereabouts! Curious fellow he is! … but, by Jove, what a genius! No wonder he has besieged Fame and taken it by storm! I don't remember any similar instance, except that of Byron, in which such an unprecedented reputation was made so suddenly! And in Byron's case it was more the domestic scandal about him than his actual merit that made him the rage, . . now the world knows literally nothing about Alwyn's private life or character—there's no woman in his history that I know of—no vice, … he hasn't outraged the law, upset morals, flouted at decency, or done anything that according to modern fashions OUGHT to have made him famous—no! … he has simply produced a perfect poem, stately, grand, pure, and pathetic,—and all of a sudden some secret spring in the human heart is touched, some long-closed valve opened, and lo and behold, all intellectual society is raving about him,—his name is in everybody's mouth, his book in every one's hands. I don't altogether like his being made the subject of a 'craze';—experience shows me it's a kind of thing that doesn't last. In fact, it CAN'T last.. the reaction invariably sets in. And the English public is, of all publics, the most insane in its periodical frenzies, and the most capricious. Now, it is all agog for a 'shilling sensational'—then it discusses itself hoarse over a one-sided theological novel made up out of theories long ago propounded and exhaustively set forth by Voltaire, and others of his school,—anon it revels in the gross descriptions of shameless vice depicted in an 'accurately translated' romance of the Paris slums,—now it writes thousands of letters to a black man, to sympathize With him because he has been CALLED black!—could anything be more absurd! … it has even followed the departure of an elephant from the Zoo in weeping crowds! However, I wish all the crazes to which it is subject were as harmless and wholesome as the one that has seized it for Alwyn's book,—for if true poetry were brought to the front, instead of being, as it often is, sneered at and kept in the background, we should have a chance of regaining the lost Divine Art, that, wherever it has been worthily followed, has proved the glory of the greatest nations. And then we should not have to put up with such detestable inanities as are produced every day by persons calling themselves poets, who are scarcely fit to write mottoes for dessert crackers, . . and we might escape for good and all from the infliction of 'magazine-verse,' which is emphatically a positive affront to the human intelligence. Ah me! what wretched upholders we are of Shakespeare's standard! … Keats was our last splendor,—then there is an unfilled gap, bridged in part by Tennyson….. and now comes Alwyn blazing abroad like a veritable meteor,—only I believe he will do more than merely flare across the heavens,—he promises to become a notable fixed star."
Here he smiled, somewhat pleased with his own skill in metaphor, and having rubbed his bow enough, he drew it lingeringly across the 'cello strings. A long, sweet, shuddering sound rewarded him, like the upward wave of a wind among high trees, and he heard it with much gratification. He would try the Cavatina again now, he decided, and bringing his music-stand closer, he settled himself in readiness to begin. Just then the Nurnberg clock commenced striking the hour, accompanying each stroke with a very soft and mellow little chime of bells that sent fairy-like echoes through the quiet room. A bright flame started up from the glowing fire in the grate, flinging ruddy flashes along the walls,—a rattling gust of rain dashed once at the windows,—the tuneful clock ceased, and all was still. Villiers waited a moment; then with heedful earnestness, started the first bar of Raff's oft-murdered composition, when a knock at the door disturbed him and considerably ruffled his equanimity.
"Come in!" he called testily.
His man-servant appeared, a half-pleased, half-guilty look on his staid countenance.
"Please, sir, a gentleman called—"
"Well!—you said I was out?"
"No, sir! leastways I thought you might be at home to him, sir!"
"Confound you!" exclaimed Villiers petulantly, throwing down his bow in disgust,—"What business had you to think anything about it? … Didn't I tell you I wasn't at home to ANYBODY?"
"Come, come, Villiers!".. said a mellow voice outside, with a ripple of suppressed laughter in its tone, . . "Don't be inhospitable! I'm sure you are at home to ME!"
And passing by the servant, who at once retired, the speaker entered the apartment, lifted his hat, and smiled. Villiers sprang from his chair in delighted astonishment.
"Alwyn!" he cried; and the two friends—whose friendship dated from boyhood—clasped each other's hands heartily, and were for a moment both silent,—half-ashamed of those affectionate emotions to which impulsive women may freely give vent, but to which men may not yield without being supposed to lose somewhat of the dignity of manhood.
"By Jove!" said Villiers at last, drawing a deep breath. "This IS a surprise! Only a few minutes ago I was considering whether we should not have to note you down in the newspaper as one of the 'mysterious disappearances' grown common of late! Where do you come from, old fellow?"
"From Paris just directly," responded Alwyn, divesting himself of his overcoat, and stepping outside the door to hang it on an evidently familiar nail in the passage, and then re-entering,—"But from Bagdad in the first instance. I visited that city, sacred to fairy-lore, and from thence journeyed to Damascus like one of our favorite merchants in the Arabian Nights,—then I went to Beyrout, and Alexandria, from which latter place I took ship homeward, stopping at delicious Venice while on my way."
"Then you did the Holy Land, I suppose?" queried Villiers, regarding him with sudden and growing inquisitiveness.
"My dear fellow, certainly NOT! The Holy Land, invested by touts, and overrun by tourists, would neither appeal to my imagination nor my sentiments—and in its present state of vulgar abuse and unchristian sacrilege, it is better left unseen by those who wish to revere its associations, . . don't you think so?"
He smiled as he put the question, and drawing up an old-fashioned oak chair to the fire, seated himself. Villiers meanwhile stared at him in unmitigated amazement, . . what had come to the fellow, he wondered? How had he managed to invest himself with such an overpowering distinction of look and grace of bearing? He had always been a handsome man,—yes, but there was certainly something more than handsome about him now. There was a singular magnetism in the flash of the fine soft eyes, a marvellous sweetness in the firm lines of the perfect mouth, a royal grandeur and freedom in the very poise of his well-knit figure and noble head, that certainly had not before been apparent in him. Moreover, that was an odd remark for him to make about "wishing to revere" the associations of the Holy Land,—very odd, considering his formerly skeptical theories!
Rousing himself from his momentary bewilderment, Villiers remembered the duties of hospitality.
"Have you dined, Alwyn?" he asked, with his hand on the bell.
"Excellently!" was the response, accompanied by a bright upward glance; "I went to that big hotel opposite the Park, had dinner, left the surplus of my luggage in charge, selected one small portmanteau, took a hansom and came on here, resolved to pass one night at least under your roof …"
"One night!" interrupted Villiers; "You're very much mistaken, if you think you are going to get off so easily! You'll not escape from me for a month, I tell you! Consider yourself a prisoner!"
"Good! Send for the luggage to-morrow!" laughed Alwyn, flinging himself back in his chair in an attitude of lazy comfort, "I give in!—I resign myself to my fate! But what of the 'cello?"
And he pointed to the bulgy-looking casket of sweet sleeping sounds—sleeping generally so far as Villiers was concerned, but ready to wake at the first touch of the master-hand. Villiers glanced at it with a comical air of admiring vanquishment.
"Oh, never mind the 'cello!" he said indifferently, "that can bear being put by for a while. It's a most curious instrument,—sometimes it seems to sound better when I have let it rest a little. Just like a human thing, you know—it gets occasionally tired of me, I suppose! But I say, why didn't you come straight here, bag, baggage, and all? … What business had you to stop on the way at any hotel? … Do you call that friendship?"
Alwyn laughed at his mock injured tone.
"I apologize, Villiers! … I really do! But I felt it would be scarcely civil of me to come down upon you for bed, board, and lodging, without giving you previous notice, and at the same time I wanted to take you by surprise, as I DID. Besides I wasn't sure whether I should find you in town—of course I knew I should be welcome if you were!"
"Rather!" assented Villiers shortly and with affected gruffness.. "If you were sure of nothing else in this world, you might be sure of that!".. He paused squared his shoulders, and put up his eyeglass, through which he scanned his friend with such a persistently scrutinizing air, that Alwyn was somewhat amused.
"What are you staring at me for?" he demanded gayly,—"Am I so bronzed?"
"Well—you ARE rather brown," admitted Villiers slowly … "But that doesn't surprise me. The fact is, it's very odd and I can't altogether explain it, but somehow I find you changed, . . positively very much changed too!"
"Changed? In appearance, do you mean? How?"
"'Look here upon this picture and on this,'" quoted Villiers dramatically, taking down Alwyn's portrait from the mantleshelf, and mentally comparing it with the smiling original. "No two heads were ever more alike, and yet more distinctly UNlike. Here"—and he tapped the photograph—"you have the appearance of a modern Timon or Orestes.. but now, as you actually ARE, I see more resemblance in your face to THAT"—and he pointed to the serene and splendid bust of the "Apollo"—"than to this 'counterfeit presentment,' of your former self."
Alwyn flushed,—not so much at the implied compliment, as at the words "FORMER SELF." But quickly shaking off his embarrassment, he glanced round at the "Apollo" and lifted his eyebrows incredulously.
"Then all I can say, my dear boy, is, that that eyeglass of yours represents objects to your own view in a classic light which is entirely deceptive, for I fail to trace the faintest similitude between my own features and that of the sunborn Lord of Laurels."
"Oh, YOU may not trace it," said Villiers calmly, "but nevertheless others will. Some people say that no man knows what he really is like, and that even his own reflection in the glass deceives him. Besides, it is not so much the actual contour for the features that impresses one, it is the LOOK,—you have the LOOK of the Greek god, the look of conscious power and inward happiness."
He spoke seriously, thoughtfully,—surveying his friend with a vague feeling of admiration akin to reverence.
Alwyn stooped, and stirred the fire into a brighter blaze. "Well, so far, my looks do not belie me," he said gently, after a pause.. "I AM conscious of both power and joy!"
"Why, naturally!" and Villiers laid one hand affectionately on his shoulder.. "Of course the face of the whole world has changed for you, now that you have won such tremendous fame!"
"FAME!"—Alwyn sprang upright so suddenly that Villiers was quite startled,—"Fame! Who says I am famous?" And his eyes flashed forth an amazed, almost haughty resentment.
His friend stared—then laughed outright.
"Who says it? … Why, all London says it. Do you mean to tell me,
Alwyn, that you've not seen the English papers and magazines,
containing all the critical reviews and discussions on your poem of
'Nourhalma?"
Alwyn winced at the title,—what a host of strange memories it recalled!
"I have seen nothing," he replied hurriedly, "I have made it a point to look at no papers, lest I should chance on my own name coupled, as it has been before, with the languid abuse common to criticism in this country. Not that I should have cared,—NOW! …" and a slight smile played on his lips.. "In fact I have ceased to care. Moreover, as I know modern success in literature is chiefly commanded by the praise of a 'clique,' or the services of 'log-rollers,' and as I am not included in any of the journalistic rings, I have neither hoped nor expected any particular favor or recognition from the public."
"Then," said Villiers excitedly, seizing him by the hand, "let me be the first to congratulate you! It is often the way that when we no longer specially crave a thing, that thing is suddenly thrust upon us whether we will or no,—and so it has happened in YOUR case. Learn, therefore, my dear fellow, that your poem, which you sent to me from Tiflis, and which was published under my supervision about four months ago, has already run through six editions, and is now in its seventh. Seven editions of a poem,—-a POEM, mark you!—in four months, isn't bad, . . moreover, the demand continues, and the long and the short of it is, that your name is actually at the present moment the most celebrated in all London,—in fact, you are very generally acknowledged the greatest poet of the day! And," continued Villiers, wringing his friend's hand with uncommon fervor.. "I say, God bless you, old boy! If ever a man deserved success, YOU do! 'Nourhalma' is magnificent!—such a genius as yours will raise the literature of the age to a higher standard than it has known since the death of Adonais [Footnote: Keats.] You can't imagine how sincerely I rejoice at your triumph!"
Alwyn was silent,—he returned his companion's cordial hand-pressure almost unconsciously. He stood, leaning against the mantelpiece, and looking gravely down into the fire. His first emotion was one of repugnance,—of rejection, . . what did he need of this will-o'-the-wisp called Fame, dancing again across his path,—this transitory torch of world-approval! Fame in London! … What was it, what COULD it be, compared to the brilliancy of the fame he had once enjoyed as Laureate of Al-Kyris! As this thought passed across his mind, he gave a quick interrogative glance at Villiers, who was observing him with much wondering intentness, and his handsome face lighted with sudden laughter.
"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!"