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.
"I think"—he said, in soft, purring accents,—"that my friend, Dr. Mudley"—here he bowed toward the saturnine looking individual who had entered into conversation with Alwyn—"takes a very proper, and indeed a very lofty, view of the whole question. The moral sense"—and he laid a severely weighty emphasis on these words,—"the moral sense of each man, if properly trained, is quite sufficient to guide him through existence, without any such weakness as reliance on a merely supposititious Deity."
The Duke's French way of speaking English was charming; he gave an expressive roll to his r's, especially when he said "the moral sense," that of itself almost carried conviction. His wife smiled as she heard him, and her smile was not altogether pleasant. Perhaps she wondered by what criterion of excellence he measured his own "moral sense," or whether, despite his education and culture, he had any "moral sense" at all, higher than that of the pig, who eats to be eaten! But Alwyn spoke, and she listened intently, finding a singular fascination in the soft and quiet modulation of his voice, which gave a vaguely delicious suggestion of music underlying speech.
"To guide people by their moral sense alone"—he said—"you must first prove plainly to them that the moral sense exists, together with moral responsibility. You will find this difficult,—as the virtue implied is intangible, unseeable;—one cannot say of it, lo here!—or lo there!—it is as complicated and subtle as any other of the manifestations of pure Spirit. Then you must decide on one universal standard, or reasonable conception of what 'morality' is. Again, you are met by a crowd of perplexities,—as every nation, and every tribe, has a totally different idea of the same thing. In some countries it is 'moral' to have many wives; in others, to drown female children; in others, to solemnly roast one's grandparents for dinner! Supposing, however, that you succeed, with the aid of all the philosophers, teachers, and scientists, in drawing up a practical Code of Morality—do you not think an enormous majority will be found to ask you by whose authority you set forth this Code?—and by what right you deem it necessary to enforce it? You may say, 'By the authority of Knowledge and by the right of Morality'—but since you admit to there being no spiritual or divine inspiration for your law, you will be confronted by a legion of opponents who will assure you, and probably with perfect justice, that their idea of morality is as good as yours, and their knowledge as excellent,—that your Code appears to them faulty in many respects, and that, therefore, they purpose making another one, more suited to their liking. Thus, out of your one famous Moral System would spring thousands of others, formed to gratify the various tastes of different individuals, precisely in the same manner as sects have sprung out of the wholly unnecessary and foolish human arguments on Christianity;—only that there would lack the one indestructible, pure Selfless Example that even the most quarrelsome bigot must inwardly respect,—namely, Christ Himself. And 'morality' would remain exactly where it is:—neither better nor worse for all the trouble taken concerning it. It needs something more than the 'moral' sense to rightly ennoble man,—it needs the SPIRITUAL sense;—the fostering of the INSTINCTIVE IMMORTAL ASPIRATION OF THE CREATURE, to make him comprehend the responsibility of his present life, as a preparation for his higher and better destiny. The cultured, the scholarly, the ultra-refined, may live well and uprightly by their 'moral sense,'—if they so choose, provided they have some great ideal to measure themselves by,—but even these, without faith in God, may sometimes slip, and fall into deeper depths of ruin than they dreamed of, when self-centred on those heights of virtue where they fancied themselves exempt from danger."
He paused,—there was a curious stillness in the room,—many eyes were lowered, and M. le Duc's composure was evidently not quite so absolute as usual.
"Taken at its best"—he continued—"the world alone is certainly not worth fighting for;—we see the fact exemplified every day in the cases of those who, surrounded by all that a fair fortune can bestow upon them, deliberately hurl themselves out of existence by their own free will and act,—indeed, suicide is a very general accompaniment of Agnosticism. And self-slaughter, though it may be called madness, is far more often the result of intellectual misery."
"Of course, too much learning breeds brain disease"—remarked Dr. Mudley sententiously—"but only in weak subjects,—and in my opinion the weak are better out of the world. We've no room for them nowadays."
"You say truly, sir,"—replied Alwyn—"we have no room for them, and no patience! They show themselves feeble, and forthwith the strong oppress them;—they can hope for little comfort here, and less help. It is well, therefore, that some of these 'weak' should still believe in God, since they can certainly pin no faith on the justice of their fellow-man! But I cannot agree with you that much learning breeds brain disease. Provided the learning be accompanied by a belief in the Supreme Wisdom,—provided every step of study be taken upward toward that Source of all Knowledge,—one cannot learn too much, since hope increases with discernment, and on such food the brain grows stronger, healthier, and more capable of high effort. But dispense with the Spirit of the Whole, and every movement, though it SEEM forward, is in truth BACKWARD;—study involves bewilderment,—science becomes a reeling infinitude of atoms, madly whirling together for no purpose save death, or, at the best, incessant Change, in which mortal life is counted as nothing:—and Nature frowns at us, a vast Question, to which there is no Answer,—an incomprehensible Force, against which wretched Man, gifted with all manner of splendid and Godlike capacities, battles forever and forever in vain! This is the terrible material lesson you would have us learn to-day, the lesson that maddens pupil and teacher alike, and has not a glimmer of consolation to offer to any living soul! What a howling wilderness this world would be if given over entirely to Materialism!—Scarce a line of division could be drawn between men and the brute beasts of the field! I consider,—though possibly I am only one among many of widely differing opinion,—that if you take the hope of an after-joy and blessedness away from the weary, perpetually toiling Million, you destroy at one wanton blow their best, purest, and noblest aspirations. As for the Christian Religion, I cannot believe that so grand and holy a Symbol is perishing among us,—we have a monarch whose title is 'Defender of the Faith,'—we live in an age of civilization which is primarily the result of that faith,—and if, as this gentleman assures me,"—and he made a slight, courteous inclination toward his opposite neighbor—"Christianity is exploded,—then certainly the greatness of this hitherto great nation is exploding with it! But I do not think that because a few skeptics uplift their wailing 'All is vanity' from their self-created desert of Agnosticism, THEREFORE the majority of men and women are turning renegades from the simplest, most humane, most unselfish Creed that ever the world has known. It may be so,—but, at present, I prefer to trust in the higher spiritual instincts of man at his best, rather than accept the testimony of the lesser Unbelieving against the greater Many, whose strength, comfort, patience, and endurance, if these virtues come not from God, come not at all."
His forcible, incisive manner of speaking, together with his perfect equanimity and concise clearness of argument, had an evident effect on those who listened. Here was no rampant fanatic for particular forms of doctrine or pietism,—here was a man who stated his opinions calmly, frankly, and with an absolute setting-forth of facts which could scarcely be denied,—a man, who firmly grounded himself, made no attempt to force any one's belief, but who simply took a large view of the whole, and saw, as it were in a glance, what the world might become without faith in a Divine Cause and Principle of Creation. And once GRANT this Divine Cause and Principle to be actually existent, then all other divine and spiritual things become possible, no matter how IMPOSSIBLE they seem to dull mortal comprehension.
A brief pause followed his words,—a pause of vague embarrassment. The
Duchess was the first to break it.
"You have very noble ideas, Mr. Alwyn,"—she said with a faint, wavering smile—"But I am afraid your conception of things, both human and divine, is too exalted, and poetically imaginative, to be applied to our every-day life. We cannot close our ears to the thunders of science,—we cannot fail to perceive that we mortals are of as small account in the plan of the Universe as grains of sand on the seashore. It is very sad that so it should be, and yet so it is! And concerning Christianity, the poor system has been so belabored of late with hard blows, that it is almost a wonder it still breathes. There is no end to the books that have been written disproving and denouncing it,—moreover, we have had the subject recently treated in a novel which excites our sympathies in behalf of a clergyman, who, overwhelmed by scholarship, finds he can no longer believe in the religion he is required to teach, and who renounces his living in consequence. The story is in parts pathetic,—it has had a large circulation,—and numbers of people who never doubted their Creed before, certainly doubt it now."
Alwyn shrugged his shoulders. "Faith uprooted by a novel!" he said—"Alas, poor faith! It could never have been well established at any time, to be so easy of destruction! No book in the world, whether of fact or fiction, could persuade me either TO or FROM the consciousness of what my own individual Spirit instinctively KNOWS. Faith cannot be taught or forced,—neither, if TRUE, can it be really destroyed,—it is a God-born, God-fostered INTUITION, immortal as God Himself. The ephemeral theories set forth in books should not be able to influence it by so much as a hair's breadth."
"Truth is, however, often conveyed through the medium of fiction,"—observed Dr. Mudley—"and the novel alluded to was calculated to disturb the mind, and arouse trouble in the heart of many an ardent believer. It was written by a woman."
"Nay, then"—said Alwyn quickly, with a darkening flash in his eyes,—"if women give up faith, let the world prepare for strange disaster! Good, God-loving women,—women who pray,—women who hope,—women who inspire men to do the best that is in them,—these are the safety and glory of nations! When women forget to kneel,—when women cease to teach their children the 'Our Father,' by whose grandly simple plea Humanity claims Divinity as its origin,—then shall we learn what is meant by 'men's hearts failing them for fear and for looking after those things which are coming on the earth.' A woman who denies Christ repudiates Him, who, above all others, made her sex as free and honored as everywhere in Christendom it IS. He never refused woman's prayer,—He had patience for her weakness,—pardon for her sins,—and any book written by woman's hand that does Him the smallest shadow of wrong is to me as gross an act, as that of one who, loaded with benefits, scruples not to murder his benefactor!"
The Duchess de la Santoisie moved uneasily,—there was a vibration in Alwyn's voice that went to her very heart. Strange thoughts swept cloud-like across her mind,—again she saw in fancy a little fair, dead child that she had loved,—her only one, on whom she had spent all the tenderness of which her nature was capable. It had died at the prettiest age of children,—the age of lisping speech and softly tottering feet, when a journey from the protecting background of a wall to outstretched maternal arms seems fraught with dire peril to the tiny adventurer, and is only undertaken with the help of much coaxing, sweet laughter, and still sweeter kisses. She remembered how, in spite of her "free" opinions, she had found it impossible not to teach her little one a prayer;—and a sudden mist of tears blurred her sight, as she recollected the child's last words,—words uttered plaintively in the death grasp of a cruel fever, "Suffer me.. to come to Thee!"—A quick sigh escaped her lips,—the diamonds on her breast heaved restlessly,—lifting her eyes, grown soft with gentle memory, she encountered those of Alwyn, and again she asked herself, could he read her thoughts? His steadfast gaze seemed to encompass her, and absorb in a grave, compassionate earnestness the entire comprehension of her life. Her husband's polite, mellifluous accents roused her from this half-reverie.
"I confess I am surprised, Mr. Alwyn,"—he was saying—"that you, a man of such genius and ability, should be still in the leading strings of the Church!"
"There is NO Church"—returned Alwyn quietly,—"The world is waiting for one! The Alpha Beta of Christianity has been learned and recited more or less badly by the children of men for nearly two thousand years,—the actual grammar and meaning of the whole Language has yet to be deciphered. There have been, and are, what are CALLED Churches,—one especially, which, if it would bravely discard mere vulgar superstition, and accept, absorb, and use the discoveries of Science instead, might, and possibly WILL, blossom into the true, universal, and pure Christian Fabric. Meanwhile, in the shaking to and fro of things,—the troublous sifting of the wheat from the chaff,—we must be content to follow by the Way of the Cross as best we can. Christianity has fallen into disrepute, probably because of the Self-Renunciation it demands,—for, in this age, the primal object of each individual is manifestly to serve Self only. It is a wrong road,—a side-lane that leads nowhere,—and we shall inevitably have to turn back upon it and recover the right path—if not now, why then hereafter!"
His voice had a tremor of pain within it;—he was thinking of the millions of men and women who were voluntarily wandering astray into a darkness they did not dream of,—and his heart, the great, true heart of the Poet, became filled with an indescribable passion of yearning.
"No wonder," he mused—"no wonder that Christ came hither for the sake of Love! To rescue, to redeem, to save, to bless! … O Divine sympathy for sorrow! If I—a man—can feel such aching pity for the woes of others, how vast, how limitless, how tender, must be the pity of God!"
And his eyes softened,—he almost forgot his surroundings. He was entirely unaware of the various deep and wistful emotions he had wakened in the hearts of his hearers. There was a great attractiveness in him that he was not conscious of,—and while all present certainly felt that he, though among them, was not of them, they were at the same time curiously moved by an impression that notwithstanding his being, as it were, set apart from their ways of existence, his sympathetic influence surrounded them as resistlessly as a pure atmosphere in which they drew long refreshing breaths of healthier life.
"I should like,"—suddenly said a bearded individual who was seated half-way down the table, and who had listened attentively to everything—"I should like to tell you a few things about Esoteric Buddhism!—I am sure it is a faith that would suit you admirably!"
Alwyn smiled, courteously enough. "I shall be happy to hear your views on the subject, sir," he answered gently—"But I must tell you that before I left England for the East, I had studied that theory, together with many others that were offered as substitutes for Christianity, and I found it totally inadequate to meet the highest demands of the spiritual intelligence. I may also add, that I have read carefully all the principal works against Religion,—from the treatises of the earliest skeptics down to Voltaire and others of our own day. Moreover, I had, not so very long ago, rejected the Christian Faith; that I now accept and adhere to it, is not the result of my merit or attainment,—but simply the outcome of an undeserved blessing and singularly happy fortune."
"Pardon me, Mr. Alwyn"—said Madame de la Santoisie with a sweet smile—"By all the laws of nature I must contradict you there! Your fame and fortune must needs be the reward of merit,—since true happiness never comes to the undeserving."
Alwyn made no reply,—inasmuch as to repudiate the idea of personal merit too warmly is, as such matters are judged nowadays, suggestive of more conceit than modesty. He skilfully changed the conversation, and it glided off by degrees into various other channels,—music, art, science, and the political situation of the hour. The men and women assembled, as though stimulated and inspired by some new interest, now strove to appear at their very best—and the friction of intellect with intellect resulted in more or less brilliancy of talk, which, for once, was totally free from the flippant and mocking spirit which usually pervaded the Santoisie social circle. On all the subjects that came up for discussion Alwyn proved himself thoroughly at home—and M. le Duc, sitting in a silence that was most unwonted with him, became filled with amazement to think that this man, so full of fine qualities and intellectual abilities, should be actually a CHRISTIAN!—The thing was quite incongruous, or seemed so to the ironical wit of the born and bred Parisian,—he tried to consider it absurd,—even laughable,—but his efforts merely resulted in a sense of uneasy personal shame. This poet was, at any rate, a MAN,—he might have posed for a Coriolanus or Marc Antony;—and there was something supreme about him that could not be SNEERED DOWN.
The dinner, meanwhile, reached its dessert climax, and the Duchess rose, giving the customary departing signal to her lady-guests. Alwyn hastened to open the door for her, and she passed out, followed by a train of women in rich and rustling costumes, all of whom, as they swept past the kingly figure that with slightly bent head and courteous mien thus paid silent homage to their sex, were conscious of very unusual emotions of respect and reverence. How would it be, some of them thought, if they were more frequently brought into contact with such royal and gracious manhood? Would not love then become indeed a hallowed glory, and marriage a true sacrament! Was it not possible for men to be the gods of this world, rather than the devils they so often are? Such were a few of the questions that flitted dimly through the minds of the society-fagged fair ones that clustered round the Duchess de la Santoisie, and eagerly discussed Alwyn's personal beauty and extraordinary charm of manner.
The gentlemen did not absent themselves long, and with their appearance from the dining-room the reception of the evening began. Crowds of people arrived and crammed up the stairs, filling every corridor and corner, and Alwyn, growing tired of the various introductions and shaking of hands to which he was submitted, managed presently to slip away into a conservatory adjoining the great drawing-room,—a cool, softly lighted place full of flowering azaleas and rare palms. Here he sat for a while among the red and white blossoms, listening to the incessant hum of voices, and wondering what enjoyment human beings could find in thus herding together en masse, and chattering all at once as though life depended on chatter, when the rustling of a woman's dress disturbed his brief solitude. He rose directly, as he saw his fair hostess approaching him.
"Ah, you have fled away from us, Mr. Alwyn!" she said with a slight smile—"I do not wonder at it. These receptions are the bane of one's social existence."
"Then why do you give them?"—asked Alwyn, half laughingly.
"Why? Oh, because it is the fashion, I suppose!" she answered languidly, leaning against a marble column that supported the towering frondage of a tropical fern, and toying with her fan,—"And I, like others, am a slave to fashion. I have escaped for one moment, but I must go back directly. Mr. Alwyn …" She hesitated,—then came straight up to him, and laid her hand upon his arm—"I want to thank you!"
"To thank me?" he repeated in surprised accents.
"Yes!"—she said steadily—"To thank you for what you have said to-night. We live in a dreary age, when no one has much faith or hope, and still less charity,—death is set before us as the final end of all,—and life as lived by most, people is not only not worth living, but utterly contemptible! Your clearly expressed opinions have made me think it is possible to do better,"—her lips quivered a little, and her breath came and went quickly,—"and I shall begin to try and find out how this 'better' can be consummated! Pray do not think me foolish—"
"I think you foolish!" and with gravest courtesy Alwyn raised her hand, and touched it gently with his lips, then as gently released it. His action was full of grace,—it implied reverence, trust, honor,—and the Duchess looked at him with soft, wet eyes in which a smile still lingered.
"If there were more men like you,"—she said suddenly—"what a difference it would make to us women! We should be proud to share the burdens of life with those on whose absolute integrity and strength we could rely,—but, in these days, we do not rely, so much as we despise,—we cannot love, so much as we condemn! You are a Poet,—and for you the world takes ideal colors,—for you perchance the very heavens have opened;—but remember that the millions, who, in the present era, are ground down under the heels of the grimmest necessity, have no such glimpses of God as are vouchsafed to YOU! They are truly in the darkness and shadow of death,—they hear no angel music,—they sit in dungeons, howled at by preachers and teachers who make no actual attempt to lead them into light and liberty,—while we, the so-called 'upper' classes, are imprisoned as closely as they, and crushed by intolerable weights of learning, such as many of us are not fitted to bear. Those who aspire heavenwards are hurled to earth,—those who of their own choice cling to death, become so fastened to it, that even if they wished, they could not rise. Believe me, you will be sorely disheartened in your efforts toward the highest good,—you will find most people callous, careless, ignorant, and forever scoffing at what they do not, and will not, understand,—you had better leave us to our dust and ashes,"—and a little mirthless laugh escaped her lips,—"for to pluck us from thence now will almost need a second visitation of Christ, in whom, if He came, we should probably not believe! Moreover, you must not forget that we have read Darwin,—and we are so charmed with our monkey ancestors, that we are doing our best to imitate them in every possible way,—in the hope that, with time and patience, we may resolve ourselves back into the original species!"
With which bitter sarcasm, uttered half mockingly, half in good earnest, she left him and returned to her guests. Not very long afterward, he having sought and found Villiers, and suggested to him that it was time to make a move homeward, approached her in company with his friend, and bade her farewell.
"I don't think we shall see you often in society, Mr. Alwyn"—she said, rather wistfully, as she gave him her hand,—"You are too much of a Titan among pigmies!"
He flushed and waved aside the remark with a few playful words; unlike his Former Self, if there was anything in the world he shrank from, it was flattery, or what seemed like flattery. Once outside the house he drew a long breath of relief, and glanced gratefully up at the sky, bright with the glistening multitude of stars. Thank God, there were worlds in that glorious expanse of ether peopled with loftier types of being than what is called Humanity! Villiers looked at him questioningly:
"Tired of your own celebrity, Alwyn?" he asked, taking him by the arm,—"Are the pleasures of Fame already exhausted?"
Alwyn smiled,—he thought of the fame of Sah-luma, Laureate bard of
Al-kyris!
"Nay, if the dream that I told you of had any meaning at all"—he replied—"then I enjoyed and exhausted those pleasures long ago! Perhaps that is the reason why my 'celebrity' seems such a poor and tame circumstance now. But I was not thinking of myself,—I was wondering whether, after all, the slight power I have attained can be of much use to others. I am only one against many."
"Nevertheless, there is an old maxim which says that one hero makes a thousand"—said Villiers quietly—"And it is an undeniable fact that the vastest number ever counted, begins at the very beginning with ONE!"
Alwyn met his smiling, earnest eyes with a quick, responsive light in his own, and the two friends walked the rest of the way home in silence.