The Imitator: A Novel

by Percival Pollard

  CHAPTER VI.

  The smart world received the change in Orson Vane with no immediatewonder. Wonder is, at the outset, a vulgarity; to let nothing astonishyou is part of a smart education. A good many of the smartest hostessesin town were glad that Vane had emerged from his erstwhile air ofaristocratic aloofness; he took, with them, the place that Reggie Hart'scontinuing illness left vacant.

  In the regions where Vane had been actually intimate whispers began togo about, it is true, and it was with no little difficulty that anoccasional story about him was kept out of the gossipy pages of thepapers. Vane was constantly busy seeking notoriety. His attentions toseveral of the younger matrons were conspicuous. Yet he was so much of astimulating force, in a society where passivity was the rule, that hewas welcome everywhere.

  He had become the court fool of the smart set.

  To him, the position held nothing degrading. It was, he argued, areflection on smart society, rather on himself, that, to be prominent init, one must needs wear cap and bells. Moreover his position allowedhim, now and then, the utterance of grim truths that would not havebeen listened to from anyone not wearing the jester's license.

  At the now famous dinner given by Mrs. Sclatersby, Orson Vane seized alull in the conversation, by remarking, in his ladylike lisp:

  "My dear Mrs. Sclatersby, I have such a charming idea. I am thinking ofsyndicating myself."

  Mrs. Sclatersby put up her lorgnettes and smiled encouragement at Orson."It sounds Wall Streety," she said, "you're not going to desert us, areyou?"

  "Oh, nothing so dreadful. It would be an entirely smart syndicate, youknow; a syndicate of which you would be a member. I sometimes think, youknow, that I do not distribute myself to the best advantage. There havebeen little jealousies, now and then, have there not?" He looked, in abird-like, perky way, at Mrs. Barrett Weston, and the only Mrs. Carlos."I have been unable to be in two places at once. Now a syndicate--asyndicate could arrange things so that there would be nodisappointments, no clashings of engagements, no waste of opportunity.

  "How clever you always are," said a lady at Orson's right. She hadchameleon hair, and her poise was that of a soubrette. The theatre wastremendously popular as a society model that season. Orson blew a kissat her, and went on with his speech.

  "Actors do it, you know. Painters have done it. Inventors do it. Whynot I?" He paused to nibble an olive. "To contribute to the gaiety ofour little world is, after all, the one thing worth while. Think how fewpicturesque people we have! Eccentricity is terribly lacking in thetown. We have no Whistler; Mansfield is rather a dull imitation. Ofcourse there is George Francis Train; but he is a trifle, a trifle toomuch of the larger world, don't you think?"

  "I never saw the man in my life," asserted the hostess.

  "Exactly," said Orson, "he makes himself too cheap. It keeps us fromseeing him. But Whistler; think of Whistler, in New York! He would weara French hat, fight duels every day, lampoon a critic every hour, andpaint nocturnes on the Fifth avenue pavement! He would make Diana fallfrom the Tower in sheer envy. He would go through the Astoria withmonocle and mockery, and smile blue peacock smiles at Mr. Blashfield andMr. Simmons. He would etch himself upon the town. We would never let himgo again. We need that sort of thing. Our ambitions and our patience arecosmopolitan; but we lack the public characters to properly give fireand color to our streets. Now I--"

  He let his eyes wander about the room, a delicate smile of invitation onhis lips.

  "Don't you think," said one of the ladies, "that you are quite--quitebohemian enough?"

  Orson shuddered obviously. "My dear lady," he urged, "it is a dreadfulthing to be bohemian. It is no longer smart. If I am considered the one,I cannot possibly be the other. There is, to be sure, a politeimitation; but it is quite an art to imitate the thing with justsufficient indolence. But I really wish you would think the thing over,Mrs. Sclatersby. I know nobody who would do the thing better than I. Ourmen are mostly too fond of fashion, and too afraid of fancy. One mustnot be ashamed of being called foolish. Whistler uses butterflies;somebody else used sunflowers and green carnations; I shoulduse--lilies, I think, lilies-of-the-valley. Emblematic of the pure follyof my pose, you know. One must do something like that, you see, to gainsmart applause; impossible hats and improbable hair, except in the caseof actresses, are quite extinct."

  A Polish orchestra that had been hitherto unsuccessful against theshrill monologue of Orson, and the occasional laughter of the ladies,now sent out a sudden, fierce stream of melody. It was evident that theydid not mean to take the insult of a large wage without offering somestormy moments in exchange. The diners assumed a patient air, eating inan abstracted manner, as if their stomachs were the only members oftheir bodies left unstunned by the music. The assemblage wore, in itsfurtive gluttony, an air of being in a plot of the most deliciousdanger. Some rather dowdy anecdotes went about in whispers, and severalof the ladies made passionate efforts to blush. Orson Vane took a sip ofsome apricotine, explaining to his neighbor that he took it for thecolor; it was the color of verses by Verlaine. She had never heard ofthe man. Ah; then of course Mallarme, and Symons and Francis Saltus wereher gods? No; she said she liked Madame Louise; hers were by far themost fragile hats purchasable; what was the use of a hat if it was notfragile; to wear one twice was a crime, and to give one away unless itwas decently crushed was an indiscretion. Orson quite agreed with her.To his other neighbor he confided that he was thinking of writing abook. It would be something entirely in the key of blue. He was busyexplaining its future virtues, when an indiscreet lull came in theorchestral tornado.

  "I mean to bring the pink of youth to the sallowest old age," he wassaying, "and every page is to be as dangerous as a Bowery cocktail."

  Then the storm howled forth again. Everyone talked to his or herneighbor at top voice. Now and then pauses in the music left fag ends ofconversation struggling about the room.

  "The decadents are simply the people who refuse to write twaddle for themagazines...."

  "The way to make a name in the world is to own a soap factory and apeWilliam Morris on the side...."

  "I can always tell when it is Spring by looking at the haberdashers'windows. To watch shirts and ties blooming is so much nicer than flowersand those smelly things...."

  "The pleasantest things in the world all begin with a P. Powders,patches and poses--what should we do without them?..."

  This sort of thing came out at loose ends now and then. Suddenly themusic ceased altogether. The diners all looked as if they had beencaught in a crime. The lights went out in the room, and there werelittle smothered shrieks. After an interval, a rosy glow lit up theconservatory beyond the palms; a little stage showed in the distance.Some notorious people from the music-halls began to do songs and dances,and offer comic monologues. The diners fell into a sort of lethargy.They did not even notice that Orson Vane's chair was empty.

  Vane was in a little boudoir lent him by the hostess. His nostrilsdilated with the perfume of her that he felt everywhere. He sank into asilk-covered chair, before which he had arranged a full-length mirror,and several smaller glasses, with candles glowing all about him. He wasconscious of a cloying sense of happiness over his physical perfections.He stripped garment after garment from him with a care, a gentlenessthat argued his belief that haste was a foe to beauty. He stretchedhimself at full length, in epicurean enjoyment of himself. The flame oflife, he told himself, burnt the more steadily the less we wrapped itup. If we could only return to the pagan life! And yet--what charm therewas in dress! The body had, after all, a monotony, a sameness; thetenderest of its curves, the rosiest of its surfaces, must pall. But theinfinite variety of clothes! The delight of letting the most delicatetints of gauze caress the flesh, while to the world only the sobereststuffs were exposed! The rustle of fresh linen, the perfume that onecould filter through the layers of one's attire!

  Orson Vane closed his eyes, lazily, musingly. At that moment his propersoul was quite in subjection; the ecstasy in the
usurping soul wasall-powerful.

  He was thinking of what the cheval-glass in that little room must haveseen.

  It would be unspeakably fine to be a mirror.

  The little crystal clock ticking on the dressing-table tinkled an hour.It brought him from his reveries with a start. He began gliding intosome shining, silken things of umber tints; they fitted him to the skin.

  He was a falconer.

  It was a costume to strike pale the idlers at a bathing beach. There wasnot a crease, not a fold anywhere. A leathern thong upon a wrist, afeathered cap upon his head, were almost the only points that rose awayfrom the body as God had fashioned it. Satisfaction filled him as hesurveyed himself. But there was more to do. Above this costume he putthe dress of a Spanish Queen. When he lifted the massively brocadedtrain, there showed the most exquisitely chiseled ankles, the promise ofthe most alluring legs. The corsage hinted a bust of the most soothingsoftness. He spent fully ten minutes in happy admiration of his imagesin the mirrors.

  When he proceeded to the conservatory, it was by a secret corridor. Thediners were wearily watching a Frenchwoman who sang with her gloves,which were black and always on the point of falling down. She was verypathetic; she was trying to sing rag-time melodies because some idiothad told her the Newport set preferred that music. A smart young womanhad danced a dance of her own invention; everyone agreed, as they didabout the man who paints with his toes, that, considering her smartnessin the fashionable world, it was not so much a wonder that she danced sowell, as that she danced at all. They were quite sure the professionalmanagers would offer her the most lavish sums; she would be quite asmuch of an attraction as the foreign peer who was trying to be agentleman, where they are most needed, on the stage.

  At a sign from Orson, the lights went out again, as the Frenchwomanfinished her song. Several of the guests began to talk scandal in thedark; there are few occupations more fascinating than talking scandal inthe dark. The question of whether it was better to be a millionaire ora fashionable and divorced beauty was beginning to agitate severalpeople into almost violent argument, when the lights flared to the full.

  The chorus of little "Ohs" and "Ahs," of rapid whispered comment, and ofdiscreetly patted gloves, was quite fervid for so smart an assemblage.Except in the rarest cases, to gush is as fatal, in the smart world, asto be intolerant. There is a smart avenue between fervor and frowning;when you can find that avenue unconsciously, in the dark, as it were,you have little more to learn in the code of smartness.

  Mrs. Sclatersby herself murmured, quite audibly:

  "How sweet the dear boy looks!"

  Her clan took the word up, and for a time the sibilance of it was like ahiss in the room. A man or two in the company growled out something thathis fairer neighbor seemed unwilling to hear. These basso profundosounds, if one could formulate them into words at all, seemed more like"Disgusting fool!" or "Sickening!" than anything else. But the companyhad very few men in it; in this, as in many other respects, the roomresembled smart society itself. The smart world is engineered andpeopled chiefly by the feminine element. The male sex lends to it onlyits more feminine side.

  It is almost unnecessary to describe the picture that Orson Vanepresented on that little stage. His beauty as "Isabella, Queen ofSpain," has long since become public property; none of his later effortsin suppression of the many photographs that were taken, shortly afterthe Sclatersby dinner, have succeeded in quite expunging the portraits.At that time he gave the sittings willingly. He felt that thesephotographs represented the highest notch in his fame, the completestimage of his ability to be as beautiful as the most beautiful woman.

  Shame or nervousness was not part of Orson Vane's personality thatnight. He sat there, in the skillfully arranged scheme of lights, withhis whole body attuned only to accurate impersonation of the characterhe represented. He got up. His motion, as he passed across the stage,was so utterly feminine, so made of the swaying, undulating grace thatusually implies the woman; the gesture with his fan was so finicallyalluring; the poise of his head above his bared shoulders socoquettish,--that the women watching him almost held their breaths inadmiration.

  It was, you see, the most adroit flattery that a man could pay theentire sex of womankind.

  Then the music, a little way off, began to strum a cachuca. The tempoincreased; when finally the pace was something infectious, Orson Vanebegan a dance that remains, to this day, an episode in the annals of thesmart. The vigor of his poses, the charm of his skirt-manipulation,carried the appreciation of his friends by storm. Some of the ladiesreally had hard work to keep from rushing to the stage and kissing theyoung man then and there. When we are emotional, we Americans--to whatlengths will we not go!

  But the surprises were not yet over. A dash of darkness stayed themusic; a swishing and a flapping came from the stage; then the lights.Vane stood, in statue position, as a falconer. You could almost, underthe umber silk, see the rippling of his veins.

  Only a second he stood so, but it was a second of triumph. The companywas so agape with wonder, that there was no sound from it until themusic and the bare stage, following a brief period of blackness,recalled it to its senses. Then it urged Mrs. Sclatersby to grant agreat favor.

  Mr. Vane must be persuaded not take off his falconer's costume; tomingle, for what little time remained, with the company without resuminghis more conventional attire.

  Vane smiled when the message came to him. He nodded his head. Then hesent for the Sclatersby butler.

  "Plenty of Red Ribbon!" he said to that person.

  "Plenty, sir."

  "Make a note of your commissions; a cheque in the morning."

  Then he mingled again with his fellow-guests, and there was muchtoasting, and the bonds all loosened a little, and the sparkle came upout of the glasses into the cheeks of the women. The other men, one byone, took their way out.

  Women crushed one another to touch the hero of the evening. Jealousiesshot savage glances about. Every increase in this emulation increasedthe love that Orson Vane felt for himself. He caressed a hand here, alock there, with a king's condescension. If he felt a kiss upon hishand, he smiled a splendid, slightly wearied smile. If he had hot eyesturned on him, burning so fiercely as to spell out passion boldly, hereturned, with his own glances, the most ineffable promises.

  There have been many things written and said about that curious affairat the Sclatersbys, but for the entire history of it--well, there arereasons why you will never be able to trace it. Orson Vane is perhapsthe only one who might tell some of the details; and he, as you willfind presently, has utterly forgotten that night.

  "Time we went home, girls," said Vane, at last, disengaging himselfgently from a number of warm hands, and putting away, as he moved intofreedom, more than one beautiful pair of shoulders. He needed the freshair; he was really quite worn out. But he still had a madcap notion leftin him; he still had a trump to play.

  "A pair of hose," he called out, "a pair of hose, with diamond-studdedgarters, to the one who will play 'follow' to my 'leader!'"

  And the end of that dare-devil scamper did not come until the wholethrong reached Madison Square.

  Vane plunged to the knees in the fountain.

  That chilled the chase. But one would not be denied. Hers was a darktype of beauty that needed magnolias and the moon and the South to frameit properly. She lifted her skirts with a little tinkling laugh, and ranto where Orson stood, splashing her way bravely through the water.

  Vane looked at her and took her hand.

  "I envy the prize I offered," he said to her.