“Thank you!” and she laughed a little, bending her head towards Madame Dimitrius. “Do you hear that, dear lady? Think of it! What good times there are in store for me! If I can only ‘feel’ that they are good! — or even bad! — it would be quite a sensation!” And she flashed a bright look at Dimitrius as he stood watching her almost morosely. “Well!” she said, addressing him, “after the twenty-fourth of June, if I live, and if you permit it, I want to go back to England. Can that be arranged?”
“Assuredly! I will find you a chaperon—”
“A chaperon!” Her eyes opened widely in surprise and amusement. “Oh, no! I’m quite old enough to travel alone!”
“That will not be apparent to the world” — And he smiled again in his dark, reluctant way—” But — we shall see. In any case, if you do wish to go to England, you shall be properly escorted.”
“And if you go, will you not come back to us?” asked Madame Dimitrius, rather wistfully. “I do not want to part with you altogether!”
“You shall not, dear Madame! I will come back.” And she gently kissed the hand she held. “Even Professor Chauvet may want to see me again!”
Dimitrius gave her a sharp glance.
“That old man is fond of you?” he said, tentatively.
“Of course he is!” And she laughed again. “Who would not be fond of me! Excellent Dr. Dimitrius! Few men are so impervious to woman as yourself!”
“You think me impervious?”
“I think a rock by the sea or block of stone more impressionable!” she replied, merrily. “But that is as it should be. Men of science must be men without feeling, — they could not do their work if they ‘felt’ things.”
“I disagree,” said Dimitrius, quickly—” it is just because men of science ‘feel’ the brevity and misery of human life so keenly that they study to alleviate some of its pangs, and spare some of its waste. They seek to prove the Why and the Wherefore of the apparent uselessness of existence — —”
“Nothing is useless, surely!” put in ‘Diana—” Not even a grain of dust!” —
“Where is the dust of Carthage?” he retorted— “Of Babylon? Of Nineveh? With what elements has it commingled to make more men as wise, as foolish, as sane, or as mad as the generations passed away? The splendour, the riches, the conquests, the glories of these cities were as great or greater than any that modern civilization can boast of — and yet — what remains? Dust? And is the dust necessary and valuable? Who can tell! Who knows!”
“And with all the mystery and uncertainty, is it not better to trust in God?” said Madame Dimitrius, gently. “Perhaps the little child who says ‘Our Father’ is nearer to Divine Truth than all the science of the world.”
“Sweetly thought and sweetly said, my mother!” answered Dimitrius. “But, believe me, I can say ‘Our Father’ with a more perfect and exalted faith now than I did when I was a child at your knee. And why? Because I know surely that there is ‘Our Father’ which is in Heaven! — and because He permits us to use reason, judgment and a sane comprehension of Nature, even so I seek to learn what I am confident He wishes us to know!”
“At all risks?” his mother hinted, in a low tone.
“At ail risks!” he answered. “A political government risks millions of human lives to settle a temporary national dispute — I risk one life to make millions happier! And” — here he looked steadily at Diana with a certain grave kindness in his eyes—” she is brave enough to take the risk!”
Diana met his look with equal steadiness.
“I do not even think about it!” she said—” It does not seem worth while!”
CHAPTER XVIII
THE strange spirit of complete indifference, and the attitude of finding nothing, apparently, worth the trouble of thinking about, stood Diana in such good stead, that she found no unpleasantness or restriction in being more or less a prisoner in her own rooms on her return to the Château Fragonard. The lovely house was thrown open to the usual callers and neighbours, — people came and went, — the gardens, glorious now with a wealth of blossom, were the favourite resort of many visitors to Madame Dimitrius and her son, — and Diana, looking from her pretty salon through one of the windows which had so deep an embrasure that she could see everything without any fear of herself being discovered, often watched groups of men and smartly attired women strolling over the velvety lawns or down the carefully kept paths among the flowers, though always with a curious lack of interest. They seemed to have no connection with her own existence. True to his promise, Dr. Dimitrius came every day to take her out when no other persons were in the house or grounds, — and these walks were a vague source of pleasure to her, though she felt she would have been happier and more at ease had she been allowed to take them quite alone. Madame Dimitrius was unwearying in her affectionate regard and attention, and always spent the greater part of each day with her, displaying a tenderness and consideration for her which six months previously would have moved her to passionate gratitude, but which now only stirred in her mind a faint sense of surprise. All her sensations were as of one, who, by some mysterious means, had been removed from the comprehension of human contact, — though her intimacy with what the world is pleased to consider the non-reasoning things of creation had become keenly intensified, and more closely sympathetic.
There was unconcealed disappointment among the few, who, during the past autumn, had met her at the Château, when they were told she had gone, back to England. Baroness Rousillon was, in particular, much annoyed, for she had made a compact with the Marchese Farnese to enter into close and friendly relations with Diana, and to find out from her if at all possible the sort of work which went on in the huge domed laboratory wherein Dimitrius appeared to pass so much of his time. Farnese himself said little of his vexation, — but he left Geneva almost immediately on hearing the news, and without informing Dimitrius of his intention, went straight to London, resolved to probe what he considered a “mystery” to its centre. As for Professor Chauvet, no words could describe his surprise and deep chagrin at Diana’s departure; he could not bring himself to believe that she had left Geneva without saying good-bye to him. So troubled and perplexed was he, that with his usual bluntness he made a clean confession to Dimitrius of his proposal of marriage. Dimitrius heard him with grave patience and a slight, supercilious uplifting of his dark eyebrows.
“I imagined as much!” he said, coldly, when he had heard all. “But Miss May is not young, and I should have thought she would have been glad of the chance of marriage you offered her. Did she give you any hope?” Chauvet looked doubtfully reflective.
“She did and she didn’t,” he at last answered, rather ruefully. “And yet — she’s not capricious — and I trust her. As you say, she’s not young, — good heavens, what a heap of nonsense is talked about ‘young’ women! — frequently the most useless and stupid creatures! — only thinking of themselves from morning till night! — Miss May is a fine, intelligent creature — I should like to pass the few remaining years of my life in her company.” Dimitrius glanced him over with an air of disdainful compassion.
“I daresay she’ll write to you,” he said. “She’s the kind of woman who might prefer to settle that sort of thing by letter.”
“Can you give me her address?” at once asked the Professor, eagerly.
“Not at the moment,” replied Dimitrius, composedly. “She has no fixed abode at present, — she’s travelling with friends. As soon as I hear from her, I will let you know!”
Chauvet, though always a trifle suspicious of other men’s meanings, was disarmed by the open frankness with which this promise was given, and though more or less uneasy in his own mind, allowed the matter to drop. Dimitrius was unkindly amused at his discomfiture.
“Imagine it!” he thought— “That exquisite creation of mine wedded to so unsatisfactory a product of ill-assorted elements!”
Meanwhile, Diana, imprisoned in her luxurious suite of rooms, had nothing to compla
in of. She read many books, practised her music, worked at her tapestry, and last, not least, studied herself. She had begun to be worth-studying. Looking in her mirror, she saw a loveliness delicate and well-nigh unearthly, bathing her in its growing lustre as in a mysteriously brilliant atmosphere. Her eyes shone with a melting lustre like the eyes of a child appealing to be told some strange sweet fairy legend, — her complexion was so fair as to be almost dazzling, the pure ivory White of her skin showing soft flushes of pale rose with the healthful pulsing of her blood — her lips were of a dewy crimson tint such as one might see on a red flower-bud newly opened, — and as she gazed at herself and reluctantly smiled at her own reflection, she had the curious impression that she was seeing the picture of somebody else in the glass, — somebody else who was young and enchantingly pretty, while she herself remained plain and elderly. And yet this was not the right view to take of her own personality, for apart altogether from her outward appearance she was conscious of a new vitality, — an abounding ecstasy of life, — a joy and strength which were well-nigh incomprehensible, — for though these sensations dominated every fibre of her being, they were not, as formerly, connected with any positive human interest. For one thing, she scarcely thought of Dimitrius at all, except that she had come to regard him as a sort of extraneous being — an upper servant told off to wait upon her after the fashion of Vasho, — and when she went out with him, she went merely because she needed the fresh air and loved the open skies, not because she cared for his company, for she hardly spoke to him. Her strange behaviour completely puzzled him, but his deepening anxiety for the ultimate success of his “experiment” deterred him from pressing her too far with questions.
One evening during the first week in June, when a light wind ruffled the hundreds of roses on bush and stem that made the gardens fragrant, he went to her rooms to propose a sail on the lake. He heard her playing the piano, — the music she drew from the keys was wild and beautiful and new, — but as he entered, she stopped abruptly and rose at once, her eyes glancing him over carelessly as though he were more of an insect than a man. He paused, hesitating. “You want me?” she asked.
“For your own pleasure, — at least, I hope so!” he replied, almost humbly. “It’s such a beautiful evening — would you come for a sail on the lake? The wind is just right for it and the boat is ready.”
She made no reply, but at once threw a white serge cloak across her shoulders, pulling its silk-lined hood over her head, and accompanied him along a private passage which led from the upper floor of the house to the garden, “You like the idea?” he said, looking at her somewhat appealingly. She lifted her eyes — bright and cold as stars on a frosty night.
“What idea?”
“This little trip on the lake.”
“Certainly,” she answered. “It has been very warm all day — it will be cool on the water.”
Dimitrius bethought himself of one of the teachings of the Rosicrucians: “Whoso is indifferent obtains all good. The more indifferent you are, the purer you are, for to the indifferent, all things are One!”
Some unusual influence there was radiating from her presence like a fine air filled with suggestions of snow.” It was cold, yet bracing, and he drew a long breath as of a man who had scaled some perilous mountain height and now found himself in a new atmosphere. She walked beside him with a light swiftness that was almost aerial — his own movements seemed to him by comparison, abnormally heavy and clumsy. Seeking about in his mind for some ordinary subject on which to hang a conversation, he could find nothing. His wits had become as clumsy as his feet. Pushing her hood a little aside, she looked at him.
“You had a garden-party to-day?” she queried.
“Yes, — if a few people to tea in the gardens is a garden-party,” he answered.
“That’s what it is usually called,” said Diana, carelessly. “They are generally very dull affairs. I thought so, when I watched your guests from my window — they did not seem amused.”
“You cannot amuse people if they have no sense of amusement,” he rejoined. “Nor can you interest them if they have no brains. They walked among miracles of beauty — I mean the roses and other flowers — without looking at them; the sunset over the Alpine range was gorgeous, but they never saw it — their objective was food — that is to say, tea, coffee, cakes and ices — anything to put down the ever open maw of appetite. What would you? They are as they are made!”
She offered no comment.
“And you,” he continued in a voice that grew suddenly eager and impassioned—” You are as you are made! — as I have made you!”
She let her hood fall back and turned her face fully upon him. Its fairness was of spiritual delicacy, and yet there was something austere in it as in the face of a sculptured angel.
“As I have made you!” he repeated, with triumphant emphasis. “The majority of men and women are governed chiefly by two passions, Appetite and Sex. You have neither Appetite nor Sex, — therefore you are on a higher plane—”
“Than yours?” she asked.
The question stung him a little, but he answered at once: “Possibly!” —
She smiled, — a little cold smile like the flicker of a sun-ray on ice. They had arrived at the border of the lake, and a boat with the picturesque lateen sail of Geneva awaited them with Vasho in charge. Diana stepped in and seated herself among a pile of cushions arranged for her comfort, — Dimitrius took the helm, and Vasho settled himself down to the management of the ropes. The graceful craft was soon skimming easily along the water with a fair light wind, and Diana in a half-reclining attitude, looking up at the starry sky, found herself wishing that she could sail on thus, away from all things present to all things future! All things past seemed so long past I — she scarcely thought of them, — and “all things future?” — What would they be?
Dimitrius, seated close beside her at the stern, suddenly addressed her in a low, cautious tone.
“You know that this is the first week in June?”
“Yes.”
“Your time is drawing very near,” he went on. “On the evening of the twentieth you will come to me in the laboratory. And you will be ready — for anything!”
She heard him, apparently uninterested, her face still upturned to the stars.
“For anything!” she repeated dreamily—” For an End, or a new Beginning! Yes, — I quite understand. I shall be ready.”
“Without hesitation or fear?”
“Have I shown either?”
He ventured to touch the small hand that lay passively outside the folds of her cloak.
“No, — you have been brave, docile, patient, obedient,” he answered. “All four things rare qualities in a woman! — or so men say! You would have made a good wife, only your husband would have crushed you!”
She smiled.
“I quite agree. But what crowds of women have been so ‘crushed’ since the world began!”
“They have been useful as the mothers of the race,” said Dimitrius.
“The mothers of what race?” she asked.
“The human race, of course!”
“Yes, but which section of it?” she persisted, with a cold little laugh. “For instance, — the mothers of the Assyrian race seem to have rather wasted their energies! What has become of that race which they bore, bred and fostered? Where is the glory of those past peoples? What was the use of them? They have left nothing but burnt bricks and doubtful records!”
“True! — but Destiny has strange methods, and their existence may have been necessary.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I fail to see it!” she said. “To me it all seems waste — wanton, wicked waste. Man lives in some wrong, mistaken way — the real joy of life must be to dwell on earth like a ray of light, warming and fructifying all things unconsciously — coming from the sun and returning again to the sun, never losing a moment of perfect splendour!”
“But, to have no consciousne
ss is death,” said Dimitrius, “A ray of light is indifferent to joy. Consciousness with intelligence makes happiness,”
She was silent.
“You are well?” he asked, gently.
“Perfectly!”
“And happy?”
“I suppose so.”
“You cannot do more than suppose? People will hardly understand you if you can only ‘suppose’ you are happy!”
She flashed a look upon him of disdain which he felt rather than saw.
“Do I expect people to understand me?” she demanded. “Do I wish them to do so? I am as indifferent to ‘people’ and their opinions as you are!”
“That is saying a great deal!” he rejoined. “But, — I am a man — you are a woman. Women must study conventions—”
“I need not,” she interrupted him. “Nor should you speak of my sex, since you yourself say I am sexless.”
He was silent. She had given him a straight answer. Some words of a great scientist from whom he had gained much of his own knowledge came back to his memory: “To attain true and lasting life, all passions must be subjugated, — all animosities of nature destroyed. Attraction draws, not only its own to itself, but the aura or spirit of other things which it appropriates so far as it is able. And this appropriation or fusion of elements is either, life-giving or destructive.”
He repeated the words “This appropriation or fusion of elements is either life-giving or destructive” — to himself’ finding a new force in their meaning and application.
“Diana,” he said, presently. “I am beginning to find you rather a difficult puzzle!”
“I have found myself so for some time,” she answered. “But it does not matter. Nothing really matters.”
“Nothing?” he queried. “Not even love? That used to be a great matter with you!”
She laughed, coldly.
“Love is a delusion,” she said. “And no doubt I ‘used’ to think the delusion a reality. I know better now.”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 856