Of Kings and Things

by Eric Stanislaus Stenbock

  ‘Because I think I know who gave them to you,’ said Ethel, stammering still more and blushing.

  ‘What!’ said La Cagliari, ‘do you really know who gave them to me? That is quite interesting. Oh dear!’ she continued, ‘I am so bored and pestered with these continual bouquets with cards that they send me: you know, great baskets of things: all made up by the florist without the faintest artistic taste. What on earth could I possibly do with them? Though occasionally, I must admit, they contain a handsome or valuable bracelet or such like.’

  Here Ethel shuddered.

  Then she said languorously, stroking Ethel's hair, and placing her on her knee, like a child:

  ‘Oh, how I hate men! I cannot even conceive a woman desiring, or even giving herself to a man. What attraction can there be? Bristly, cartilaginous, with veins like rope, flesh of steel, beast-like growth of hair, totally devoid of all delicacy; merely desirous of bestial possession: Bah!’

  Here her golden eyes flashed fire, and her voice had risen to anger. She fastened her large strong arms tightly round poor little Ethel, who trembled with pleasure.

  ‘But,’ she said, relaxing her grasp, with a low contralto laugh, ‘a diamond is a diamond. It comes in very handy for a rainy day. If they choose to give me presents, which I never asked for, I do not see why I should not accept them. No, by the bye,’ she said, changing her tone—‘I was rather wandering from the point; because among all these senseless bouquets, there used to arrive some that were really beautiful, and evidently arranged by the donor's or an artist's hand—quite different to the usual florist's sort. These I was really pleased to receive. These had no card at all attached to them. And one day in a bouquet of the most divine orchids, I discovered this bracelet. I am weary of diamonds—except for their value. But these are the sort of stones I really like.

  ‘Well, suddenly all these bouquets ceased. I was really interested to know who the anonymous donor might be. So as you say you know, please tell me who it is. And for what reason is he offended with me that he sends me no more.’

  ‘I think,’ answered Ethel, ‘the person in question had no more money to afford them.’

  Then she burst into tears.

  ‘Oh, I am so sorry,’ said La Cagliari. ‘But why do you cry child? Am I trespassing on preserves of yours? Really—you will believe me—sincerely I never meant to do so.’

  ‘It is, was I—I—I—I!’ admitted Ethel, between her tears, ‘myself, who sent you those things. So you will keep that bracelet, won't you?’

  ‘You silly little girl,’ said La Cagliari, ‘what on earth did you do that for? Come and tell me all about yourself: where do you live for instance, and with whom?’

  ‘I live all alone, where I can,’ said Ethel. ‘Now I have got an engagement I shall get on better.’

  ‘No, that will never do,’ said La Cagliari. ‘You can't possibly do that—Oh, a brilliant idea! I am going away shortly to Naples, where I have a really quite nice villa. Now first of all, I don't want to be all alone, as I am just now, and secondly, I am so lazy that I want some one else to do my writing for me. Now if you will come there with me as my companion and secretary, I could introduce you to a great many people in Naples, and indeed in Italy in general, where dancing is much more appreciated than anywhere else, and in a very short time indeed you would become a furore, and be standing on your own feet: which,’ she added with a slight laugh, ‘on the stage you never seem to do.’

  ‘Then,’ says the Diary naively, ‘I could not resist the impulse, I got up and danced.’

  ‘She laughed: but she kissed me again.’

  Then we find them again at Naples.

  With all Ethel's rapturous descriptions of the marble villa in Pompeian style, and many other things besides, it is easy enough to read between the lines, the real character of La Cagliari. An indolent and voluptuous creature, wholly selfish: but nevertheless good natured, and kindly-disposed when not crossed in humour, and in a way really fond of the strange little girl who was so enthusiastically devoted to her, whom she treats as a child.

  Ethel it appears is by no means paid for her services. But La Cagliari fulfils her promise, procuring her engagements; as she had predicted, Ethel who now adopts the name of La Girandola, literally does become a furore.

  This brings grist to the mill. Although La Cagliari receives enormous sums of money when she deigns to sing, and presents from all quarters—even this is not enough for her insatiable luxury. And Ethel, or La Girandola, gives her little all—or rather, her at this time by no means little all to La Cagliari.

  I take a specimen page from the Diary.

  ‘At last she has got rid of that horrid Jannette. I managed to persuade her to let me be her lady's maid, instead of her engaging another. Now that is the delight of my life. Every morning I perfume her bath of asses’ milk with crushed strawberries, or rose water. Then I wrap her in her lovely peignoir, pricked out with blue and silver. As she is drying herself, I have the delight of revelling and rolling myself in the water or rather the milk, she has bathed in. Then I clothe her in her exquisite dressing-gown, also of blue and silver embroidery (she seems to have a particular predilection for silver). Oh! and such lace! Then I am privileged to do her hair, her glorious hair, redolent of all spices. Ah! perhaps I take too long about it. I am always so sorry when I have finished.’

  ‘At that time she practises her scales and exercises, with her magnificent voice. Then afterwards, she sings. She accompanies herself. I cannot play: I can only dance; and when she sings I dance, quite quietly, in the next room.’

  La Cagliari seems also to have a very fair smattering of education, and be somewhat a Latin scholar. Anyhow, she knows enough about Paganism to fill the poor girl's mind with all manner of nonsense.

  In the afternoon, she reclines among the roses, the flower of which she is particularly fond; and has the most beautiful rose garden in Naples, and has the little La Girandola, like Salome, to dance before her. (Indeed, one of the most pathetic relics to be found among one of La Girandola's remains was a withered rose in a casket which, she explains in the diary, ‘La Cagliari had thrown to her in mockery as the head of John the Baptist.’)

  Then we find them in Paris. They both appeared together at the Opera, and both scored a great success.

  One day a Russian Prince, an old man of vast wealth, also a melomaniac, writes thus to La Cagliari:

  ‘Madame,

  ‘I cannot find words to express what delight the sound of your voice has afforded me. Do not fear that I wish to force myself upon your acquaintance. Oh dear no! I am old and ugly.

  ‘Still, may I beg you to accept this gift of two rubies from my mines in Siberia, which are of somewhat peculiar lustre, and seem to me to correspond in colour to the sound of your voice. I am afraid you will not quite understand what I mean by that. All I pray is, accept the gift, and forgive the donor.’

  ‘Oh,’ said La Cagliari, ‘these are really beautiful. There is one for me, and one for you. How will you have yours fixed? No—I know: for you I will have it made into an engagement ring, and have it set in silver. As to mine, I will see about that.’

  A few days afterwards La Cagliari appears to have been in a very frolicsome mood indeed. She has a large supper party to celebrate what she pleases to call her ‘fiançailles’: and what is more they must all appear in fancy costume, dressed as characters in well known operas.

  She herself chooses to represent Faust, of all people: and insists on little Ethel getting up as Margherite, with the regulation pig-tail.

  ‘Ah!’ says the diarist, in a marginal note, ‘was not Mephistopheles there all the time?’

  (This of course was written later.)

  Several well-known actors and actresses turned up, in a wonderful medley of costumes. An eminent comedian caused much hilarity by appearing as Martha. But still greater diversion was caused when the effeminate young Comte de Valesco appeared as La Somnambula, in a long white night-gown.

  La
Cagliari with mock solemnity places the engagement ring on her finger. This is considered rather a good joke according to the taste of the company, and much champagne is drunk, and many glasses broken.

  Then we find them again at Boulogne, or rather at Wimmereux.

  It is here difficulties commence.

  They go to the casino: and play Petits Chevaux. There they meet the Duc de Morlaix—‘Jeune Fat’, Ethel calls him; he comes to the assistance of La Cagliari, who suddenly finds she has left all her money at home. Ethel retires into the background—ashamed of herself for having forgotten so simple a thing. The Duc de Morlaix asks permission to call, which of course is accorded. He is just now pretending to be depressed at having been rejected by Mdlle. Seraphine de St. Amaranthe in favour of that ‘Cagot’ (as he terms him) Célestin de Laval. Being a Legitimist he thought it necessary to keep up the minimum conventionalities of Catholicism: now the ‘Cagot’ had replaced him in the affections of the beautiful Seraphine: (as a matter of fact he had hated him all along), he appears to be specially charmed by La Cagliari's outrageous Paganism, besides of course being fascinated by her beauty.

  By the bye, I may here interpolate in this interesting pathological study: throughout her diary Ethel, or La Girandola, shows no religious sense at all. Religion in her mind seems exclusively connected with her Aunt Jane and the Bishop's wife who wore corkscrew curls.

  Then one day there comes an altercation.

  ‘He's a Duke and a millionaire,’ says La Cagliari: ‘and we cannot afford to despise him.’ Ethel answers bitterly, for the first time: ‘You cannot, but I can. Perhaps I am more familiar with Dukes than you.’ Then in the Diary she goes into paroxysms of remorse, for having made this not wholly unjustifiable remark. Indeed, it is a curious coincidence to find those two thrown together, one having severed herself with her ducal connections in order to become a dancer, the other ceasing to be a singer in order to become a Duchess.

  Here there comes into the Diary a vein of contempt, though not very obvious, for La Cagliari, who was formerly her idol, an object of extreme admiration. Yet all the time she is repenting, for having said one unkind word to her, in sack-cloth and ashes.

  (Here I make some slight digression as, after all, this is a pathological study, not a story. She is humble even to abjectness, but at the same time she is as proud as Lucifer. I have frequently noticed that this sort of pride is ingrained in the blood of families of undoubted aristocracy; but curiously it takes divers forms: as here, for instance, Lady Jane and Ethel—the one making particular insistence on etiquette and formality, considering herself a person sacrosanct who should be hedged around with ceremonial; the other on the contrary throwing all ‘convenances’ to the wind, and saying with like pride, ‘I can afford to do without these things, though you from your position cannot.’

  I think the ingrained sense of aristocracy will last much longer than monarchy; except perhaps in England, where for the most part the really aristocratic families bear no title at all, and those who do are—Well, it doesn't matter: I am a Doctor and not a Politician. And I am digressing too much.)

  One day La Cagliari says to La Girandola as she is bringing her chocolate in the morning: ‘By the way I forgot to tell you I am going to be married to the Duc de Morlaix.’

  ‘Oh!’ answers Ethel, quite simply, ‘I am not surprised to hear that.’

  Then her diary simply gives this one entry: ‘Then I went away.’

  Reading this I thought it really meant she went out of the room. But no: without any scene whatsoever she simply packs up her bag (which she takes with her) also her portmanteaux and boxes, and with regard to the latter writes a brief formal note, that they should be forwarded to her at a certain hotel in Paris. And this is all.

  Henceforth the Diary assumes an entirely different form. She does not lament: the whole thing is pervaded with an intense gloom almost verging on insanity. Her old humour and sprightliness have left her, or rather been turned to sarcasm of the bitterest kind. She spares no one: her managers, her employers, her co-performers or, indeed chiefly, her admirers. She hardly ever mentions La Cagliari at all: or rather never does except by allusions, and these are few and far between.

  Her character seems to be changed: she is morose; dresses always in simple black, not caring particularly what she wears, lives upon almost nothing at all, and indeed absolutely becomes avaricious, keeping a strict account book, and demanding from her managers the last penny—and this was the careless little girl that gave everything away, and accustomed to luxury.

  When I said she never mentioned La Cagliari, I was slightly inaccurate, for she does so once.

  ‘I do not know how I could go on living if I could not dance: even that has become difficult to me now. It seems that I absorbed vitality from Giacinta and her splendid health; and now I often feel so exhausted that I have to use a “Pravaz” with morphia, which that girl—I am not sure whether I hate her or like her—gave to me and explained to me the use of.’

  She appears to be always under the idea that La Cagliari has entirely forgotten her on the few occasions on which she alludes to her. It never seems to occur to her that she might be expecting her to write first: and that a note demanding one's portmanteaux is not the most polite way of parting.

  One day she writes:

  ‘Of all my present repertoire I like best “Giselle” (Théophile Gautier's ballet). There the person I am supposed to love gets married to a Countess or some such person—anyhow rather in swell circumstances, and I die on the stage. But that does not finish me. For in the last act my unfaithful lover visits my tomb, and then I emerge and have a grand joke all night through with the consequence that he is found dead by my tomb in the morning.

  ‘I suppose that I must have acted that very realistically. Because, one time I noticed several of the audience were actually in tears, a thing unusual at a ballet: and someone actually sent me a very beautiful funeral wreath of white orchids, with a piece of paper bearing these words:

  ‘“Pour le tombeau de Giselle!”

  ‘Now this was distinctly original: I wonder who it was. No, I will not go on writing, as it suggests a painful quasi-coincidence.’

  One day an enthusiastic young French poet sends her the scheme of a ballet called ‘La Mort de Cléopâtre!’

  She was struck with this and accepts it.

  Thenceforth she becomes possessed of a fixed idea. The curious thing about this case is its long pre-deliberation. The idea strikes her that if she could actually die on the stage before La Cagliari (whom by name she does not mention) it would be very effective and dramatic. But people who do that sort of thing usually act upon sudden impulse, that is to say if they do that sort of thing at all. But no, I am wrong. Very intensely passionate natures, however irritable they may show themselves about small things, however buried in their actions generally, when really touched to the heart are terribly silent, undemonstrative, and predetermined.

  All things perhaps may be procured in Paris: and Ethel is not devoid of money to procure them. And I myself was not so surprised as any reader of this might be that in the slums of Paris she actually managed to find an old woman, a reputed sorceress, who for a large sum gave her some veritable snake poison.

  ‘This I can instill with “Pravaz”,’ she says, ‘and put it into the snake's mouth, at that time when I shall see her. I intend to follow her movements and more or less tour with “La Mort de Cléopâtre”, which people seem to like: she is sure to go to the opera one day.’

  And thus she ends; but writes again afterwards:

  ‘No, I don't like the morphia; it vitalizes me for the time-being, but I feel all the worse for it afterwards: and oh! the horrible dreams! my principal dream is being buried deep under an ocean with waters of frightful weight. Poor little me! who so lightly treaded the ground: why should they require great seas to cover me. I would much rather be in the tomb of Giselle: where I could get out and dance a ballet of an evening. Oh! the horror of the comic
! Perhaps after all it is as well I should have some sense of the ridiculous—or rather I am beginning to think everything is ridiculous: so that people who are serious must necessarily be absurd.’

  There is little more to be related, and what there is has been related already. With the simple persistence of monomania, she prepared herself for death in the coolness and calmness which seem almost incredible.

  Only once she appears to break down.

  ‘I dreamt last night,’ she writes, ‘that I was all alone, in a vast utter waste; it was absolutely dark: utterly and entirely dark. There was neither sight nor sound. Yet the darkness seemed full of hostile influences. I tried to cry out, but my voice gave no sound. Oh! the terror of that solitude! Is that what death is like?

  ‘I have been crying silently all day long, without intermission. But I must stop crying now: though I would much rather go on; because I have to appear in “L’Arlésienne” to-night (what satire)—and the tears will have a dreadful effect on the paint.’

  She appears now to be all alone in the world: and has no friends whatsoever: and has long ceased to communicate with anybody.

  ‘I shall go out like a candle,’ she writes, ‘and nobody will be a bit the wiser. I wonder if the Duke or anyone else, has found out that La Girandola means poor me!’

  She goes on tour. And ultimately tracks La Cagliari to Vienna.

  There is singularly little emotion about her last entries. She is only violently angry at the clumsiness of the porters who have managed to smash her hypodermic syringe, and very calmly unfolds her plan for getting a new one out of me.

  Her last entry is made in the evening.

  ‘It seems rather ridiculous,’ she writes, ‘keeping up the Diary till the last moment, when there will not be any tomorrow. I wonder who will read this precious document and what they will think about it! Perhaps she will, perhaps nobody at all.

  ‘It is rather a bother, by the bye, not to know for certain whether there will be any tomorrow or no. It may be that she won't turn up. The question is, seeing my name on the play-bill, will that act as an inducement to her to come or to stay away. What I hope, and think very likely, is that she won't take the trouble to read the play-bill at all. That would be very characteristic of her! Then I should turn up as quite a pleasant surprise. Ha! Ha!’