Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  The hour was over, — the boatman rowed me in to land, and I paid and dismissed him. The sun had completely sunk, — there were dense purple shadows darkening over the mountains, and one or two small stars faintly discernible in the east. I walked slowly back to the villa where we were staying, — a ‘dépendance’ belonging to the large hotel of the district, which we had rented for the sake of privacy and independence, some of the hotel-servants being portioned off to attend upon us, in addition to my own man Morris, and my wife’s maid. I found Sibyl in the garden, reclining in a basket-chair, her eyes fixed on the after-glow of the sunset, and in her hands a book, — one of the loathliest of the prurient novels that have been lately written by women to degrade and shame their sex. With a sudden impulse of rage upon me which I could not resist, I snatched the volume from her and flung it into the lake below. She made no movement of either surprise or offence, — she merely turned her eyes away from the glowing heavens, and looked at me with a little smile.

  “How violent you are to-day, Geoffrey!” she said.

  I gazed at her in sombre silence. From the light hat with its pale mauve orchids that rested on her nut-brown hair, to the point of her daintily embroidered shoe, her dress was perfect, — and she was perfect. I knew that, — a matchless piece of womanhood ... outwardly! My heart beat, — there was a sense of suffocation in my throat, — I could have killed her for the mingled loathing and longing which her beauty roused in me.

  “I am sorry!” I said hoarsely, avoiding her gaze— “But I hate to see you with such a book as that!”

  “You know its contents?” she queried, with the same slight smile.

  “I can guess.”

  “Such things have to be written, they say nowadays,” — she went on— “And, certainly, to judge from the commendation bestowed on these sort of books by the press, it is very evident that the wave of opinion is setting in the direction of letting girls know all about marriage before they enter upon it, in order that they may do so with their eyes wide open, — very wide open!” She laughed, and her laughter hurt me like a physical wound. “What an old-fashioned idea the bride of the poets and sixty-years-ago romancists seems now!” she continued— “Imagine her! — a shrinking tender creature, shy of beholders, timid of speech, ... wearing the emblematic veil, which in former days, you know, used to cover the face entirely, as a symbol that the secrets of marriage were as yet hidden from the maiden’s innocent and ignorant eyes. Now the veil is worn flung back from the bride’s brows, and she stares unabashed at everybody, — oh yes, indeed we know quite well what we are doing now when we marry, thanks to the ‘new’ fiction!”

  “The new fiction is detestable,” — I said hotly— “Both in style and morality. Even as a question of literature I wonder at your condescending to read any of it. The woman whose dirty book I have just thrown away — and I feel no compunction for having done it, — is destitute of grammar as well as decency.”

  “Oh, but the critics don’t notice that,” — she interrupted, with a delicate mockery vibrating in her voice— “It is apparently not their business to assist in preserving the purity of the English language. What they fall into raptures over is the originality of the ‘sexual’ theme, though I should have thought all such matters were as old as the hills. I never read reviews as a rule, but I did happen to come across one on the book you have just drowned, — and in it, the reviewer stated he had cried over it!”

  She laughed again.

  “Beast!” I said emphatically— “He probably found in it some glozing-over of his own vices. But you, Sibyl — why do you read such stuff? — how can you read it?”

  “Curiosity moved me in the first place,” — she answered listlessly— “I wanted to see what makes a reviewer cry! Then when I began to read, I found that the story was all about the manner in which men amuse themselves with the soiled doves of the highways and bye-ways, — and as I was not very well instructed in that sort of thing, I thought I might as well learn! You know these unpleasant morsels of information on unsavoury subjects are like the reputed suggestions of the devil, — if you listen to one, you are bound to hear more. Besides, literature is supposed to reflect the time we live in, — and that kind of literature being more prevalent than anything else, we are compelled to accept and study it as the mirror of the age.”

  With an expression on her face that was half mirth and half scorn, she rose from her seat, and looked down into the lovely lake below her.

  “The fishes will eat that book,—” she observed— “I hope it will not poison them! If they could read and understand it, what singular ideas they would have of us human beings!”

  “Why don’t you read Mavis Clare’s books?” I asked suddenly— “You told me you admired her.”

  “So I do, — immensely!” she answered,— “I admire her and wonder at her, both together. How that woman can keep her child’s heart and child’s faith in a world like this, is more than I can understand. It is always a perfect marvel to me, — a sort of supernatural surprise. You ask me why don’t I read her books, — I do read them, — I’ve read them all over and over again, — but she does not write many, and one has to wait for her productions longer than for those of most authors. When I want to feel like an angel, I read Mavis Clare, — but I more often am inclined to feel the other way, and then her books are merely so many worries to me.”

  “Worries?” I echoed.

  “Yes. It is worrying to find somebody believing in a God when you can’t believe in Him, — to have beautiful faiths offered to you which you can’t grasp, — and to know that there is a creature alive, a woman like yourself in everything except mind, who is holding fast a happiness which you can never attain, — no, not though you held out praying hands day and night and shouted wild appeals to the dull heavens!”

  At that moment she looked like a queen of tragedy, — her violet eyes ablaze, — her lips apart, — her breast heaving; —— I approached her with a strange nervous hesitation and touched her hand. She gave it to me passively, — I drew it through my arm, and for a minute or two we paced silently up and down the gravel walk. The lights from the monster hotel which catered for us and our wants, were beginning to twinkle from basement to roof, — and just above the châlet we rented, a triad of stars sparkled in the shape of a trefoil.

  “Poor Geoffrey!” she said presently, with a quick upward glance at me,— “I am sorry for you! With all my vagaries of disposition I am not a fool, and at anyrate I have learned how to analyse myself as well as others. I read you as easily as I read a book, — I see what a strange tumult your mind is in! You love me — and you loathe me! — and the contrast of emotion makes a wreck of you and your ideals. Hush, — don’t speak; I know, — I know! But what would you have me be? An angel? I cannot realize such a being for more than a fleeting moment of imagination. A saint? They were all martyred. A good woman? I never met one. Innocent? — ignorant? I told you before we married that I was neither; there is nothing left for me to discover as far as the relations between men and women are concerned, — I have taken the measure of the inherent love of vice in both sexes. There is not a pin to choose between them, — men are no worse than women, — women no worse than men. I have discovered everything — except God! — and I conclude no God could ever have designed such a crazy and mean business as human life.”

  While she thus spoke, I could have fallen at her feet and implored her to be silent. For she was, unknowingly, giving utterance to some of the many thoughts in which I myself had frequently indulged, — and yet, from her lips they sounded cruel, unnatural, and callous to a degree that made me shrink from her in fear and agony. We had reached a little grove of pines, — and here in the silence and shadow I took her in my arms and stared disconsolately upon the beauty of her face.

  “Sibyl!” I whispered— “Sibyl, what is wrong with us both? How is it that we do not seem to find the loveliest side of love? — why is it that even in our kisses and embraces, some impalpable darkn
ess comes between us, so that we anger or weary each other when we should be glad and satisfied? What is it? Can you tell? For you know the darkness is there!”

  A curious look came into her eyes, — a far-away strained look of hungry yearning, mingled, as I thought, with compassion for me.

  “Yes, it is there!” she answered slowly— “And it is of our own mutual creation. I believe you have something nobler in your nature, Geoffrey, than I have in mine, — an indefinable something that recoils from me and my theories despite your wish and will. Perhaps if you had given way to that feeling in time, you would never have married me. You speak of the loveliest side of love, — to me there is no lovely side, — it is all coarse and horrible! You and I for instance, — cultured man and woman, — we cannot, in marriage, get a flight beyond the common emotions of Hodge and his girl!” She laughed violently, and shuddered in my arms. “What liars the poets are, Geoffrey! They ought to be sentenced to life-long imprisonment for their perjuries! They help to mould the credulous beliefs of a woman’s heart; — in her early youth she reads their delicious assurances, and imagines that love will be all they teach, — a thing divine and lasting beyond earthly countings; — then comes the coarse finger of prose on the butterfly-wing of poesy, and the bitterness and hideousness of complete disillusion!”

  I held her still in my arms with the fierce grasp of a man clinging to a spar ere he drowns in mid-ocean.

  “But I love you Sibyl! —— my wife, I love you!” I said, with a passion that choked my utterance.

  310”You love me, — yes, I know, but how? In a way that is abhorrent to yourself!” she replied— “It is not poetic love, — it is man’s love, and man’s love is brute love. So it is, — so it will be, — so it must be. Moreover the brute-love soon tires, — and when it dies out from satiety there is nothing left. Nothing, Geoffrey, — absolutely nothing but a blank and civil form of intercourse, which I do not doubt we shall be able to keep up for the admiration and comment of society!”

  She disengaged herself from my embrace, and moved towards the house.

  “Come!” she added, turning her exquisite head back over her shoulder with a feline caressing grace that she alone possessed, “You know there is a famous lady in London who advertises her saleable charms to the outside public by means of her monogram worked into the lace of all her window-blinds, thinking it no doubt good for trade! I am not quite so bad as that! You have paid dearly for me I know; — but remember I as yet wear no jewels but yours, and crave no gifts beyond those you are generous enough to bestow, — and my dutiful desire is to give you as much full value as I can for your money.”

  “Sibyl, you kill me!” I cried, tortured beyond endurance, “Do you think me so base — —”

  I broke off with almost a sob of despair.

  “You cannot help being base,” she said, steadily regarding me,— “because you are a man. I am base because I am a woman. If we believed in a God, either of us, we might discover some different way of life and love — who knows? — but neither you nor I have any remnant of faith in a Being whose existence all the scientists of the day are ever at work to disprove. We are persistently taught that we are animals and nothing more, — let us therefore not be ashamed of animalism. Animalism and atheism are approved by the scientists and applauded by the press, — and the clergy are powerless to enforce the faith they preach. Come Geoffrey, don’t stay mooning like a stricken Parsifal under those pines, — throw away that thing which troubles you, your conscience, — throw it away as you have thrown the book I was lately reading, and consider this, — that most men of your type take pride and rejoice in being the prey of a bad woman! — so you should really congratulate yourself on having one for a wife! — one who is so broad-minded too, that she will always let you have your own way in everything you do, provided you let her have hers! It is the way all marriages are arranged nowadays, — at any rate in our set, — otherwise the tie would be impossible of endurance. Come!”

  “We cannot live together on such an understanding, Sibyl!” I said hoarsely, as I walked slowly by her side towards the villa.

  “Oh yes, we can!” she averred, a little malign smile playing round her lips— “We can do as others do, — there is no necessity for us to stand out from the rest like quixotic fools, and pose as models to other married people, — we should only be detested for our pains. It is surely better to be popular than virtuous, — virtue never pays! See, there is our interesting German waiter coming to inform us that dinner is ready; please don’t look so utterly miserable, for we have not quarrelled, and it would be foolish to let the servants think we have.”

  I made no answer. We entered the house, and dined, — Sibyl keeping up a perfect fire of conversation, to which I replied in mere monosyllables, — and after dinner we went as usual to sit in the illuminated gardens of the adjacent hotel, and hear the band. Sibyl was known, and universally admired and flattered by many of the people staying there, —— and, as she moved about among her acquaintances, chatting first with one group and then with another, I sat in moody silence, watching her with increasing wonderment and horror. Her beauty seemed to me like the beauty of the poison-flower, which, brilliant in colour and perfect in shape, exhales death to those who pluck it from its stem. And that night, when I held her in my arms, and felt her heart beating against my own in the darkness, an awful dread arose in me, — a dread as to whether I might not at some time or other be tempted to strangle her as she lay on my breast —— strangle her as one would strangle a vampire that sucked one’s blood and strength away!

  XXVII

  We concluded our wedding-tour rather sooner than we had at first intended, and returned to England and Willowsmere Court, about the middle of August. I had a vague notion stirring in me that gave me a sort of dim indefinable consolation, and it was this, — I meant to bring my wife and Mavis Clare together, believing that the gentle influence of the gracious and happy creature, who, like a contented bird in its nest, dwelt serene in the little domain so near my own, might have a softening and wholesome effect upon Sibyl’s pitiless love of analysis and scorn of all noble ideals. The heat in Warwickshire was at this time intense, — the roses were out in their full beauty, and the thick foliage of the branching oaks and elms in my grounds afforded grateful shade and repose to the tired body, while the tranquil loveliness of the woodland and meadow scenery, comforted and soothed the equally tired mind. After all, there is no country in the world so fair as England, — none so richly endowed with verdant forests and fragrant flowers, — none that can boast of sweeter nooks for seclusion and romance. In Italy, that land so over-praised by hysterical poseurs who foolishly deem it admirable to glorify any country save their own, the fields are arid and brown, and parched by the too fervent sun, — there are no shady lanes such as England can boast of in all her shires, — and the mania among Italians for ruthlessly cutting down their finest trees, has not only actually injured the climate, but has so spoilt the landscape that it is difficult to believe at all in its once renowned, and still erroneously reported charm. Such a bower of beauty as Lily Cottage was in that sultry August, could never have been discovered in all the length and breadth of Italy. Mavis superintended the care of her gardens herself, — she had two gardeners, who under her directions, kept the grass and trees continually watered, — and nothing could be imagined more lovely than the picturesque old-fashioned house, covered with roses and tufts of jessamine that seemed to tie up the roof in festal knots and garlands, while around the building spread long reaches of deep emerald lawn, and bosky arbours of foliage where all the most musical song-birds apparently found refuge and delight, and where at evening a perfect colony of nightingales kept up a bubbling fountain of delicious melody. I remember well the afternoon, warm, languid and still, when I took Sibyl to see the woman-author she had so long admired. The heat was so great that in our own grounds all the birds were silent, but when we approached Lily Cottage the first thing we heard was the piping of a thru
sh up somewhere among the roses, — a mellow liquid warble expressing ‘sweet content,’ and mingling with the subdued coo-cooings of the dove ‘reviewers’ who were commenting on whatever pleased or displeased them in the distance.

  “What a pretty place it is!” said my wife, as she peeped over the gate, and through the odorous tangles of honeysuckle and jessamine— “I really think it is prettier than Willowsmere. It has been wonderfully improved.”

  We were shown in, — and Mavis, who had expected our visit did not keep us waiting long. An she entered, clad in some gossamer white stuff that clung softly about her pretty figure and was belted in by a simple ribbon, an odd sickening pang went through my heart. The fair untroubled face, — the joyous yet dreamy student eyes, — the sensitive mouth, and above all, the radiant look of happiness that made the whole expression of her features so bright and fascinating, taught me in one flash of conviction all that a woman might be, and all that she too frequently is not. And I had hated Mavis Clare! — I had even taken up my pen to deal her a wanton blow through the medium of anonymous criticism, ... but this was before I knew her, — before I realized that there could be any difference between her and the female scarecrows who so frequently pose as ‘novelists’ without being able to write correct English, and who talk in public of their ‘copy’ with the glibness gained from Grub Street and the journalists’ cheap restaurant. Yes — I had hated her, —— and now —— now, almost I loved her! Sibyl, tall, queenly and beautiful, gazed upon her with eyes that expressed astonishment as well as admiration.

  “To think that you are the famous Mavis Clare!” she said, smiling, as she held out her hand— “I always heard and knew that you did not look at all literary, but I never quite realized that you could be exactly what I see you are!”