Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “Face my fate,” he admitted touching his moustache and fearfully embarrassed.

  “Well, if you’re in a hurry, you’ll have to go down South to face it. She’s at Palm Beach for the next three weeks.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She looked up at him, her little opaque green eyes a trifle softened.

  “I am trying to get you the prettiest woman in America,” she said. “I’m ready to fight off everybody else — beat ’em to death,” she added, her eyes snapping, then suddenly kind again— “because, Sir Charles, I like you. And for no other reason on earth!”

  Which was not the exact truth. It was for another man’s sake she was kind to him. And the other man had been dead many years.

  Sir Charles thanked her, awkwardly, and fell silent again, pulling his moustache.

  “Is — Mrs. Leeds — well?” he ventured, at length, reddening again.

  “‘Is — Mrs. Leeds — well?’ he ventured at length, reddening again.”

  “Perfectly. She’s a bit wiry just now — thin — leggy, y’ know. Some fanciers prefer ’em weedy. But she’ll plump up. I know the breed.”

  He shrank from her loud voice and the vulgarity of her comments, and she was aware of it and didn’t care a rap. There were plenty of noble ladies as vulgar as she, and more so — and anyway it was not this well-built, sober-faced man of forty-five whom she was serving with all the craft and insolence and brutality and generosity that was in her — it was the son of a dead man who had been much to her. How much nobody in these days gossiped about any longer, for it was a long time ago, a long, long time ago that she had made her curtsey to a young queen and a prince consort. And Sir Charles’s father had died at Majuba Hill.

  “There’s a wretched little knock-kneed peer on the cards,” she observed; “Dankmere. He seems to think she has money or something. If he comes over here, as my sister writes, I’ll set him straighter than his own legs. And I’ve written Foxy to tell him so.”

  “Dankmere is a very good chap,” said Sir Charles, terribly embarrassed.

  “But not good enough. His level is the Quartier d’Europe. He’ll find it; no fear.... When do you go South?”

  “To-morrow,” he said, so honestly that she grinned again.

  “Then I’ll give you a letter to Molly Wycherly. Her husband is Jim Wycherly — one of your sort — eternally lumbering after something to kill. He has a bungalow on some lagoon where he murders ducks, and no doubt he’ll go there. But his wife will be stopping at Palm Beach. I’ll send you a letter to her in the morning.”

  “Many thanks,” said Sir Charles, shyly.

  CHAPTER IV

  Strelsa remained South longer than she had expected to remain, and at the end of the third week Quarren wrote her.

  “Dear Mrs. Leeds:

  “Will you accept from me a copy of Karl’s new book? And are you ever coming back? You are missing an unusually diverting winter; the opera is exceptional, there are some really interesting plays in town and several new and amusing people — Prince and Princess Sarnoff for example; and the Earl of Dankmere, an anxious, and perplexed little man, sadly hard up, and simple-minded enough to say so; which amuses everybody immensely.

  “He’s pathetically original; plebeian on his mother’s side; very good-natured; nothing at all of a sportsman; and painfully short of both intellect and cash — a funny, harmless, distracted little man who runs about asking everybody the best and quickest methods of amassing a comfortable fortune in America. And I must say that people have jollied him rather cruelly.

  “The Sarnoffs on the other hand are modest and nice people — the Prince is a yellow, dried-up Asiatic who is making a collection of parasites — a shrewd, kindly, and clever little scientist. His wife is a charming girl, intellectual but deliciously feminine. She was Cynthia Challis before her marriage, and always a most attractive and engaging personality. They dined with us at the Legation on Thursday.

  “Afterward there was a dance at Mrs. Sprowl’s. I led from one end, Lester Caldera from the other. One or two newspapers criticised the decorations and favours as vulgarly expensive; spoke of a ‘monkey figure’ — purely imaginary — which they said I introduced into the cotillion, and that the favours were marmosets! — who probably were the intellectual peers of anybody present.

  “The old lady is in a terrific temper. I’m afraid some poor scribblers are going to catch it. I thought it very funny.

  “Speaking of scribblers and temper reminds me that Karl Westguard’s new book is stirring up a toy tempest. He has succeeded in offending a dozen people who pretend to recognise themselves or their relatives among the various characters. I don’t know whether the novel is really any good, or not. We, who know Karl so intimately, find it hard to realise that perhaps he may be a writer of some importance.

  “There appears to be considerable excitement about this new book. People seem inclined to discuss it at dinners; Karl’s publishers are delighted. Karl, on the contrary, is not at all flattered by the kind of a success that menaces him. He is mad all through, but not as mad as his redoubtable aunt, who tells everybody that he’s a scribbling lunatic who doesn’t know what he’s writing, and that she washes her fat and gem-laden hands of him henceforth.

  “Poor Karl! He’s already thirty-seven; he’s written fifteen books, no one of which, he tells me, ever before stirred up anybody’s interest. But this newest novel, ‘The Real Thing,’ has already gone into three editions in two weeks — whatever that actually means — and still the re-orders are pouring in, and his publishers are madly booming it, and several indignant people are threatening Karl with the law of libel, and Karl is partly furious, partly amused, and entirely astonished at the whole affair.

  “Because you see, the people who think they recognise portraits of themselves or their friends in several of the unattractive characters in the story — are as usual, in error. Karl’s people are always purely and synthetically composite. Besides everybody who knows Karl Westguard ought to know that he’s too decent a fellow, and too good a workman to use models stupidly. Anybody can copy; anybody can reproduce the obvious. Even photographers are artists in these days. Good work is a synthesis founded on truth, and carried logically to a conclusion.

  “But it’s useless to try to convince the Philistines. Once possessed with the idea that they or their friends are ‘meant,’ as they say, Archimedes’s lever could not pry them loose from their agreeably painful obsession.

  “Then there are other sorts of humans who are already bothering Karl. This species recognise in every ‘hero’ or ‘heroine’ a minute mental and physical analysis of themselves and their own particular, specific, and petty emotions. Proud, happy, flattered, they permit nobody to mistake the supposed tribute which they are entirely self-persuaded that the novelist has offered to them.

  “And these phases of ‘The Real Thing’ are fretting and mortifying Karl to the verge of distraction. He awakes to find himself not famous but notorious — not criticised for his workmanship, good or bad, but gabbled about because some ludicrous old Uncle Foozle pretends to discover a similarity between Karl’s episodes and characters and certain doings of which Uncle F. is personally cognisant.

  “The great resource of stupidity is and has always been the anagram; and as stupidity is almost invariably suspicious, the hunt for hidden meanings preoccupies the majority of mankind.

  “Because I have ventured to send you Karl’s new book is no reason why I also should have presumed to write you a treatise in several volumes.

  “But I miss you, oddly enough — miss everything I never had of you — your opinions on what interests us both; the delightful discussions of things important, which have never taken place between us. It’s odd, isn’t it, Mrs. Leeds, that I miss, long for, and even remember so much that has never been?

  “Molly Wycherly wrote to Mrs. Lannis that you were having a gay time in Florida; that Sir Charles Mallison had joined your party; that you’d had luncheons and d
inners given you at the Club, at the Inlet, at the Wiers’s place, ‘Coquina Castle’; and that Jim and Sir Charles had bravely slain many ducks. Which is certainly glory enough to go round. In a friendly little note to me you were good enough to ask what I am doing, and to emphasise your request for an answer by underlining your request.

  “Proud and flattered by your generous interest I hasten to inform you that I am leading the same useful, serious, profitable, purposeful, ambitious, and ennobling life which I was leading when I first met you. Such a laudable existence makes for one’s self-respect; and, happy in that consciousness, undisturbed by journalistic accusations concerning marmosets and vulgarity, I concentrate my entire intellectual efforts upon keeping my job, which is to remain deaf, dumb, and blind, and at the same time be ornamental, resourceful, good-tempered, and amusing to those who are not invariably all of these things at the same time.

  “Is it too much to expect another note from you?

  “Sincerely yours, “Richard Stanley Quarren.”

  She answered him on the fourth week of her absence.

  “My dear Mr. Quarren:

  “Your letter interested me, but there was all through it an undertone of cynicism which rang false — almost a dissonance to an ear which has heard you strike a truer chord.

  “I do not like what you say of yourself, or of your life. I have talked very seriously with Molly, who adores you; and she evidently thinks you capable of achieving anything you care to undertake. Which is my own opinion — based on twenty-four hours of acquaintance.

  “I have read Mr. Westguard’s novel. Everybody here is reading it. I’d like to talk to you about it, some day. Mr. Westguard’s intense bitterness confuses me a little, and seems almost to paralyse any critical judgment I may possess. A crusade in fiction has always seemed to me but a sterile effort. To do a thing is fine; to talk about it in fiction a far less admirable performance — like the small boy, safe in the window, who defies his enemy with out-thrust tongue.

  “When I was young — a somewhat lonely child, with only a very few books to companion me — I pored over Carlyle’s ‘French Revolution,’ and hated Philip Egalité. But that youthful hatred was a little modified because Egalité did actually become personally active. If he had only talked, my hatred would have become contempt for a renegade who did not possess the courage of his convictions. But he voted death to his own caste, facing the tribunal. He talked, but he also acted.

  “I do not mean this as a parallel between Mr. Westguard and the sanguinary French iconoclast. Mr. Westguard, also, has the courage of his convictions; he lives, I understand, the life which he considers a proper one. It is the life which he preaches in ‘The Real Thing’ — a somewhat solemn, self-respecting, self-supporting existence, devoted to self-development; a life of upright thinking, and the fulfilment of duty, civil and religious, incident to dignified citizenship. Such a life may be a blameless one; I don’t know.

  “Also it might even be admirable within its limits if Mr. Westguard did not also appoint himself critic, disciplinarian, and prophet of that particular section of society into which accident of birth has dumped him.

  “Probably there is no section of human society that does not need a wholesome scourging now and then, but somehow, it seems to me, that it could be done less bitterly and with better grace than Mr. Westguard does it in his book. The lash, swung from within, and applied with judgment and discrimination, ought to do a more thorough and convincing piece of work than a knout allied with the clubs of the proletariat, hitting at every head in sight.

  “Let the prophets and sybils, the augurs and oracles of the Hoi polloi address themselves to them; and let ours talk to us, not about us to the world at large.

  “A renegade from either side makes an unholy alliance, and, with his first shout from the public pulpit, tightens the master knot which he is trying to untie to the glory of God and for the sake of peace and good will on earth. And the result is Donnybrook Fair.

  “I hate to speak this way to you of your friend, and about a man I like and, in a measure, really respect. But this is what I think. And my inclination is to tell you the truth, always.

  “Concerning the artistic value of Mr. Westguard’s literary performance, I know little. The simplicity of his language recommends the pages to me. The book is easy to read. Perhaps therein lies his art; I do not know.

  “Now, as I am in an unaccountably serious mood amid all the frivolity of this semi-tropical place, may I not say to you something about yourself? How are you going to silence me?

  “Well, then; you seem to reason illogically. You make little of yourself, yet you offer me your friendship, by implication, every time you write to me. You seek my society mentally. Do you really believe that my mind is so easily satisfied with intellectual rubbish, or that I am flattered by letters from a nobody?

  “What do you suppose there is attractive about you, Mr. Quarren — if you really do amount to as little as you pretend? I’ve seen handsomer men, monsieur, wealthier men, more intelligent men; men more experienced, men of far greater talents and attainments.

  “Why do you suppose that I sit here in the Southern sunshine writing to you when there are dozens of men perfectly ready to amuse me? — and qualified to do it, too!

  “For the sake of your beaux-yeux? Non pas!

  “But there is a something which the world recognises as a subtle and nameless sympathy. And it stretches an invisible filament between you and the girl who is writing to you.

  “That tie is not founded on sentiment; I think you know that. And, of things spiritual, you and I have never yet spoken.

  “Therefore I conclude that the tie must be purely intellectual; that mind calls to mind and finds contentment in the far response.

  “So, when you pretend to me that you are of no intellectual account, you pay me a scurvy compliment. Quod erat demonstrandum.

  “With this gentle reproof I seal my long, long letter, and go where the jasmine twineth and the orchestra playeth; for it is tea-time, my friend, and the Park of Peacocks is all a-glitter with plumage. Soft eyes look wealth to eyes that ask again; and all is brazen as a dinner bell!

  “O friend! do you know that since I have been here I might have attained to fortune, had I cared to select any one of several generous gentlemen who have been good enough to thrust that commodity at me?

  “To be asked to marry a man no longer distresses me. I am all over the romantic idea of being sorry for wealthy amateurs who make me a plain business proposition, offering to invest a fortune in my good looks. To amateurs, connoisseurs, and collectors, there is no such thing as a fixed market value to anything. An object of art is worth what it can be bought for. I don’t yet know how much I am worth. I may yet find out.

  “There are nice men here, odious men, harmless men, colourless men, worthy men, and the ever-present fool. He is really the happiest, I suppose.

  “Then, all in a class by himself, is an Englishman, one Sir Charles Mallison. I don’t know what to tell you about him except that I feel exceedingly safe and comfortable when I am with him.

  “He says very little; I say even less. But it is agreeable to be with him.

  “He is middle-aged, and, I imagine, very wise. Perhaps his reticence makes me think so. He and Mr. Wycherly shoot ducks on the lagoon — and politics into each other.

  “I must go. You are not here to persuade me to stay and talk nonsense to you against my better judgment. You’re quite helpless, you see. So I’m off.

  “Will you write to me again?

  “Strelsa Leeds.”

  A week after Quarren had answered her letter O’Hara called his attention to a paragraph in a morning paper which hinted at an engagement between Sir Charles Mallison and Mrs. Leeds.

  Next day’s paper denied it on excellent authority; so, naturally, the world at large believed the contrary.

  Southern news also revealed the interesting item that the yacht, Yulan, belonging to Mrs. Sprowl’s hatchet-faced ne
phew, Langly Sprowl, had sailed from Miami for the West Indies with the owner and Mrs. Leeds and Sir Charles Mallison among the guests.

  The Yulan had not as fragrant a reputation as its exotic name might signify, respectable parties being in the minority aboard her, but Langly Sprowl was Langly Sprowl, and few people declined any invitation of his.

  He was rather a remarkable young man, thin as a blade, with a voracious appetite and no morals. Nor did he care whether anybody else had any. What he wanted he went after with a cold and unsensitive directness that no newspapers had been courageous enough to characterise. He wouldn’t have cared if they had.

  Among other things that he had wanted, recently, was another man’s wife. The other man being of his own caste made no difference to him; he simply forced him to let his wife divorce him; which, it was understood, that pretty young matron was now doing as rapidly as the laws of Nevada allowed.

  Meanwhile Langly Sprowl had met Strelsa Leeds.

  The sailing of the Yulan for the West Indies became the topic of dinner and dance gossip; and Quarren heard every interpretation that curiosity and malice could put upon the episode.

  He had been feeling rather cheerful that day; a misguided man from Jersey City had suddenly developed a mania for a country home. Quarren personally conducted him all over Tappan-Zee Park on the Hudson, through mud and slush in a skidding touring car, with the result that the man had become a pioneer and had promised to purchase a building site.

  So Quarren came back to the Legation that afternoon feeling almost buoyant, and discovered Westguard in all kinds of temper, smoking a huge faïence pipe which he always did when angry, and which had become known as “The Weather-breeder.”

  “Jetzt geht das Wetter los!” quoted Quarren, dropping into a seat by the fire. “Where is this particular area of low depression centred, Karl?”

  “Over my damn book. The papers insist it’s a livre-à-clef; and I am certain the thing is selling on that account! I tell you it’s humiliating. I’ve done my best as honestly as I know how, and not one critic even mentions the philosophy of the thing; all they notice is the mere story and the supposed resemblance between my characters and living people! I’m cursed if I ever — —”