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CHAPTER XXI
“WE ARE IN LOVE’S HAND TO-DAY”
FRÄULEIN STERN had no such fairy bower at Paris as she had at Park-lane. Her boudoir in the Rue Royale was shared with Diana, nor was Vivian excluded from its precincts. A few glittering bijoux, a couple of colossal bronzes, half-a-dozen cheval mirrors, and a great deal of marble and ormolu; these were the chief features in the adornment of Adelheid’s Parisian retreat; poor apology, in her eyes, for the lavish brilliancy and oriental repose of her summer haunt across the water.
Here, in this lofty French apartment, with its bare white panelled walls and shadowy corners, into which the flickering stove-light failed to penetrate, Tristan and Adelheid seated side by side in one of the broad window seats, conversed together. Miss Brabazon had not been – even ostensibly – the object of Le Rodeur’s visit that evening; unpractised in the little arts of social dissimulation, he had inquired only for the Fräulein, and to her presence had accordingly been admitted.
Adelheid, in the retirement of her own rooms, appeared always in artistic attire. As she reclined beneath the casement, the dying light faintly illumined the undulating outlines of classic drapery which covered a figure as lithe and graceful as that of Aglaia herself, a figure free and poetic in its perfect ease of action, and wholly undistorted by those caprices of modern fashion which burden our handsome women with the hideous affliction of the hunchback, and compress the delicate curves of hip and shoulder into the semblance of some angular mathematical diagram. Such a dress as Adelheid’s was, perchance, the choice of that damsel of Erin, whose wise and æsthetic taste in habiliments inspired an enamoured poet with the quaint and well-known burst of approval: –
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“But ah, my Norah’s gown for me
That floats as wild as mountain breezes,
Leaving each charm of Nature free
To sink or swell as Heaven pleases!”
“When will modistes and their fair disciples learn that all art is false and barbarous which does not revere and preserve the primary forms of nature?
Alone in the dim silent chamber, in the heart of the mysterious gloom, Tristan and Adelheid conversed with that familiarity upon which the fellowship of genius insists. Rare and venerable fellowship, of whose deep delights the Fates are ever envious!
Out of the misty purple æther, above the brooding smoke of the city, appeared a single star. For a minute Tristan’s gaze rested upon it in silence; then he turned slowly to his companion.
“Adelheid,” said he, addressing her in the French tongue, “is your world sufficient for you?”
She answered in the same language. “Which do you mean, the world outside me, or the world within my heart?”
“The one outside you – your career – does it satisfy your desires, your aspirations? Does your action equal your thought?”
“No,” she replied in a low tone. “And yours?”
He gave an impatient gesture.
“Ah! When I see such a star as that yonder over the Madeleine, – a star so high and so solitary, I long to create something as grand and as admirable! I thirst for astounding action; I feel that life will be insupportable to me, if I am not the greatest of my kind!”
His Italian eyes glittered with fierce excitement, his voice rose with the swelling tide of his passionate soul. The German beauty smiled a little, gravely, and the jewels in her ears gleamed under the pale light as she turned her face upon him.
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“You pine,” said she, “for Action; you beat your wings against the bars of a cage. With me it is different; not that l am content with myself; for where is he who does not always find himself doing and being less than his best? – but that I am more in love with tranquillity than with motion. To me it appears that the world is already too full of the fever of achievement, too full of striving and jostling, and clamouring after position and distinction. There is too much bustle, too much hurry. And for this reason I hesitate sometimes to endorse, or even to appreciate all of meine Königinn’s arguments in favour of the emancipation of women. I fear sometimes, lest women, if they should have all they now ask, may by and by find themselves drawn insensibly into the whirlpool of the world’s activity, infected with the passion of men’s restlessness and rage for acquisition. We do not sufficiently estimate the ‘good part’ which is now exclusively ours; the life of contemplation and repose, the ‘sitting still in the house at the feet of the Master.’ We want instead to be ‘cumbered about much serving.’ And I doubt whether we shall really gain by changing Mary for Martha. What the world indeed most needs is Reflection, – lives of intellectual study, lives of repose. It is our noble and divine office to afford refreshment to the harrassed souls of men; and this is better and more useful work in such delirious times as these than any common exercise of trade or business or profession, which have all three enslaved already myriad of troubled toilers. To do the most useful work – the most needed – that is the thing to aim at! As it is, even now the marts are overcrowded with human feet, the money exchanges and counting-houses are filled to the doors. Let us, then, who by reason of our sex, are able at least to fix the bourne of our action, be loth to throw away our liberty of leisure for the skirmish and hurry of a bad dream. So doing, we shall drop the true gold to seize a mere shadow. Let these women who can afford to think, preserve and cherish jealously their privilege. Thought is better any day than bustle.”
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“What?” cried Tristan, “are you turned renegade – you, whom Miss Brabazon designs to be the Deborah – the Esther – of your age?”
“No, indeed, far from it. I am steadily of opinion, that every woman – like every man – should be as absolutely free to chose as the manifold conditions of existence render possible to human creatures. We are not all of us Maries, nor was Martha less dear to the heart of the Master than her sister. I spoke of 'those women who can afford to think’ as of those whose gifts and claims are noblest. But the true measure of any woman’s sphere is not to be determined by speculation or theory, but by the lively declaration of Nature. The powers and necessities of every creature alone ought to limit the bounds of that creature’s action. Every other restriction is artificial. If then God has appointed woman’s sphere let God be suffered to direct her in it. All reasonable creatures should be conceded the right to evolve their being to the fullest extent, since it is not man, but God, who is the maker and ordainer of human minds. Surely then, the true philosopher will rather seek to assist than to repress the inspiration of Deity! Nor can I admit that any single body of persons has the moral right to prescribe arbitrary bounds to the exercise of capacities and functions belonging to another body of persons. To bind all womankind to the fulfilment of a certain sphere or to the performance of certain duties, is practically to condemn the Divine Intelligence, and to raise against the economy of Nature a barrier of human conventionalism and predjudice. Therefore no sensible legislature ought to restrain either man or woman from any course of virtuous and useful action.”
“But you see,” remarked Tristan, with a peculiar smile, the makers of the laws are not all agreed as to what actions are virtuous and useful.”
“Ah,” rejoined Adelheid, after a long pause, “I have heard it said that none can ascertain the abstract correctness of Ideas, and that it is therefore with Words men are governed. Tristan, what can you hope to achieve or to become in such a world as this?”
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“What is the world to me?” asked the boy, with a certain disdain. “There is Nothing except God and Myself.”
“That is a great truth,” said the German girl, solemnly. The world indeed, cannot know its greatest men. But you talked just now of a desire for action, ‘astounding action.’ Of what were you thinking then?”
Certainly I did not think of distinction, or even of posthumous fame. I have no sympathy with any of my kind, except with you; the many-headed are nothing to me, and their regard or their wonderment – could I arouse either – would be to me equally odious and contemptible. I long for angelic intercourse, for a knowledge of Nature’s deep secrets, for power to hold communion with the dæmons of the stars. I wish to become the prophet of a new religion. Adelheid, you are my Lady of Beauty, my wise and beneficent Beatrice; my Pallas Athene helmed with cloud and heaven-descended! We love each other with a love surpassing the passions of mortals. Together, instead of shunning, we might change the world, – you as the saviour of your sex, I, as the herald of a dawning age of truth and justice, the Baptist of a coming Christ, – a voice of power, crying in the wildernesses and waste places of earth. No more under that new dispensation shall the innocent herds yield up their lives to gratify the appetites of men, no more shall men make their own bodies graves and sepulchres for the dead limbs of bird and beast, nor shall the odour of blood infect any longer the halls of festival. The fields shall sustain us with their plenteous crops of grain and herb and fruit, and the springs refresh us with their pure unpolluted ichor, ‘that element which is as gold among the metals, and as the sun among the stars.’ Barley shall give us bread and not brandy, and the juice of the vine shall be drunk new in the Kingdom of God. Then shall it he admitted by every soul, that life needs not to be supported by means of death. Adelheid, what say you, – shall my dreams be realized?
“Tristan, do you wish to make me a Pythoness? This dull hard
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headed world of Trade and Respectability, this world with its bandaged eyes and its fingers in its ears, this world which has not heard the grand voices of the poets – do you think it will be persuaded, if we rise from the midst of its dead to prophesy? Ah, my heart’s dearest! believe me it is better for such as you and I to leave the world alone. Remember the story of the necromantic chamber, on three walls of which was inscribed ‘Be bold;’ and on the fourth, ‘Be not over bold.’ Remember also the words you yourself used a minute ago, ‘There is nothing except God and myself.’ That is profoundly true. Our business is with ourselves. Who has so perfected himself as to be really able to perfect others? Even Christ’s instinct suggested to him once that the Pharisees might have cause to reprehend his public ministry. ‘Ye will surely say unto me this proverb, – ‘physician, heal thyself.' ' ”
She rose, and took from a shelf at hand a small copy of the “Phædrus” of Plato, found a place in the volume and read aloud in French:
“ ‘But I, my friend, have not leisure for such matters; for I have not yet complied with the precept of the oracle; I am not yet able to know myself. And it seems to me a ridiculous thing, whilst I am in this ignorance to busy myself with matters that lie at a distance from me. Therefore, accepting the popular opinion about those things, I enquire rather about myself, whether I happen to be a beast with more folds and more furious than Typhon; or whether I am a gentler and more simple animal, naturally partaking of a certain divine and modest condition.’ ”
“At least, Adelheid,” returned Tristan, somewhat impatiently, you can have no objection to raise against the study of Necromancy. “If we two could succeed in recovering the secret of the ancient wizards, we might surround ourselves with a world of our own. And what has been done in a former age can surely he repeated. But first, to paraphrase a maxim of Cicero, ‘a magician must he born, not made.’ Well, I believe I am a born magician, – I believe you are a born witch. Is it so, Adelheid?”
She mused a little, and presently returned; “Yes, perhaps l
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am. I often see spectres, I am sensible at times of spiritual presences and influences, I have heard music played in the open sky at midnight. And l possess a great power of volition, for I have tested it by experiment, and have compelled the thoughts and controlled the actions of several parsons by the mere exertion of my individual will, unexpressed by word or sign. Besides this, I have a definite and intense sympathy with the universe, the like of which inborn passion I have hitherto discovered perfectly developed in no one except yourself; a sense of a kindred with planet and cataract, and sea-shore and deep vault of sky.”
Tristan’s eyes glittered.
“I have an idea!” he cried excitedly. “It occurs to me that to the catalogue of known existing forces, such as electricity and magnetism, we shall some day have to add one yet more wonderful, that of thought or brain-power. Perhaps scientific people will christen it nerve-force. Now magic, I fancy, is simply the art of concentrating this force, and directing it into certain channels for the production of certain effects. And the figures and spells and cabala of which the magician of old made use, were the means by which he worked upon his own consciousness and put himself into the proper physiological and psychological condition for this collection and addressing of the thought force. All through nature, we know by experience, there is a strong tendency to do again what has once been done. If then, upon some remote occasion, under the hands, of some master wizard, the unknown power I speak of manifested itself in the figure of a sprite or imp, it is at least probable that on subsequent occasions the some power would assume the same form, and so continue to use it quite regularly and naturally. In fact, it appears to me there is a possibility, if not a strong presumption, that the whole of our earth may be a vast reservoir not only of electricity, but also of this thought force, which, like electricity, has probably (if it exist at all), a tendency to spread itself equally over everything, and through everything. For consider the countless myriads of nerved creatures that have passed their lives
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upon the earth, in forming this thought force, and whose very bodies, clothes and properties have been saturated with it. Well, then, magic is the science by which the born wizard crystallizes this fluid and erratic force into phenomena. Now, hear me. If you and I are really magicians by birthright, and have a real affinity with one another, we ought to be able, according to my theory, to establish between us a spiritual correspondence. We ought to possess the power of drawing in to a focus this imponderable force, and bringing it to bear effectively upon a single object. We ought to be able by means of volition acting through this force, to influence and impress each other perceptibly, even when apart, just as a telegraphic message is communicated through the electric wires. Let us try to get spiritually en rapport with one another. Endeavour by your will to impress me, concentrate all your desire and energy of brain on this one purpose; and I will do the same in regard to you. Will you make the experiment?”
“It will at least be an interesting one. And I think it will succeed, Tristan.”
“It is an agreement then!” he cried, seizing her wrist with a peculiar air of vivacious triumph; “it is a bond! Henceforth,” and suddenly changing his mood from eagerness to solemnity, he laid his other hand upon her bosom while she fixed her stedfast eyes involuntarily upon his, “henceforth let our emotions and our desires be absolutely mutual. If one of us rejoice, let the heart of the other be also stirred with a sense of pleasure; if one of us suffer, let, the other feel a pang likewise; if one of us yearn for the presence of the other, let that other know and obey the desire. Let us be one in Consciousness, as we are already one in Heart.”
With a sudden and simultaneous transport they threw themselves into each other’s arms and embraced in an extasy. It was a moment pregnant with vivid existence, inebriating in its rush of acute and supreme sensibility. To Adelheid and Tristan it seemed in that instant that they had lifted the mysterious veil before the innermost
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adytum of love, that they had seized and tasted the kernel within the very fruit of life. It was Love itself – Love, born equally of the mind as of the eye. It was a moment made of years. Verily, the true measure of time is not mechanical, but spiritual. . . .
The star had risen higher in the transparent shadow of the sky, the long dark outlines of the roofs and housetops had grown formless and indistinct by contrast with the blaze of the street-lamps below.
Through the tall uncurtained window of the apartment the dim light slanted in upon the floor and touched with silver the marble statuettes and sombre ghost-like lengths of sweeping drapery and panelled wall.
Adelheid lay back in Tristan’s arms, languid and motionless; her face, upon which the mystical glint of the star-light rested, was white and transparent with the pallor of a swoon.
Tristan – his soul steeped in delicious indolence – stooped above her, till her lips almost met his own.
“Adelheid; what are we to one another henceforth?”
“Brother and sister,” she answered very faintly.
“Am I then no more to you than Vivian?”
Her spirituelle eyes dwelt upon him.
“Can you ask? When you are absent, my consciousness becomes dual to supply your presence.”
“It is so also with me, my Beloved. In my solitude my remembrance is constantly busy with your words, your looks, your gestures; and my imagination with the pourtrayal of a thousand marvellous scenes in which we share together the most brilliant adventures and the noblest achievements.”
“Tristan, let no one know what has been said between us here.”
“Not even my mother?”
“No. I shrink from the thought that a communion so sacred as ours may become the talk of Paris. Besides, remember the savage habits of
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the world. It would not comprehend us. It would interpret our fellowship into an ‘engagement’ and seek to thrust our living love into the charnel-house of marriage. Let us be silent. We are in the hands of Destiny.”
“Adelheid, have you yet told your Königinn whose daughter you are?”
“No. For I knew if I told her that she would speak about it to the Countess, and then l feared some words might follow relative to a betrothal between us. Ah, if only we had been born brother and sister!”
“There was no need for that,” said the boy quickly. ”Destiny is always right.”
“Alas! my heart’s dearest, I remember with strange and terrible forboding that disaster ever follows hard upon the track of happy love. Long ago the old Greeks believed in the bitter jealousy of the Gods!”
“We must be patient, my Adelheid, and preserve a continual hope. Recollect that we are in the hands of Destiny, and that with such minds as ours Destiny is often but another name for Will. For the present, it is sufficient that we love one another.”
Opposite the tall window beneath which they sat together, there was a narrow door partly open, and beyond it – as is commonly the case in French houses – a small adjoining room, now involved in complete darkness, for there was no moon. And the starlight sufficed only to illumine the two motionless figures in the casement, and here and there to reveal with feeble glitter a few of the most prominent objects around them.
Through the silence that succeeded the utterance of Tristan’s last words a sound made itself audible in the corridor outside the door of this antechamber – a sound like the step of someone retreating unsteadily and stumbling as he went. Tristan started, rose, and hastened to investigate the cause of this disturbance. All was dark, – all was gloom and vacuity; no one in the ante-room, no one in the vestibule, no one on the stairs.
“It must have been a spirit,” said Tristan returning, ”I can find nothing there.”
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Nothing. But just as Tristan rose from his seat, the door of Vivian Brabazon’s room close at hand bad been closed sharply from within by the baronet himself, his chest heaving with agitation, and his whole frame quivering like that of a man who has been undergoing the strain of some violent physical exertion.
He dropped into a chair and covered his face with his shaking hands. It was all over, and his doubts of Adelheid’s regard for him were laid for ever. There was an end at last of the weary indecision, the fluctuating hope, the fear of displeasing, the maddening presages of success. That day, by dint of considerable eloquence, his sister had persuaded him to seek her darling alone, and in this most romantic and bewitching hour of evening twilight to make at last, the tardy confession of his love. With this purpose he had entered the anteroom, that from thence he might steal unobserved upon Adelheid’s seclusion; but scarcely had he crossed the little boudoir than the silver haze in the larger chamber discovered to him a scene which the words of Tristan’s concluding rhapsody rendered only too fatally intelligible. As though by some sudden electric flash Vivian’s wavering hopes were paralized, his heart sickened beneath the shock, – he was disenchanted for ever.
“And it was I,” thought the poor fellow, in the bitterness of his heart, “it was I who first made them acquainted! It is through me that he has won her love! Blind! blind!”
Involuntarily a cry of despair escaped him.
The hush and obscurity of the solitude were an oppression to him, and he rose and paced the room, fretfully.
Many a man in Vivian Brabazon’s position would have felt mortified, or even indignant, at defeat by so young and insignificant a rival as Tristan. Many a man might have believed himself cruelly aggrieved by this unreasonable triumph of a love of some half a dozen weeks over a love which had been steadily ripening in sun and shade for as many years. But Vivian possessed too great a mind to have a jealous heart. In his
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noble and manly nature there was not room for the demon of malignity. The thrust was a sore one, but he plucked the spear-head from the wound with a brave hand that neither flinched nor blundered.
“I have made a mistake,” said he to himself, “I have entertained a chimera, I have flattered myself with an illusion. Now it is destroyed, – rent asunder, – dispelled.” And he spread his trembling hands before him with a gesture of dispersion, to enforce the idea more clearly upon his understanding, bewildered as it was with the keenness of his unexpected disappointment.
“Time, the universal and potent physician that cures the hurts of all men, will not fail to cure mine also. But this Le Rodeur – I wish I knew more about him! What sort of a husband will he make the child? Who is he? If I could only consult Diana! But a secret so learned is sacred, sacred as my own. In this matter also, then, I have no alternative but to confide in Time. Meanwhile I must endeavour to know the boy better, and to see as much as possible of him without awakening his suspicions. Perhaps I may be able to assist, or even to advance him. I shall bear my own misfortune more easily if I am occupied is promoting the happiness of my Adelheid, Ah! not mine! – why did I delay so long?"
Again he sat down and yielded himself to his misery, and to the contemplation of his utter hopelessness; fortunate only in this, that he contended with no baser emotions.
Then after a little while, recollecting the lateness of the hour, he rose, washed his face, arranged his dress, and went as usual to dine with Diana and Adelheid.
Vivian’s was at least one phase of practical heroism.
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