Marie Corelli

“ It wouldn’t hurt him to put his pride down a peg or two!”
“Maynard,” said Durham, solemnly, “you might as soon detach the bones from a live herring as get the conceit out of that Professor of yours! Why, man, his self-satisfaction is his life!—his blood, his veins, his marrow!—and if he proposed to your girl and she refused him, it would make no more effect on him than the pressure of a finger-nail on a fossil! He would merely say that she is a fool, and he the wise man and hero of a lucky escape!” ”

“ The Philosopher struck a fusee and tried to light his pipe but failed—it was too tightly packed.
“Love again!” he commented. “You think of nothing else! I’ve told you often that what you accept as ‘love’ is mere sentiment. For example, take me,—I have a great affection for you,—so great that I have asked you to marry me,—but the very variable emotion which boys and girls call ‘love’ doesn’t move me a jot. I don’t believe in it. Out of a hundred couples who marry for ‘love’ ninety-nine of them regret their folly before the honeymoon is over!” ”

“ The wrathful wretchedness of the persons who thus held him sniffing and “waiting” can only be imagined by discerning students of human nature. And the Sentimentalist, a little less patient with his ways than usual, felt a great relief when she could escape from the dinner table to the solitude of her own quiet room. Once there, she leaned out from the open window and looked at the bright stars, sprinkling the sky like big dewdrops,—and wondered, a trifle sadly, how life was going to turn out for her. ”

“ He spoke with a fervour that was almost eloquence, and knocking the ashes of his pipe out, he placed it on the mantel-shelf. Then bending his eyes on the Sentimentalist, he smiled.
“There! Now you know!” he said. “I am perfectly indifferent to the war. I don’t care how many fools kill each other! I haven’t the least sympathy with men who go to have themselves hacked about and disfigured for life, or blown into atoms by shells. They would have shown much better sense by treating the members of their stupid Governments to the same sort of fate.” ”

“ The Philosopher felt a little pang. Too well he knew the “ideals” of the little “Sentimentalist,” and too well he was aware that he himself had discouraged them and striven to pull them down—and yet—and yet—he had done his utmost to give her the “ideal” love he imagined she recognised in Jack Durham. He pulled himself together.
“We must leave all that to her husband,” he said. “He adores her—and depend upon it he will make her happy—that is as happy as any woman can be. You must bear in mind, Maynard”—here he became almost academical in tone—“that no woman is ever happy for long! ”

“ One rather chilly evening, when despite the melodious assurances of a thrush singing outside the win{196}dow, one felt that a nip of winter had returned to provoke the sweet temper of the spring, the Philosopher found the Sentimentalist nestled in a chair by a sparkling fire in the cosy drawing-room, peacefully working at a dainty strip of floral embroidery. A branch of wild roses was visibly blossoming under the swift manipulation of her little white fingers, and the glitter of her tiny gold thimble flashed like the gleam of the sun on the growing flowers. ”

“ She walked beside him in the glamour of the late after-glow for a few paces in silence,—and he was uncomfortably conscious that the delicate subtlety of her personality expressed an unspoken but nevertheless decisive lessening of her appreciation of him as a man.
“And so,” he said, presently, with a laboured attempt at lightness—“you approve of Jack as a modern Knight-errant swearing eternal fidelity?”
“I approve of Jack entirely—as Jack,” she answered, quietly. “He’s a good fellow, and very unselfish.”
The Philosopher gave her a blinking, side-long glance. ”

“ You are cruel in your cold, sharp{213} words!—your cynical estimate of all that makes life worth living! As for Jack, if you had once realised the awfulness of war—if you could, with all your cleverness, reading and learning, get imagination enough to picture him or any other brave young man lying dead on the battle-field, half trampled in mud, all the beautiful, gay, strong spirit of him gone for ever,—oh!—you surely would have some sort of feeling!—even for me!—for his poor father!—you would not, could not put it aside as a light matter for ill-placed jesting! ”

“ If Craig were to propose to my girl she’d refuse him point-blank. I shouldn’t mind his trying his luck....”
“You wouldn’t mind?” echoed Durham, indignantly. “You’d let him make love to her?”
A twinkling smile lit up Maynard’s old eyes.
“He couldn’t make love!” he answered. “He wouldn’t know how! And I’d let him try, because he’d make such a fool of himself! And Sylvia is the very girl to show him his folly and take the conceit out of him! That would do him good! Clever as he is there’s no doubt he’s conceited. ”

“ Montagu to come forward as a married couple before we believe in love!”
He smiled,—for a Philosopher he had quite an attractive smile,—and now and then he had a curious passing tenderness of manner that never failed to make an impression on the hearts of credulous and sympathetic women. The Sentimentalist began to think she had judged him rather hastily and hardly,—he read her thoughts in the wistful expression of her upturned blue eyes, and straightway responded by adopting for himself a quietly resigned and patient air. ”

“ Jack Durham was known to be “missing.” Her father looked at her wistfully as she went past the window; then suddenly laid his hand on the Philosopher’s arm.
“I want her to be happy!” he said, pathetically. “She is a sensitive little creature! I want her to be loved and understood! There are too many wretched martyrs of married life in the world!—Heaven forbid the child should be one of them! ”

“ Do I write stories about silly young women who fall in love with their guardians, and then when they are married, elope with actors and stable-men? Do I take up the rag remains of the ‘sex question’ and tear it into fresh shreds? ”

“ She came close up to him, and held a pair of little hands curved like a couple of shells round the bowl of his briar, while he lit a fresh vesta and made another essay,—this time successfully.
“Thanks!” he said, curtly. “You really can be very useful when you like!”
She laughed and moved away, stepping quickly over the grass as though bent on making distance between herself and him.
“Where are you going?” called the Philosopher, irritably. “Don’t skip about like that! Can’t you be quiet for five minutes?” ”

“ She broke off, too troubled by her own emotion to say more.
“Daughter is a good relationship,” said the Philosopher calmly, pursuing his demon track. “A daughter can inherit if the son is dead. And you say he is not a millionaire? He doesn’t look it, I admit—but looks are deceptive. The showy man generally lives on his wits, having nothing else to live on,—but the shabby, out-at-elbows fellow is almost sure to have a big balance at his banker’s. One learns these interesting things as one goes on in life,—they add to the charm of philosophy! Not a millionaire? ”

“ But a centre implies a surrounding—and if a woman does happen to be the centre of a man’s thoughts she should realise that she is only the pin’s point round which the mightier forces of life revolve. Round which the mightier forces of life revolve!” The Philosopher took the pipe out of his mouth in order to let this sentence roll over his tongue like a luscious jujube or chocolate cream. ”

“ Sylvia started out of his caressing arms with a shock of surprise.
“The Philosopher?” she echoed.
“Just him!” And Jack, grown thinner, but not less good-looking, shed a whole sun-ray of tenderness upon her from his clear, brave, blue eyes. “You wouldn’t have thought it—but he’s a regular brick! A brick? He’s an entire edifice!”
The Sentimentalist clasped her little white hands together and gazed at him in rapture—she could hardly believe he was there before her actually living and well!
“Oh, Jack, do tell me!” she exclaimed. “What do you mean? What has the Philosopher done?” ”

“ The Philosopher winced, and Maynard went on rather heatedly.
“She’s a clever child and would make a good wife for a clever man, but you’re too clever! Too obstinate—too ‘set’ in your own way—and you’re too old to change your habits. You’re a splendid scholar, but you’re deep in the ruts of learning—no wife could ever pull you out! You’ve no sentiment—and Sylvia is all sentiment from head to heels!—full of fancies and romantic notions. ”

“ As in a magic mirror he saw his past life lying behind him,—a bare road tramped in the dusty pursuit of fame—fame the foolish, fame the variable, fame the most unsatisfying of earthly rewards, bringing in its train the vulgar inquisitiveness of mobs, the censoriousness of the envious and the detraction of rivals, inasmuch as even the greatest of men, like Shakespeare, are remembered chiefly to be calumniated,—and anon, he gazed forward into the future which for him meant nothing but increasing loneliness and gradual sinking away from life and its brighter pleasures ”

“ The absurdity of a clever man,—a learned man,—a distinguished man,—giving way to his emotions on account of a scratch! Well! But that’s the way you men always go on! You neglect the most serious things of life and you fret and fidget yourselves over the merest trifles! You are the slaves of your feelings! Even swearing! Oh! Now if it had been Jack—”
“Hang Jack!” said the Philosopher. “You’re always trotting him out! You’d better marry him!” ”

“ Needless to recapitulate all the cruel and terrible happenings which are burned deep into the nation’s brain, and graven ineffaceably on the recording stone of History,—and the details of such lives lived like that of the Philosopher, out of the reach of the enemy’s fire, hardly deserve to be chronicled at all save for the curious fact that despite “battle, murder and sudden death” these lives go on more or less placidly, unmoved by good or ill report of what does not immediately concern themselves. ”

“ Sylvia laughed.
“Marry? Mr. Durham?—What an impossible idea!”
“Nothing is impossible,” said the Philosopher, “to a man if he makes up his mind. Americans in particular are notorious for their habit of doing so-called ‘impossible’ things. From rolling over Niagara Falls in a barrel to reaching the moon by rocket, they assert and assume capability for creating and overcoming difficulties. In affairs of marriage they tie and untie the knot with a celerity which can only be compared to the skill of the Davenport brothers. ”

“ Only when she was alone in her bedroom at night and when she looked out of its quaint latticed window at the thick battalions of stars in the dark space, did she weep a little and wonder at the cruelty of men to one another,—at the selfishness of statesmen who make war—and at the solemn silence of that vast Ruling Power to whom all the generations of mankind have in turn appealed in various forms,—apparently in vain! ”

“ It dawned upon him that the Sentimentalist was not “a Plum,”—a Plum to fall into his mouth with a bang. She might be ripe,—but she was not ready. With elaborate slowness he withdrew his socked feet from the fender and slipped them into his ungainly shoes.
“Very well,—it comes to this,” he said, resignedly, “Women are always right, and men always wrong—in a woman’s opinion. ”

“ The Philosopher twisted himself round in his chair with a movement of irritation.{211}
“How can you be sure?” he demanded. “You go by sentiment as usual! All wrong! Facts are the only props to lean on. When the War Office declares a man is ‘missing’ in this deplorable war, facts plainly point out the evidence that he is dead. You don’t want to believe it of course—your ‘sentiment’ refuses to believe it; but sentiment is a false guide—especially for women. It leads them into a morass of mistaken ideals and—and—er—wasted affection.” ”

“ There’s a word for you!—such a mouthful!—it means—”
“Breakers of idols,” she said, softly and musingly. “Destroyers of hope and faith!—cruel mockers of noble effort—”
“That’s it!” and Jack got up from the grass, and stretched his supple, elegant figure of which he might have been proud,—but he wasn’t. “And you’ll find your Philosopher comes up to the scratch in all those particulars when you put him through his paces. ‘The Deterioration of Language Invariably Perceived’ is nothing to the Deterioration of a Man who thinks himself superior to all other men.” ”

“ She never told her father or his friend the Philosopher anything about her hospital duties,—nor did they in their complete self-absorption notice that she looked frail and tired in the evenings.
“Women must have something to do,” said the Philosopher, comfortably. “And it amuses them to go fussing over wounded men and putting bandages on broken heads and limbs—it saves them,—saves them, I do assure you! That V.A.D. hospital is a perfect godsend to the women of this neighbourhood—gives them a fresh interest in life and stops their horrible “bridge” for a time. ”

“ But of course it’s heavy work, and takes a lot of time and patience—”
“Wasted labour!” growled Jack’s father. “Like all the great useless books packed up in big libraries; nobody reads them except a few old curiosity hunters, and nobody wants to read them either—”
“As reference books,” suggested the Sentimentalist, “they are perhaps necessary. You see”—and she sighed—“people cannot live on romance and poetry.”
“No, they can’t, but lots of them try to!” and the old gentleman treated her to a very wide smile and very narrow wink. “You, for instance—you live on romance and poetry!” ”

“ I hate a human encyclopædia!{42}”
“Then, he’s a Philosopher,” she went on, her smile dimpling the corners of her mouth in the most enchanting way. “He is never put out—never excited—takes everything as it comes quite calmly—”
“Except when it happens to hurt himself,” exclaimed Jack. “Then he can roar like the Biblical bulls of Bashan! I’ve heard him! Oh, yes, I grant you he’s never put out by other folks’ worries—he wouldn’t stir a finger to help any one out of a fix—not even you! Can’t you see how utterly selfish the man is?” ”

“ The Philosopher almost snorted contempt. “In love! You women think of nothing but love! Do you know—have you ever realised—that being ‘in love’ as you call it, is the least and most unimportant part of a man’s career?” ”

“ Maynard, gravely. “Sooner or later,—believe that, my dear! For all the lives wasted there will be a reckoning—not in our way, but in God’s way! We must not doubt that Right is the ruling power, always bound to come uppermost!”
“It seems very long in coming sometimes,” she murmured, then suddenly and in a timid voice she said: “Dad dear!—do you know—can you imagine—that Mr. Craig has asked me to marry him?” ”

“ Needless to say the Philosopher was a very well-balanced, self-restrained man. He was a profound student of logic and prided himself on his sound reasoning ability. He was also a good orator, and had astonished numerous audiences by his eloquence on the general inability of the human being to understand reason. The human being was, in his opinion, a poor creature at best, and sometimes he quite forgot that he was a human being himself. ”

“ The Philosopher nodded blandly.
“So soon? And no doubt you are full of pleasurable anticipation? When one is young and has nothing very important to do, the idea of killing Germans must be more thrilling than an invitation to a grouse moor!”
The Sentimentalist looked pained and vexed—she was about to speak, but a glance from Jack silenced her.
“Quite so!” he agreed, amicably. “I’d rather kill Germans than grouse any day!”
“I envy you your humane ideas!” said the Philosopher, smiling. “Allow me to wish you a safe journey to France and all the excitement you want when you get there! ”

“ He thought the Sentimentalist charming in her pretty attitude of coaxing tolerance for her father,—he wished she would put her arm round his neck in the same sort of way. But she never would—of that he felt pretty sure! And it was all the fault of that confounded Jack!—or was it the affair of the mutton? He was not clear as to which obstacle had arisen in the way of his very dilatory wooing—but he found himself considering that after all there might be a certain satisfaction in “caring about some one”—as his club friend had once suggested, or rather, having some one to care about yourself. ”