Читать книгу The Island of Fantasy - Fergus Hume - Страница 10

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Oh, goddess wise,

Disdainful of the sultry sun,

Thou waitest till his course is run

Then stealing where Endymion

In slumber lies,

With am’rous sighs

Awake him in that secret nest,

All drowsy with enchanted rest,

To lie upon thy silver breast;

While daylight dies,

In western skies,

And shyly peering one by one,

The stars gaze on that meeting blest.

For the next week or so life passed very agreeably at the Grange, and its inmates, becoming habituated to one another’s society, settled down into a lotus-eating existence, which, if not a useful one, was at least infinitely charming. Caliphronas played his part in this country house comedy in the most admirable manner, and, owing to his good looks, his good manners, and his good temper, soon established himself as a universal favorite. This splendid flower of humanity which had bloomed to such beauty under the serene skies of the East fascinated Maurice greatly, and he took a genuine pleasure in modelling the Endymion from the Count; though at times, in spite of his artistic capabilities, he almost despaired of being able to mould the soft clay into a perfect representation of this virile perfection. At the same time the intercourse between the sculptor and his model was very pleasant, as Caliphronas was a most delightful companion, and told stories of his adventures in a manner worthy of Ulysses or Munchausen. Yet, though he seemed to grow quite confidential over his past life, he nevertheless withheld many episodes which might have prejudiced his host against him. Maurice, who was simple in many ways, despite his ten years’ experience of Bohemia, thought Caliphronas was laying bare his whole soul, whereas the wily Greek only revealed the best side of that very complex article. This setting forth of his moral excellences was of course in keeping with the impression he was anxious to produce, and he thus made himself very agreeable to Maurice, who took the Count for what he represented himself to be, not for what he really was.

Caliphronas was an excellent conversationalist, and during the sittings beguiled the time with many stories of his countrymen, and not infrequently of his countrywomen, for this Apollo had achieved many conquests in the fields of Venus, and seemed very proud of his prowess during some charming campaigns. Probably most of his stories were exaggerations, and at times even simple Maurice doubted their truth, but so gracefully were these lies told that they sounded as delightful as the tales of Boccaccio. The Count, with considerable imaginative power, supplied to his host a charming history of himself and his early life, which was more or less fictitious; but, of course, his listener never dreamed that a man could string together such a quantity of consistent lies, and therefore believed those romances worthy of Dumas the Elder. Maurice was no fool, but his own nature was so simple and honorable, that he thought every one else was like himself, and at the worst only deemed that these histories were perhaps highly colored, but true in the main.

Meanwhile, Eunice had demanded at the most convenient opportunity an explanation from Crispin, regarding his inexplicable behavior on that first night of the Greek’s visit, and had received one which considerably startled her, as it plainly showed that Crispin was disposed to be jealous. This rather pleased Eunice, as no woman cares about a meek lover, and the more jealousy a man displays, the more his beloved feels complimented at the power she exercises over his affections. However, the situation between her and Crispin being somewhat strained, Eunice, deeming honesty to be the best policy, confessed all about her little scheme of misleading Mrs. Dengelton regarding the true position of affairs. On learning the truth, Crispin felt very much ashamed of his groundless suspicions, and apologized profusely for having doubted his intended, whereat, being satisfied with this humbling of the proud, she took him into favor again, so the course of true love once more ran smooth.

Notwithstanding the unpleasantness of such a thing, Crispin rather approved of Eunice treating him with coldness in the presence of Mrs. Dengelton, as it would probably lull the suspicions of that lady, but he was not so sure about his intended accepting the very pointed attentions of Caliphronas. Crispin knew the Greek thoroughly. Eunice was absolutely ignorant of his real character; but as, owing to his being behind the scenes, he could make Caliphronas to a certain extent do what he desired, he hinted very plainly to this Hellenic Don Juan that his attentions were unwelcome to Miss Dengelton, and that he was to give up the rôle he had elected to play. At first the Count was disposed to rebel against this fiat, which put an end to a very pleasant flirtation, but as he really did not care about Eunice, and moreover Crispin was too dangerous to be provoked lightly, he made a virtue of necessity, and ceased to overwhelm the shy English girl with his florid compliments. At the same time he promised himself to be revenged on Crispin at the first opportunity, and Crispin, knowing this, could not help feeling a trifle uneasy, for it was a difficult matter to fight with an absolutely unscrupulous scoundrel like the Count, whose laws were neither those of God nor man, but of his own making. However, Crispin’s knowledge of his errand to Roylands proved an effective weapon, and he was satisfied that the Greek would do nothing to jeopardize the success of his mission, even though his vanity demanded some revenge for being thus slighted.

Of course, Mrs. Dengelton still contemplated a match between her daughter and nephew, but Maurice evaded her hints with great dexterity, yet at the same time, to protect Crispin from a less complaisant rival, made such pointed remarks about the necessity of marriage as led Mrs. Dengelton to believe that he seriously contemplated entering into the matrimonial state. Never was the good lady so puzzled in her life, for she could not make up her mind as to what Maurice really meant, with his blowing hot one day and cold the next, but, being a great believer in the efficacy of time, deemed it the wisest plan to wait the development of events, and in order to watch the same kept her beady eyes wide open. Owing to the neglectful manner in which Eunice had lately treated Crispin, she apprehended no danger from that quarter, and, as Maurice was very attentive to his cousin, the Hon. Mrs. Dengelton felt sure that in the end she would obtain her heart’s desire, and install Eunice as mistress of Roylands Grange.

The Rector sometimes came over to the Grange, and was friendly with every one saving Caliphronas, as for some inexplicable reason he professed to heartily dislike that brilliant gentleman. It was certainly a kind of Dr. Fell-ish aversion, of which Mr. Carriston felt rather ashamed, as he could give no plausible reason for such distrust. In reply to a question of Maurice’s he simply said that, much as he admired the physical beauty of the Greek, he was by no means sure that his soul corresponded to the perfection of the body. Indeed, on one occasion, while Mrs. Dengelton was eulogizing the charms of Caliphronas from a feminine point of view, the Rector pointedly quoted that line from the Odyssey which says,—“Faultlessly fair bodies are not always the temples of a godlike soul;” but as this remark was made in Homeric Greek, the significance of it was lost upon the lady. It may be that some subtle instinct warned him against this man, whose evil nature was concealed under the semblance of good; but at all events the Rector was always on his guard against the Count, and delicately warned Maurice against trusting him too far. Evidently Mr. Carriston had studied the character of Ulysses to no small purpose, and found in Caliphronas a reproduction, body, brain, and soul, of the most crafty of the Greeks.

Regarding the outward appearance of Caliphronas, the Rector was too deeply steeped in the serene literature of Hellas to be unimpressed with the physical splendor of the man. Making allowances for the subduing influence of modern clothing, which detracts from the most perfect beauty either in man or woman, Mr. Carriston at times, seeing Caliphronas in the dazzling sunlight, thought he beheld, as in a vision, the phantom of some joyous Hellenic divinity untouched by sorrow or care. This man, gifted with exceptional beauty, might have been Hylas, Hyacinth, or Theoxenos, and strayed by chance from some unknown Arcadian vale into the rush and turmoil of the modern world, with its worship of money and position, so alien to the adoration of Beauty and Genius which formed the cult of antique Hellas. In truth, Caliphronas was out of place in England;—our gray rainy skies, smoky air, stifling cities, and domesticated Nature, formed but a dark background for this strongly vitalized being, tingling from head to foot with the healthfulness of wild life. He should have dwelt in the burning south, beside the tideless ripples of serene seas, under the cloudless blue of Attic skies, with the silver-gray olives, the shining temples of the gods, and headland, mountain peak, and island melting into phantom forms of aërial grace far beyond the expanse of the laughing ocean. He was an anachronism in this nineteenth century, the physical survivor of Hellas as Keats was the mental survivor—one had the body of Alcibiades, the other the brain of Theocritus, and both were equally alien to the modern world.

Well was it for the Rector that he could see only the splendid casket, and not the soul contained therein, for, in spite of his instinctive distrust, the fancy he had that this Count was not to be trusted fell far below the actual moral degradation of the man. Caliphronas was as vain as a peacock, absolutely ignorant of the morality of right or wrong, lazy in every way save what touched his own desires, and crafty as a fox. Crispin could have pointed out to the Rector all these flaws, but Crispin had promised to hold his peace so long as Caliphronas abstained from actual harm; therefore he remained quiescent, and only reminded the Greek now and then that there was a watchful eye on his doings.

Maurice believed in the Greek, the Rector doubted him, and Crispin knew his worthlessness thoroughly, so among the three of them the character of Caliphronas was pretty well analyzed. From Maurice, the steady, respectable Englishman, with occasional lapses of artistic wildness, to Caliphronas, the brilliant cosmopolitan adventurer, was a long step. Crispin stood midway between the two, as he had a certain amount of British phlegmatism, with at times those wild impulses which come from a wandering life and an intellectual nature. Still, he could control his spontaneity, while Caliphronas, obeying his own undisciplined mind, did whatever came into his head; yet, if any one was scandalized by such unconventionality, he would at once obtain forgiveness by the graceful way in which he apologized.

“It is impossible to be angry with you,” said Maurice to him one day, when the Count had been guilty of some ridiculous escapade, “and yet you deserve to be sharply spoken to. But you are a child in many ways, and we cannot be angry with a child.”

“There you are right, my dear Mr. Maurice,” replied Caliphronas, smiling. “I am a child, but that is as much as to say, I am a Greek. You remember what the Egyptian priest said to Solon,—‘You Greeks are always children.’ Therefore, if I am a child, and act impulsively like a child, blame my nationality, not myself.”

“I expect you could be a very bad child if you wanted to!” said Crispin, overhearing this defence.

Caliphronas darted a spiteful look at the speaker.

“Very likely,” he replied in a meaning tone; “but those who dread stings should not disturb the wasps’ nest.”

There was a distinct menace in his tone, but Crispin felt too confident of having the upper hand to take much notice of this venom, and merely laughed, much to the wrath of the Greek. However, as the time was not yet ripe for action, he restrained his anger, and behaved so amiably to Crispin that it was only the knowledge the poet possessed of his true character that made him mistrust the suave smiles and kindly actions of this Greek Machiavelli.

Caliphronas was an amphibious creature, and lived quite as much in the water as on the shore. Whenever he had the time to spare, he went off to Brasdimir for a dip in the sea, and would plunge and wallow in the water like a dolphin. Fortunately that summer at Roylands was unusually hot, and what with the cloudless skies, the burning sun, and the delicate emerald tints of foliage, grass, and herb, Caliphronas might well have imagined that he was still in his beloved Greece, bathing off some pebbly beach of the Ægean.

Brasdimir was a somewhat peculiar place, and was in reality an arm of the sea (bras de mer) which ran up like a long tongue into the land, where it met the waters of the Roy river. In olden times, Roylands, which was its Norman-French name, had been the property of the crown, and had been used by the Plantagenets for their favorite pastime of hunting. Henry II. bestowed it on one of his barons who was strongly suspected of being a son of the king, but who on receiving this royal gift dropped his former name of Fitzroy and took that of Roylands. It was certainly a splendid property, and through all the turbulence of succeeding reigns the descendants of the first Roylands had succeeded in keeping their hold on these rich acres; so it was very little diminished in size from the time of its bestowal on Fitzroy. Brasdimir, which was a kind of estuary, ran about half a mile up into the estate, and into it flowed the little river Roy, which was a placid stream of no great beauty. All round Brasdimir lay fat meadows containing some of the finest land in the country, and clumps of beech and elm and oak, remnants of the old hunting-forest of Plantagenet kings, dotted their broad expanse of daisied sward.

Near the upper part of Brasdimir, where it met the waters of the Roy and blended salt with fresh, stood a quincunx of noble oaks which grew close to the bank. From thence the smooth turf of the meadow sloped down to the turbulent waters, and it was here that Caliphronas came to bathe, not only every morning, but often three times a day. Being in the middle of the estate, Brasdimir was far away from all human habitation, and might have been the navel of some great wilderness, so lonely it was. The Greek loved this blending of fresh and salt water, as the softness of the one assuaged the harshness of the other, and under the hot sun would frequently cool himself in this unique pool, which was neither river nor stream, but a mixture of both.

Very often Crispin and Maurice would come with him for a morning dip just before sunrise, and then walk back to the Grange with a tremendous appetite for breakfast.

One morning they set out for their usual walk, just as the east was flushing redly with the dawn, and the chill morning air nipped them keenly as they strolled along in the direction of Brasdimir. That is to say, the poet and the sculptor strolled, for Caliphronas simply danced along, as if to rid himself of his superabundant energy. Across the dewy meadows he bounded fawn-like, singing as gayly as the lark already saluting the sun in the fresh blue sky. Like some wild being of the woods, he leaped here and there from very light-heartedness, with his head bare and his arms tossing in the air. A number of horses pasturing in the field rushed away at his approach, nor, though he called them loudly, did they pause in their wild career.

“What a child he is!” said Maurice, watching the graceful figure of the Greek bounding lightly towards the water.

“Yes, a nice child truly,” sneered Crispin, with strong disfavor.

“You don’t seem to like Caliphronas?”

“Well, no, I cannot say I do. As an acquaintance he is all very well, but as a friend”—Here Crispin shrugged his shoulders in lieu of words.

“I suppose all he says about himself is true?”

“I suppose so,” replied the poet curtly.

“Do you think he will stay long down here? I hope he will not go away before I finish modelling my Endymion.”

“I think you can safely depend on his staying till then,” rejoined Crispin significantly, and the conversation ended—a conversation which left an odd feeling of discomfort in the mind of Maurice, which—why he could not tell—seemed to revive his old distrust of this fascinating Greek. He would have questioned Crispin further, but as they were now on the edge of the bank, and Caliphronas was within hearing, he had no opportunity of so doing, therefore put off such examination till a more convenient season.

Caliphronas was already in the water, swimming like a fish, and indeed he was as much at home there as on the land. The two gentlemen undressed leisurely on the bank, Maurice making fun of the Greek as he revelled in his favorite element.

“You had better beware, Caliphronas, as the nymphs might take a fancy to you as they did to Hylas.”

“River nymphs, sea nymphs, I do not mind in the least!” cried the Greek gayly; “ladies are always charming, whether they have tails or limbs.”

At this moment he reached the opposite bank and climbed on the fallen trunk of a tree. As he stood there with his arms raised above his head, the first yellow ray of the sun flashed on his white body and enveloped him in glory, as though he were indeed a stray Olympian. Then, with a shout of glee, he shot downward like an arrow, cleaving the blue water with a dash of snowy spray, which sprang upwards glittering like diamonds in the yellow sunlight. By this time Maurice and his friend were also enjoying their bath in the cool element, and the three rollicked about like schoolboys. Crispin swam down the estuary in the direction of the sea with Maurice, and soon the surface of the water roughened by the wind began to dash salt spray in their faces. Caliphronas stayed where he was, amusing himself with fancy strokes, but after a time he became tired, and when the others came back, breathless with their long swim, they found the Count standing on the bank drying himself.

As they also were tired, they also sought the bank, but at this moment one of the horses, a powerful black one, came timidly near them. Caliphronas, with that wonderful power he had over all animals, advanced, nude as he was, up the bank, and called to the horse in a coaxing tone. The animal let him get quite close to it and lay his hand on the mane, when with a sudden spring the Greek leaped on its back, and the horse, startled by the action and by his shout, galloped away at full speed. Round and round the meadow went horse and man, forming so striking a sight that Maurice and Crispin paused in their dressing to look at it. As the horse at full gallop came sweeping past, with Caliphronas laughing and holding on by the mane, Maurice involuntarily thought of the frieze of the Parthenon, where nude youths ride fiery steeds in a long serene procession of marble figures. The Greek rode like a Red Indian, with the most consummate ease, and as the horse for the third time darted past the quincunx of oaks, he dropped lightly off, by some trick known only to himself, and the steed galloped wildly away, while the Greek came back laughing to his friends.

“What a child you are, Caliphronas!” said Maurice in a vexed tone; “riding a bare-backed steed in that reckless manner. You might have broken your neck.”

“Small loss if he had,” muttered Crispin under his breath.

“Oh, I can stick on anything,” answered Caliphronas carelessly, taking no notice of Crispin’s remark, which his keen ears immediately heard; “besides, that gallop has done me good. See, I am quite dry.”

When they were dressed, the three of them walked quickly back to breakfast, for the morning air had developed their appetites enormously. Mrs. Dengelton and Eunice awaited them on the terrace, and they were soon seated round the well-spread table. Caliphronas, touching neither coffee nor tea, drank water only, and confined his eating to bread, honey, and eggs. His were the tastes of primeval man, and he strongly disliked elaborate dishes which were pleasing to the cultured palates of his more civilized neighbors.

“I do not know how you can eat such things,” he said in some disgust, as Eunice took some curry. “Does it not make you ill?”

“Not in the least, Count,” she replied, laughing. “It is a very depraved taste, I suppose, but I am very fond of curry.”

“And tea—hot tea,” retorted Caliphronas quickly. “I have heard it said that tea is bad for the nerves. Ladies always complain of nerves, yet they drink tea.”

“I could not do without my tea,” said Mrs. Dengelton, who was given to surreptitious cups of tea at odd hours of the day, “and yet I have nerves. Oh, those dreadful nerves! You don’t know what it is to be so afflicted, Count.”

“No, I do not. I never had an illness in my life, but then that is because I live a natural life, whereas all you highly civilized people live an artificial existence. If you gave up your highly-spiced dishes, your strong wines, your late hours, your breathing of poisonous air, you would be as healthy as I am.”

“Well, you can hardly call the air of Roylands poisonous,” said Maurice indolently.

“No, the air here is delightful because you live near the sea. I could not dwell inland myself. I would die. I must breathe the sea air, see the wide waste of waters, hear the thunder of waves on the beach. That is the only life for a healthy man.”

“You could not live in London, I suppose,” said Mrs. Dengelton, frowning on Eunice, who was talking in a quiet tone to Crispin.

“London!” cried the Count, with scorn. “I would as soon live at the bottom of the sea. Indeed, I believe it would be healthier there. London, that crushed-up mass of houses inhabited by pale-faced people—I wonder they can exist. Oh, I saw and heard a good deal of London when I was there. Your people in the East End never leave those narrow streets from one year to the other. They know nothing of sunrise or sunset, for they only see those marvels through a smoky veil. They cannot tell a bird by its song—they know nothing of animals or their habits. Of the wonderful life of Nature which is born and lives and dies in the woods, in the seas, in the mountains, they are ignorant. They are born blind, they live blind, they die blind, and call such blindness life.”

“But what about the people in the West End?” asked Mrs. Dengelton, with the air of making a crushing remark.

“They are scarcely better,” retorted Caliphronas promptly; “they sit half the night in theatres breathing hot air, they go to balls where there is such a crowd of people that no one can dance, they walk for an hour in the Park and call it exercise, they poison themselves at the clubs with cigarettes, and in the boudoirs with tea—and all this feverish, unreal life is called ‘the season.’ When they go abroad it is to Monte Carlo and those sorts of places, where they lead the same life on a smaller scale. No, the West End is no better than the East End!”

“But you forget,” said Crispin, more from a desire to contradict the Count than because he disagreed with him, “plenty of people go mountaineering, game-shooting, yachting, exploring.”

“I know all that, my dear friend, but the number of people who do those things is very small. I am talking of the great mass of the English people, and as far as I can see, whether they are rich or poor, the life they lead is in both cases equally opposed to health and enjoyment.”

“Here endeth the first reading,” said Maurice, rising from the table, his example being followed by all his guests. “Caliphronas, you are quite eloquent on the subject.”

“Yes! I am not usually so eloquent,” replied the Count, going out on to the terrace, “but on all sides I hear from your people complaints of being ill. Well, the remedy is in their own hands. Why don’t they use it?”

“My good sir,” remarked Crispin, who had lighted a cigarette, “you cannot overturn the whole complex civilization of the West in that manner. Man can no more go back to the simplicity of the existence you eulogize, than you could settle down to a fashionable life in London and enjoy it.”

“Well, you at least can be cured easily,” said the Count, with emphasis, for, as they were now beyond earshot of the rest of the party, he could talk freely; “you all your life have lived the life of a natural man, but now you smoke that horrible tobacco, drink all kinds of wines, eat all kinds of dishes, and will soon become as artificial as those people around you.”

“Perhaps I will come back to the primeval existence you praise.”

“With that young lady, I suppose?”

“Perhaps.”

“Ah, she is very charming! She is”—

“Thank you, I don’t want to hear your opinion of Miss Dengelton,” said Crispin haughtily; “your primeval simplicity at times verges on rudeness. How long are you going to stay here?”

“I can’t tell you that; but I am going to take my first step to-day.”

“In order to get Roylands to Melnos?”

“Yes. Oh, I have a lure, my friend. Yes; I have described the fairyland of the islands, and that it is fairyland you must admit. He is even now seized with a desire of going there, so to-day I will get him to make up his mind to go to the Levant with me.”

“How?”

“I will show him this.”

Crispin looked at the portrait the Count held out, which was that of a marvellously beautiful woman in a Greek dress.

“Helena!” cried the poet, recognizing the face. “When did she get this taken? Has she been to Athens?”

“No. I took it myself. Oh, I am not absolutely the barbarian you think me. I have gone in for photography. Yes; this is one of my best efforts.”

“And do you think that face will lure Maurice to the East?”

“It ought to,” said Caliphronas, gazing at the picture with a burning light in his eyes; “she is as lovely as her namesake of Troy, and I love her, oh, how I love her!”

“Is it wise, do you think, to introduce a possible rival?”

“That does not matter to me,” replied the Count, slipping the picture into his pocket. “I have Justinian’s promise.”

“Yes, but you have not got Helena’s.”

“Oh, she won’t refuse to marry me.”

“For the sake of her happiness, I hope she will.”

“You are very complimentary,” retorted the Greek ironically, turning away. “Well, I must leave your delightful society, my friend. It is time for me to go to the studio.”

“Wait a minute! I have not thwarted your plans, because, as far as I can see, they are innocent, but if you induce Maurice to go to the Levant”—

“Well?” demanded Caliphronas insolently.

“I will go also.”

“And your reason?”

“A very simple one. I do not trust the scamp called Andros.”

“Better known, at least in England, as Constantine Caliphronas,” replied the Count coolly. “Well, come if you like, to watch over your precious friend. I do not wish him harm, but he, and you also, had better beware of Justinian.”