Orpheus in Mayfair and Other Stories and Sketches

M >> Maurice Baring >> Orpheus in Mayfair and Other Stories and Sketches


Then a cloud of smoke blinded me. When it rose the full moon was still
shining in a sky even bluer and softer than it had yet been. The fire
was further off, but it had spread. The whole village was on fire; but
the village had grown; it seemed endless, and covered several hills.
Right in front of me was a grove of cypresses, dark against the intense
glow of the flames, which leapt all round in the distance: a huge circle
of light, a chain of fiery tongues and dancing lightnings.

We were on the top of a hill, and we looked down into a place where tall
buildings and temples stood, where the fire had not penetrated. This
place was crowded with men, women and children. It was the same shifting
crowd of shadows: some shouting, some gesticulating, some looking on
indifferent. And straight in front of me was a short, dark, and rather
fat man with a low forehead, deep-set eyes, and a heavy jaw. He was
crowned with a golden wreath, and he was twanging a kind of harp. In
the distance suddenly the cypress trees became alive with huge flaring
torches, which lit the garden like Bengal lights. The man threw down his
harp and clapped his hands in ecstasy at the bright fireworks. Again a
cloud of smoke obscured everything.

When it lifted I was in the village once more, and once more it was
different. It was on fire, and it seemed infinitely larger and more
straggling than when I had arrived. The moon was still in the sky, but
the air had a chilly touch. Instead of one church there was an infinite
number of churches, for in the glare countless minarets and small
cupolas were visible. There was no crowd, no voices, and no shouting;
only a long line of low, blazing wooden houses. The place was deserted
and silent save for the crackling blaze. Then down the street a short,
fat man on horseback rode towards us. He was riding a white horse. He
wore a grey overcoat and a cocked hat. I became aware of a rhythmical
tramping: a noise of hundreds and hundreds of hoofs, a champing of
bits, and the tramp of innumerable feet and the rumble of guns. In the
distance there was a hill with crenelated battlements round it; it was
crowned with the domes and minarets of several churches, taller and
greater than all the other churches in sight. These minarets shone out
clean-cut and distinct against the ruddy sky.

The short man on horseback looked back for a moment at this hill. He
took a pinch of snuff.




THE CONQUEROR

When the ancient gods were turned out of Olympus, and the groan of dying
Pan shook the world like an earthquake, none of the fallen deities was
so disconsolate as Proserpine. She wandered across the world, assuming
now this shape and now that, but nowhere could she find a resting-place
or a home. In the Southern country which she regarded as her own,
whatever shape or disguise she assumed, whether that of a gleaner or of
an old woman begging for alms, the country people would scent something
uncanny about her and chase her from the place. Thus it was that she
left the Southern country, which she loved; she said farewell to the
azure skies, the hills covered with corn and fringed everywhere with
rose bushes, the white oxen, the cypress, the olive, the vine, the
croaking frogs, and the million fireflies; and she sought the green
pastures and the woods of a Northern country.

One evening, not long after her arrival (it was Midsummer Eve), as
she was wandering in a thick wood, she noticed that the trees and the
under-growth were twinkling with a myriad soft flames which reminded her
of the fireflies of her own country, and presently she perceived that
these flames were stars which, soft as dew and bright as moonbeams,
formed the diadems crowning the hair of unearthly shapes. These shapes
were like those of men and maidens, transfigured and rendered strange
and delicate, as light as foam, and radiant as dragonflies hovering over
a pool. They were rimmed with rainbow-coloured films, and sometimes
they flew and sometimes they danced, but they rarely seemed to touch
the ground. And as Proserpine approached them, in the sad majesty of
her fallen divinity, they gathered round her in a circle and bowed down
before her. And one of them, taller than the rest, advanced towards her
and said:--

"We are the Fairies, and for a long time we have been mournful, for we
have lost our Queen, our beautiful Queen. She loved a mortal, and on
this account she was banished from Fairyland, nor may she ever revisit
the haunt and the kingdom that were hers. But Merlin, the oldest and the
wisest of the wizards, told us we should find another Queen, and that we
should know her by the poppies in her hair, the whiteness of her brow,
and the stillness of her eyes, and with or without such tokens we should
know, as soon as we set eyes on her, that it was she and no other who
was to be our Queen. And now we know that it was you and no other.
Therefore shall you be our Queen and rule over us until he comes who,
Merlin said, shall conquer your kingdom and deliver its secrets to the
mortal world. Then shall you abandon the kingdom of the Fairies--the
everlasting Limbo shall receive you."

* * * * *

It was one summer's day a long time ago, many and many years after
Proserpine had become Queen of the Fairies, that a butcher's apprentice
called William was enjoying a holiday, and strolling in the woods with
no other purpose than to stroll and enjoy the fresh air and the cool
leaves and the song of the birds. William loved the sights and sounds
of the country; unlike many boys of his age, he was not deeply versed
in the habits of birds and beasts, but devoted his spare time to reading
such books as he could borrow from the village schoolmaster whose school
he had lately left to go into trade, or to taking part in the games of
his companions, for he loved human fellowship and the talk and laughter
of his fellow-creatures.

The day was hot--it was Midsummer Day--and William, having stumbled on a
convenient mound, fell asleep. And he dreamt a curious dream. He thought
he saw a beautiful maiden walking towards him. She was tall, and clothed
in dark draperies, and her hair was bound with a coronal of scarlet
flowers, her face was pale and lustrous, and he could not see her eyes
because they were veiled. She approached him and said:--

"You are he who has been chosen to try to conquer my kingdom, which is
faery, and to possess it: if, indeed, you are able to endure the
fierce ordeal and to perform the three dreadful tasks which have been
appointed. If he who sets out to conquer my kingdom should fail in any
one of the three tasks he dies, and the world hears of him no more. Many
have tried and failed."

And William said he would try with all his might to conquer the faery
kingdom, and he asked what the three tasks might be.

The maiden, who was none other than Proserpine, Queen of the Fairies,
told him that the first task was to pluck the crystal apple from the
laughing tree, and second to pluck the blood-red rose from the fiery
rose tree, and the third to cull the white poppy from the quiet fields.
William asked her how he was to set about these tasks. Proserpine told
him that he had but to accept the quest and all would be made clear. So
he accepted the quest without further talk.

Immediately Proserpine vanished, and William found himself in a large
green garden of fruit trees, and in the distance he heard the noise of
rippling laughter. He walked along many paths to the place whence he
thought the laughter came, until he found a large fruit tree which grew
by itself. It was laden with fruit, and from one of its boughs hung a
crystal apple which shone with all the colours of the rainbow.

But the tree was guarded by a hideous old hag, covered with sores and
leprous scales, loathsome to behold. And a laughing voice came from
the tree saying: "He who would pluck the crystal apple must embrace its
guardian." And William looked at her and felt no loathing but rather a
deep pity, so that tears welled in his eyes and dropped on her, and he
took her face in his hands to embrace her, and as he did so she changed
into a beautiful maiden with veiled eyes, who plucked the crystal apple
from the tree and gave it to him and vanished.

Then the garden changed its semblance, and all around him there seemed
to be a hedge of smoking thorns and before him a fiery tree on which
blood-red roses shone like rubies. The tree was guarded by a maiden
with long grey eyes and flowing hair, and of spun moonshine, beautiful
exceedingly, and a moaning voice came from the tree, saying: "He who
would pluck the rose must slay its guardian." On the grass beneath the
tree lay an unsheathed sword. William took the sword in his hands, but
the maiden looked at him piteously and wept, so that he hesitated; then,
hardening himself, he plunged the sword into her heart and a great moan
was heard, and the fire disappeared, and only a withered rose-tree stood
before him. Then he heard the voice say that he must pierce his own
heart with a thorn from the tree and let the blood fall upon its roots.
This he did, and as he did so he felt the sharpness of Death, as though
the last dreadful moment had come; but as the drops of blood fell on
the roots the beautiful maiden with veiled eyes, whom he had seen before
stood before him and gave him the blood-red rose, and she touched his
wound and straightway it was healed.

Then the garden vanished altogether, and he stood before a dark porch
and a gate beyond which he caught a pale glimmer. And by the porch stood
a terrible shape: a hooded skeleton bearing a scythe, with white sockets
of fire which had no eyes in them but which were so terrible that no
mortal could look on them and live. And here he heard a voice saying:
"He who would cull the white poppy must look into the eyes of its
guardian and take the scythe from the bony hands." And William seized
the scythe and an icy darkness descended upon him, and he felt dizzy
and faint; yet he persisted and wrestled with the skeleton, although the
darkness seemed to be overwhelming him. He tore the hood from the bony
head and looked boldly into the fiery sockets.

Then with a crash of thunder the skeleton vanished, and the maiden with
veiled eyes led him through the gate into the quiet fields, and there
he culled the white poppy. Then the maiden turned to him and unveiled
herself, and it was Proserpine, the Queen of the Fairies.

"You have conquered," she said, "and the faery kingdom is yours for
ever, and you shall visit it and dwell in it whenever you desire, and
reveal its sounds and its sights to the mortals of the world: and in my
kingdom you shall see, as though in a mirror, the pageant of mankind,
the scroll of history, and the story of man which is writ in brave,
golden and glowing letters, of blood and tears and fire. And there is
nothing in the soul of man that shall be hid from you; and you shall
speak the secrets of my kingdom to mortal men with a voice of gold and
of honey. And when you grow weary of life you shall withdraw for ever
into the island of faery voices which lies in the heart of my kingdom.
And as for me I go to the everlasting Limbo."

Then Proserpine vanished, and William awoke from his dream, and went
home to his butcher's shop.

Soon after this he left his native village and went to London, where he
became well known; although how his surname shall be spelt is a matter
of dispute, some spelling it Shakespeare, some Shakespere, and some
Shaksper.




THE IKON

Ferroll was an intellectual, and he prided himself on the fact. At
Cambridge he had narrowly missed being a Senior Wrangler, and his
principal study there had been Lunar Theory. But when he went down from
Cambridge for good, being a man of some means, he travelled. For a
year he was an honorary Attache at one of the big Embassies. He finally
settled in London with a vague idea of some day writing a _magnum opus_
about the stupidity of mankind; for he had come to the conclusion by the
age of twenty-five that all men were stupid, irreclaimably, irredeemably
stupid; that everything was wrong; that all literature was really bad,
all art much overrated, and all music tedious in the long run.

The years slipped by and he never began his _magnum opus_; he joined
a literary club instead and discussed the current topic of the day.
Sometimes he wrote a short article; never in the daily Press, which he
despised, nor in the reviews (for he never wrote anything as long as a
magazine article), but in a literary weekly he would express in weary
and polished phrases the unemphatic boredom or the mitigated approval
with which the works of his fellow-men inspired him. He was the kind of
man who had nothing in him you could positively dislike, but to whom
you could not talk for five minutes without having a vague sensation of
blight. Things seemed to shrivel up in his presence as though they had
been touched by an insidious east wind, a subtle frost, a secret chill.
He never praised anything, though he sometimes condescended to approve.
The faint puffs of blame in which he more generally indulged were never
sharp or heavy, but were like the smoke rings of a cigarette which a man
indolently smoking blows from time to time up to the ceiling.

He lived in rooms in the Temple. They were comfortably, not luxuriously
furnished; a great many French books--French was the only modern
language worth reading he used to say--a few modern German etchings, a
low Turkish divan, and some Egyptian antiquities, made up the furniture
of his two sitting-rooms. Above all things he despised Greek art;
it was, he said decadent. The Egyptians and the Germans were, in his
opinion, the only people who knew anything about the plastic arts,
whereas the only music he could endure was that of the modern French
School. Over his chimney-piece there was a large German landscape
in oils, called "Im Walde"; it represented a wood at twilight in the
autumn, and if you looked at it carefully and for a long time you saw
that the objects depicted were meant to be trees from which the leaves
were falling; but if you looked at the picture carelessly and from a
distance, it looked like a man-of-war on a rough sea, for which it was
frequently taken, much to Ferrol's annoyance.

One day an artist friend of his presented him with a small Chinese god
made of crystal; he put this on his chimney-piece. It was on the evening
of the day on which he received this gift that he dined, together with a
friend named Sledge who had travelled much in Eastern countries, at his
club. After dinner they went to Ferrol's rooms to smoke and to talk. He
wanted to show Sledge his antiquities, which consisted of three large
Egyptian statuettes, a small green Egyptian god, and the Chinese idol
which he had lately been given. Sledge, who was a middle-aged, bearded
man, frank and unconventional, examined the antiquities with care,
pronounced them to be genuine, and singled out for special praise the
crystal god.

"Your things are very good," he said, "very good. But don't you really
mind having all these things about you?"

"Why should I mind?" asked Ferrol.

"Well, you have travelled a good deal, haven't you?"

"Yes," said Ferrol, "I have travelled; I have been as far east as
Nijni-Novgorod to see the Fair, and as far west as Lisbon."

"I suppose," said Sledge, "you were a long time in Greece and Italy?"

"No," said Ferrol, "I have never been to Greece. Greek art distresses
me. All classical art is a mistake and a superstition."

"Talking of superstition," said Sledge, "you have never been to the Far
East, have you?"

"No," Ferrol answered, "Egypt is Eastern enough for me, and cannot be
bettered."

"Well," said Sledge, "I have been in the Far East. I have lived there
many years. I am not a superstitious man; but there is one thing I
would not do in any circumstances whatsoever, and that is to keep in my
sitting-room the things you have got there."

"But why?" asked Ferrol.

"Well," said Sledge, "nearly all of them have come from the tombs of the
dead, and some of them are gods. Such things may have attached to them
heaven knows what spooks and spirits."

Ferrol shut his eyes and smiled, a faint, seraphic smile. "My dear boy,"
he said, "you forget. This is the Twentieth Century."

"And you," answered Sledge, "forget that the things you have here were
made before the Twentieth Century. B.C."

"You don't seriously mean," said Ferrol, "that you attach any importance
to these--" he hesitated.

"Children's stories?" suggested Sledge.

Ferrol nodded.

"I have lived long enough in the East," said Sledge, "to know that the
sooner you learn to believe children's stories the better."

"I am afraid, then," said Ferrol, with civil tolerance, "that our points
of view are too different for us to discuss the matter." And they talked
of other things until late into the night.

Just as Sledge was leaving Ferrol's rooms and had said "Good-night," he
paused by the chimney-piece, and, pointing to the tiny Ikon which was
lying on it, asked: "What is that?"

"Oh, that's nothing," said Ferrol, "only a small Ikon I bought for
twopence at the Fair of Nijni-Novgorod."

Sledge said "Good-night" again, but when he was on the stairs he called
back: "In any case remember one thing, that East is East and West is
West. Don't mix your deities."

Ferrol had not the slightest idea what he was alluding to, nor did he
care. He dismissed the matter from his mind.

The next day he spent in the country, returning to London late in the
evening. As he entered his rooms the first thing which met his eye was
that his great picture, "Im Walde," which he considered to be one of the
few products of modern art that a man who respected himself could look
at without positive pain in the eyes, had fallen from its place over
the chimney-piece to the floor in front of the fender, and the glass was
shattered into a thousand fragments. He was much vexed. He sought the
cause of the accident. The nail was a strong one, and it was still in
its place. The picture had been hung by a wire; the wire seemed strong
also and was not broken. He concluded that the picture must have been
badly balanced and that a sudden shock such a door banging had thrown
it over. He had no servant in his rooms, and when he had gone out that
morning he had locked the door, so no one could have entered his rooms
during his absence.

Next morning he sent for a framemaker and told him to mend the frame as
soon as possible, to make the wire strong, and to see that the picture
was firmly fixed on the wall. In two or three days' time the picture
returned and was once more hung on the wall over the chimney-piece
immediately above the little crystal Chinese god. Ferrol supervised the
hanging of the picture in person. He saw that the nail was strong, and
firmly fixed in the wall; he took care that the wire left nothing to be
desired and was properly attached to the rings of the picture.

The picture was hung early one morning. That day he went to play golf.
He returned at five o'clock, and again the first thing which met his eye
was the picture. It had again fallen down, and this time it had brought
with it in its fall the small Chinese god, which was broken in two.
The glass had again been shattered to bits, and the picture itself was
somewhat damaged. Everything else on the chimney-piece, that is to say,
a few matchboxes and two candle-sticks, had also been thrown to the
ground--everything with the exception of the little Ikon he had bought
at Nijni-Novgorod, a small object about two inches square on which two
Saints were pictured. This still rested in its place against the wall.

Ferrol investigated the disaster. The nail was in its place in the wall;
the wire at the back of the picture was not broken or damaged in any
way. The accident seemed to him quite inexplicable. He was greatly
annoyed. The Chinese god was a valuable thing. He stood in front of the
chimney-piece contemplating the damage with a sense of great irritation.

"To think that everything should have been broken except this beastly
little Ikon!" he said to himself. "I wonder whether that was what Sledge
meant when he said I should not mix my deities."

Next morning he sent again for the framemaker, and abused him roundly.
The framemaker said he could not understand how the accident had
happened. The nail was an excellent nail, the picture, Mr. Ferrol must
admit, had been hung with great care before his very eyes and under his
own direct and personal supervision. What more could be done?

"It's something to do with the balance," said Ferrol. "I told you that
before. The picture is half spoiled now."

The framemaker said the damage would not show once the glass was
repaired, and took the picture away again to mend it. A few days later
it was brought back. Two men came to fix it this time; steps were
brought and the hanging lasted about twenty minutes. Nails were put
under the picture; it was hung by a double wire. All accidents in the
future seemed guarded against.

The following morning Ferrol telephoned to Sledge and asked him to dine
with him. Sledge was engaged to dine out that evening, but said that he
would look in at the Temple late after dinner.

Ferrol dined alone at the Club; he reached his rooms about half-past
nine; he made up a blazing fire and drew an armchair near it. He lit a
cigarette, made some Turkish coffee, and took down a French novel. Every
now and then he looked up at his picture. No damage was visible; it
looked, he thought, as well as ever. In the place of the Chinese idol
he had put his little green Egyptian god on the chimney-piece. The
candlesticks and the Ikon were still in their places.

"After all," thought Ferrol, "I did wrong to have any Chinese art in the
place at all. Egyptian things are the only things worth having. It is a
lesson to me not to dabble with things out of my period."

After he had read for about a quarter of an hour he fell into a doze.

* * * * *

Sledge arrived at the rooms about half-past ten, and an ugly sight met
his eyes. There had been an accident. The picture over the chimney-piece
had fallen down right on Ferrol. His face was badly cut. They put Ferrol
to bed, and his wounds were seen to and everything that was necessary
was done. A nurse was sent for to look after him, and Sledge decided to
stay in the house all night. After all the arrangements had been made,
the doctor, before he went away, said to Sledge: "He will recover all
right, he is not in the slightest danger; but I don't know who is to
break the news to him."

"What is that?" asked Sledge.

"He will be quite blind," said the doctor.

Then the doctor went away, and Sledge sat down in front of the fire.
The broken glass had been swept up. The picture had been placed on the
Oriental divan, and as Sledge looked at the chimney-piece he noticed
that the little Ikon was still in its place. Something caught his eye
just under the low fender in front of the fireplace. He bent forward and
picked up the object.

It was Ferrol's green Egyptian god, which had been broken into two
pieces.




THE THIEF

To Jack Gordon

Hart Minor and Smith were behind-hand with their sums. It was Hart
Minor's first term: Smith had already been one term at school. They were
in the fourth division at St. James's. A certain number of sums in short
division had to be finished. Hart Minor and Smith got up early to finish
these sums before breakfast, which was at half-past seven. Hart Minor
divided slowly, and Smith reckoned quickly. Smith finished his sums with
ease. When half-past seven struck, Hart Minor had finished four of them
and there was still a fifth left: 3888 had to be divided by 36; short
division had to be employed. Hart Minor was busily trying to divide 3888
by 4 and by 9; he had got as far as saying, "Four's into 38 will go six
times and two over; four's into twenty-eight go seven times; four's
into eight go twice." He was beginning to divide 672 by 9, an impossible
task, when the breakfast bell rang, and Smith said to him: "Come on!"

"I can't," said Hart Minor, "I haven't finished my sum."

Smith glanced at his page and said: "Oh that's all right, don't you see?
The answer's 108."

Hart Minor wrote down 108 and put a large R next to the sum, which meant
Right.

The boys went in to breakfast. After breakfast they returned to
the fourth division schoolroom, where they were to be instructed in
arithmetic for an hour by Mr. Whitehead. Mr. Whitehead called for
the sums. He glanced through Smith's and found them correct, and then
through Hart Minor's. His attention was arrested by the last division.

"What's this?" he demanded. "Four's into thirty-eight don't go six
times. You've got the right answer and the wrong working. What does this
mean?" And Mr. Whitehead bit his knuckles savagely. "Somebody," he said,
"has been helping you."

Hart Minor owned that he had received help from Smith. Mr. Whitehead
shook him violently, and said, "Do you know what this means?"

Hart Minor had no sort of idea as to the inner significance of his act,
except that he had finished his sums.