Orpheus in Mayfair and Other Stories and Sketches

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


Fully awake now, I remembered clearly the old legend which had haunted
me, and had taken shape in my dream. It was that of an army which on
the night before the battle had heard the flute of Chang Liang. By his
playing he had brought before the rude soldiers the far-off scenes of
their childhood, which they had not looked upon for years--the sights
and sounds of their homes, the faces and the spots which were familiar
to them and dear. And they, as they heard this music, and felt these
memories well up in their hearts, were seized with a longing and a
desire for home so potent and so imperative that one by one they left
the battlefield in silence, and when the enemy came at the dawn, they
found the plain deserted and empty, for in one minute the flute of Chang
Liang had stolen the hearts of eight thousand men.

And I felt certain that I had heard the flute of Chang Liang this night
and that the soldiers had heard it too; for now round a fire a group of
them were listening to the song of one of their comrades, a man from the
south, who was singing of the quiet waters of the Don, and of a Cossack
who had come back to his native land after many days and found his true
love wedded to another. I felt it was the flute of Chang Liang which had
prompted the southerner to sing, and without doubt the men saw before
them the great moon shining over the broad village street in the dark
July and August nights, and heard the noise of dancing and song and the
cheerful rhythmic accompaniment of the concertina. Or (if they came from
the south) they saw the smiling thatched farms, whitewashed, or painted
in light green distemper, with vines growing on their walls; or again,
they felt the smell of the beanfields in June, and saw in their minds'
eye the panorama of the melting snows, when at a fairy touch the long
winter is defeated, the meadows are flooded, and the trees seem to float
about in the shining water like shapes invoked by a wizard. They saw
these things and yearned towards them with all their hearts, here in
this uncouth country where they were to fight a strange people for some
unaccountable reason. But Chang Liang had played his flute to them in
vain. It was in vain that he had tried to lure them back to their homes,
and in vain that he had melted their hearts with the memories of their
childhood. For the battle began at dawn the next morning, and when the
enemy attacked they found an army there to meet them; and the battle
lasted for two days on this very spot; and many of the men to whom Chang
Liang had brought back through his flute the sights and the sounds of
their childhood, were fated never to hear again those familiar sounds,
nor to see the land and the faces which they loved.




"WHAT IS TRUTH?"

To E. I. Huber

Sitting opposite me in the second-class carriage of the express train
which was crawling at a leisurely pace from Moscow to the south was a
little girl who looked as if she were about twelve years old, with her
mother. The mother was a large fair-haired person, with a good-natured
expression. They had a dog with them, and the little girl, whose whole
face twitched every now and then from St. Vitus' dance, got out at
nearly every station to buy food for the dog. On the same side of the
carriage, in the opposite corner, another lady (thin, fair, and wearing
a pince-nez) was reading the newspaper. She and the mother of the child
soon made friends over the dog. That is to say, the dog made friends
with the strange lady and was reproved by its mistress, and the strange
lady said: "Please don't scold him. He is not in the least in my way,
and I like dogs." They then began to talk.

The large lady was going to the country. She and her daughter had been
ordered to go there by the doctor. She had spent six weeks in Moscow
under medical treatment, and they had now been told to finish this cure
with a thorough rest in the country air. The thin lady asked her the
name of her doctor, and before ascertaining what was the disease in
question, recommended another doctor who had cured a friend of hers,
almost as though by miracle, of heart disease. The large lady seemed
interested and wrote down the direction of the marvellous physician.
She was herself suffering, she said, from a nervous illness, and her
daughter had St. Vitus' dance. They were so far quite satisfied with
their doctor. They talked for some time exclusively about medical
matters, comparing notes about doctors, diseases, and remedies. The thin
lady said she had been cured of all her ills by aspirin and cinnamon.

In the course of the conversation the stout lady mentioned her husband,
who, it turned out, was the head of the gendarmerie in a town in
Siberia, not far from Irkutsk. This seemed to interest the thin lady
immensely. She at once asked what were his political views, and what she
herself thought about politics.

The large lady seemed to be reluctant to talk politics and evaded the
questions for some time, but after much desultory conversation, which
always came back to the same point, she said:--

"My husband is a Conservative; they call him a 'Black Hundred,' but it's
most unfair and untrue, because he is a very good man and very just.
He has his own opinions and he is sincere. He does not believe in the
revolution or in the revolutionaries. He took the oath to serve the
Emperor when everything went quietly and well, and now, although I have
often begged him to leave the Service, he says it would be very wrong
to leave just because it is dangerous. 'I have taken the oath,' he says,
'and I must keep it.'"

Here she stopped, but after some further questions on the part of the
thin lady, she said: "I never had time or leisure to think of these
questions. I was married when I was sixteen. I have had eight children,
and they all died one after the other except this one, who was the
eldest. I used to see political exiles and prisoners, and I used to
feel sympathy for them. I used to hear about people being sent here and
there, and sometimes I used to go down on my knees to my husband to
do what he could for them, but I never thought about there being any
particular idea at the back of all this." Then after a short pause she
added: "It first dawned on me at Moscow. It was after the big strike,
and I was on my way home. I had been staying with some friends in the
country, and I happened by chance to see the funeral of that man Bauman,
the doctor, who was killed. I was very much impressed when I saw that
huge procession go past, all the men singing the funeral march, and
I understood that Bauman himself had nothing to do with it. Who cared
about Bauman? But I understood that he was a symbol. I saw that there
must be a big idea which moves all these people to give up everything,
to go to prison, to kill, and be killed. I understood this for the first
time at that funeral. I cried when the crowd went past. I understood
there was a big idea, a great cause behind it all. Then I went home.

"There were disorders in Siberia: you know in Siberia we are much freer
than you are. There is only one society. The officials, the political
people, revolutionaries, exiles, everybody, in fact, all meet
constantly. I used to go to political meetings, and to see and talk with
the Liberal and revolutionary leaders. Then I began to be disappointed
because what had always struck me as unjust was that one man, just
because he happened to be, say, Ivan Pavlovitch, should be able to rule
over another man who happened to be, say, Ivan Ivanovitch. And now
that these Republics were being made, it seemed that the same thing was
beginning all over again--that all the places of authority were being
seized and dealt out amongst another lot of people who were behaving
exactly like those who had authority before. The arbitrary authority was
there just the same, only it had changed hands, and this puzzled me very
much, and I began to ask myself, 'Where is the truth?'"

"What did your husband think?" asked the thin lady.

"My husband did not like to talk about these things," she answered. "He
says, 'I am in the Service, and I have to serve. It is not my business
to have opinions.'"

"But all those Republics didn't last very long," rejoined the thin lady.

"No," continued the other; "we never had a Republic, and after a time
they arrested the chief agitator, who was the soul of the revolutionary
movement in our town, a wonderful orator. I had heard him speak several
times and been carried away. When he was arrested I saw him taken to
prison, and he said 'Good-bye' to the people, and bowed to them in the
street in such an exaggerated theatrical way that I was astonished and
felt uncomfortable. Here, I thought, is a man who can sacrifice himself
for an idea, and who seemed to be thoroughly sincere, and yet he behaves
theatrically and poses as if he were not sincere. I felt more puzzled
than ever, and I asked my husband to let me go and see him in prison. I
thought that perhaps after talking to him I could solve the riddle, and
find out once for all who was right and who was wrong. My husband let me
go, and I was admitted into his cell.

"'You know who I am,' I said, 'since I am here, and I am admitted
inside these locked doors?' He nodded. Then I asked him whether I could
be of any use to him. He said that he had all that he wanted; and like
this the ice was broken, and I asked him presently if he believed in
the whole movement. He said that until the 17th of October, when the
Manifesto had been issued, he had believed with all his soul in it; but
the events of the last months had caused him to change his mind. He now
thought that the work of his party, and, in fact, the whole movement,
which had been going on for over fifty years, had really been in vain.
'We shall have,' he said, 'to begin again from the very beginning,
because the Russian people are not ready for us yet, and probably
another fifty years will have to go by before they are ready.'

"I left him very much perplexed. He was set free not long afterwards, in
virtue of some manifesto, and because there had been no disorders in our
town and he had not been the cause of any bloodshed. Soon after he came
out of prison my husband met him, and he said to my husband: 'I suppose
you will not shake hands with me?' And my husband replied: 'Because
our views are different there is no reason why both of us should not be
honest men,' and he shook hands with him."

The conversation now became a discussion about the various ideals of
various people and parties holding different political views. The large
lady kept on expressing the puzzled state of mind in which she was.

The whole conversation, of which I have given a very condensed report,
was spread over a long time, and often interrupted. Later they reached
the subject of political assassination, and the large lady said:--

"About two months after I came home that year, one day when I was out
driving with my daughter in a sledge the revolutionaries fired six shots
at us from revolvers. We were not hit, but one bullet went through the
coachman's cap. Ever since then I have had nervous fits and my daughter
has had St. Vitus' dance. We have to go to Moscow every year to be
treated. And it is so difficult. I don't know how to manage. When I am
at home I feel as if I ought to go, and when I am away I never have a
moment's peace, because I cannot help thinking the whole time that my
husband is in danger. A few weeks after they shot at us I met some of
the revolutionary party at a meeting, and I asked them why they had shot
at myself and my daughter. I could have understood it if they had shot
at my husband. But why at us? He said: 'When the wood is cut down, the
chips fly about.'[*] And now I don't know what to think about it all.

[*] A Russian proverb.

"Sometimes I think it is all a mistake, and I feel that the
revolutionaries are posing and playing a part, and that so soon as they
get the upper hand they will be as bad as what we have now; and then
I say to myself, all the same they are acting in a cause, and it is a
great cause, and they are working for liberty and for the people. And,
then, would the people be better off if they had their way? The more I
think of it the more puzzled I am. Who is right? Is my husband right?
Are they right? Is it a great cause? How can they be wrong if they are
imprisoned and killed for what they believe? Where is the truth, and
what is truth?"




A LUNCHEON-PARTY

I

Mrs. Bergmann was a widow. She was American by birth and marriage, and
English by education and habits. She was a fair, beautiful woman, with
large eyes and a white complexion. Her weak point was ambition, and
ambition with her took the form of luncheon-parties.

It was one summer afternoon that she was seized with the great idea of
her life. It consisted in giving a luncheon-party which should be more
original and amusing than any other which had ever been given in London.
The idea became a mania. It left her no peace. It possessed her like
venom or like madness. She could think of nothing else. She racked her
brains in imagining how it could be done. But the more she was harassed
by this aim the further off its realisation appeared to her to be. At
last it began to weigh upon her. She lost her spirits and her appetite;
her friends began to remark with anxiety on the change in her behaviour
and in her looks. She herself felt that the situation was intolerable,
and that success or suicide lay before her.

One evening towards the end of June, as she was sitting in her lovely
drawing-room in her house in Mayfair, in front of her tea-table,
on which the tea stood untasted, brooding over the question which
unceasingly tormented her, she cried out, half aloud:--

"I'd sell my soul to the devil if he would give me what I wish."

At that moment the footman entered the room and said there was a
gentleman downstairs who wished to speak with her.

"What is his name?" asked Mrs. Bergmann.

The footman said he had not caught the gentleman's name, and he handed
her a card on a tray.

She took the card. On it was written:--

MR. NICHOLAS L. SATAN,
I, Pandemonium Terrace,
BURNING MARLE, HELL.
Telephone, No. I Central.

"Show him up," said Mrs. Bergmann, quite naturally, as though she had
been expecting the visitor. She wondered at her own behaviour, and
seemed to herself to be acting inevitably, as one does in dreams.

Mr. Satan was shown in. He had a professional air about him, but not
of the kind that suggests needy or even learned professionalism. He was
dark; his features were sharp and regular, his eyes keen, his complexion
pale, his mouth vigorous, and his chin prominent. He was well dressed in
a frock coat, black tie, and patent leather boots. He would never have
been taken for a conjurer or a shop-walker, but he might have been taken
for a slightly depraved Art-photographer who had known better days. He
sat down near the tea-table opposite Mrs. Bergmann, holding his top hat,
which had a slight mourning band round it, in his hand.

"I understand, madam," he spoke with an even American intonation,
"you wish to be supplied with a guest who will make all other
luncheon-parties look, so to speak, like thirty cents."

"Yes, that is just what I want," answered Mrs. Bergmann, who continued
to be surprised at herself.

"Well, I reckon there's no one living who'd suit," said Mr. Satan, "and
I'd better supply you with a celebrity of _a_ former generation." He
then took out a small pocket-book from his coat pocket, and quickly
turning over its leaves he asked in a monotonous tone: "Would you like a
Philosopher? Anaxagoras, Aristotle, Aurelius, M.?"

"Oh! no," answered Mrs. Bergmann with decision, "they would ruin any
luncheon."

"A Saint?" suggested Mr. Satan, "Antony, Ditto of Padua, Athanasius,
Augustine, Anselm?"

"Good heavens, no," said Mrs. Bergmann.

"A Theologian, good arguer?" asked Mr. Satan, "Aquinas, T?"

"No," interrupted Mrs. Bergmann, "for heaven's sake don't always give
me the A's, or we shall never get on to anything. You'll be offering me
Adam and Abel next."

"I beg your pardon," said Mr. Satan, "Latimer, Laud--Historic Interest,
Church and Politics combined," he added quickly.

"I don't want a clergyman," said Mrs. Bergmann.

"Artist?" said Mr. Satan, "Andrea del Sarto, Angelo, M., Apelles?"

"You're going back to the A's," interrupted Mrs. Bergmann.

"Bellini, Benvenuto Cellini, Botticelli?" he continued imperturbably.

"What's the use of them when I can get Sargent every day?" asked Mrs.
Bergmann.

"A man of action, perhaps? Alexander, Bonaparte, Caesar, J., Cromwell,
O., Hannibal?"

"Too heavy for luncheon," she answered, "they would do for _dinner_."

"Plain statesman? Bismarck, Count; Chatham, Lord; Franklin, B;
Richelieu, Cardinal."

"That would make the members of the Cabinet feel uncomfortable," she
said.

"A Monarch? Alfred; beg pardon, he's an A. Richard III., Peter the
Great, Louis XI., Nero?"

"No," said Mrs. Bergmann. "I can't have a Royalty. It would make it too
stiff."

"I have it," said Mr. Satan, "a highwayman: Dick Turpin; or a
housebreaker: Jack Sheppard or Charles Peace?"

"Oh! no," said Mrs. Bergmann, "they might steal the Sevres."

"A musician? Bach or Beethoven?" he suggested.

"He's getting into the B's now," thought Mrs. Bergmann. "No," she added
aloud, "we should have to ask him to play, and he can't play Wagner, I
suppose, and musicians are so touchy."

"I think I have it," said Mr. Satan, "a wit: Dr. Johnson, Sheridan,
Sidney Smith?"

"We should probably find their jokes dull _now_," said Mrs. Bergmann,
thoughtfully.

"Miscellaneous?" inquired Mr. Satan, and turning over several leaves of
his notebook, he rattled out the following names: "Alcibiades, kind
of statesman; Beau Brummel, fop; Cagliostro, conjurer; Robespierre,
politician; Charles Stuart, Pretender; Warwick, King-maker; Borgia, A.,
Pope; Ditto, C., toxicologist; Wallenstein, mercenary; Bacon, Roger,
man of science; Ditto, F., dishonest official; Tell, W., patriot; Jones,
Paul, pirate; Lucullus, glutton; Simon Stylites, eccentric; Casanova,
loose liver; Casabianca, cabin-boy; Chicot, jester; Sayers, T.,
prize-fighter; Cook, Captain, tourist; Nebuchadnezzar, food-faddist;
Juan, D., lover; Froissart, war correspondent; Julian, apostate?"

"Don't you see," said Mrs. Bergmann, "we must have some one everybody
has heard of?"

"David Garrick, actor and wit?" suggested Mr. Satan.

"It's no good having an actor nobody has seen act," said Mrs. Bergmann.

"What about a poet?" asked Mr. Satan, "Homer, Virgil, Dante, Byron,
Shakespeare?"

"Shakespeare!" she cried out, "the very thing. Everybody has heard of
Shakespeare, more or less, and I expect he'd get on with everybody, and
wouldn't feel offended if I asked Alfred Austin or some other poet to
meet him. Can you get me Shakespeare?"

"Certainly," said Mr. Satan, "day and date?"

"It must be Thursday fortnight," said Mrs. Bergmann. "And what,
ah--er--your terms?"

"The usual terms," he answered. "In return for supernatural service
rendered you during your lifetime, your soul reverts to me at your
death."

Mrs. Bergmann's brain began to work quickly. She was above all things a
practical woman, and she immediately felt she was being defrauded.

"I cannot consent to such terms," she said. "Surely you recognise the
fundamental difference between this proposed contract and those which
you concluded with others--with Faust, for instance? They sold the full
control of their soul after death on condition of your putting yourself
at their entire disposal during the whole of their lifetime, whereas
you ask me to do the same thing in return for a few hours' service. The
proposal is preposterous."

Mr. Satan rose from his chair. "In that case, madam," he said, "I have
the honour to wish you a good afternoon."

"Stop a moment," said Mrs. Bergmann, "I don't see why we shouldn't
arrive at a compromise. I am perfectly willing that you should have the
control over my soul for a limited number of years--I believe there are
precedents for such a course--let us say a million years."

"Ten million," said Mr. Satan, quietly but firmly.

"In that case," answered Mrs. Bergmann, "we will take no notice of leap
year, and we will count 365 days in every year."

"Certainly," said Mr. Satan, with an expression of somewhat ruffled
dignity, "we always allow leap year, but, of course, thirteen years will
count as twelve."

"Of course," said Mrs. Bergmann with equal dignity.

"Then perhaps you will not mind signing the contract at once," said Mr.
Satan, drawing from his pocket a type-written page.

Mrs. Bergmann walked to the writing-table and took the paper from his
hand.

"Over the stamp, please," said Mr. Satan.

"Must I--er--sign it in blood?" asked Mrs. Bergmann, hesitatingly.

"You can if you like," said Mr. Satan, "but I prefer red ink; it is
quicker and more convenient."

He handed her a stylograph pen.

"Must it be witnessed?" she asked.

"No," he replied, "these kind of documents don't need a witness."

In a firm, bold handwriting Mrs. Bergmann signed her name in red ink
across the sixpenny stamp. She half expected to hear a clap of thunder
and to see Mr. Satan disappear, but nothing of the kind occurred. Mr.
Satan took the document, folded it, placed it in his pocket-book, took
up his hat and gloves, and said:

"Mr. William Shakespeare will call to luncheon on Thursday week. At what
hour is the luncheon to be?"

"One-thirty," said Mrs. Bergmann.

"He may be a few minutes late," answered Mr. Satan. "Good afternoon,
madam," and he bowed and withdrew.

Mrs. Bergmann chuckled to herself when she was alone. "I have done
him," she thought to herself, "because ten million years in eternity
is nothing. He might just as well have said one second as ten million
years, since anything less than eternity in eternity is nothing. It is
curious how stupid the devil is in spite of all his experience. Now I
must think about my invitations."



II

The morning of Mrs. Bergmann's luncheon had arrived. She had asked
thirteen men and nine women.

But an hour before luncheon an incident happened which nearly drove Mrs.
Bergmann distracted. One of her guests, who was also one of her most
intimate friends, Mrs. Lockton, telephoned to her saying she had quite
forgotten, but she had asked on that day a man to luncheon whom she did
not know, and who had been sent to her by Walford, the famous professor.
She ended the message by saying she would bring the stranger with her.

"What is his name?" asked Mrs. Bergmann, not without intense irritation,
meaning to put a veto on the suggestion.

"His name is----" and at that moment the telephone communication was
interrupted, and in spite of desperate efforts Mrs. Bergmann was unable
to get on to Mrs. Lockton again. She reflected that it was quite useless
for her to send a message saying that she had no room at her table,
because Angela Lockton would probably bring the stranger all the same.
Then she further reflected that in the excitement caused by the presence
of Shakespeare it would not really much matter whether there was a
stranger there or not. A little before half-past one the guests began to
arrive. Lord Pantry of Assouan, the famous soldier, was the first
comer. He was soon followed by Professor Morgan, an authority on Greek
literature; Mr. Peebles, the ex-Prime Minister; Mrs. Hubert Baldwin, the
immensely popular novelist; the fascinating Mrs. Rupert Duncan, who was
lending her genius to one of Ibsen's heroines at that moment; Miss
Medea Tring, one of the latest American beauties; Corporal, the
portrait-painter; Richard Giles, critic and man of letters; Hereward
Blenheim, a young and rising politician, who before the age of thirty
had already risen higher than most men of sixty; Sir Horace Silvester,
K.C.M.G., the brilliant financier, with his beautiful wife Lady Irene;
Professor Leo Newcastle, the eminent man of science; Lady Hyacinth
Gloucester, and Mrs. Milden, who were well known for their beauty and
charm; Osmond Hall, the paradoxical playwright; Monsieur Faubourg, the
psychological novelist; Count Sciarra, an Italian nobleman, about fifty
years old, who had written a history of the Popes, and who was now
staying in London; Lady Herman, the beauty of a former generation, still
extremely handsome; and Willmott, the successful actor-manager. They
were all assembled in the drawing-room upstairs, talking in knots
and groups, and pervaded by a feeling of pleasurable excitement and
expectation, so much so that conversation was intermittent, and nearly
everybody was talking about the weather. The Right Hon. John Lockton,
the eminent lawyer, was the last guest to arrive.

"Angela will be here in a moment," he explained; "she asked me to come
on first."

Mrs. Bergmann grew restless. It was half-past one, and no Shakespeare.
She tried to make her guests talk, with indifferent success. The
expectation was too great. Everybody was absorbed by the thought of what
was going to happen next. Ten minutes passed thus, and Mrs. Bergmann
grew more and more anxious.