CHAPTER III
THE MIRAGE OF BEAUTY
LORD EWALD settled back in his chair, crossed his legs, and after relighting his cigar, spoke as follows:
“For some years past I have been living at Athelwold Castle, one of the oldest estates in England. It is surrounded by pines, lakes, and rocky hills.
“Since my return from an expedition into Abyssinia, I have led an isolated existence there. My parents are dead, and the only other persons in the castle with me are a few servants who have grown old in our service.
“One morning I had occasion to run up to London. There were few vacant compartments in the train. At one of the stations, a young lady, after looking hastily everywhere else for a seat, jumped into the carriage where I was seated.
“I need not go into details. In a brief time we became the best of friends. I fell in love with her.
“Alicia Cleary was only twenty years of age. She was a Venus, exquisite in form and face. It was the beauty of the Venus of Milo come to life—or the Venus Victrix.
“Her heavy brown hair, which hung about her like a mantle, had the radiance of a summer night. Her face was an exquisite oval. Her hands were not quite as aristocratic as the rest of her form, but her feet had the same eloquence as the Greek statues.
“Her eyes were beautiful, her brows perfectly shaped. The sound of her low voice was so thrilling, the notes of her songs so stirring, that I was overcome with a strange emotion. My admiration, as you shall see, was of an unknown order.
“In London, at the different Court functions, I had met the most beautiful girls in England, but I scarcely noticed them. I had thoughts of Alicia only.
“From the first days, however, I struggled to combat the peculiar evidences which appeared in her words and actions. I told myself that it was folly to admit their significance, and I sought in every way to put them from my thoughts.
“Yet, I could not forget that in all living beings there is a depth, which gives to their ideas, even the most vague, and to all their impressions, those modifications which are shown externally. This depth gives them their aspect, color and character; it is in fact the inflection of their true selves. Let us call this substrata the soul, if you wish.
“And, between the body and soul of Alicia Cleary, there was a disproportion which disconcerted me.”
When Lord Ewald made this statement, the professor barely hid a start of surprise. His face paled, but he did not voice his agitation.
“It seemed,” continued Lord Ewald, “that her inner .self was in absolute contradiction to her beautiful form. Her beauty was quite foreign to her words, her conversation appeared out of place in such a voice.
“It seemed that her peculiar personality was not only deprived of what is called by philosophers the ‘plastic mediator,’ but actually imprisoned, by a sort of occult punishment, in her body. It is a perpetual contradiction of her ideal beauty.
“Yes, sometimes, I seriously think that this woman has strayed by mistake into the form of the goddess—that this body does not belong to her!”
“An extreme supposition,” murmured the scientist, “but it is a thought not at all rare. Similar feelings are often evoked in the hearts of those who are in love for the first time. It is, however, probable that Alicia’s sublime beauty was not in keeping with the smallness of her soul. You will pardon me, but has this beautiful creature been faithful to you?”
“I would to heaven that she had!” exclaimed Lord Ewald, bitterly. “No; but I believe that I have the only love of which she is capable.” .
“Ah,” said the scientist soberly, “please go on.”
“I learned that she came from a good family, and that her betrothed had forsaken her to marry a girl with a fortune. Alicia left home, intending to lead a Bohemian life as a singer. However, she later gave up this idea.
“Her voice, appearance, and dramatic talent would have provided her with an income sufficient for her needs. But she was glad to have met me just when she was setting forth into the world. She could not be my wife, she said, but she was eager to accept the love and protection which I pressed upon her.
“Well, at least, that was an honest confession,” said the professor.
Lord Ewald appeared to be approaching a painful part of his story. However, he continued calmly:
“Yes, but that is my version that you have just heard, not hers. She spoke in other words, in another style. I suppose I shall have to speak more clearly so that you may understand her character better.
“What she really told me was that her betrothed was a fickle lover. His status was that of a small manufacturer, and she had been hopeful of marrying him solely because he had a certain amount of money.
“She certainly did not love him, yet she pretended that hers was a grande passion. Her plans to ensnare him with her blandishments went astray, however, so she fled from the gossip of the town and hurried to London intending to go on the stage, but, having met me, she changed her mind.
“She told me quite frankly that she was well pleased to have met me. I could see that the fact that I had a title delighted her immensely. Now, after this version, what do you think of her?”
“Well,” said the professor, with a cynical smile, “your version and hers are different, in truth.”
There was a moment of silence.
“My thoughts are dwelling on the fundamental senses,” resumed Lord Ewald. “How can this young creature, so wonderfully beautiful, be utterly unappreciative of herself. How can she ignore the divinity—the exquisite perfection—which her body represents?
“How can she fail to have lofty aspirations—high ideals? To her these wondrous things do not exist; she only forces herself, in a sort of shamefaced manner, to assume them.
“Her golden voice is only an empty instrument to her; she considers it merely as a means of livelihood to make use of when all other means have failed. The happiness that she could give to others with it means nothing to her.
“She so lacks a sense of shame that she delights in relating her unfortunate love affair to me. If she had a remnant of tact it should warn her that she is destroying all the sympathy’and admiration that I could have for her.
“This beauty that should be inspiring is so steeped in moral blindness that I am forced to renounce it. I cannot love a woman who has no soul.”
Lord Ewald paused abruptly.
The professor, however, blithely nodded his head as a sign for him to continue. The analysis of Miss deary’s character apparently gave the listener much pleasure.
“When Alicia is not speaking,” the young nobleman went on, “and her face is not wearing the expression which her empty, unprincipled remarks call forth, she is divine. Her wondrous beauty then gives the lie to all the base things that she has voiced.
“With a person who is very beautiful, but of ordinary perfection, I should not have this unexplainable sensation which Miss Cleary causes me? I would have known from the beginning— the quality of the lines, the texture of the skin, the coarseness of the hair, a movement, any of these tiny signs would have warned me of the hidden nature—and I should have recognized her identity with herself.
“But Alicia’s beauty is the Irreproachable, defying the most minute analysis. Exteriorly from head to feet, she is a veritable Venus Anadyomene; inside, the personality, the soul, is entirely foreign to the form.
“Imagine a commonplace goddess! I have come to the conclusion that all physiological laws were overthrown in this living, hybrid phenomenon.”
“My dear friend, you are certainly a poet,” declared the professor. “Disillusionment must have been indeed severe, since it forced you into the heights of poesy to describe the commonplace truth. Your words are as fantastic as the story of a grand opera.”
“Yes, my subtle confessor,” the young man agreed bitterly, “I know—I am a dreamer, but I have been well punished for my dreams.”
“But,” asked the professor, “how is it that you are still in love with her, if you are able to analyze her character so correctly?”
“The awakening from a dream does not always bring forgetfulness,” replied Lord Ewald, sadly. “Man is enchained with his own imagination. That is how it is in my case. I cannot break the tie now that I have awakened. My Delilah has cut my hair during my sleep.
“She does not know what attacks of rage and despair I have to control on her account. There are moments when I feel that I would like to kill her and then destroy myself.
“A mirage has enslaved me to this marvelous, living form with a dead soul. Alicia, to-day, represents for me simply the habit of a presence. I swear that it would be impossible for me to desire her.”
The professor started as if to speak, but hesitated as the disconsolate lover added:
“Yes, we exist together, but we are separated’ forever.”
Silence fell between the two men.
“Now, just a few questions,” said the professor finally. “Is Miss Cleary a stupid person?”
‘’ Certainly not,” declared Lord Ewald, smiling slightly. “There is no trace of that stupidity which is almost saintly. She is not stupid, she is just silly.”
“I understand,” said the scientist. “A little foolish, insipid. But she has talent, has she not?”
“Great heavens! I should say so!”exclaimed Lord Ewald. “She is a virtuoso—the direct and mortal enemy of genius and art, in consequence. Art has no bearing, you know, with the virtuoso, neither is genius related to talent.
“Her voice is wonderful, but she will never sing unless I beg her to do so. It bores her to sing, for she considers it only as a part of a profession—one might say, as work, for which she does not consider that she was made.”
“Well, the fact is,” said the professor, “one can’t make a horse run fast merely by the fact that it has been entered in a race. Only, it is positively remarkable to me that, in spite of the depth of this analysis of character, you do not perceive that this lady would be the feminine ideal for three-fourths of humanity.”
“But it is killing me,” said Lord Ewald.
Then, giving way to a boyish impulse, which until then he had controlled, he cried:
“Oh, who could put a Soul into that body!”