Voltaire certainly threshed out the subject exhaustively, . . and I think Carlyle's address to him on the uselessness of his work is one of the finest of its kind. Do you remember it?"

Villiers shook his head in the negative, whereupon Alwyn rose, and glancing along an evidently well-remembered book-shelf, took from thence "Sartor Resartus"--and turned over the pages quickly.

"Here it is,"--and he read out the following pa.s.sage.. "'Cease, my much-respected Herr von Voltaire, . . shut thy sweet voice; for the task appointed thee seems finished. Sufficiently hast thou demonstrated this proposition, considerable or otherwise: That the Mythus of the Christian Religion looks not in the eighteenth century as it did in the eighth. Alas, were thy six-and-thirty quartos, and the six-and-thirty thousand other quartos and folios and flying sheets or reams, printed before and since on the same subject, all needed to convince us of so little! But what next? Wilt thou help us to embody the Divine Spirit of that Religion in a new Mythus, in a new vehicle and vesture, that our Souls, otherwise too like perishing, may live? What! thou hast no faculty in that kind? Only a torch for burning and no hammer for building? Take our thanks then--and thyself away!'"

Villiers smiled, and straightened himself in military fashion, as was his habit when particularly gratified.

"Excellent old Teufelsdrockh!" he murmured sotto-voce--"He had a rugged method of explaining himself, but it was decisive enough, in all conscience!"

"Decisive, and to the point,".. a.s.sented Alwyn, putting the book back in its place, and then confronting his friend.--"And he states precisely what is wanted by the world to-day,--wanted pressingly, eagerly, . . namely that the 'Divine Spirit' of the Christian Religion should be set forth in a 'new vehicle and vesture' to keep pace with the advancing inquiry and scientific research of man. And truly for this, it need only be expounded according to its old, pure, primal, spiritual intention, and then, the more science progresses the more true will it be proved. Christ distinctly claimed His Divinity, and everywhere gave manifestations of it. Of course it can be said that these manifestations rest on TESTIMONY,--and that the 'testimony' was drawn up afterward and is a spurious invention--but we have no more proof that it IS spurious than we have of [Footnote: See Chapter XIII.

"In Al-Kyris"--the allusion to "Oruzel."] Homer's Iliad being a compilation of several writers and not the work of a Homer at all.

Nothing--not even the events of the past week--can be safely rested on absolute, undiffering testimony, inasmuch as no two narrators tell the same story alike. But all the same we HAVE the Iliad,--it cannot be taken from us by any amount of argument, . . and we have the FRUITS of Christ's gospel, half obscured as it is, visible among us. Everywhere civilization of a high and aspiring order has followed Christianity even at the cost of blood and tears, ..slavery has been abolished, and women lifted from unspeakable degradation to honor and reverence,--and had men been more reasonable and self-controlled, the purifying work would have been done peacefully and without persecution. It was St.

Paul's preaching that upset all the beautiful, pristine simplicity of the faith,--it is very evident he had no 'calling or election' such as he pretended, . . I wonder Jeremy Bentham's conclusive book on the subject is not more universally known. Paul's sermonizing gave rise to a thousand different shades of opinion and argument,--and for a mere hair's-breadth of needless discussion, nation has fought against nation, and man against man, till the very name of religion has been made a ghastly mockery. That, however, is not the fault of Christianity, but the fault of those who PROFESS to follow it, like Paul, while merely following a scheme of their own personal advantage or convenience, . . and the result of it all is that at this very moment, there is not a church in Christendom where Christ's actual commands are really and to the letter fulfilled."

"Strong!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Villiers with a slight smile.. "Mustn't say that before a clergyman!"

"Why not?" demanded Alwyn.. "Why should not clerics be told, once and for all, how ill they perform their sacred mission? Look at the wilderness of spreading Atheism to-day! ... and look at the mult.i.tudes of men and women who are hungering and thirsting for a greater comprehension of spiritual things than they have hitherto had!--and yet the preachers trudge drowsily on in the old ruts they have made for themselves, and give neither sympathy nor heed to the increasing pain, feverish bewilderment, and positive WANT of those they profess to guide. Concerning science, too, what is the good of telling a toiling, more or less suffering race, that there are eighteen millions of suns in the Milky Way, and that viewed by the immensity of the Universe, man is nothing but a small, mean, and perishable insect? Humanity hears the statement with dull, perplexed brain, and its weight of sorrow is doubled,--it demands at once, why, if an insect, its insect life should BE at all, if nothing is to come of it but weariness and woe? The marvels of scientific discovery offer no solace to the huge Majority of the Afflicted, unless we point the lesson that the Soul of Man is destined to live through more than these wonders; and that the millions of planetary systems in the Milky Way are but the ALPHA BETA of the sublime Hereafter which is our natural heritage, if we will but set ourselves earnestly to win it. Moreover, we should not foolishly imagine that we are to lead good lives MERELY for the sake of some suggested reward or wages,--no,--but simply because in practising progressive good we are equalizing ourselves and placing ourselves in active working harmony with the whole progressive good of the Creator's plan. We have no more right to do a deliberately evil thing, than a musician has a right to spoil a melody by a false note on his instrument. Why should we willfully JAR G.o.d's music, of which we are a part? I tell you that religion, as taught to-day, is rather one of custom and fear than love and confidence,--men cower and propitiate, when they should be full of thankfulness and praise,--and as for any reserve on these matters, I have none,--in fact, I fail to see why truth, . . spiritual truth, . . should not be openly proclaimed now, even as it is sure to be proclaimed hereafter."

His manner had warmed with his words, and he lifted his head with an involuntary gesture of eloquent resolve, his eyes flashing splendid scorn for all things hypocritical and mean. Villiers looked at him, feeling curiously moved and impressed by his fervent earnestness.

"Well, I was right in one thing, at any rate, Alwyn"--he said softly..

"you ARE changed,--there's not a doubt about it! But it seems to me the change is distinctly for the better. It does my heart good to hear you speak with such distinct and manly emphasis on a subject, which, though it is one of the burning questions of the day, is too often treated irreverently, or altogether dismissed with a few sentences of languid banter or cheap sarcasm.

"As regards myself personally, I must say that a man without faith in anything but himself, has always seemed to me exactly in keeping with the description given of an atheist by Lady Ashburton to Carlyle,--namely 'a person who robs himself, not only of clothes, but of flesh as well, and walks about the world in his bones.' And, oddly enough in spite of all the controversies going on about Christianity, I have always really worshipped Christ in my heart of hearts, . . and yet.. I CAN'T go to church! I seem to lose the idea of Him altogether there: . . but".. and his frank face took upon itself a dreamy light of deep feeling--"there are times when, walking alone in the fields, or through a very quiet grove of trees, or on the sea-sh.o.r.e, I begin to think of His majestic life and death, and the immense, unfailing sympathy He showed for every sort of human suffering, and then I can really believe in him as Divine friend, comrade, Teacher, and King, and I am scarcely able to decide which is the deepest emotion in my mind toward Him--love, or reverence."

He paused,--Alwyn's eyes rested upon him with a quick, comprehensive friendliness,--in one exchange of looks the two men became mutually aware of the strong undercurrents of thought that lay beneath each other's individual surface history, and that perhaps had never been so clearly recognized before,--and a kind of swift, speechless, satisfactory agreement between their two separate natures seemed suddenly drawn up, ratified, and sealed in a glance.

"I have often thought," continued Villiers more lightly, and smiling as he spoke--"that we are all angels or devils,--angels in our best moments, devils in our worst. If we could only keep the best moments always uppermost! 'Ah, poor deluded human nature!' as old Moxall says,--while in the same breath he contradicts himself by a.s.serting that human Reason is the only infallible means of ascertaining anything! How it can be 'deluded' and 'infallible' at the same time, I can't quite understand! But, Alwyn, you haven't told me how you like the 'get-up' of your book?"

And he handed the volume in question to its author, who turned it over with the most curious air of careless recognition--in his fancy he again saw Zabastes writing each line of it down to Sah-luma's dictation!

"It's very well printed"--he said at last,--"and very tastefully bound.

You have superintended the work con amore, Villiers, . . and I am as obliged to you as friendship will let me be. You know what that means?"

"It means no obligation at all"--declared Villiers gayly.. "because friends who are the least worthy the name take delight in furthering each other's interests and have no need to be thanked for doing what is particularly agreeable to them. You really like the appearance of it, then? But you've got the sixth edition. This is the first."

And he took up from a side-table a quaint small quarto, bound is a very superb imitation of old embossed leather, which Alwyn, beholding, was at once struck by the resemblance it bore to the elaborate designs that had adorned the covers of the papyrus volumes possessed by his Shadow-Self, Sahluma!

"This is very sumptuous!" he said with a dreamy smile--"It looks quite antique!"

"Doesn't it!" exclaimed Villiers, delighted--"I had it copied from a first edition of Petrarca which happens to be in my collection. This specimen of 'Nourhalma' has become valuable and unique. It was published at ten-and-six, and can't be got anywhere under five or six guineas, if for that. Of course a copy of each edition has been set aside for YOU."

Alwyn laid down the book with a gentle indifference.

"My dear fellow, I've had enough of 'Nourhalma,'" ... he said ... "I'll keep a copy of the first edition, if only as a souvenir of your good-will and energy in bringing it out so admirably--but for the rest!

... the book belongs to me no more, but to the public,--and so let the public do with it what they will!"

Villiers raised his eyebrows perplexedly.

"I believe, after all, Alwyn, you don't really care for your fame!"

"Not in the least!" replied Alwyn, laughing. "Why should I?"

"You longed for it once as the utmost good!"

"True!--but there are other utmost goods, my friend, that I desire more keenly."

"But are they attainable?"--queried Villiers. "Men, and specially poets, often hanker after what is not possible to secure."

"Granted!" responded Alwyn cheerfully--"But I do not crave for the impossible. I only seek to recover what I have lost."

"And that is?"

"What most men have lost, or are insanely doing their best to lose"--said Alwyn meditatively.. "A grasp of things eternal, through the veil of things temporal."

There was a short silence, during which Villiers eyed his friend wistfully.

"What was that 'adventure' you spoke about in your letter from the Monastery on the Pa.s.s of Dariel?" he asked after a while--"You said you were on the search for a new sensation-did you experience it?"

Alwyn smiled. "I certainly DID!"

"Did it arise from a contemplation of the site of the Ruins of Babylon?"

"Not exactly. Babylon,--or rather the earth-mounds which are now called Babylon,--had very little to do with it."

"Don't you want to tell me about it?" demanded Tilliers abruptly.

"Not just yet"--answered Alwyn, with good-humored frankness,--"Not to-night, at any rate! But I WILL tell you, never fear! For the present we've talked enough, . . don't you think bed suggests itself as a fitting conclusion to our converse?"

Villiers laughed and acquiesced, and after pressing his friend to partake of something in the way of supper, which refreshment was declined, he preceded him to a small, pleasantly cosy room,--his "guest-chamber" as he called it, but which was really almost exclusively set apart for Alwyn's use alone, and was always in readiness for him whenever he chose to occupy it. Turning on the pretty electric lamp that lit the whole apartment with a soft and shaded l.u.s.tre, Villiers shook hands heartily with his old school-fellow and favorite comrade, and bidding him a brief but cordial good-night left him to repose.

As soon as he was alone Alwyn took out from his breast pocket a small velvet letter-case, from which he gently drew forth a slightly pressed but unfaded white flower. Setting this in a gla.s.s of water he placed it near his bed, and watched it for a moment. Delicately and gradually its pressed petals expanded, . . its golden corolla brightened in hue, . .

a subtle, sweet odor permeated the air, . . and soon the angelic "immortelle" of the Field of Ardath shone wondrously as a white star in the quiet room. And when the lamp was extinguished and the poet slept, that strange, fair blossom seemed to watch him like a soft, luminous eye in the darkness,--a symbol of things divine and lasting,--a token of far and brilliant worlds where even flowers cannot fade!

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

REALISM.

At the end of about a week or so, it became very generally known among the mystic "Upper Ten" of artistic and literary circles, that Theos Alwyn, the famous author of "Nourhalma" was, to put it fashionably, "in town." According to the cla.s.sic phrasing of a leading society journal, "Mr. Theos Alwyn, the poet, whom some of our contemporaries erroneously reported as dead, has arrived in London from his tour in the East. He is for the present a guest of the Honorable Francis Villiers." The consequence of this and other similar announcements was, that the postman seemed never to be away from Villiers's door; and every time he came he was laden with letters and cards of invitation, addressed, for the most part, to Villiers himself, who, with something of dismay, saw his study table getting gradually covered with acc.u.mulating piles of society litter, such as is comprised in the various formal notifications of dinners, dances, b.a.l.l.s, soirees, "at homes," and all the divers sorts of entertainment with which the English "s'amusent moult tristement." Some of these invitations, less ceremonious, were in form of pretty little notes from great ladies, who entreated their "DEAR Mr. Villiers" to give them the "EXTREME honor and pleasure" of his company at certain select and extra brilliant receptions where Royalty itself would be represented, adding, as an earnest postscript--"and DO bring the LION, you know, your VERY interesting friend, Mr. Alwyn, with you!"--A good many such billets-doux were addressed to Alwyn personally, and as he opened and read them he was somewhat amused to see how many who had formerly been mere bowing acquaintances were now suddenly, almost magically, transformed into apparently eager, admiring, and devoted friends.

"One would think these people really liked me for myself,"--he said one morning, tossing aside a particularly gushing, pressing note from a lady who was celebrated for the motley crowds she managed to squeeze into her rooms, regardless of any one's comfort or convenience,--"And yet, as the matter stands, they actually know nothing of me. I might be a villain of the deepest dye, a kickable cad, or a coa.r.s.e ruffian, but so long as I have written a 'successful' book and am a 'somebody'--a literary 'notable'--what matter my tastes, my morals, or my disposition! If this sort of thing is Fame, all I can say is, that it savors of very detestable vulgarity!"

"Of course it does!"--a.s.sented Villiers-"But what else do you expect from modern society? ... What CAN you expect from a community which is chiefly ruled by moneyed parvenus, BUT vulgarity? If you go to this woman's place, for instance"--and he glanced at the note Alwyn had thrown on the table,--"you will share the honors of the evening with the famous man-milliner of Bond Street, an 'artist' in gowns, the female upholsterer and house decorator, likewise an 'artist,'--the ladies who 'compose' sonnets in Regent Street, also 'artists,--' and chiefest among the motley crowd, perhaps, the so-called new 'Apostle'

of aestheticism, a ponderous gentleman who says nothing and does nothing, and who, by reason of his stupendous inertia and taciturnity, is considered the greatest 'gun' of all! ... it's no use YOUR going among such people,--in fact, no one who has any reverence left in him for the TRUTH of Art CAN mix with those whose profession of it is a mere trade and hypocritical sham. Such dunderheads would see no artistic difference between Phidias and the man of to-day who hews out and sets up a common marble mantel-piece! I'm not a fellow to moan over the 'good old times,'--no, not a bit of it, for those good old times had much in them that was decidedly bad,--but I wish progress would not rob us altogether of refinement."