CHAPTER XVIII
The strange spirit of complete indifference, and the attitude of finding nothing, apparently, worth the trouble of thinking about, stood Diana in such good stead, that she found no unpleasantness or restriction in being more or less a prisoner in her own rooms on her return to the Château Fragonard. The lovely house was thrown open to the usual callers and neighbours,—people came and went,—the gardens, glorious now with a wealth of blossom, were the favourite resort of many visitors to Madame Dimitrius and her son,—and Diana, looking from her prettysalonthrough one of the windows which had so deep an embrasure that she could see everything without any fear of herself being discovered, often watched groups of men and smartly attired women strolling over the velvety lawns or down the carefully kept paths among the flowers, though always with a curious lack of interest. They seemed to have no connection with her own existence. True to his promise, Dr. Dimitrius came every day to take her out when no other persons were in the house or grounds,—and these walks were a vague source of pleasure to her, though she felt she would have been happier and more at ease had she been allowed to take them quite alone. Madame Dimitrius was unwearying in her affectionate regard and attention, and always spent the greater part of each day with her, displaying a tenderness and consideration for her which six months previously would have moved her to passionate gratitude, but which now only stirred in her mind a faint sense of surprise. All her sensations were as of one, who, by some mysterious means, had been removed from the comprehension of human contact,—though her intimacy with what the world is pleased to consider the non-reasoning things of creation had become keenly intensified, and more closely sympathetic.
There was unconcealed disappointment among the few, who, during the past autumn, had met her at the Château, when they were told she had gone back to England. Baroness de Rousillon was, in particular, much annoyed, for she had made a compact with the Marchese Farnese to enter into close and friendly relations with Diana, and to find out from her, if at all possible, the sort of work which went on in the huge domed laboratory wherein Dimitrius appeared to pass so much of his time. Farnese himself said little of his vexation,—but he left Geneva almost immediately on hearing the news, and without informing Dimitrius of his intention, went straight to London, resolved to probe what he considered a “mystery” to its centre. As for Professor Chauvet, no words could describe his surprise and deep chagrin at Diana’s departure; he could not bring himself to believe that she had left Geneva without saying good-bye to him. So troubled and perplexed was he, that with his usual bluntness he made a clean confession to Dimitrius of his proposal of marriage. Dimitrius heard him with grave patience and a slight, supercilious uplifting of his dark eyebrows.
“I imagined as much!” he said, coldly, when he had heard all. “But Miss May is not young, and I should have thought she would have been glad of the chance of marriage you offered her. Did she give you any hope?”
Chauvet looked doubtfully reflective.
“She did and she didn’t,” he at last answered, rather ruefully. “And yet—she’s not capricious—and I trust her. As you say, she’s not young,—good heavens, what a heap of nonsense is talked about ‘young’ women!—frequently the most useless and stupid creatures!—only thinking of themselves from morning till night!—Miss May is a fine, intelligent creature—I should like to pass the few remaining years of my life in her company.”
Dimitrius glanced him over with an air of disdainful compassion.
“I dare say she’ll write to you,” he said. “She’s the kind of woman who might prefer to settle that sort of thing by letter.”
“Can you give me her address?” at once asked the Professor, eagerly.
“Not at the moment,” replied Dimitrius, composedly. “She has no fixed abode at present,—she’s travelling with friends. As soon as I hear from her, I will let you know!”
Chauvet, though always a trifle suspicious of other men’s meanings, was disarmed by the open frankness with which this promise was given, and though more or less uneasy in his own mind, allowed the matter to drop. Dimitrius was unkindly amused at his discomfiture.
“Imagine it!” he thought—“That exquisite creation of mine wedded to so unsatisfactory a product of ill-assorted elements!”
Meanwhile, Diana, imprisoned in her luxurious suite of rooms, had nothing to complain of. She read many books, practised her music, worked at her tapestry, and last, not least, studied herself. She had begun to be worth studying. Looking in her mirror, she saw a loveliness delicate and well-nigh unearthly, bathing her in its growing lustre as in a mysteriously brilliant atmosphere. Her eyes shone with a melting lustre like the eyes of a child appealing to be told some strange sweet fairy legend,—her complexion was so fair as to be almost dazzling, the pure ivory white of her skin showing soft flushes of pale rose with the healthful pulsing of her blood—her lips were of a dewy crimson tint such as one might see on a red flower-bud newly opened,—and as she gazed at herself and reluctantly smiled at her own reflection, she had the curious impression that she was seeing the picture of somebody else in the glass,—somebody else who was young and enchantingly pretty, while she herself remained plain and elderly. And yet this was not the right view to take of her own personality, for apart altogether from her outward appearance she was conscious of a new vitality,—an abounding ecstasy of life,—a joy and strength which were well-nigh incomprehensible,—for though these sensations dominated every fibre of her being, they were not, as formerly, connected with any positive human interest. For one thing, she scarcely thought of Dimitrius at all, except that she had come to regard him as a sort of extraneous being—an upper servant told off to wait upon her after the fashion of Vasho,—and when she went out with him, she went merely because she needed the fresh air and loved the open skies, not because she cared for his company, for she hardly spoke to him. Her strange behaviour completely puzzled him, but his deepening anxiety for the ultimate success of his “experiment” deterred him from pressing her too far with questions.
One evening during the first week in June, when the moon was showing a half crescent in the sky, a light wind ruffled the hundreds of roses on bush and stem that made the gardens fragrant, he went to her rooms to propose a sail on the lake. He heard her playing the piano,—the music she drew from the keys was wild and beautiful and new,—but as he entered, she stopped abruptly and rose at once, her eyes glancing him over carelessly as though he were more of an insect than a man. He paused, hesitating.
“You want me?” she asked.
“For your own pleasure,—at least, I hope so!” he replied, almost humbly. “It’s such a beautiful evening—would you come for a sail on the lake? The wind is just right for it and the boat is ready.”
She made no reply, but at once threw a white serge cloak across her shoulders, pulling its silk-lined hood over her head, and accompanied him along a private passage which led from the upper floor of the house to the garden.
“You like the idea?” he said, looking at her somewhat appealingly. She lifted her eyes—bright and cold as stars on a frosty night.
“What idea?”
“This little trip on the lake?”
“Certainly,” she answered. “It has been very warm all day—it will be cool on the water.”
Dimitrius bethought himself of one of the teachings of the Rosicrucians: “Whoso is indifferent obtains all good. The more indifferent you are, the purer you are, for to the indifferent, all things areOne!”
Some unusual influence there was radiating from her presence like a fine air filled with suggestions of snow. It was cold, yet bracing, and he drew a long breath as of a man who had scaled some perilous mountain height and now found himself in a new atmosphere. She walked beside him with a light swiftness that was almost aerial—his own movements seemed to him by comparison abnormally heavy and clumsy. Seeking about in his mind for some ordinary subject on which to hang a conversation, he could find nothing. His wits had become as clumsy as his feet. Pushing her hood a little aside, she looked at him.
“You had a garden-party to-day?” she queried.
“Yes,—if a few people to tea in the gardens is a garden-party,” he answered.
“That’s what it is usually called,” said Diana, carelessly. “They are generally very dull affairs. I thought so, when I watched your guests from my window—they did not seem amused.”
“You cannot amuse people if they have no sense of amusement,” he rejoined. “Nor can you interest them if they have no brains. They walked among miracles of beauty—I mean the roses and other flowers—without looking at them; the sunset over the Alpine range was gorgeous, but they never saw it—their objective was food—that is to say, tea, coffee, cakes and ices—anything to put down the ever open maw of appetite. What would you? They are as they are made!”
She offered no comment.
“And you,” he continued in a voice that grew suddenly eager and impassioned—“You are as you are made!—asIhave made you!”
She let her hood fall back and turned her face fully upon him. Its fairness, with the moonlight illumining it, was of spiritual delicacy, and yet there was something austere in it as in the face of a sculptured angel.
“AsIhave made you!” he repeated, with triumphant emphasis. “The majority of men and women are governed chiefly by two passions, Appetite and Sex. You have neither Appetite nor Sex,—therefore you are on a higher plane——”
“Than yours?” she asked.
The question stung him a little, but he answered at once:
“Possibly!”
She smiled,—a little cold smile like the flicker of a sun-ray on ice. They had arrived at the border of the lake, and a boat with the picturesque lateen sail of Geneva awaited them with Vasho in charge. Diana stepped in and seated herself among a pile of cushions arranged for her comfort,—Dimitrius took the helm, and Vasho settled himself down to the management of the ropes. The graceful craft was soon skimming easily along the water with a fair light wind, and Diana in a half-reclining attitude, looking up at the splendid sky, found herself wishing that she could sail on thus, away from all things present to all things future! All things past seemed so long past!—she scarcely thought of them,—and “all things future”?—What would they be?
Dimitrius, seated close beside her at the stern, suddenly addressed her in a low, cautious tone.
“You know that this is the first week in June?”
“Yes.”
“Your time is drawing very near,” he went on. “On the evening of the twentieth you will come to me in the laboratory. And you will be ready—for anything!”
She heard him, apparently uninterested, her face still upturned to the stars.
“For anything!” she repeated dreamily—“For an End, or a new Beginning! Yes,—I quite understand. I shall be ready.”
“Without hesitation or fear?”
“Have I shown either?”
He ventured to touch the small hand that lay passively outside the folds of her cloak.
“No,—you have been brave, docile, patient, obedient,” he answered. “All four things rare qualities in a woman!—or so men say! You would have made a good wife, only your husband would have crushed you!”
She smiled.
“I quite agree. But what crowds of women have been so ‘crushed’ since the world began!”
“They have been useful as the mothers of the race,” said Dimitrius.
“The mothers of what race?” she asked.
“The human race, of course!”
“Yes, but which section of it?” she persisted, with a cold little laugh. “For instance,—the mothers of the Assyrian race seem to have rather wasted their energies! What has become ofthatrace which they bore, bred and fostered? Where is the glory of those past peoples? What was the use of them? They have left nothing but burnt bricks and doubtful records!”
“True!—but Destiny has strange methods, and their existence may have been necessary.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I fail to see it!” she said. “To me it all seems waste—wanton, wicked waste. Man lives in some wrong, mistaken way—the real joy of life must be to dwell on earth like a ray of light, warming and fructifying all things unconsciously—coming from the sun and returning again to the sun, never losing a moment of perfect splendour!”
“But, to have no consciousness is death,” said Dimitrius. “A ray of light is indifferent to joy. Consciousness with intelligence makes happiness.”
She was silent.
“You are well?” he asked, gently.
“Perfectly!”
“And happy?”
“I suppose so.”
“You cannot do more than suppose? People will hardly understand you if you can only ‘suppose’ you are happy!”
She flashed a look upon him of disdain which he felt rather than saw.
“Do I expect people to understand me?” she demanded. “Do I wish them to do so? I am as indifferent to ‘people’ and their opinions as you are!”
“That is saying a great deal!” he rejoined. “But,—I am a man—you are a woman. Women must study conventions——”
“I need not,” she interrupted him. “Nor should you speak of my sex, since you yourself say I am sexless.”
He was silent. She had given him a straight answer. Some words of a great scientist from whom he had gained much of his own knowledge came back to his memory:
“To attain true and lasting life, all passions must be subjugated,—all animosities of nature destroyed. Attraction draws, not only its own to itself, but the aura or spirit of other things which it appropriates so far as it is able. And this appropriation or fusion of elements is either life-giving or destructive.”
He repeated the words “This appropriation or fusion of elements is either life-giving or destructive”—to himself, finding a new force in their meaning and application.
“Diana,” he said, presently, “I am beginning to find you rather a difficult puzzle!”
“I have found myself so for some time,” she answered. “But it does not matter. Nothing really matters.”
“Nothing?” he queried. “Not even love? That used to be a great matter with you!”
She laughed, coldly.
“Love is a delusion,” she said. “And no doubt I ‘used’ to think the delusion a reality. I know better now.”
He turned the helm about, and their boat began to run homeward, its lateen sail glistening like the uplifted wing of a sea-gull. Above them, the snowy Alpine range showed white as the tips of frozen waves—beneath, the water rippled blue-black, breaking now and again into streaks of silver.
“I’m afraid you have imbibed some of my cynicism,” he said, slowly. “It is, perhaps, a pity! For now, when you have come to think love a ‘delusion,’ you will be greatly loved! It is always the way! If you have nothing to give to men, it is then they clamour for everything!”
He looked at her as he spoke and saw her smile—a cruel little smile.
“You are lovely now,” he went on, “and you will be lovelier. For all I can tell, you may attain an almost maddening beauty. And a sexless beauty is like that of a goddess,—slaying its votaries as with lightning. Supposing this to be so with you, you should learn to love!—if only out of pity for those whom your indifference might destroy!”
She raised herself on her elbow and looked at him curiously. The moonlight showed his dark, inscrutable face, and the glitter of the steely eyes under the black lashes, and there was a shadow of melancholy upon his features.
“You forget!” she said—“You forget that I am old! I am not really young in the sense you expect me to be. I know myself. Deep in my brain the marks of lonely years and griefs are imprinted—of disappointed hopes, and cruelties inflicted on me for no other cause than too much love and constancy—those marks are ineffaceable! So it happens that beneath the covering of youth which your science gives me, and under the mark of this outward loveliness, I, the same Diana, live with a world’s experience, as one in prison,—knowing that whatever admiration or liking I may awaken, it is for my outward seeming, not for my real self! And you can talk of love! Love is a divinity of the soul, not of the body!”
“And how many human beings have ‘soul,’ do you think?” he queried, ironically. “Not one in ten million!”
The boat ran in to shore and they landed. Diana looked back wistfully at the rippling light on the water.
“It was a beautiful sail!” she said, more naturally than she had expressed herself for many days. “Thank you for taking me!”
She smiled frankly up into his eyes as she spoke, and her spiritualised loveliness thrilled him with sudden surprise.
“It is I who must thank you for coming,” he answered, very gently. “I know how keenly you are now attuned to Nature—you have the light of the sun in your blood and force of the air in your veins, and whether you admit it or not, you enjoy your life without consciousness of joy! Strange!—but true!—yet—Diana—believe me, I want you to be happy!—not only to ‘suppose’ yourself happy! Your whole being must radiate like the sunlight, of which it is now in part composed.”
She made no reply, but walked in her floating, graceful way beside him to the house, where he took her to the door of her own apartments, and there left her with a kindly “good-night.”
“I shall not see very much of you now till the evening of the twentieth,” he said. “And then I hope you will not only pray for yourself, but—for me!”