Part 1

THE DANCING FAUN

_Copyrighted in the United States_

_All rights reserved_

The Dancing Faun

by Florence Farr

London Elkin Mathews and John Lane

Roberts Brothers Boston

1894

Edinburgh: T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty

_Prefatory Note_

_Owing to circumstances which have arisen since this story was written in the summer of 1893, it seems necessary to state that it is purely a work of the imagination, and that none of the characters or events are taken from real life._

_Florence Farr._

[Illustration]

THE DANCING FAUN

‘Yes, Lady Geraldine, the only beauty in modern life is its falsehood. Its reality is ridiculous.’

‘Truth always was undignified, Mr. Travers.’

‘Just so; that is why the art of life consists in not realising the truth,’ replied the man, with charming languor.

‘You are the first person I have met who has dared put these things into words,’ murmured the woman.

‘Your life has been a dream hitherto.’

‘According to you, I had better not awake.’

‘One wants experience to give a wider scope to one’s dreams,’ said he paternally.

‘A woman’s imagination has no such needs.’

‘That depends. What are your favourite books?’

‘I dislike reading. In novels, people always do what you expect. The only tolerable people are those who do what you do not expect.’

‘And this is your first season!’

‘I have four elder sisters.’

‘Ah!--’ he paused, then he added, ‘one never realises how much women tell each other.’

‘No, in men’s eyes, women are always at daggers drawn, fighting for the exclusive possession of a masculine heart.’

‘Geraldine,’ cried her mother, from the other end of the drawing-room, ‘come and sing to us, my dear. Mr. Clausen has not heard your voice since your return from Paris.’

‘Have you made a serious study of singing, Lady Geraldine?’ asked Travers.

‘I had a course of lessons from Sautussi in the winter.’

‘Oh yes, Mr. Travers, indeed she has,’ broke in Lady Kirkdale as she crossed the room; ‘and I insisted on her singing at Sautussi’s reception, just the same as the other pupils. I think it is the greatest mistake to make distinctions of rank in matters of art. In art all are equal. There is something so beautiful in that thought.’ Lady Kirkdale pulled up the rose-coloured blind. ‘Will you open the piano, Mr. Travers? I am sure you are devoted to music, you have the musical physiognomy.’

‘Then I fear I have a very foolish physiognomy.’

‘Now, now, don’t be severe. Kirkdale tells me you are most delightfully severe, and say such witty things.’

‘Then Lord Kirkdale has done me an infinite wrong: to have the reputation of a wit precede him is the ruin of a man.’

‘I assure you, you are mistaken; most people are much too stupid to distinguish the qualities of wit; once establish a reputation, half the world takes you on trust, and considers the other half criticises you because it envies you.’

‘You give me hope, Lady Kirkdale.’

‘Mr. Travers, I am afraid you are a very, very bad man. Come, let us go to the piano.’

The Marchioness of Kirkdale had always been enterprising. She had the experience of life only given to those ladies whose husbands are thoroughly and brutally immoral: voluptuaries who have no foresight, who do not realise that it is sometimes amusing to talk to an innocent woman, when one is thoroughly bored by those who are not innocent.

Lady Kirkdale’s suspicions had been aroused by the violent friendship her young son had conceived for George Travers; and having her own theories about the education of young men, she at once invited her son’s crony to afternoon tea at the little house they occupied in Davies Street, Berkeley Square. ‘A man’s behaviour in a drawing-room is one of the tests you should always apply before you allow him to enjoy your confidence, Stephen,’ she had said.

‘A drawing-room is such an inconceivably uninteresting place,’ sighed Stephen.

‘That is the reason why, as a test, it is so invaluable; any commonly brilliant man can amuse men in a club, or women at the Continental; but it requires the most subtle quintessence of wit to penetrate the brain of the great world without shocking its susceptibilities; neither radical paradoxes nor coarse allusions can be brought into play there, without social ruin.’

‘Is social ruin possible nowadays?’

‘My dear Kirkdale!’

‘I gauge the public feeling of society by its attitude in public, and when I sit in a box at the theatre and see the stalls greet the passionate utterances of a ruined woman with a contemptuous smile, as if that sort of sentiment were quite out of date, I come to the conclusion that social ruin means nothing now.’

‘My poor Kirkdale, if you think society is represented in the stalls at a theatre, you are still more unsophisticated than I had dared hope. But you and Geraldine are always puzzling me. There is a persistence of innocence, I might almost say ignorance, of life about you both, which I cannot understand.’

Kirkdale laughed gaily. ‘The rule of contraries always does surprise people.’

Lady Kirkdale looked hard at her son; he smiled pleasantly; then she said, ‘You will never appreciate the difficulties of my position, Kirkdale.’

‘Yes, I do, mother, although I may be stupid about obvious truths everybody else appreciates at once; I have a sort of brain of my own concealed in my skull. Geraldine and I were both born old, and we’re growing young by degrees, don’t you see?’

‘My dear boy, what nonsense you talk!’

‘Every one must have a childhood some time or other on their own account. In our old home, when my father was alive, childhood was impossible. Let us enjoy it now.’

‘Enjoy it, certainly. But bring this new man to see me.’ Kirkdale agreed, and Lady Kirkdale sent a note to her old friend John Clausen asking him to come and meet Mr. Travers. John Clausen was a man of vast experience. He had never married, and romantic people told a romantic story of an early love ending tragically in eternal fidelity. He was a walking peerage and encyclopedia; he could tell you the cast of every theatrical success, and the scandals about all the ephemeral celebrities, that have come under the notice of society, and passed thence into the darkness of the outer world during the last forty years. As Lady Maisy Potter, one of Lady Kirkdale’s married daughters, said--

‘He is one of those charming observant people, who always listen to what you say, and notice what you wear.’

As he sat in Lady Kirkdale’s drawing-room on this particular hot June afternoon, he was both listening and observing. Lady Geraldine looked like a fair and sweet flower as she sang Gounod’s passionate love-song, _Ce que je suis sans toi_. She was a blonde, with tiny hands which melted in the touch as it were; they appeared to have no strength, no bone, they were so soft, so delicate. Yet now she was playing, you could see they were full of nervous tension; and her style had a certain vigour and distinction surprising to those who had only seen her in her idle moments. Mr. Clausen’s eyes wandered from her to the figure of George Travers: he was of light build, his face was clean shaven save for a moustache several shades lighter than his hair, his eyes were brown and rather close together, his nostrils delicate, and his chin well cut. There was a suggestion of cat-like agility about him, and good solid muscle at the corners of his mouth gave evidence that he was a man of endless resource. He stood behind Lady Geraldine, his hand resting on her brother’s shoulder. When the song was over, Travers said, ‘I should like to hear you singing to a mandolin on the lawn, down at my place at Old Windsor. Can you not persuade Lady Kirkdale to bring you down there one day? It is a charming old place, filled with quaint things I have collected from all parts of the world. I am sure it would interest you. What do you say, Stephen, will your mother and sister come with you and see me in my Arcadia?’

‘Certainly, old fellow. I didn’t know you had a place in the country.’

‘Oh, it is not a property, I simply lease it; but it is convenient to have a house of a certain size in which to store one’s collections. I am such a wanderer that I often forget I possess even this little _pied à terre_.’

‘I hear you have such exquisite taste in furnishing,’ said Lady Geraldine. ‘Lord Foreshot was telling me you had superintended the decoration of his chambers in the Albany, and that they are a perfect dream.’

‘I fear Lord Foreshot had some ulterior object in view.’

‘I don’t understand you, Mr. Travers.’

‘I am sure of that, quite sure of that,’ and Mr. Travers bestowed upon her a fatherly and forgiving smile. Then he advanced to Lady Kirkdale to bid her good-bye and invite her to make arrangements for the expedition to Old Windsor. A minute or two later they were joined by Kirkdale, who had remained behind talking to Geraldine. The details were arranged, and the expedition fixed for the following Wednesday by Mr. Travers, who said, ‘The middle of the week is always best; one can enjoy one’s-self in one’s own way without being disgusted by seeing too many other people enjoying themselves in theirs.’

He and Kirkdale left the house together.

‘My sister does not like you,’ said Kirkdale.

‘I am most fortunate.’

‘How so?’

‘The degrees in a woman’s favour are, interest, dislike; interest, hate; interest--well, I suppose I may say more interest.’

‘Why do you hesitate, old fellow?’

‘Lady Geraldine is a woman who wants a special language to express her. Unfortunately for me, I have not learned it yet.’

‘It would please her to hear that.’

‘Would it? Then tell her,’ and Travers gently stroked his moustache as they turned into Piccadilly.

Lady Geraldine left the drawing-room by one door as her brother and George Travers quitted it by the other. So that Lady Kirkdale and Mr. Clausen were left _tête-a-tête_. She turned to him and said, ‘What is your opinion of this man?’

‘He is the sort of danger Stephen is bound to encounter sooner or later. The sooner it is over the better; young men must be initiated personally into the mysteries of life, no mother can bear the tests for them.’

‘You are quite right there; but I could have wished the serpent of Stephen’s choice had taken another form.’

‘There I disagree with you; if you had had a free hand in the matter I don’t think you could have chosen better.’

Lady Geraldine re-entered; her mother made room for her beside her on the sofa, and said, ‘We were talking of Mr. Travers; what do you think of him?’

‘I dislike him, and told Stephen I did so; there is an uncomfortable feeling that you are walking on very thin ice when you are talking to him. I wish we had not arranged this visit to Old Windsor.’

‘Shall we write and put him off? We had other engagements for the day; I can easily make excuses.’

‘Oh no, we had better go. The country air will be pleasant in any case.’

‘And how are you getting through your first season, Lady Geraldine?’ said Mr. Clausen.

‘I feel as if I had been through it again and again before. It interested me at first; it was amusing to see my sisters’ old experiences renewing themselves as my turn came. But it is terrible to think that whether you are in it or not, the world goes on just the same: in another season, girls now in the schoolroom will be going through the mill exactly in the same way as I am doing. How one longs for something different!’

‘Yes we all have felt that. I believe it is the strongest passion of the human race to get at “something different”; it is the secret of all sin, the secret of all progress.’

‘And it is the function of society to suppress this tendency,’ said Lady Kirkdale. ‘It crystallises, I may say sanctifies, the present state of things. “Whatever is, is right” must be the ostensible motto of those who would retain their places in it. It is the solid edifice round which an empire is gathered.’

‘The solid centre of a very wobbling circumference,’ interrupted Mr. Clausen.

‘Mr. Travers was saying that the beautiful was only a veil to cover the ridiculous. It seems to me that in the same way the stupidity of society is concealed by hiding it behind very high walls,’ murmured Geraldine, as she leaned her head on the broad back of the Chesterfield sofa.

‘There you are wrong; those high walls contain everything. There is nothing without that is not within; the only difference is that people in society keep within bounds, others do not.’

‘That is a great deal to be thankful for,’ said Lady Kirkdale. ‘I once had to go down to Richmond by the last underground train from Hampstead on a Saturday night. I have had a good deal of experience, but never have I witnessed such a pandemonium. I would not enter one of those underground stations, when the rabble is at large, to save a hundred pounds.’

‘All vice loses its attraction when it is seen from the outside,’ said Mr. Clausen.

‘Has vice any attraction?’ asked Geraldine.

‘Not to the refined or cultivated pleasure-seeker, but the crude youngster often finds himself thoroughly enjoying the most vulgar vices: it is only after being repeatedly shocked at the appearance of other people when they are enjoying similar ecstasies that our cultivated perceptions render us incapable of revelling in the ridiculous.’

‘Ah, how true! nothing excites virtue so much as the spectacle of other people’s vices,’ said Lady Kirkdale.

‘It is the last rope thrown out by Providence to save us from our sins,’ replied Mr. Clausen.

‘How curious it would be,’ said Geraldine, ‘if the next Saviour of the world should be one who would bestow a universal sense of humour!’

‘But nobody is so ridiculous as a humorist,’ cried Lady Kirkdale.

‘One can forgive anything when it is done with deliberate intent,’ was Mr. Clausen’s rejoinder, ‘but other people’s instinctive emotions can never be forgiven, unless we happen to share them.’

‘So you think we might be redeemed by a humorist.’

‘He certainly should have a trial. Lady Geraldine, here is a chance for you--start in life as the high priestess of humour.’

‘I am not old enough, Mr. Clausen; I am afraid I have not worn out my instinctive emotions yet.’

‘Ah, well! when you have, you will know where to fly for refuge.’

Lady Kirkdale sighed, and said, ‘I suppose our most lasting delusion is that our experiences can be of service to others.’

‘It is not a delusion,’ replied Mr. Clausen warmly. ‘Experience teaches us through our own agony to sympathise with others. When they have passed through a like experience, we can help to heal their wounds; but we cannot prevent them fighting out the battle for themselves.’ He stopped suddenly, walked to the window, looked out, and said in a lighter tone to Geraldine, ‘And how are all your sisters?’

‘They are very well. Mary has just taken the new baby into the country, where her husband joins her as soon as the session is over. Emily is still working in the East End; she lectures at Toynbee Hall on Temperance next Friday. Gladys writes from the Embassy at Vienna that her life is wasted in writing official notes; and Maisy and her husband seem to have disappeared altogether ever since they were married; they were most ridiculously attached to each other, as no doubt you remember. All the while they were engaged, I was afraid of stirring about the house, and got into a habit of humming, coughing, and rattling door handles, which I have not overcome yet.’

‘And where were they when you last heard of them?’

‘Well, they remained in Egypt on their honeymoon, until it became too hot to hold them, and now they’ve taken refuge in a yacht.’

‘Dear! dear! dear! who would have thought so much romance was left in the world? How long have they been married?’

‘Six months.’

‘The other day I heard it said that the first six months of married life were the most miserable in a woman’s existence. Maisy would not agree with that.’

‘I suppose not; they utterly refused to return to London for the season, although mamma begged Maisy to come and take me about. Poor mamma, how tired you must be of chaperoning us!’

‘No, I am not. As age comes over one, one begins to take an interest in details quite incomprehensible to the young.’

The door opened, and the footman announced in a loud voice, ‘Mr. Potter and Lady Maisy Potter.’

‘Mamma!’

‘Maisy!’

‘Robert! Where have you come from?’

‘Landed at Portsmouth this morning. Thought we would take you by surprise.’

The reunited family settled itself into groups, more tea was ordered, and confidences exchanged.

Maisy, pert, pretty, and blooming with health, sat between her mother and sister on the sofa. Mr. Clausen and Robert foregathered at the other end of the room. Geraldine said, ‘Last time you wrote, you said nothing would induce you to return to England yet.’

‘That was all poor dear Robert; he begged and prayed me to stay out there with him, until I really had to threaten him.’

‘My dear Maisy!’

‘Yes, mamma, I positively had to threaten him that, if he persisted in staying I should come home alone.’

‘And that brought him round at once, of course,’ said Geraldine.

‘Oh yes, he can’t bear me to be out of his sight for a moment. People tell me his devotion positively makes him ridiculous.’

‘You don’t mind that, I suppose.’

‘Geraldine, what has come over you? What is the matter with her, mamma? Has she been crossed in love?’

‘My dear Maisy, why should you think so?’

‘There’s something so nasty, and hard, and cynical about her--positively there is, mamma; one always notices these changes when one first comes home more than people who are living in the house.’

‘I don’t expect you noticed me at all before you went away.’

‘Oh yes, I did; you were always most interested about my affairs, and anxious to know how Robert had behaved, and what he had said. And I know very well you never spoke in that tone then. You hurt my feelings, Geraldine. I’m not used to cynicism. Robert is so straightforward and manly, he never makes fun of me.’

‘I wasn’t making fun, I assure you; I think you the most enviable woman in the world; really I do.’

Maisy aggrievedly allowed herself to be kissed, and peace was restored. In the meantime, Mr. Clausen was discussing the subject of his return with Mr. Robert Potter. Clausen began by making the remark, that the last news had led him to believe that they had not proposed returning to England yet. Mr. Potter led Mr. Clausen into the recess of the window and said: ‘The truth is, my wife was most anxious to remain out there. Personally, I hate missing a season; it is like losing sight of a generation in the evolution of the race, one is always looking for the missing link; and the next year one is horribly out of it. However, I got my wife to believe that this was her own feeling, and after two months of delicate manœuvring, I induced her to persuade me to return to England.’

‘I congratulate you on your patience.’

‘A capacity for patience is the bulwark alike of the solid Englishman and of the British Constitution. The principle of the Government has always been to acknowledge such and such a move to be a good one, but to take no step in the matter until it is forced upon it from the outside. It endures. I shall endure. What is the use of having such a splendid public constitution if you do not model your own constitution upon it?’

Mr. Clausen laughed; Mr. Potter smiled. They turned away from the window and joined the ladies.

* * * * *

In a miserable little garret in a small street off the Strand, a young woman lay tossing and turning in her bed; sometimes a little moan escaped her, then she would bury her face in her pillow and break into passionate sobs. As it became light she got up and looked out of the window; she could see a wide expanse of roofs, and in the distant sky the thin lines of white light through the grey river mist. She shuddered at the cold, and crept into bed again. Just as she was falling asleep, a man in evening dress and a loose overcoat of the latest fashion softly entered the room, and she sprang up, saying--

‘O my George, my dear one, where have you been? I was terrified.’

‘My poor little child, all is well, don’t cry: there, there! I have done great things to-night, and if you are very careful our fortune’s made. To-morrow we go down to the place on the river Guaschaci has lent us; but my little wife will have to be very obedient, and do exactly what her husband tells her. Does she promise not to cry any more, and not to spoil her pretty eyes?’ He held her face between his hands, and kissed her on the mouth.

‘Yes, yes, George, anything. I will do anything you tell me, only promise me never to leave me again like this. It makes me so unhappy.’

‘My darling, I never will; but you should trust me.’

She threw her arms round his neck passionately, ‘I do, George, I do. God knows what will become of me if I ever lose that trust.’

‘My sweet love!’ and he sat down on the bed. ‘Now tell me. Do you remember the simple little cotton dress you wore when I first saw you on the stage, and when you stole my heart from me all at once, before I had time to realise my danger? Do you remember it?’

‘Yes, George, of course I do, of course I do.’

‘Well, what do you think I have in my head?’

‘I can’t think. O George! are you going to let me go back on the stage, and earn money to keep you out of this miserable poverty?’

‘Pooh! child, what would five pounds a week be to a man like me? That’s no good. No, now listen. In this world the only way to make money is to be supposed to have money. If I can really get the position which is mine by right, and from which my cursed ill-luck cut me off six years ago, when that affair about the duel with Prince Blank, I told you about, came out, the world will be at my feet: I shall be in a position which will be unassailable, because it will be founded on a rock. My exile has been useful to me in this way, it has enabled me to find out secrets which will be invaluable to me; secrets which will make me feared by the leaders of society.’

‘O George, but that sounds dreadful!’