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3

The door opened. I could just perceive a tall shadowy figure standing on the threshold. I heard my landlady’s introductory words “A gentleman to see you sir,” words that were quickly interrupted by a murmur of dismay at finding the room in total darkness.

“Well to be sure! The lamp must have gone out!” she exclaimed, then addressing the personage she had ushered thus far, she added, “I’m afraid Mr Tempest isn’t in after all, sir, though I certainly saw him about half-an-hour ago. If you don’t mind waiting here a minute I’ll fetch a light and see if he has left any message on his table.”

The tall stranger advanced a pace or two, and a rich voice with a ring of ironical amusement in it called me by my name,

“Geoffrey Tempest, are you there?”

Why could I not answer? The strangest and most unnatural obstinacy stiffened my tongue. The majestic figure drew nearer, and once again the voice called,

“Geoffrey Tempest, are you there?”

I could hold out no longer, and like a coward, I came forward boldly to confront my visitor.

“Yes, I am here,” I said. “I am ashamed to meet you here. You are Prince Rimanez of course. I have just read your note which prepared me for your visit, but I was hoping that my landlady would conclude I was out, and show you downstairs again. You see I am perfectly frank!”

“You are indeed!” returned the stranger. “So frank that I cannot fail to understand you. You resent my visit this evening and wish I had not come!”

I made haste to deny it, though I knew it to be true. Truth, even in trifles, always seems unpleasant!

“Pray do not think me so churlish,” I said. “The fact is, I only opened your letter a few minutes ago, and before I could make any arrangements to receive you, the lamp went out. I am forced to greet you in this darkness, which is almost too dense to shake hands in.”

“Shall we try?” my visitor enquired. “Here is my hand!”

I at once extended my hand, and it was instantly clasped in a warm and somewhat masterful manner. At that moment a light flashed on the scene. My landlady entered, bearing ‘her best lamp’. She set it on the table. I believe she uttered some exclamation of surprise at seeing me, I did not hear, so entirely was I amazed and fascinated by the appearance of the man whose long slender hand still held mine. I am myself an average good height, but he was fully half a head taller than I, if not more than that. As I looked straightly at him, I thought I had never seen so much beauty and intellectuality combined in the outward personality of any human being. The finely shaped head denoted both power and wisdom, and was nobly poised on his shoulders. The countenance was a pure oval, and singularly pale. He had dark eyes, which had a curious and wonderfully attractive look of mingled mirth and misery. The mouth was firm, determined, and not too small. I felt as if I had known him all my life! And now face to face with him, I remembered my actual surroundings, – the bare cold room, the lack of fire, the black soot that sprinkled the carpetless floor, my own shabby clothes. He regarded me, smiling.

“I know I have come at an awkward moment,” he said. “I always do! It is my peculiar misfortune. Well-bred people never intrude where they are not wanted. I’m afraid my mannersleave much to be desired¹⁰. Try to forgive me if you can, for the sake of this,” – and he held out a letter addressed to me in my friend Carrington’s familiar handwriting. “And permit me to sit down while you read my credentials.”

He took a chair and seated himself. I observed his handsome face and easy attitude with renewed admiration.

“No credentials are necessary,” I said with all the cordiality I now really felt. “I have already had a letter from Carrington in which he speaks of you in the highest and most grateful terms. But the fact is – well! – really, prince, you must excuse me if I seem confused or astonished. I had expected to see quite an old man…”

“No one is old, my dear sir, nowadays!” he declared lightly, “even the grandmothers and grandfathers are friskier at fifty than they were at fifteen. One does not talk of age at all now in polite society, it is ill-bred, even coarse. Indecent things are unmentionable – age has become an indecent thing. You expected to see an old man you say? Well, you are not disappointed – I am old. In fact you have no idea how very old I am!”

I laughed at this piece of absurdity.

“Why, you are younger than I,” I said, “or if not, you look like it.”

“Ah, my looks belie me!” he returned gaily, “I am like several of the most noted fashionable beauties, – much riper than I seem. But read the introductory missive I have brought you.”

I at once opened my friend’s note and read as follows,

Dear Geoffrey.

The bearer of this, Prince Rimanez, is a very distinguished scholar and gentleman, allied by descent to one of the oldest families in Europe, or for that matter, in the world. His ancestors were originally princes of Chaldea, who afterwards settled in Tyre. From thence they went to Etruria and there continued through many centuries. Certain troublous and overpowering circumstances have forced him into exile from his native province, and deprived him of a great part of his possessions. He has travelled far and seen much, and has a wide experience of men and things. He is a poet and musician of great skill, and though he occupies himself with the arts solely for his own amusement, I think you will find his practical knowledge of literary matters useful to you in your difficult career. In all matters scientific he is an absolute master.

Wishing you both a cordial friendship,

I am, dear Geoffrey,

Yours sincerely

John Carrington.

I glanced furtively at my silent companion. He caught my stray look and returned it with a curiously grave fixity. I spoke,

“This letter, prince, adds to my shame and regret that I should have greeted you in so churlish a manner this evening. No apology can condone my rudeness, but you cannot imagine how mortified I felt and still feel, to be compelled to receive you in this miserable den.”

The prince waived aside my remarks with a light gesture of his hand.

“Why be mortified?” he demanded. “Rather be proud that you can dispense with the vulgar appurtenances of luxury. Genius thrives in a garret and dies in a palace. Is not that the generally accepted theory?”

“Rather a mistaken one I consider,” I replied. “Genius usually dies of starvation.”

“True! But there is an all-wise Providence in this, my dear sir! Schubert perished of want, but see what large profits all the music-publishers have made since out of his compositions! Honest folk should be sacrificed in order to provide for the sustenance of knaves!”

He laughed, and I looked at him in a little surprise.

“You speak sarcastically of course?” I said. “You do not really believe what you say?”

“Oh, do I not!” he returned, with a flash of his fine eyes. “I always realize the proverb ‘needs must when the devil drives¹¹.’ The devil drives the world, whip in hand, and oddly enough, succeeds!”

His brow clouded and the bitter lines about his mouth deepened and hardened. Anon he laughed again lightly and continued,

“But let us not moralize. Morals sicken the soul both in church and out of it. Every sensible man hates to be told what he could be and what he won’t be. I am here to make friends with you if you permit. To put an end to ceremony, will you accompany me back to my hotel where I have ordered supper?”

By this time I had become indescribably fascinated by his easy manner, handsome presence and mellifluous voice. The satirical turn of his humour suited mine. My first annoyance abated.

“With pleasure!” I replied. “But first of all, you must allow me to explain matters a little. You have heard about my affairs from my friend John Carrington. I know from his private letter to me that you have come here out of pure kindness and goodwill. For that generous intention I thank you! I know you expected to find a poor wretch of a literary man. A couple of hours ago you would have amply fulfilled that expectation. But now, things have changed. I have received news which completely alters my position. I got a letter…”

“An agreeable one I trust?” interposed my companion suavely.

I smiled.

“Judge for yourself!”

I handed him the lawyer’s letter which informed me of my suddenly acquired fortune.

He glanced it through rapidly, then folded and returned it to me with a courteous bow.

“I suppose I should congratulate you,” he said. “And I do. Though of course this wealth which seems to content you, to me appears a mere trifle. It can be exhausted in about eight years or less. To be rich, really rich, one should have about a million a year. Then one might reasonably hope to escape the workhouse!”

He laughed, and I stared at him stupidly, not knowing how to take his words, whether as truth or idle boasting. Five millions of money a mere trifle! He went on,

“The inexhaustible greed of a man, my dear sir, can never be satisfied. If he gets one thing, he wants another, and his tastes are generally expensive. A few pretty and unscrupulous women for example, will soon relieve you of your five millions. Horse-racing will do it still more quickly. No, no, you are not rich, you are still poor, only your needs are no longer so pressing as they were.”

He broke off and raised his head,

“What is that?” he asked.

It was the violinist next door playing a well-known “Ave Maria.” I told him so.

“Dismal, very dismal!” he said with a contemptuous shrug. “I hate all that kind of mawkish devotional stuff. Well, Mr. Millionaire! There is no objection, I hope, to the proposed supper? What do you say?”

He clapped me on the shoulder cordially and looked straight into my face. Those wonderful eyes of his completely dominated me. I made no attempt to resist the singular attraction which now possessed me for this man whom I had but just met. Only for one moment more I hesitated, looking down at my shabby attire.

“I am not fit to accompany you, prince,” I said. “I look more like a tramp than a millionaire.”

He glanced at me and smiled.

“Upon my word you do!” he averred. “But be satisfied! It is only the poor and proud who dress well. An ugly coat often adorns the back of a Prime Minister!”

He rose.

“Why think of the coat if the purse is full!” he continued gaily. “Now come along. I want you to do justice to my supper. I have my own chef with me, and he is not without skill. I hope, by the way, you will let me be your banker?”

This offer was made with such an air of courteous delicacy and friendship, that I accepted it gratefully, as it relieved me from all temporary embarrassment. I hastily wrote a few lines to my landlady, telling her she would receive the money owing to her by post next day. I extinguished the lamp, and with the new friend I left my dismal lodgings and all its miserable associations for ever. I went joyfully out of the dreary house where I had lived so long among disappointments and difficulties. The last thing I heard as I passed into the street with my companion, was a plaintive wail of minor melody by the unknown and invisible player of the violin.

4

Outside the prince’s carriage waited, drawn by two spirited black horses caparisoned in silver. We stepped in. As I sank back among the easy cushions, I felt the complacent consciousness of luxury and power. My brain was in a whirl, my thoughts were all dim and disconnected. I was in some whimsical dream from which I should wake up directly.

The carriage rolled on and made no noise as it went, one could only hear the even rapid trot of the horses. By-and-by I saw in the semi-darkness my new friend’s brilliant dark eyes fixed upon me with a curiously intent expression.

“Do you not feel the world already at your feet?” he queried half playfully, half ironically. “It is such an absurd world, you know, so easily moved. Wise men in all ages have done their best to make it less ridiculous. With no result, inasmuch as it continues to prefer folly to wisdom.”

“You speak a trifle bitterly, prince,” I said. “But no doubt you have had a wide experience among men?”

“I have,” he returned with emphasis. “My kingdom is a vast one.”

“You are a ruling power then?” I exclaimed with some astonishment. “Yours is not a title of honour only?”

“Oh, as your rules of aristocracy go, it is a mere title of honour,” he replied quickly. “When I say that my kingdom is a vast one, I mean that I rule wherever men obey the influence of wealth. From this point of view, am I wrong in calling my kingdom vast? Is it not almost boundless?”

“I perceive you are a cynic,” I said. “Surely you believe that there are some things wealth cannot buy, honour and virtue for example?”

He surveyed me with a whimsical smile.

“I suppose honour and virtue exist,” he answered. “But my experience has taught me that I can always buy everything. Just tell the price, and the people become bribery and corrupt in the twinkling of an eye! Curious – very curious. Pray do not imagine I am a swindler. I am a real prince, believe me, and of such descent as none of your oldest families can boast. But my dominions are broken up and my former subjects dispersed among all nations. Money I fortunately have in plenty, and with that I pave my way. Some day when we are better acquainted, you will know more of my private history. I have various other names and titles. My intimate friends generally drop my title, and call me Lucio simply.”

“That is your Christian name?” I began.

“Not at all – I have no ‘Christian’ name,” he interrupted swiftly and with anger. “I’m not a ‘Christian’ at all!”

He spoke with impatience.

“Indeed!” I murmured vaguely.

He burst out laughing.

“‘Indeed!’ That is all you can say! Indeed and again indeed the word ‘Christian’ vexes me. You are not a Christian, no one is really, people pretend to be. They are more blasphemous than any fallen fiend! Now I have only one faith…”

“And that is…?”

“A profound and awful one!” he said in thrilling tones. “And the worst of it is that it is true.”

The carriage stopped and we descended. At first sight of the black horses and silver trappings, the porter of the hotel and two or three other servants rushed out to attend upon us; but the prince passed into the hall without noticing any of them. He addressed himself to a man in black, his own private valet, who came forward to meet him with a profound salutation. I murmured something about wishing to engage a room for myself in the hotel.

“Oh, my man will make that for you,” he said lightly. “The hotel is not full. At any rate, all the best rooms are not taken; and of course you want one of the best.”

A servant bowed obsequiously as I passed. A thrill of disgust ran through me, mingled with a certain angry triumph. If you are poor and dress shabbily you are thrust aside and ignored. But if you are rich, you may wear shabby clothes as much as you like. You are still courted and flattered, and invited everywhere, though you may be the greatest fool alive or the worst blackguard.

With vague thoughts such as these, I followed my host to his rooms. He occupied nearly a whole wing of the hotel, having a large drawing-room, dining-room and study en suite, fitted up in the most luxurious manner, besides bedroom, bathroom, and dressing-room, with other rooms adjoining, for his valet and two extra personal attendants. The table was laid for supper, and glittered with the costliest glass, silver and china, with the most exquisite fruit and flowers. In a few moments we were seated. The prince’s valet acted as head-waiter, and I noticed that now this man’s face seemed very dark and unpleasant, even sinister in expression. But in the performance of his duties he was unexceptionable, quick, attentive, and deferential. His name was Amiel, his movements were as noiseless as of a cat or a tiger. I talked with freedom and confidence. The strong attraction I had for my new friend was deepening with every moment I passed in his company.

“Will you continue your literary career now you have this little fortune?” he inquired.

“Certainly I shall,” I replied, “maybe for fun. You see, with money I can declare my name whether the public like it or not. No newspaper refuses paying advertisements.”

“True! But may not inspiration refuse to flow from a full purse and an empty head?”

This remark provoked me not a little.

“Do you consider me empty-headed?” I asked with some vexation.

“Not at present. My dear Tempest, I assure you I do not think you empty-headed. On the contrary, your head, I believe from what I have heard, has been and is full of ideas, excellent ideas, original ideas, which the world of criticism does not want. But whether these ideas will continue to germinate in your brain, or whether, with the full purse, they will cease, is now the question. Great originality and inspiration, strange to say, seldom endow the millionaire. Inspiration is supposed to come from above, money from below! In your case however both originality and inspiration may continue to flourish and bring forth fruit, I trust they may. It often happens, nevertheless that when bags of money fall to the genius, God departs and the devil walks in. Have you never heard that?”

“Never!” I answered smiling.

“Well, of course the proverb is foolish, and sounds ridiculous in this age when people believe in neither God nor devil. However one must choose: an up or a down. Genius is the Up, money is the Down. You cannot fly and grovel at the same instant.”

“The possession of money does not force a man to grovel,” I said. “It is the one thing necessary to strengthen his powers and lift him to the greatest heights.”

“You think so?” and my host lit his cigar. “Then I’m afraid, you don’t know much about what I call natural psychology. What belongs to the earth tends earthwards, surely you realize that? Gold belongs to the earth, you dig it out of the ground, it is a metal. Genius belongs to nobody knows where. You cannot dig it up. It is a rare visitant and capricious as the wind.”

I laughed.

“Upon my word you preach very eloquently against wealth!” I said. “You yourself are unusually rich, are you sorry for it?”

“No, I am not sorry, because being sorry would be no use,” he returned. “And I never waste my time. But I am telling you the truth. Genius and great riches hardly ever pull together. Anyway, let’s return to the subject of your literary career. You have written a book, you say. Well, publish it and see the result. What is your story about? I hope it is improper?”

“It certainly is not,” I replied warmly. “It is a romance dealing with the noblest forms of life and highest ambitions. I wrote it with the intention of elevating and purifying the thoughts of my readers. I waned to comfort those who had suffered loss or sorrow…”

Rimanez smiled compassionately.

“Ah, it won’t do!” he interrupted. “I assure you it won’t; it doesn’t fit the age. It must simply be indecent. That is giving you a good wide margin. Write about sexual matters and the bearing of children, in brief, discourse of men and women simply as cattle, and your success will be enormous!”

Such a flash of withering derision darted from his eyes as startled me, I could find no words to answer him for the moment, and he went on,

“Why, my dear Tempest, do you write a book dealing with, as you say, ‘the noblest forms of life’? There are no noble forms of life left on this planet. It is all low and commercial. Man is a pigmy, and his aims are pigmy like himself. For noble forms of life seek other worlds! – there are others. People don’t want their thoughts raised or purified in the novels they read for amusement. They go to church for that. My good fellow, leave your extravagant behaviour behind you with your poverty. Live your life to yourself. If you do anything for others they will only treat you with the blackest ingratitude. Take my advice, and don’t sacrifice your own personal interests for any consideration whatever.”

He rose from the table as he spoke and stood with his back to the bright fire. I gazed at his handsome figure and face.

“If you were not so good-looking I should call you heartless,” I said. “But your features are a direct contradiction to your words. Are you not always trying to do good?”

He smiled.

“Always! That is, I am always at work endeavouring to gratify every man’s desire. Whether that is good of me, or bad, remains to be proved. Men’s wants are almost illimitable. The only thing none of them ever seem to wish is to cut my acquaintance!”

“Why, of course not! After once meeting you, how could they!” I said.

He gave me a whimsical side-look.

“Their desires are not always virtuous,” he remarked.

“But of course you do not gratify them in their vices!” I rejoined, laughing.

“Ah now I see we shall flounder in the sands of theory if we go any further,” he said. “You forget, my dear fellow, that nobody can decide as to what is vice, or what is virtue. These things are chameleon-like, and take different colours in different countries. Abraham had two or three wives and several concubines, and he was the very soul of virtue according to sacred lore. Whereas my Lord Tom-Noddy in London today has one wife and several concubines, and is really very much like Abraham in other particulars, yet he is considered a very dreadful person. Let’s drop the subject. What shall we do with the rest of the evening? Will we go to the theater? Or are you tired, and would you prefer a long night’s rest?”

To tell the truth I was thoroughly fatigued, and mentally as well as physically worn out with the excitements of the day.

“I think I would rather go to bed,” I confessed. “But what about my room?”