Faust: A Tragedy, Vol 1 & Vol 2, by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

 Faust: A Tragedy

Vol. 1 & Vol. 2

 

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

 

 We’ve all heard the phrase “a deal with the devil” — or, if you’re sufficiently literary, “a Faustian bargain.” The notion of a cursed contract did indeed originate with Faust, and was immortalized in this play by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (though the story has much earlier roots). Goethe’s Faust, as he’s referred to, is a voracious scholar who desires to learn and achieve all that is possible in the human realm — yet suffers for the knowledge that he cannot. As another axiom goes, be careful what you wish for; Mephistopheles then appears to Faust, offering him all the worldly knowledge and pleasures that he can imagine, in exchange for Faust’s service in hell after death. Famously signing the contract in his own blood, Faust agrees… but how will their pact actually unfold? You’ll have to read this mesmerizing play to find out.

About the Author

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (28 August 1749 – 22 March 1832) was a German poet, playwright, novelist, scientist, statesman, theatre director, and critic.[3] His works include plays, poetry, literature, and aesthetic criticism as well as treatises on botany, anatomy, and colour. He is widely regarded as the greatest and most influential writer in the German language, his work having a profound and wide-ranging influence on Western literary, political and philosophical thought from the late 18th century to the present day. Wikipedia

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Christabel: Kubla Khan, a Vision; The Pains of Sleep Poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

 Christabel: Kubla Khan, a Vision; The Pains of Sleep Poem 

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Kubla Khan (/ˌkʊblə ˈkɑːn/) is a poem written by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, completed in 1797 and published in 1816. It is sometimes given the subtitles "A Vision in a Dream" and "A Fragment." According to Coleridge's preface to Kubla Khan, the poem was composed one night after he experienced an opium-influenced dream after reading a work describing Shangdu, the summer capital of the Yuan dynasty founded by the Mongol Emperor Kublai Khan. Upon waking, he set about writing lines of poetry that came to him from the dream until he was interrupted by "a person from Porlock". The poem could not be completed according to its original 200–300 line plan as the interruption caused him to forget the lines. He left it unpublished and kept it for private readings for his friends until 1816 when, at the prompting of Lord Byron, it was published. Wikipedia 

 About the Author

 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (/ˈkoʊlərɪdʒ/;[1] 21 October 1772 – 25 July 1834) was an English poet, literary critic, philosopher, and theologian who, with his friend William Wordsworth, was a founder of the Romantic Movement in England and a member of the Lake Poets. He also shared volumes and collaborated with Charles Lamb, Robert Southey, and Charles Lloyd. He wrote the poems The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Kubla Khan, as well as the major prose work Biographia Literaria. His critical work, especially on William Shakespeare, was highly influential, and he helped introduce German idealist philosophy to English-speaking culture. Coleridge coined many familiar words and phrases, including "suspension of disbelief".  He had a major influence on Ralph Waldo Emerson and American transcendentalism. Wikipedia

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Candide by Voltaire

 

Candide 

(1759)

by Voltaire

As a boy, Candide was taught that everything in the world happens for a reason: that things good and bad serve their purpose in the grand scheme of it all. But as he ventures out into the world and comes face to face with hardships and sufferings, Candide begins to wonder if this optimistic philosophy is a manifestation of ignorance and indifference.

Underneath this coming-of-age story is Voltaire’s brave effort to hold a mirror up to society, and make it examine its flaws. Hardly any author in his time dared to oppose the accepted virtues of the educated class  — Voltaire even refused to take credit for this masterpiece until years after the publication — and none did it with as much wit and passion as Voltaire did. 

 

 INTRODUCTION

Ever since 1759, when Voltaire wrote "Candide" in ridicule of the notion that this is the best of all possible worlds, this world has been a gayer place for readers. Voltaire wrote it in three days, and five or six generations have found that its laughter does not grow old.

"Candide" has not aged. Yet how different the book would have looked if Voltaire had written it a hundred and fifty years later than 1759. It would have been, among other things, a book of sights and sounds. A modern writer would have tried to catch and fix in words some of those Atlantic changes which broke the Atlantic monotony of that voyage from Cadiz to Buenos Ayres. When Martin and Candide were sailing the length of the Mediterranean we should have had a contrast between naked scarped Balearic cliffs and headlands of Calabria in their mists. We should have had quarter distances, far horizons, the altering silhouettes of an Ionian island. Colored birds would have filled Paraguay with their silver or acid cries.

Dr. Pangloss, to prove the existence of design in the universe, says that noses were made to carry spectacles, and so we have spectacles. A modern satirist would not try to paint with Voltaire's quick brush the doctrine that he wanted to expose. And he would choose a more complicated doctrine than Dr. Pangloss's optimism, would study it more closely, feel his destructive way about it with a more learned and caressing malice. His attack, stealthier, more flexible and more patient than Voltaire's, would call upon us, especially when his learning got a little out of control, to be more than patient. Now and then he would bore us. "Candide" never bored anybody except William Wordsworth.

Voltaire's men and women point his case against optimism by starting high and falling low. A modern could not go about it after this fashion. He would not plunge his people into an unfamiliar misery. He would just keep them in the misery they were born to.

But such an account of Voltaire's procedure is as misleading as the plaster cast of a dance. Look at his procedure again. Mademoiselle Cunégonde, the illustrious Westphalian, sprung from a family that could prove seventy-one quarterings, descends and descends until we find her earning her keep by washing dishes in the Propontis. The aged faithful attendant, victim of a hundred acts of rape by negro pirates, remembers that she is the daughter of a pope, and that in honor of her approaching marriage with a Prince of Massa-Carrara all Italy wrote sonnets of which not one was passable. We do not need to know French literature before Voltaire in order to feel, although the lurking parody may escape us, that he is poking fun at us and at himself. His laughter at his own methods grows more unmistakable at the last, when he caricatures them by casually assembling six fallen monarchs in an inn at Venice.

A modern assailant of optimism would arm himself with social pity. There is no social pity in "Candide." Voltaire, whose light touch on familiar institutions opens them and reveals their absurdity, likes to remind us that the slaughter and pillage and murder which Candide witnessed among the Bulgarians was perfectly regular, having been conducted according to the laws and usages of war. Had Voltaire lived to-day he would have done to poverty what he did to war. Pitying the poor, he would have shown us poverty as a ridiculous anachronism, and both the ridicule and the pity would have expressed his indignation.

Almost any modern, essaying a philosophic tale, would make it long. "Candide" is only a "Hamlet" and a half long. It would hardly have been shorter if Voltaire had spent three months on it, instead of those three days. A conciseness to be matched in English by nobody except Pope, who can say a plagiarizing enemy "steals much, spends little, and has nothing left," a conciseness which Pope toiled and sweated for, came as easy as wit to Voltaire. He can afford to be witty, parenthetically, by the way, prodigally, without saving, because he knows there is more wit where that came from.

One of Max Beerbohm's cartoons shows us the young Twentieth Century going at top speed, and watched by two of his predecessors. Underneath is this legend: "The Grave Misgivings of the Nineteenth Century, and the Wicked Amusement of the Eighteenth, in Watching the Progress (or whatever it is) of the Twentieth." This Eighteenth Century snuff-taking and malicious, is like Voltaire, who nevertheless must know, if he happens to think of it, that not yet in the Twentieth Century, not for all its speed mania, has any one come near to equalling the speed of a prose tale by Voltaire. "Candide" is a full book. It is filled with mockery, with inventiveness, with things as concrete as things to eat and coins, it has time for the neatest intellectual clickings, it is never hurried, and it moves with the most amazing rapidity. It has the rapidity of high spirits playing a game. The dry high spirits of this destroyer of optimism make most optimists look damp and depressed.[Pg xi] Contemplation of the stupidity which deems happiness possible almost made Voltaire happy. His attack on optimism is one of the gayest books in the world. Gaiety has been scattered everywhere up and down its pages by Voltaire's lavish hand, by his thin fingers.

Many propagandist satirical books have been written with "Candide" in mind, but not too many. To-day, especially, when new faiths are changing the structure of the world, faiths which are still plastic enough to be deformed by every disciple, each disciple for himself, and which have not yet received the final deformation known as universal acceptance, today "Candide" is an inspiration to every narrative satirist who hates one of these new faiths, or hates every interpretation of it but his own. Either hatred will serve as a motive to satire.

That is why the present is one of the right moments to republish "Candide." I hope it will inspire younger men and women, the only ones who can be inspired, to have a try at Theodore, or Militarism; Jane, or Pacifism; at So-and-So, the Pragmatist or the Freudian. And I hope, too, that they will without trying hold their pens with an eighteenth century lightness, not inappropriate to a philosophic tale. In Voltaire's fingers, as Anatole France has said, the pen runs and laughs.

 About the Author

 

François-Marie Arouet (French: [fʁɑ̃swa maʁi aʁwɛ]; 21 November 1694 – 30 May 1778), known by his nom de plume Voltaire (/vɒlˈtɛər, voʊl-/; also US: /vɔːl-/; French: [vɔltɛːʁ]), was a French Enlightenment writer, historian, and philosopher famous for his wit, his criticism of Christianity—especially the Roman Catholic Church—and of slavery, as well as his advocacy of freedom of speech, freedom of religion, and separation of church and state. Wikipedia

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By Right of Sword by Arthur W. Marchmont

 

By Right of Sword

 

 by Arthur W. Marchmont

 

CHAPTER I.
THE MEETING.

Moscow.

"MY DEAR RUPERT.

"Don't worry your head about me. I shall be all right. I did not see you before leaving because of the scene with your sister and Cargill, which they may perhaps tell you about. I have done with England: and as the auspices are all for war, I mean to have a shy in. I went to Vienna, thinking to offer myself to the Turks: but my sixteen years in Russia have made too much of a Russ of me to let me tolerate those lazy cruel beggars. So I turned this way. I'm going on to St Petersburg to-day, for I find all the people I knew here as a lad have gone north. I have made such a mess of things that I shall never set foot in England again. If Russia will have me, I shall volunteer, and I hope with all my soul that a Turkish bullet will find its billet in my body. It shan't be my fault if it doesn't. If I hadn't been afraid of being thought afraid, I'd have taken a shorter way half a score of times. My life is an inexpressible burden, and I only wish to God someone would think it worth while to take it. I don't want to be hard on your sister, but whatever was left in my heart or life, she has emptied, and I only wish she'd ended it at the same time. You'll know I'm pretty bad when not even the thought of our old friendship gives me a moment's pleasure. Good-bye. Don't come out after me. You won't find me if you do.

Your friend,
    HAMYLTON TREGETHNER."

The letter was wretchedly inconsequential. When I sat down to write I hadn't meant to tell Rupert Balestier that his sister's treatment had made such a mess of things for me; but my pen ran away with me as it always does, and I wasn't inclined to write the letter all over again. I hate letter writing. I was to leave Moscow, moreover, in an hour or two, and when I had had my things sent to the railway station and followed them, I dropped the letter into the box without altering a word.

It had made me thoughtful, however; and I stood on the platform looking moodily about me, wondering whether I should find the end I wished most speedily by joining the army or the Nihilists; and which course would bring me the most exciting and quickest death.

I had three or four hours to wait before my train left, and I walked up and down the platform trying to force myself to feel an interest in what was going on about me.

Presently I noticed that I was the object of the close vigilance of a small group of soldiers such as will generally be seen hanging about the big stations in Russia. They looked at me very intently; I noticed them whisper one to another evidently about me; and as I passed they drew themselves up to attention and saluted me. I returned the salute, amused at their mistake, and entered one of the large waiting saloons.

It was empty save for one occupant, who was standing by the big stove looking out of a window near. This was a girl, and a glimpse I caught of her face shewed me she was pretty, while her attitude seemed to suggest grief.

As I entered and went to another part of the room, she started and glanced at me and then looked away. A few seconds later, however, she looked round furtively, and then to my abundant surprise, came across and said in a low, confidential tone:

"It is not enough, Alexis. I knew you in a minute. But you acted the stranger to perfection."

She was not only pretty, but very pretty, I thought, as she stood with her face raised toward mine, a light of some kind of emotion shining in her eyes where I saw traces of tears. But my recent experiences of Edith Balestier had toughened me a lot, and I was suspicious of this young woman.

"Pardon me, Madam, you have made a mistake."

Then she smiled, rather sadly; and her teeth shone salt white between her full curved lips.

"Your voice would betray you, even if your dear handsome eyes did not. Do you think the mere shaving of your beard and moustache can hide your eyes. Just look into mine and see if the shade is not exact?"

I did look into them: and very beautiful eyes hers were. Little shining blue heavens all radiant with the light of infinite capacity to feel. Fascinating eyes, very. But I had not lived the first sixteen years of my life in Russia without getting to know that in that big land all is not snow that looks white; and that a very awkward intrigue may lurk beneath a very fair seeming surface.

"Madam, I am charmed, but I have not the honour of knowing you."

A passing cloud of irritation shewed and a little gesture of impatience, sufficient to remind me that the gloved hands were very small.

"Ah, why keep this up now? There is no need, and no time. Is not the train starting in less than an hour—and by the way, what madness is it that makes you loiter about here in this public way, out of uniform and as if there were no danger and you were merely taking a week's holiday, instead of flying for...."

"Madam," I broke in again. "I must repeat, I am a stranger. You must not tell me these things. My name is Hamylton Tregethner, an Englishman, and...."

"Yes, yes, I know you are: or at least I know you are going to call yourself English, though you haven't told me what your name is to be. But I know that you are my brother Alexis, going to leave me perhaps for ever, and that when I want to scold you for running this risk—for you know there are police, and soldiers, and spies in plenty to identify you—you...." here she made as if to throw herself into my arms. But suspecting some trick, I stepped back.

"Madam, I must ask you to be good enough not to play this comedy any farther." I spoke rather sternly.

"If your disguise were only as good as your acting, Alexis, not a soul in Russia would suspect you. Oh, I see what you mean," she cried, a look of intelligence breaking over her features. "I forgot. Of course, I am compromising your disguise by thus speaking to you. I am sorry. It was my love for you made me thoughtless, when I should have been thoughtful. I will go away." She turned on me such a look of genuine grief that it melted my scepticism.

"There is really some strange mistake," I said, speaking much more gently. "At first I thought you were intentionally mistaking me for someone else; for what object I knew not. But I see now the error was involuntary. I give you my honour, Madam, that you are under a complete mistake if you take me for any relative of your own. I am an Englishman, as I say, and I arrived in Moscow only last night, and am leaving for St Petersburg by the next express train. I am afraid, if you persist in your mistake, it may have unpleasant consequences for you. Hence my plain speech. But I am what I say."

As I finished, I raised my hat and stood that she might convince herself of her blunder.

She looked at me with the most careful scrutiny, even walking round to get a view of my figure. Then she came back and looked into my face again; and I could see that she was still unconvinced.

"It is impossible," she said, under her breath. "If I allow for the difference your beard and moustache would make, you are my brother."

"I am Hamylton Tregethner," I said, and I took out my pocket-book and shewed her my passport to Paris, Vienna, Moscow, "and travelling on the Continent."

"These things can be bought—or made," she said. Then she seemed to understand how she had committed herself with me, if I were really a stranger, and I saw her look at me with fear, doubt, and speculation on her pretty expressive face.

She sighed and lifted her hands as if in half despair.

"Madam, you have my word as an Englishman that not a syllable of what you have said shall pass my lips." The bright glance of gratitude she threw me inspired me to add:—"If I can be of any help in this matter, you may command me absolutely."

She gave me a little stiff look, and I thought I had offended her: but the next moment a light of eagerness took its place.

"When are you leaving?" she asked with an indifference I could see was assumed.

"By the St Petersburg express at 6 o'clock."

"That is two hours after the Smolensk train." She paused to think and glanced at me once, as if weighing whether she dare ask me something. Then she said quickly:—"Will you give me a couple of hours of your company on this platform and in the station this afternoon?"

It was a strange sort of request and when I saw how anxiously she awaited my reply I could perceive she had a strong motive: and one that had certainly nothing to do with any desire for my company.

Then suddenly I guessed her motive. The cunning little woman! Her brother was obviously going to fly from Moscow. She saw that inasmuch as she herself had mistaken me for him, others would certainly do so; and thus, if she and I were together, the brother would get away unsuspected and would be flying from Moscow while he would be thought to be still walking about the station with his sister. I liked the idea, and the girl's pluck on behalf of her brother.

"I will give you not only two hours," I said, "but two days, or two weeks, if you like—if you will tell me candidly what your reason is."

She started at this and saw by my expression that I had guessed her very open secret.

"If you will walk with me outside, I will do that," she said. "I am a very poor diplomatist." With that we went out on to the platform and commenced a conversation that had momentous results for us all.

She told me quite frankly that she wished me to act as a cover for her brother's flight.

"No harm can come to you. You will only have to prove your identity—otherwise I should not have asked this," she said, apologetically. And then to excuse herself, she added, "And I should have told you, even if you had not asked me."

I believed in her sincerity now, and I told her so in a roundabout way. Then I said:—"I am in earnest in saying that I will stay on in Moscow for a day or two if you wish. I have nothing whatever to do, and if the affair should bring me in conflict with anyone, I should like it. I can't tell you all my reasons, as that would mean telling you a biggish slice of my life; but feel assured that if there's likely to be any adventure in it from which some men might shrink, it would rather attract me than otherwise. But if you care to tell me the reasons of your brother's flight, I will breathe no word of them to a soul, and I may be of help." I began to scent an adventure in it, and the perfume pleased me.

My words set her thinking deeply, and we took two or three turns up and down before she answered.

"No, you mustn't stop over to-day," she said, slowly. Then she added thoughtfully:—"I don't know what Alexis would say to my confiding in you; but I should dearly like to." She turned her face to me and looked long and searchingly into my eyes. Then smiled slightly—a smile of confidence. "I feel I can trust you. I will risk it and tell you. My brother is flying because a man in his regiment"—here her eyes shone and her cheeks coloured to a deep red—"has fastened a quarrel on him. He has—has tried to—well, he has worried me and I don't like him"—the blush was of indignation now—"and because of this he has picked a quarrel with Alexis; and to-morrow—means to kill him in that form of barbarous assassination you men call duelling. He knows he is infinitely more skilful than poor Alexis, and that my dear brother is no match for him with either sword or pistol; and he will drag him out to-morrow, and either shoot or stab him."

The tears overflowed here, and made the eyes look more bright and beautiful than ever.

"Why didn't your brother refuse to fight?"

"How could he?" she asked despairingly. "He would have been a marked man—a coward. And this wretch would have triumphed over him. And he knows this, because he offered to let Alexis off, if I—if I—Oh, would that I were a man!" she cried, changing the note of indignant grief for anger.

"Do you mean he has made such an offer as this since the challenge passed?"

"Yes, my brother came and told me. But I could not do it. And now this has come."

I didn't think very highly of the brother, but he had evidently talked his sister round. What I thought of most was the chance of a real adventure which the thing promised.

The man must be a bully and a scoundrel, and it would serve him right to give him a lesson. If this girl had not recognised me, perhaps he would not. I felt that I should like to try. There was no reason why I should not. I could easily spare a couple of days for the little drama, and go on to St Petersburg afterwards.

"You are very anxious for your brother's safety?" I asked.

"He is my only protector in the world. If he gets away now to Berlin or Paris, I shall follow and go to him."

"But is he likely to get away when he will be missed in a few hours. A single telegram from Moscow will close every frontier barrier in Russia upon him."

"We know that;" and she wrung her hands.

"If he could have two clear days he could reach the frontier and pass unquestioned," I said, significantly.

She was a quick-witted little thing and saw my point with all a woman's sharpness.

"Your life is not ours to give away. This man is noted for his great skill."

"Would everyone be likely to make the same mistake about me that you have made this afternoon?" I asked in reply.

She looked at me again. She was trembling a little in her earnestness.

"Now that I know, I can see differences—especially in your expression; but in all Moscow there is not a man or woman who would not take you for my brother."

"Then I decide for the two days here. And if it will make you more comfortable, I can assure you I am quite as able to take care of myself with either sword or pistol as this bully you speak of. But it is for you to decide."

There came a pause, at the end of which she said, her face wearing a more frightened look:—

"No, it must not be. There are other reasons. My brother is mixed up with..."

"Excuse me, can you tell me which is the train for Smolensk?" asked a man who came up and interrupted us, speaking in a mixture of Russian, English and German.

The girl started violently, and I guessed the man was her was her brother. A glance at his eyes confirmed this. They were a weak rendering of the glorious blue eyes that had been inspiring me to all sorts of impulses for the last hour.

"That disguise is too palpable," I said, quietly. He had shaved and was wearing false hair that could deceive no one. In a few minutes the whole situation was explained to him by his quick sister.

"I've only consented to go in order that Olga here may not be robbed of her only protector," he said, thinking apparently to explain away his cowardice. "She has no one in the world to look after her but me, you know. If you'll help her in this matter, she will be very much obliged; and so shall I. You needn't go out to-morrow and fight Devinsky—that's the major's name: Loris Devinsky. My regiment's the Moscow Infantry Regiment, you know. If you'll go to my rooms and sham ill, no one will know you, and as soon as I'm over the frontier I'll wire Olga, and you can get away." He was cunning enough as well as a coward, evidently.

"Very well," said I. "But you'll get over no frontier if you wear a beard which everyone with eyes can see is false, and talk in a language that no one ever spoke on this earth. Pull off the beard: the little black moustache may stay. Speak English, or your own tongue, and play my part to the frontier; and here take my passport; but post it back to your sister to be given to me as soon as you're safe over. And for Heaven's sake don't walk as if you were a thief looking out for arrest. No one suspects; so carry yourself as if no one had cause to."

It was a good thing for him I had seen his sister first. He would never have got me to personate him even for a couple of hours.

But we got him off all right, and his sister was so pleased that I could not help feeling pleased also. First in his assumed character he made such arrangements for my luggage as I wished, and then we hurried up to the train just before it started. As we reached the barrier where the papers had to be examined, he turned and bade his sister good-bye, and then said to me aloud in Russian, hiding his voice a little:—

"Well, good-bye, Alexis;" and he shook hands with me.

"Good-bye," I answered with a laugh: and he waved an adieu to us from the other side of the barrier.

As we turned away together, Olga was a little pale.

Three soldiers saluted me, and I acknowledged the salute gravely, glancing at them as I passed.

Then I noticed a couple of men who had been standing together and watching the girl and myself for some time, leave their places and follow us. I told my companion and presently I saw her turn and look at them, and then start and shiver.

"Do you know them?" I asked.

"Alas, yes. They are Nihilist spies, watching us."

"Ah, then there is a little more in this than I have understood so far," I said.

"You shall know everything," she replied as we left the station together.

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A Dash for a Throne by Arthur W. Marchmont

 

A Dash for a Throne 

 

by Arthur W. Marchmont

Insulted by the heir to the Prussian throne, he knocked the bully flat -- and had to fake his own death to avoid public disgrace. And that's when his troubles began . . . A rousing historical tale by the author of "By Right of Sword."

 

 CHAPTER I
MY DEATH

 

"To a man who has been dead nearly five years everything would be forgiven, probably—except his resurrection."

This half-cynical thought was suggested by the extraordinary change which a few hours of one memorable July day had wrought in my circumstances and position.

As the thought occurred to me I was standing in the library of Gramberg Castle, my hands plunged deep in my pockets, deliberately dallying with my fate, as I watched the black dress of the Prince's beautiful daughter moving slowly among the gayly colored flower-beds in the warm sunshine, like a soothing shadow in the brilliant glare.

I was face to face with a temptation which I found infinitely alluring and immeasurably difficult to resist.

For five years I had been enduring an existence of monotonous emptiness, that depressed me till my heart ached and my spirit wearied; and now a chance of change had been thrust upon me, all against my seeking, at which my pulses were beating high with the bound of hope, my blood running once again with the old quick tingling of excitement, and, through the reopened portals of a life akin to that from which I had been thrust, desire, ambition, pleasure, hazard, were all beckoning to me with fascinating invitation.

I turned from the window and threw myself into a deep easy-chair to think.

Five years before I had passed in a moment from a position of Royal favor, with limitless ambition and opportunities, to one where death was avowedly the only alternate.

And no one had recognized this more readily than I myself.

I am half English by birth. My mother was an English woman, and went to the Prussian Court in the small suite of the bride whom "Unser Fritz" carried from England. My father rose very high in Royal favor, and, as a consequence, I was thrown early in life in the company of the young Princes. We grew up close and intimate companions; and when I chose the navy for my profession every facility was employed to insure my advancement. I had been about five years in the navy, and was already a flag-lieutenant, when the smash came. Happily my father and mother were both dead then.

We were not puritans in those days, and there were some wild times. The last of these in which I took a part finished up on the Imperial yacht; and a wild enough time it was.

I had drunk much more freely than the rest—there were only some half-dozen of us altogether—and then, being a quarrelsome, hot-headed fool, I took fire at some words that fell from the Prince, and I gave him the lie direct. Exactly what happened I don't clearly remember; but I know that he flung his wine right at my face, and I, forgetting entirely that he was at once my future Emperor and my commanding officer, clenched my fist and struck him a violent blow in the face which knocked him down. He hit his head in falling, and lay still as death. We thought at first he was dead. What followed can be imagined. I cannot describe it. It sobered the lot of us; and our relief when we found he was not dead, but only stunned, cannot be put in words.

 He was lifted up and laid on the table, his face all ghastly gray-white, save where the mark of my blow on the cheek stood out red and livid—a sight I shall never forget.

When the doctor came we told him the Prince had had an ugly fall, and, as soon as he showed signs of coming round, I left and went off to my ship, in a condition of pitiable consternation and remorse.

I nearly shot myself that night. I took out my revolver twice and laid it between my teeth, and was only stopped by the consideration that, if I did it, my suicide would be connected with the affair, and some garbled account of the brawl and of what was behind it would leak out.

The next day old Count von Augener, who had been telegraphed for, came to my cabin. He hated me as he had hated my father, and I knew it.

The interview was brief enough, and he sounded the keynote in the sentence with which he opened it.

"You are still alive, lieutenant?" he said, bending on me a piercing look from under his shaggy, beetling brows.

"Say what you have to say, and be good enough to keep from taunts," I answered, and then told him the thought that alone had stopped me from shooting myself.

He listened in silence, and at the close nodded.

"You have enough wit when the wine's out, and you understand what you have done. Were you other than you are, you would be tried by court-martial and shot. But your act is worse than that of a mutineer—you are a coward"—I started to my feet—"because you have struck a man you know cannot demand satisfaction."

I sank again into my chair and covered my face in shame, for the taunt was true. But to have it thus flung at me ruthlessly was worse than a red-hot brand plunged into my flesh.

The old man stopped and looked at me, pleased that he had thus tortured me.

"There is but one course open to you. You know that?"

"I know it," I answered sullenly.

"Only one reparation you can make. Your death can appear to be either accidental or natural—anyhow, provided that it is at once. You can have a week; after that, if you are alive, you will die an infamous death."

"I understand," I replied, rising as he rose. "Will you give my assurance to the Prince and the Emperor that ..."

"I am no tale-bearer, sir," he answered sternly. "The one desire now is to forget that you ever lived." And flinging these harsh words at me, he left me humiliated, ashamed, angry, and impotently remorseful.

Not another word should pass my lips. How should I die? It was not so easy as it seemed. A fatal accident to appear genuine called for clever stage-management, and I did not see how to arrange matters.

I applied for leave, and went to Berlin. There was one man there who could help me—old Dr. Mein. He was a bachelor recluse, an Englishman who had been naturalized, and in the old days he had been in love with my mother. It was she who told me the tale just before her death, when urging me to trust him should I ever find myself in need of an absolutely reliable, level-headed friend. I knew that he loved me for the English blood in my veins. I told him what I had to do; but at first did not mention the cause. He listened intently, questioned me shrewdly, and then stopped to think.

"You want me to murder you, or at least give you the means of murdering yourself?" he said bluntly.

"If you don't help me, I shall do it without you, that's all," I returned.

He paused again to think, pursing up his lips, and fixing his keen blue eyes upon me.

"I have loved you like my own son, and you ask me to kill you?"

"My mother would have had me come to you, because I am in trouble."

"You have no right to be in trouble. You are no fool. You have all your father's wealth—millions of marks; you have your mother's English blood—which is much better; you have her brains—which is best of all; you have a noble profession—the sea; you enjoy the Imperial favor and friendship—a slippery honor, maybe; and you are certain of rapid promotion to almost any height you please. Why, then, should you want to die?"

"Because I have sacrificed everything by my reckless temper," I answered, and told him what had happened. "I have no option but to die," I concluded. "If you will not help me——" I broke the sentence and got up to go.

"I didn't say I wouldn't help you—I will." I sat down again. "You don't care how you die, so long as it's quickly?" I shook my head. "Very well. I have in my laboratory the bacilli of a deadly fever. I will inject the virus into your veins. In three days you will be in the fever's grip, and in less than a week you will be dead." I took off my coat and bared my arms to show my readiness. "I make only one condition. You must be ill here; I must watch the progress of the experiment."

"Nothing will suit me better," I returned.

He made the injection there and then, and gave me two days to be away and wind up my affairs; and when I returned to him he made another injection and put me to bed. That night I was in a raging fever. All the paraphernalia of a sick-bed were soon in evidence, and the following day it was known all over Berlin that the wealthy young Count von Rudloff was down in the grip of a fever at the house of a once well-known physician, Dr. Mein. The little house was besieged with callers. A few only were admitted. Von Augener was one, and he brought with him the Court physician.

I grew worse rapidly, and only in intermittent gleams of intelligence was I conscious of the lean, grizzled face and watchful blue eyes of the doctor bending over me, assuring me that I was a most interesting case, and rapidly growing worse. For three days this continued, until in a moment of consciousness I heard him say to the nurse:

"He cannot last through the night," and the woman turned and looked sympathetically toward the bed.

I tried to speak, but could not. I could scarcely move; but they noticed my restlessness, and the doctor came and bent over me.

"Am I dying?" I whispered.

"Yes. You must have courage. You are dying."

"I am glad. Thank you. I have no pain."

He turned away, and after a moment gave me my medicine. Then with a touch soft like a woman's he smoothed the bedclothes, and bending down put his lips to my forehead, and left me glad, as I had said, that the end had come thus calmly.

I must have become unconscious again almost directly after that, for I know nothing of what happened until I awoke gradually and found myself in a place that was pitch dark. I was lying on the floor, though it felt soft like a mattress, and when I stretched out my arm I touched a wall that was soft like the floor.

I was quick in jumping to a conclusion. The doctor had fooled me, and probably had fooled everybody else, about my illness and death. If I had ever been ill, I was quite well now, and I scrambled up and strode about the place, feeling all the walls and floor and everything within my reach. I soon knew where I was. It was the old fellow's padded room. I knew, too, that I could do no good by struggling or shouting or trying to get out of it. I must wait, and I sat down on the floor to think.

After what seemed like many hours an electric light was switched on, and I saw a sheet of paper pinned to the wall. It was a letter from the doctor.

"I have done what your mother would have wished. You have the makings of a real man in you, and you must not die. Every one thinks you dead; and not a soul suspects. Your funeral took place yesterday, amid all the pomp of Court mourning; and all the papers to-day are full of descriptions of your career, your illness, death, and funeral. But you will live to do yourself justice; if need be, in another name. Your next career you must make, however, and not merely inherit. But you are your mother's son, and will not flinch."

The old man had known me better than I knew myself. I had been glad to die; but the pulse of life runs strong in the twenties; and the shrewd old beggar was right. Half an hour later I was glad to live; and when he came to me I was quite ready to thank him for what he had done.

We had a long talk about my future, and he urged me to go to England.

"You can be an Englishman; indeed, you are one already. Your family must have rich and powerful friends there; and there you can make a career."

But I would not give my assent. I had no plans, and was in the mood to make none.

"I will see," I answered. "I am a dead man, and the dead are more the concern of Providence than the living. I will drift for a while in the back waters," and I shrugged my shoulders.

I made no plans. That night I left Berlin, and as the train whirled me southward I tried with resolute hand to make the barrier that shut out the old life so bullet-proof that not even the stinging thoughts of impotent remorse and regret could wound me. I was only human, however, and barely twenty-three; and the sorrow of my loneliness was like a cankered wound. I felt like a shipwrecked derelict waif on the wide callous sea of stranger humanity.

And like a derelict I drifted for a while, and accident determined a course for me. At Frankfort, where I stayed a considerable time, a chance meeting in a hotel gave me as a companion an actor, and in his room at the theatre one night he asked me if I would care to join his company. All life was to be but a burlesque for me, and, as it seemed the training might be useful, I consented.

I threw myself into the mimic business with ardor, and stayed with the company four years. Under the guise of professional enthusiasm I became a past master in the art of making up, and altered my appearance completely. I changed my voice until it was two full tones lower than by nature, and I practised an expression and accent altogether unlike my own. Under the tuition of a clever old acrobat, who had deformed himself until he was past work, I changed entirely the character of my walk and carriage. I cultivated assiduously marked peculiarities of gesture and manner; and by constant massage even the contour of my features was altered, and lines and wrinkles were brought with results that astonished me.

After some three years of this I tested these results by a visit to the only man who knew me to be alive—Dr. Mein. I wished him to know what I was doing, but was not willing to trust the secret on paper. I went to him in my professional name, Heinrich Fischer, and consulted him for about half an hour about an imaginary complaint, without his having an idea of my identity. Once or twice he looked at me with an expression of rather doubting inquiry; but he did not know me. He wrote me a prescription, and, rising to go, I laid a fee on his table.

Then I lingered on, and he glanced at me in polite surprise. I smiled; and he fixed his little glittering eyes on mine steadily, as if I were a lunatic.

"Have you any more bacilli to spare, doctor?" I whispered.

A start, a quick frown, and the closing together of his eyebrows showed his surprise. Then he wheeled me round to the light.

"Are you——?"

He stopped short, his face alight with doubt and interrogation.

"I am Heinrich Fischer, an actor—now," I replied.

The last word was quite enough, and the tough old man almost broke down in the delight of recognition. When I explained to him the elaborate processes by which I had changed my figure, looks, and voice, he grew intensely interested in me as a strange experiment, and declared that not a soul in all the world would recognize me.

My visit was a brief one, though he pressed me earnestly to stay with him; and when I would not he said he would come to me at Frankfort, and that I must be his adopted son. But he never came, and we never met again. A letter or two passed between us—I had altered even my handwriting—and then a year later came the news to me that he was dead—had died suddenly in the midst of his work—and that I was left his heir.

This again changed my life, for his fortune gave me abundant means; and as I considered my actor training had been sufficient, I resolved to close that chapter of my life.

It would have been a commonplace affair enough, with an accompaniment of nothing more than a few mutual personal regrets, but for one incident. One of the actresses—a handsome, passionate woman, named Clara Weylin—had done me the quite unsolicited honor to fall violently in love with me; and when, at the time of parting, I could not tell her that we should ever meet again—for I had not the least intention or wish to do so—she was first tearful, then hysterical, and at last vindictively menacing.

"There's a secret about you, Fischer," she cried passionately. "I've always thought so; and, mark me, I'll find it out some day; and then you'll remember this, and your treatment of Clara Weylin. Look to yourself."

I tried to reason away her somewhat theatrical resentment, but she interpreted my words as an indication that she had struck home; and she flung away, with a toss of the head, another threat, and a look of bitter anger. I thought no more of the incident then—though afterward I had occasion enough to recall it; and when the evening brought me a letter from her, couched in very loving terms, I tossed it into the fire with a feeling akin to contempt. The next morning I left the town early, and was off on a purposeless and once more planless ramble.

With the stage I dropped also my stage name, for I had no wish to be known as an ex-play-actor; and as the old doctor's original counsel chanced to occur to me, I turned English. I now let my beard and mustaches grow; and I was satisfied that, with my changed carriage and looks, not a soul in the whole fatherland would recognize in Henry Fisher, a sober-looking English gentleman, travelling for pleasure and literary purposes, the once well-known and dashing naval lieutenant and Court favorite, the Count von Rudloff.

I moved from point to point aimlessly for some months until the vapid, vacuous monotony of the existence sickened and appalled me. Then suddenly chance or Fate opened a gate of life.

 

Author: Arthur Williams Marchmont (1853–1923)

Biography: Arthur William Marchmont was probably born in 1853 in London, the son of the Rev. Henry Marchmont. His mother appears to have died at his birth or shortly after. He attended Pembroke College, Oxford, where he took a degree before entering Lincoln's Inn. He left law and turned to journalism, editing the North Eastern Daily Gazette and the Lancashire Daily Post. In the mid-1890s, he left journalism to devote himself to fiction. In total, he wrote some 35 novels which often featured exciting plots and foreign settings. In 1892, he married Fanny Jaques but the couple had no children. Marchmont died on 2 July 1923 in Bath a fortnight after his wife Fanny.

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A Courier of Fortune by Arthur W. Marchmont

 

 

A Courier of Fortune 

by Arthur W. Marchmont

 

CHAPTER I
THE “TIGER OF MORVAIX”

THE hot noontide sun was pouring down into the market place of Morvaix and in the shadow cast by the great Cross of St. Jean in the centre, a handsome but very soberly dressed cavalier was sheltering from the fierce July heat and closely observing the townspeople as they clustered here and there to engage in eager animated discussion. Every now and then he cast sweeping impatient glances in all directions in evident search of some one whose delay irritated him.

It was plain even to a stranger’s eyes that the townsfolk were greatly excited, and that the reason which had drawn the people from their houses was both urgent and disturbing. All classes were present—burghers, merchants, shopkeepers, workmen, ’prentices, down to the poorest of the labourers and peasants. Men, women and children alike were gathered there; the men set-faced and bitter, the women sad and anxious. Discontent, anger, fear and sorrow were the emotions evinced among all save the many soldiers who moved among the excited knots, with leers for the women and oaths for the men, and jibes and ribald laughter one to another.

The young cavalier’s face darkened as he listened, and more than once he started as if he would interfere, but[2] checked himself. His keen, quick blue eyes were everywhere; and presently catching sight of two closely-cowled monks clad in the black habit of their order, who showed at a secluded corner of the square, he left his shelter and went toward them quickly but cautiously.

As he reached them one gave him a monkish greeting and the other a military salute.

“I half feared you had forgotten the appointment,” he said, in a tone of authority; “and you are certainly forgetting your part, Pascal. Monks don’t salute like soldiers.”

“Don’t I know it?” was the reply, laughingly spoken. “I haven’t trained all our tough fellows in the monkish drill for nothing. I’ll tell my beads against Dubois here for a stoup of wine”; and taking in hand the rosary which hung conspicuously at his side, he commenced to mumble a string of nonsense words, and laughed again.

“Peace, man, peace!” said the other monk, much older in years. “You’ll be overheard and ruin all.”

“Tush! they’ll only think it’s my priestly Latin.”

“I fear I ought to have left you in Paris, Pascal,” said the cavalier. “I was warned your unruly tongue would play the mischief with a scheme that calls for tact and silence.”

“Nay, my lord——”

“Not, my lord, here. I am not Gerard de Bourbon for a few days. I have borrowed the name of that dicing scoundrel, Raoul de Cobalt, and am Gerard de Cobalt. Remember that, and watch your words until you have learnt that lesson.”

“I shall not forget. This holy man here, Dubois, will keep me in order,” answered Pascal with a smile.

“Tell me the news, Dubois.”

“All has gone as you wished. The men have all arrived; and yesterday I sought an interview with the Governor and did all as you had directed.”

[3]“He swallowed the bait?”

“Readily. I told him that the Cardinal Archbishop had sent him a hundred fighting men for his troops, and craved permission for the hundred begging friars to remain in the city until the pilgrimage southward could be resumed.”

“Good.”

“I brought the monks in,” interposed Pascal. “A hundred tough stalwarts, every man as sober as a begging friar should be; all telling their beads with unctuous unanimity, uttering ‘Pax Vobiscum’ with fervid zeal, and praying as only Bourbons can pray—for a fight.”

“Have a care, brother,” cried Dubois quickly, as a knot of the townsfolk passed.

“Have I not always care, holy brother?” cried Pascal, taking his rosary in hand again and mumbling his Paternoster in tones loud enough to reach the passers’ ears. “A fine achievement, M. de Cobalt, but it will not last.”

“What mean you?” asked Gerard quickly.

“Soldiers are soldiers, and it takes more than a monk’s gabardine to change them. When pretty girls come buzzing round, craving ‘A blessing, holy father,’ and looking so sweet and piteous, it’s not in nature, at least in soldiers’ nature, not to kiss ’em. Cherry lips lifted in supplication are strong enemies of this new discipline. I know it myself.”

“For shame, Pascal!” cried Dubois sternly. “Are we to betray everything for a pair of laughing eyes?”

“Anything can happen when there’s a shapely nose, a kissable mouth, and two soft cheeks to complete the face. Let there be haste, I say, or, Bourbons or no Bourbons, those lips will get kissed; and then there may be the devil to pay.”

“There is reason in his madcap words, Dubois,” said Gerard after a pause.

“Aye, even a fool can tell the truth,” laughed Pascal.

[4]“But we must wait till I have proofs. When the news of this governor’s evil doings came to my father’s ears he sent me to learn the truth; and while bidding me act as I would, enjoined me to do nothing until I had clear proofs. A Bourbon does not act on mere rumours.”

“Proofs!” broke in Pascal with a swift change to earnestness. “In the devil’s name, what better proof of the man’s deeds could you find than that which is writ large on the wretched, starving faces of the people? Look at them—faces that the devil grins to see when he would tempt men and women to sin.”

“I came in during the night only, and have seen little or nothing yet,” said Gerard. “What is the meaning of this gathering?”

“This devil spawn of a governor has a new ordinance to proclaim, a new tyranny to enact,” said Pascal. “He will tax afresh to half its value every ounce of foodstuff that comes into the city. As if the poor wretches were not already half-starving. And this tax will finish them. Look at them and say if the Governor is not justly dubbed the Tiger of Morvaix? They are waiting his coming now with the heralds. Of a truth I would as lief dwell in hell as in Morvaix under Bourbon sway though it be in name, and Bourbon as I am to the core.”

“We have had other and weightier matters to occupy us than the troubles of a small province so remote,” said Gerard, with a frown at Pascal’s words. “But if the tale of wrongs be warranted, the Governor, Duke de Rochelle though he be, will answer to me for them.”

“By all reports he will answer to no man but himself.”

“Enough, Pascal,” said Gerard, with a wave of the hand. “There appear to be over many soldiers, Dubois.”

“And report says theirs are the only mouths that take enough food,” broke in Pascal. “Your fighting man must be fed, of course; but when it comes to feeding[5] him with the food for which all others starve, it is first cousin to cannibalism.”

“The number of the soldiery has surprised me,” said Dubois seriously. “They are far too many for our small band to do much. It is well your cousin’s army lies so close to Cambrai. This governor will fight hard.”

“If his soldiers are loyal to him, it argues in his favour,” replied Gerard thoughtfully. “We know to what lengths the burghers of a town may be driven by their jealousy of us soldiers. We must wait.”

“And if we wait but a little while there will be no grievances left. Those who have them will be dead,” cried Pascal with a shrug of the shoulders.

“I need no taunts of yours, Pascal, to stir me to do great Bourbon’s will,” answered Gerard with some sternness.

“I meant no taunt, and spoke only my mind as friend to friend,” said Pascal.

“The Governor is coming now,” put in Dubois.

“We had better not be seen longer together. Where shall I find you at need?”

“The Duke has lodged Pascal and myself in his castle,” answered Dubois, and the two were turning away when Gerard exclaimed, in a tone of excitement—

“See, Dubois, see, that man riding by the side of the Governor. Do you recognize him?”

“It is that villain, de Proballe.”

“The old rat, so it is,” declared Pascal. “If there is devil’s work to be done in Morvaix he’ll be in it. Paris was too hot for him. I thought he was in hell by now. By the saints, he is long overdue.”

Gerard did not wait to hear the conclusion of the speech, but mingling with the crowd watched the proceedings with close interest.

It was a very strong force of soldiery, both horse and foot, that gathered in the market place round the[6] statue, large enough to brush away like so many flies the crowd of citizens, who fell back hushed and awe-stricken before the muskets and halberds which were used with much wilful violence.

The Governor of the city, the Duke Charles de Rochelle, seated on his charger, a magnificent coal black Flemish animal, drew up in the centre of the cleared space, and gazed with amused contemptuousness upon the shrinking burghers.

He made a striking centre-piece. Short and slight of figure, yet suggesting suppleness and strength, his fifty years sat lightly on him. His fair hair had scarce a touch of grey, and his pointed auburn beard and flowing moustache might have belonged to a man twenty years his junior. His features, strong and regular, would have been handsome but for the small close-set grey eyes, whose cold, hawk-like glitter was rendered additionally repulsive by a strong cast.

“The eyes of a wild beast,” thought Gerard, who had been watching him intently. “Well named the Tiger.”

At a signal from the Governor, the herald stepped forward amid a blare of trumpets and read the proclamation. The people listened in dead silence; but at the close, loud murmurs broke out which even the presence of the soldiery could not wholly check.

“It means starvation to us,” cried one lusty voice, and a powerful fellow, a smith, wielding the heavy hammer of his trade, broke through the ring of the soldiers and made as if to approach the Governor.

“What dog is this that dares to bay?” It was the Duke who spoke.

“I am no dog, my lord, but a burgher of Morvaix, and I do but speak what all here know,” answered the smith sturdily.

The Duke fixed his keen eyes on the man’s face, and[7] without a word signed to some of those about him. Three soldiers sprang toward the smith, who faced them fearlessly, and lifted his hammer.

“I have done no wrong. No man shall touch me,” he said threateningly.

“Down with the rebel dog,” cried the Duke; and at the words the soldiers, who had hesitated, rushed upon the smith. Two went down with broken heads from blows of the terrible hammer; but the third got his halberd in, and as the man lay on the ground some others dashed forward and one of them thrust home to his heart.

“So perish all rebels,” cried the Governor, in a ringing tone to the crowd; and at the threat and the sight of the smith’s blood the people shrank together and cowered.

The Duke smiled coldly on the crowd, and without another word signed for the procession to reform and march on, the people shrinking and cowering in silence from the troops as they passed.

Gerard’s hot blood had fired at the scene, and he stood looking after the Governor with a heart hot with indignant anger at the foul injustice he had witnessed.

His two followers in monkish garb crossed to him and as the three whispered together, they were startled by the sound of a woman’s wailing. It was the dead man’s wife. She had heard the news and came rushing upon the scene in wild disordered distress, carrying her babe in her arms.

As she was nearing the body, a girl attended by a page, whose attire evidenced his mistress’ high station, met her and with tender solicitude offered such consolation as was possible.

Gerard’s gaze, attracted by the girl’s beauty, followed the couple as together they approached the body, which[8] had now been lifted by some of the sympathizing townsfolk; and then with a cry of anger he dashed hotly toward them, followed by his companions.

There was indeed cause for his anger. Several of the brutal soldiers had rushed upon the men carrying the corpse, and with oaths and blows and threats of the Duke’s anger, seized the body from them and flung it on the ground.

The girl, courageously placing herself between the soldiers and the frightened townsfolk, had turned upon the former and ordered them away; but the bullies, strong in the protection of their tyrant master and presuming on their license to deal as they would with the people, first jeered at her coarsely and then thrust her roughly aside while one of them ran and kicked the corpse with wanton brutality.

It was the attack on the girl which drove Gerard to interfere. He was by her side in an instant, flung the man who had touched her to the ground, and with eyes flashing and hand on his sword, dared the men to interfere further.

The soldiers were still present in the square in great force, however, and attracted by the tumult many came rallying to the side of their comrades. At the same time, inspirited by Gerard’s daring, a great crowd of the townsfolk closed up behind him; and it seemed impossible that a conflict could be avoided.

There was a moment of hesitation, however, while the two opposing bodies glared angrily at one another, and Pascal with ready wit seized it to step between them, and with uplifted crucifix threatened the soldiers with the ban of Holy Church if they attempted further violence to either dead or living.

While he was haranguing them in loud and vehement tones, a number of men in monkish dress appeared almost as if by magic, and pushing through the citizens[9] ranged themselves at his side, thus giving an impressive background to his exhortation.

The soldiers, abashed by this strange opposition, hung back in doubt, and the citizens having in the meanwhile borne the dead body away, the trouble ended in nothing more serious than muttered threats and oaths from the soldiers and stern remonstrances from the monks.

When the soldiers had drawn off, Gerard turned to seek the girl the attack on whom had provoked him to interfere, but she had vanished.

With an eagerness which brought a smile to Pascal’s face, Gerard plied those about him with questions regarding her, and learnt that she was Mademoiselle de Malincourt, and had gone away to comfort the trouble-stricken woman whose husband had been the victim of the morning’s tragedy.

“You did shrewdly, Pascal,” said Dubois, when the two were alone.

“Our good fellows won’t thank me, for, like myself, their fingers were tingling to be at some of the rascals’ throats. Where’s the young lord, Gerard?”

“Gone in search of——” Pascal’s laugh interposed to finish the sentence.

“Aye, aye. We can understand. There’s a woman in the thing now, of course. And we shall hear more of her, or I am a monk indeed, and no soldier, which God forfend.”

Author: Arthur Williams Marchmont (1853–1923)

Biography: Arthur William Marchmont was probably born in 1853 in London, the son of the Rev. Henry Marchmont. His mother appears to have died at his birth or shortly after. He attended Pembroke College, Oxford, where he took a degree before entering Lincoln's Inn. He left law and turned to journalism, editing the North Eastern Daily Gazette and the Lancashire Daily Post. In the mid-1890s, he left journalism to devote himself to fiction. In total, he wrote some 35 novels which often featured exciting plots and foreign settings. In 1892, he married Fanny Jaques but the couple had no children. Marchmont died on 2 July 1923 in Bath a fortnight after his wife Fanny.

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In the Name of a Woman: A Romance by Arthur W. Marchmont

In the Name of a Woman: A Romance

by Arthur W. Marchmont

 

CHAPTER 1

A NIGHT ADVENTURE IN SOFIA

“Help!”

The cry, faint but strenuous, in a woman’s voice, rang out on the heavy hot night air, and told me that one of those abominable deeds that were so rife in the lawless Bulgarian capital was in progress, and I hastened forward in angry perplexity trying to locate the sound.

I knew what it meant. I had been strolling late through the hot, close streets between the Park and the Cathedral, when a woman closely hooded had hurried past me, dogged by a couple of skulking, scuttling spies, and I had turned to follow them. Across the broad Cathedral Square I had lost sight of them, and, taking at random one of the streets on the opposite side of the square, I was walking and listening for some sound to guide me in their direction.

“Help!” came the cry again, this time close to me from behind a pair of large wooden gates, one of which stood ajar. I pushed it open and crossed the courtyard before a large house, loosening as I ran the blade of the sword-stick I carried. The house was in darkness in the front, and as I dashed round to the back the cry was uttered for the third time, while I caught the sounds of struggling.

There was a light in one of the lower rooms, the long casement window of which stood partly open, and the beams came straggling in a thin line between some nearly closed curtains. With a spring I caught the ledge, and, drawing up my head level with the window, looked in.

What I saw told me that my worst fears were being realised. The woman who had passed me in the street was struggling with frantic effort to hold the door of the room against someone who was fighting to get in. Her cloak was off, and her head and face uncovered. She was a tall, lithe, strenuous creature, obviously of great strength and determination, and the whiteness of the face, now set and resolute, was thrown up into the strongest contrast by a mass of bright red hair, some of which the fierceness of the struggle had loosened. She was striving and straining with enormous energy, despite the fact that she was bleeding badly from a wound somewhere in the shoulder or upper arm.

As I glanced in, she turned her head in my direction with the look of a tigress at bay; and I guessed that she was calculating the possibilities of escape by means of the window. But the momentary relaxation of her resistance gave the men a better chance, and, to my horror, I saw one of them get his arm in and slash and thrust at her with his knife.

She answered with a greater effort of her own, however, and succeeded in jamming the man’s arm between the door and the lintel, making him cry out with an oath that reached me.

But so unequal a struggle could only end in one  way, and that very speedily unless I intervened; so I scrambled on to the window ledge, and with a cry leapt into the room. At the noise of my appearance, mistaking me no doubt for a third ruffian come to attack her, the woman’s courage gave out; she uttered a cry of despair and rushed away to a corner of the room. She released the door so suddenly that the two men came staggering and blundering into the room, almost falling, and I recognised them as the two rascals I had seen following her.

“Have no fear, madame; I am here to help you,” I said, and, before the two ruffians had recovered from the surprise of my appearance, I was upon them. One could not stop his rush till he was close to me, and, having him at this disadvantage, I crashed my fist into his face with a tremendous blow, knocking him down with such force that his head fell with a heavy thud against the floor, and his dagger flew out of his hand and spun clattering across the room almost to the feet of the woman.

The second was more wary, but in a trice I whipped out my sword, held him at bay, and vowed in stern, ringing tones that I would run him through the body if he wasn’t outside the room in a brace of seconds. I saw him flinch. He had no stomach for this kind of fight, and he was giving way before me when a cry from the man I had knocked down drew our attention.

The woman, seeing her chance, had picked up the rascal’s dagger, and with the light of murder in her eyes, was stealing upon the fallen man.

Instantly I sprang between her and him.

“No, no, madame; no bloodshed!” I cried to her; and then to the men, “Be off, while your skins are whole!” The words were not out of my lips before the unarmed man had already reached the door in full flight, and his companion, seeing I meant to act only on the defensive, and recognising the uselessness of any further attack, followed him, though less precipitately.

“Why did you stop me killing such a brute?” cried the woman angrily, her eyes blazing. “They both meant to murder me, and would have done it if you had not come. They had earned death.”

“But I did not come to play the butcher,” I answered somewhat sternly, repelled by her indifference to bloodshed.

“Follow them and kill them now!” she cried vindictively. “Do you hear? Kill them before they carry the story of this rescue to their masters;” and in her frenzy she took hold of my arm and shook it, urging me toward the door.

“Better see to your wound,” I returned, as I sheathed my sword.

“Bah, you are mad! I have no patience with you!” She shrugged her shoulders as though I were little better than a contemptible coward, and walked to the end of the room and stood in the lamplight half turned away from me.

The pose revealed to me the full majestic grace of her form, while the profile of her face, as thrown into half shadow by the rather dim light of the room, set me wondering. It was not a beautiful face. The features, nose and mouth especially, were too large, the cheek bones too high, the colour too pale; but it was a face full of such power and strength and resource that it compelled your admiration and silenced your critical judgment. A woman to be remarked anywhere.

But when she turned her eyes upon me a moment later, they seemed to rivet me with an indescribable and irresistible fascination. In striking contrast to the rich red hair and the pale skin, the eyes were as black as night. The iris almost as dark as the pupil, the white opalescent in its clearness, and fringed with lashes and brows of deep brown. She caught my gaze on her, and held it with a look so intense that I could scarcely turn away.

Her bosom was heaving, and her breath coming and going quickly with her exertions and excitement, and after a moment, without saying a word, she threw herself into a low chair and hid her face in her hands.

Who could she be? That she was a woman of station was manifest. The richness of her dress, the appointments of the room, told this plainly, even if her mien and carriage had not proclaimed it; and yet she seemed alone in the house. It was a position of considerable embarrassment, and for the moment I did not know what to do.

I had no wish to be mixed up in any such intrigue as was clearly at the bottom of this business; and though I was glad to have saved her life, I was anxious to be gone before any further developments should involve me in unpleasant consequences.

There was no more dangerous hornet’s nest of intrigue and conspiracy than Sofia to be found in Europe at that time, and the secret mission which had brought me to the city about a fortnight before was more than enough to tax all my energies and power, without any such additional complication as this adventure seemed to promise. My object was to get to the bottom of the secret machinations by which Russia was endeavouring to close her grip of iron on the throne and country of Bulgaria, and, if possible, thwart them;  and I had been trying and testing by every secret means at my command to find a path that would lead me to my end. It must be a delicate and dangerous task enough under the best auspices, but if I were to be embarrassed now by the coils of any private vengeance feud, I ran a good chance of being baffled completely.

Even before this night the difficulties in my way had appeared as hopeless as the perils were inevitable; and I had felt as a man might feel who had resolved to stay the progress of a railway train by laying his head on the metals. But if this affair were as deadly as it seemed, I might find my head struck off before even the train came in sight.

Yet to leave such a woman in this helpless plight was the act of a coward, and not to be thought of for a moment; and I stood looking at her in sheer perplexity and indecision.

She lay back in her seat for some minutes, making no attempt to call assistance, not even taking her hands from her face, and paying no heed whatever to her wound, the blood from which had stained her dress.

I roused myself at length, and, feeling the sheer necessity of doing something, went to the door and called loudly for the servants.

“It is useless to call; there is no one in the house,” she said, her voice now trembling slightly; and with a deep sigh she rose from her chair, and after a moment’s pause crossed the room to me. She fixed her eyes upon my face; her look had changed from that of the vengeful Fury who had repelled me with her violent recklessness of passion to one of ineffable sweetness, tenderness, and gratitude. Out of her eyes had died down all the wildness, and what remained charmed and thrilled me, until I felt myself almost constrained[7] to throw myself at her feet in eagerness to do whatever she bade me.

“You will think me an ingrate, or a miser of my thanks, sir,” she said in a tone rich and soft; “and yet, believe me, my heart is full of gratitude.”

“Please say no more,” I replied, with a wave of the hand; “but tell me, can I be of any further service? Your wound—can I not get you assistance?”

She paid no heed to the question, but remained gazing steadfastly into my eyes. Then her face broke into a smile that transfigured it until it seemed to glow with a quite radiant beauty.

“Yes, indeed, you can serve me—if you will; but not only in the manner you think. The servants have deserted the house. I am alone to-night—alone and quite in your power.” She lingered on the words, paused, and then added: “But in the power of a man of honour.”

“How can I serve you? You have but to ask.”

“I wish I could think that,” was the quick answer, with a flash from her eyes. “But first for this,” and she rapidly bared the wound, revealing an arm and shoulder of surpassing beauty of form. “Can you bind this up?” For the moment I was amazed at this complete abandonment of all usual womanly reserve. The action was deliberate, however, and I read it as at once a sign of her trust and confidence in me, and a test of my honour. The hurt was not serious. The man’s blade had pierced the soft white flesh of the shoulder, but had not penetrated deep; and I had no difficulty in staunching the blood and binding it up.

“It is not a serious wound,” I said reassuringly. “I am glad.”

[8]“That is no fault of the dastard who struck at me. It was aimed at my heart.”

She showed not the least embarrassment, but appeared bent on making me feel that she trusted me as implicitly as a child. When I had bound up the wound she resumed her dress, taking care to put the stains of blood out of sight; and then, with a few swift, graceful movements, for all the stiffness of the hurt, she coiled up the loose tresses of her hair.

When she had finished she went to a cabinet, and, taking wine and glasses, filled them.

“You will pledge me?” and she looked the invitation. “We women are so weak. I am beginning to feel the reaction.”

I was putting the glass to my lips when she stopped me.

“Stay, I wish to know to whom I owe my life?”

So powerful was the strange influence she exerted that I was on the point of blurting out the truth, that I was Gerald Winthrop, an Englishman, when I steadied my scrambled wits, and, mindful of my secret mission in the country and of the part I was playing, I replied:

“I am the Count Benderoff, of Radova.”

She saw the hesitation, but put it down to a momentary reluctance to disclose my identity, for she answered:

“You will not repent having trusted me with your name, Count.” Then, with a flashing, subtle underglance, she added, “And do you know me?”

“As yet, madame, I have not that honour, to my regret.”

“Yet I am not unknown in Bulgaria,” and she raised her head with a gesture of infinite pride.
 

“I am a stranger in Sofia,” said I, in excuse of my ignorance.

“Even strangers know of the staunch woman-friend of his Highness the Prince. I am the Countess Anna Bokara.”

I knew her well enough by repute, and her presence in the house alone and defenceless was the more mystifying.

“Permit me to wish you a speedy recovery from your wound, Countess,” and to cover the thoughts which her words started I raised my glass. She seemed almost to caress me with her eyes and voice as she replied:

“I drink to my newest friend, that rare thing in this distracted country, a man of honour, the Count Benderoff, of Radova.” As she set her glass down she added: “My enemies have done me a splendid service, Count—they have brought me your friendship. They could not have made us a nobler or more timely gift. The Prince has need of such a man as you.”

I bowed but did not answer.

“You are a stranger here, you say. May I ask your purpose in coming?”

“I am in search of a career.”

“I can promise you that,” she cried swiftly, with manifest pleasure. “I can promise you that certainly, if you will serve his Highness as bravely as you have served me to-night. You must not think, because you see me here, seemingly alone and helpless, that I have lost my influence and power in the country. My enemies have done this—Russia through the vile agents she sends here to wound this distracted country to the death—suborning all that is honourable, debasing all that is pure, undermining all that is patriotic, lying, slandering, scheming, wrecking, destroying, working all and any evil, bloodshed, and horror, to serve the one end ever in their eyes—the subjugation of this wretched people. My God! that such injustice should be wrought!”

The fire and passion flamed in her face as she spoke with rapid vehemence.

“But it is by such men as you that this can best be thwarted—can only be thwarted. I tell you, Count, the Prince has need of such men as you. Pledge me now that you will join him and—and me. You have seen here to-night the lengths to which these villains would go. Because of my influence with the Prince, and in opposition to Russia, I have been lured here by a lying message; lured to be murdered in cold blood, as you saw. You saved my life; I have put my honour in your hands; you have offered to serve me. You are a brave, true, honourable man. You must be with us!” she cried vehemently. “Give me your word—nay, you have given it, and I can claim it. You will not desert me. Make the cause of truth and honour yours, and tell me that my Prince and I may rely on you.”

She set me on fire with her words and glances of appeal, and at the close she laid her hands on mine, until I was thrilled by the infection of her enthusiasm, while her eyes sought mine, and she seemed to hunger for the words of consent for which she waited.

 

Author: Arthur Williams Marchmont (1853–1923)

Biography: Arthur William Marchmont was probably born in 1853 in London, the son of the Rev. Henry Marchmont. His mother appears to have died at his birth or shortly after. He attended Pembroke College, Oxford, where he took a degree before entering Lincoln's Inn. He left law and turned to journalism, editing the North Eastern Daily Gazette and the Lancashire Daily Post. In the mid-1890s, he left journalism to devote himself to fiction. In total, he wrote some 35 novels which often featured exciting plots and foreign settings. In 1892, he married Fanny Jaques but the couple had no children. Marchmont died on 2 July 1923 in Bath a fortnight after his wife Fanny.

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