Prose Fancies | Page 9

long
since in endless orchidaceous variation. Oh to be simple shepherds,
simple sailors, simple delvers of the soil, to be something complete on
our own account, to be relative to nothing save God and His stars!

THE WOMAN'S HALF-PROFITS
O ma pauvre Muse! est-ce toi?
Fame in Athens and Florence took the form of laurel; in London it is
represented by 'Romeikes.' Hyacinth Rondel, the very latest new poet,
sat one evening not long ago in his elegant new chambers, with a cloud
of those pleasant witnesses about him, as charmed by 'the rustle' of
their 'loved Apollian leaves' as though they had been veritable laurel or
veritable bank-notes. His rooms were provided with all those
distinguished comforts and elegancies proper to a success that may any
moment be interviewed. Needless to say, the walls had been decorated
by Mr. Whistler, and there was not a piece of furniture in the room that
had not belonged to this or that poet deceased. Priceless autograph

portraits of all the leading actors and actresses littered the mantelshelf
with a reckless prodigality; the two or three choice etchings were, of
course, no less conspicuously inscribed to their illustrious confrère by
the artists--naturally, the very latest hatched in Paris. There was hardly
a volume in the elegant Chippendale bookcases not similarly inscribed.
Mr. Rondel would as soon have thought of buying a book as of paying
for a stall. To the eye of imagination, therefore, there was not an article
in the room which did not carry a little trumpet to the distinguished
poet's honour and glory. Hidden from view in his buhl cabinet, but
none the less vivid to his sensitive egoism, were those tenderer trophies
of his power, spoils of the chase, which the adoring feminine had
offered up at his shrine: all his love-letters sorted in periods, neatly
ribboned and snugly ensconced in various sandalwood niches--much as
urns are ranged at the Crematorium, Woking--with locks of hair of
many hues. He loved most to think of those letters in which the women
had gladly sought a spiritual suttee, and begged him to cement the
stones of his temple of fame with the blood of their devoted hearts. To
have had a share in building so distinguished a life--that was enough
for them! They asked no such inconvenient reward as marriage: indeed,
one or two of them had already obtained that boon from others. To
serve their purpose, and then, if it must be, to be forgotten, or--wild
hope--to be embalmed in a sonnet sequence: that was reward enough.
In the midst of this silent and yet so eloquent orchestra, which from
morn to night was continually crying 'Glory, glory, glory' in the ear of
the self-enamoured poet, Hyacinth Rondel was sitting one evening. The
last post had brought him the above-mentioned leaves of the Romeike
laurel, and he sat in his easiest chair by the bright fire, adjusting them,
metaphorically, upon his high brow, a decanter at his right-hand and
cigarette smoke curling up from his left. At last he had drained all the
honey from the last paragraph, and, with rustling shining head, he
turned a sweeping triumphant gaze around his room. But, to his
surprise, he found himself no longer alone. Was it the Muse in dainty
modern costume and delicately tinted cheek? Yes! it was one of those
discarded Muses who sometimes remain upon the poet's hands as Fates.
When she raised her veil she certainly looked more of a Fate than a

Muse. Her expression was not agreeable. The poet, afterwards
describing the incident and remembering his Dante, spoke of her in an
allegorical sonnet as 'lady of terrible aspect,' and symbolised her as
Nemesis.
He now addressed her as 'Annette,' and in his voice were four notes of
exclamation. She came closer to him, and very quietly, but with an
accent that was the very quintessence of Ibsenism, made the somewhat
mercantile statement: 'I have come for my half-profits!'
'Half-profits! What do you mean? Are you mad?'
'Not in the least! I want my share in the profits of all this pretty poetry,'
and she contemptuously ran her fingers over the several slim volumes
on the poet's shelves which represented his own contribution to English
literature.
Rondel began to comprehend, but he was as yet too surprised to
answer.
'Don't you understand?' she went on. 'It takes two to make poetry like
yours--
"They steal their song the lips that sing From lips that only kiss and
cling."
Do you remember? Have I quoted correctly? Yes, here it is!' taking
down a volume entitled Liber Amoris, the passionate confession which
had first brought the poet his fame. As a matter of fact, several ladies
had 'stood' for this series, but the poet had artfully generalised them
into