The Delicious Vice by Young E Allison - HTML preview

There are advantages in being a gentleman, which can not be denied. One

is that it commands credit in the King’s presence as well as at the

tailor’s.

It is interesting to compare both these attitudes with that of

”Athos,” the Count de la Fere, toward the King. He was lacking in

the irresistibly fierce insolence of Bussy and in the abasement of

D’Artagnan; it was melancholy, patient, persistent and terrible in its

restrained calmness. How narrowly he just escaped true greatness. I

would no more cast reproaches upon that noble gentleman than I would

upon my grandmother; but he–was–a–trifle–serous, wasn’t he? He was

brave, prompt, resourceful, splendid, and, at need, gingerish as the

best colt in the paddock. It is the deuce’s own pity for a man to be

born to too much seriousness. Do you know–and as I love my country, I

mean it in honest respect–that I sometimes think that the gentleness

and melancholy of Athos somehow suggests a bit of distrust. One is

almost terrified at times lest he may begin the Hamlet controversies.

You feel that if he committed a murder by mistake you are not absolutely

sure he wouldn’t take a turn with Remorse. Not so Bussy; he would throw

the mistake in with good will and not create worry about it. Hang it

all, if the necessary business of murder is to halt upon the shuffling

accident of mistake, we may as well sell out the hero business and rent

the shop. It would be down to the level of Hamlet in no time. Unless, of

course, the hero took the view of it that Nero adopted. It is improbable

that Nero inherited the gift of natural remorse; but he cultivated one

and seemed to do well with it. He used to reflect upon his mother and

his wife, both of whom he had affectionately murdered, and justified

himself by declaring that a great artist, who was also the Roman

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Emperor, would be lacking in breadth of emotional experience and

retrospective wisdom, unless he knew the melancholy of a two-pronged

family remorse. And from Nero’s standpoint it was one of the best

thoughts that he ever formulated into language.

To return to Bussy and D’Artagnan. In courage they were Hector and

Achilles. You remember the champagne picnic before the bastion St.

Gervais at the siege of St. Rochelle? What light-hearted gayety amid the

flying missiles of the arquebusiers! Yet, do not forget that–ignoring

the lacquey–there were four of them, and that his Eminence, the

Cardinal Duke, had said the four of them were equal to a thousand men!

If you have enough knowledge of human nature to understand the fine

game of baseball, and have at any time scraped acquaintance with the

interesting mathematical doctrine of progressive permutations, you will

see, when four men equal to a thousand are under the eyes of each other,

and of the garrison in the fort, that the whole arsenal of logarithms

would give out before you could compute the permutative possibilities

of the courage that would be refracted, reflected, compounded and

concentrated by all there, each giving courage to and receiving courage

from each and all the others. It makes my head ache to think of it. I

feel as if I could be brave myself.

Certainly they were that day. To the bitter end of finishing the meal;

and they confessed the added courage by gamboling like boys amid awful

thunders of the arquebuses, which made a rumble in their time like their

successors, the omnibuses, still make to this day on the granite streets

of cities populated by deaf folks.

There never was more of a gay, lilting, impudent courage than those four

mousquetaires displayed with such splendid coolness and spirit.

But compare it with the fight which Bussy made, single-handed, against

the assassins hired by Monsereau and authorized by that effeminate

fop, the Due D’Anjou. Of course you remember it. Let me pay you the

affectionate compliment of presuming that you have read ”La Dame de

Monsereau,” often translated under the English title, ”Chicot, the

Jester,” that almost incomparable novel of historical romance, by M.

Dumas. If, through some accident or even through lack of culture, you

have failed to do so, pray do not admit it. Conceal your blemish and

remedy the matter at once. At least, seem to deserve respect and

confidence, and appear to be a worthy novel-reader if actually you are

not. There is a novel that, I assure you on my honor, is as good as

the ”Three Guardsmen;” but–oh!–so–much–shorter; the pity of it,

too!–oh, the pity of it! On the second reading–now, let us speak with

frank conservatism–on the second reading of it, I give you my word, man

to man, I dreaded to turn every page, because it brought the end nearer.

If it had been granted to me to have one wish fulfilled that fine winter

night, I should have said with humility: ”Beneficent Power, string it

out by nine more volumes, presto me here a fresh box of cigars, and the

account of your kindness, and my gratitude is closed.”

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If the publisher of this series did not have such absurd sensitiveness

about the value of space and such pitifully small ideas about the

nobility of novels, I should like to write at least twenty pages about

”Chicot.” There are books that none of us ever put down in our lists of

great books, and yet which we think more of and delight more in than all

the great guns. Not one of the friends I’ve loved so long and well has

been President of the United States, but I wouldn’t give one of them for

all the Presidents. Just across the hall at this minute I can hear the

frightful din of war–shells whistling and moaning, bullets s-e-o-uing,

the shrieks of the dying and wounded–Merciful Heaven! the ”Don Juan

of Asturia” has just blown up in Manila Bay with an awful roar–again!

Again, as I’m a living man, just as she has blown up every day, and

several times every day, since May 1, 1898. There are two warriors over

in the play-room, drenched with imaginary gore, immersed in the tender

grace of bestowing chastening death and destruction upon the Spanish

foe. Don’t I know that they rank somewhat below Admiral Dewey as heroes?

But do you suppose that their father would swap them for Admiral Dewey

and all the rainbow glories that fine old Yankee sea-dog ever will

enjoy–long may he live to enjoy them all!–do you think so? Of course

not! You know perfectly well that his–wife–wouldn’t–let–him!

I would not wound the susceptibilities of any reader; but speaking for

myself–”Chicot” being beloved of my heart–if there was a mean man,

living in a mean street, who had the last volume of ”Chicot” in

existence, I would pour out my library’s last heart’s blood to get

it. He could have all of Scott but ”Ivanhoe,” all of Dickens but

”Copperfield,” all of Hugo but ”Les Miserables,” cords of Fielding,

Marryat, Richardson, Reynolds, Eliot, Smollet, a whole ton of German

translations–by George! he could leave me a poor old despoiled,

destitute and ruined book-owner in things that folks buy in costly

bindings for the sake of vanity and the deception of those who also

deceive them in turn.

Brother, ”Chicot” is a book you lend only to your dearest friend, and

then remind him next day that he hasn’t sent it back.

Now, as to Bussy’s great fight. He had gone to the house of Madame Diana

de Monsereau. I am not au fait upon French social customs, but let us

presume his being there was entirely proper, because that excellent lady

was glad to see him. He was set upon by her husband, M. de Monsereau,

with fifteen hired assassins. Outside, the Due D’Anjou and some others

of assassins were in hiding to make sure that Monsereau killed Bussy,

and that somebody killed Monsereau! There’s a ”situation” for you,

double-edged treachery against–love and innocence, let us say. Bussy

is in the house with Madame. His friend, St. Luc, is with him; also

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his lacquey and body-physician, the faithful Rely. Bang! the doors are

broken in, and the assassins penetrate up the stairway. The brave Bussy

confides Diana to St. Luc and Rely, and, hastily throwing up a barricade

of tables and chairs near the door of the apartment, draws his sword.

Then, ye friends of sudden death and valorous exercise, began a surfeit

of joy. Monsereau and his assassins numbered sixteen. In less than three

moderate paragraphs Bessy’s sword, playing like avenging lightning,

had struck fatality to seven. Even then, with every wrist going, he

reflected, with sublime calculation: ”I can kill five more, because I

can fight with all my vigor ten minutes longer!” After that? Bessy could

see no further–there spoke fate!–you feel he is to die. Once more the

leaping steel point, the shrill death cry, the miraculous parry. The

villain, Monsereau, draws his pistol. Bessy, who is fighting half

a dozen swordsmen, can even see the cowardly purpose; he watches;

he–dodges–the–bullets!–by watching the aim–

”Ye sons of France, behold the glory!”

He thrusts, parries and swings the sword as a falchion. Suddenly a

pistol ball snaps the blade off six inches from the hilt. Bessy picks up

the blade and in an instant splices–it–to–the–hilt–with–his–

handkerchief ! Oh, good sword of the good swordsman! it drinks the blood

of three more before it–bends–and–loosens–under–the–strain! Bessy

is shot in the thigh; Monsereau is upon him; the good Rely, lying almost

lifeless from a bullet wound received at the outset, thrusts a rapier to

Bessy’s grasp with a last effort. Bessy springs upon Monsereau with the

great bound of a panther and pins–the–son–of–a–gun–to–the–floor

–with–the–rapier–and–watches–him–die!

You can feel faint for joy at that passage for a good dozen readings, if

you are appreciative. Poor Bessy, faint from wounds and blood-letting,

retreats valiantly to a closet window step by step and drops out,

leaving Monsereau spitted, like a black spider, dead on the floor. Here

hope and expectation are drawn out in your breast like chewing gum

stretched to the last shred of tenuation. At this point I firmly

believed that Bessy would escape. I feel sorry for the reader who does

not. You just naturally argue that the faithful Rely will surely reach

him and rub him with the balsam. That balsam of Dumas! The same that

D’Artagnan’s mother gave him when he rode away on the yellow horse,

and which cured so many heroes hurt to the last gasp. That miraculous

balsam, which would make doctors and surgeons sing small today if they

had not suppressed it from the materia medica. May be they can silence

their consciences by the reflection that they suppressed it to enhance

the value and necessity of their own personal services. But let them

look at the death rate and shudder. I had confidence in Rely and the

balsam, but he could not get there in time. Then, it was forgone that

Bessy must die. Like Mercutio, he was too brilliant to live. Depend upon

it, these wizards of story tellers know when the knell of fate rings

much sooner than we halting readers do.

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Bessy drops from the closet window upon an iron fence that surrounded

the park and was impaled upon the dreadful pickets! Even then for

another moment you can cherish a hope that he may escape after all.

Suspended there and growing weaker, he hears footsteps approaching. Is

it a rescuing friend? He calls out–and a dagger stroke from the hand of

D’Anjou, his Judas master, finds his heart. That’s the way Bessy died.

No man is proof against the dagger stroke of treachery. Bessy was

powerful and the due jealous.

Diana has been carried off safely by the trustworthy St. Luc. She must

have died of grief if she had not been kept alive to be the instrument

of retributive justice. (In the sequel you will find that this Queen of

Hearts descended upon the ignoble due at the proper time like a thousand

of brick and took the last trick of justice.)

The extraordinary description of Bussy’s fight is beyond everything. You

gallop along as if in a whirlwind, and it is only in cooler moments that

you discover he killed about twelve rascals with his own good arm. It

seems impossible; the scientific, careful readers have been known to

declare it impossible and sneer at it with laughter. I trust every

novel reader respects scientific folks as he should; but science is not

everything. Our scientific friends have contended that the whale did not

engulf Jonah; that the sun did not pause over the vale of Askelon; that

Baron Munchausen’s horse did not hang to the steeple by his bridle;

that the beanstalk could not have supported a stout lad like Jack; that

General Monk was not sent to Holland in a cage; that Remus and Romulus

had not a devoted lady wolf for a step-mother; in fact, that loads of

things, of which the most undeniable proof exists in plain print all

over the world, never were done or never happened. Bessy was killed,

Rely was killed later, Diana died in performing her destiny, St. Luc was

killed. Nobody left to make affidavits, except M. Dumas; in his lifetime

nobody questioned it; he is now dead and unable to depose; whereupon the

scientists sniff scornfully and deny. I hope I shall always continue to

respect science in its true offices, but, brethren, are there not times

when–science–makes–you–just–a–little–tired?

Heroes! D’Artagnan or Bessy? Choose, good friends, freely; as freely let

me have my Bessy.

VIII

HEROINES

A SUBJECT ALMOST WITHOUT AN OBJECT–WHY THERE ARE

FEW HEROINES FOR MEN.

Notwithstanding the sub ject, there are almost no heroines in novels.

There are impossibly good women, absurdly patient and brave women, but

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few heroines as the convention of worldly thinking demands heroines.

There is an endless train of what Thackeray so aptly described as ”pale,

pious, and pulmonary ladies” who snivel and snu