Out & Proud: Gay Classics Collection. Radclyffe Hall

as if to say, with Comus, —

      “Behold this cordial julep here,

       That flames and dances in his crystal bounds!”

      A dusty magnum stood beside him, without label, but wearing a conscious look of importance. He carefully filled a goblet with its purple contents, and despatched it to me by his own servant.

      Densdeth was a coxcomb, partly by nature, partly for effect. He liked to call attention to himself as the Great Densdeth. He always had special wines, special dainties, and special service.

      “It pays to be conspicuous,” he said to me, on board the steamer. “I don’t attempt to humbug fellows like you, Byng,” — and at this I of course felt a little complimented, — “but we must take men as we find them. They are asses. I treat them as such. Ordinary people adore luxury. They love to see it, whether they share it or not. A little quiet show and lavishness on one’s self is a capital thing to get the world’s confidence.

      “Besides, Byng,” he continued, “I love luxury for its own sake. I mean to have the best for all my senses. I keep myself in perfect health, you see, for perfect sensitiveness and perfect enjoyment. Why shouldn’t I take the little trouble it requires to have the most delicate wine, and other things the most delicate, always at command? Life is short. Après, le déluge, or worse.”

      While I was recalling these remarks, Densdeth’s servant had deposited the wine at my right. He was an Afreet creature, this servant, black, ugly, and brutal as the real Mumbo Jumbo. Yet sometimes, as he stood by his master, I could not avoid perceiving a resemblance, and fancying him a misbegotten repetition of the other. And at the moments when I mistrusted Densdeth, I felt that the Afreet’s repulsive appearance more fitly interpreted his master’s soul than the body by which it acted.

      I raised the goblet to my mouth. The aroma was delicious.

      “Densdeth,” I thought, “must have had a cask of the happiest vintage of Burgundy’s divinest juice hung in gimbals, and floated over the Atlantic in the June calms.”

      I put the fragrant draught to my lips, and bowed my compliments.

      Densdeth was studying me, with a covert expression, — so I felt or fancied. I interpreted his look, — “Young man, I saw on the steamer that you were worth buying, worth perverting. I have spent more civility than usual on you already. How much more have I to pay? Are you a cheap commodity? Or must I give time and pains and study to make you mine?”

      Do these fancies seem extravagant? They must justify themselves hereafter in this history.

      I set down Densdeth’s glass, untasted.

      “What does it mean,” thought I, “this man’s strange fascination? When his eyes are upon me, I feel something stir in my heart, saying, ‘Be Densdeth’s! He knows the mystery of life.’ I begin to dread him. Will he master my will? What is this potency of his? How has he got this lodgment in my spirit? Is he one of those fabulous personages who only exist while they are preying upon another soul, who are torpid unless they are busy contriving a damnation? Why has he been trying to turn me inside out all the voyage? Why has he kept touching the raw spots and the rotten spots in my nature? I can be of no use to him. What does he want of me? Not to make me better and nobler, — that I am sure of. No; I will not touch his wine. I will keep clear of his attentions.”

      By the way of desperate evasion, I seized and tossed off, first, Governor Bluffer’s mawkish champagne, and then the acrid fabrication with which Blinckers had honored me.

      Of course the rash and feeble dodge was futile. I was not to be let off in that way.

      There stood Densdeth’s wine, attracting me like some magic philter. It became magnetic with Densdeth’s magnetism. I could almost see an imp in the glass, — not the teetotaller’s bottle-imp, but a special sprite, urging me, “Drink, and let the draught symbolize renewed intimacy with Densdeth! Drink, and accept his proffered alliance. Be wise, and taste!”

      The vulgar scenery of the long dining-room faded away from my eyes. The vulgar, dressy women, the ill-dressed, vulgar men, the oleaginous waiters, all became distant shadows. I heard the clatter and bustle and pop about me, as one hears the hum of mosquitos outside a bar at drowsy midnight. I was conscious of nothing but the wine — the philter — and him who had poured it out.

      Absurd! Yes; no doubt. But fact. Certainly a Chuzzlewit dining-room is a shrine of the commonplace; but even there such a mood is possible under such an influence. Densdeth was exceptional.

      I sat staring at the silly glass of wine, and began to make an unwholesome test of my self-control. I recalled the typical legend of Eve and the apple, and exaggerated the moral importance of my own incident after the same fashion.

      “If I resist this symbolic cup,” thought I, “I am my own man; if I yield, I am Densdeth’s.”

      When a man is weak enough to put slavery and freedom thus in the balance, it is plain that he will presently be a slave.

      “Bah!” I thought. “What harm, after all, can this terrible person do me? Why shouldn’t I accept his alliance? Why shouldn’t I study him, and learn the secret of his power.”

      My slight resistance was about to yield to the spiritual enticement of the wine, when suddenly an outer force broke the spell.

      A gentleman had just taken a vacant chair at my right. Absorbed in the mêlée of my own morbid fancies, I had merely perceived his presence, without noticing his person.

      Suddenly this new-comer took part in the drama. He flirted his napkin, and knocked Densdeth’s wine-glass over into my plate. The purple fluid made an unpleasant mixture with my untouched portion of fish.

      “Thank you!” I exclaimed, waking at once from my half-trance, my magnetic stupor, and feeling foolish.

      I turned to look at my unexpected ally. Perhaps some clumsy oaf who had never brandished a napkin before, and struck wide, like a raw swordsman.

      No. My neighbor was a gentleman. He held out his hand cordially.

      “Have I waked you fully, Byng?” he asked.

      “Mr. Churm?” said I.

      He nodded. We shook hands. The touch dissipated my brief insanity.

      “You have been in a state of coma so long over that wine,” said he, “that I thought I would give you a fillip of help.”

      I tried to laugh.

      “No,” resumed Churm. “Only escaped dangers show their comic side. You are not safe from Densdeth yet. You would have yielded just now if I had not spilled the glass.”

      “Yielded!” I rejoined. “Not exactly; I was proposing to test his mysterious influence.”

      “Never try that! Don’t dive into temptation to show how stoutly you can swim. Once fairly under water in Acheron, and you never come to the top again.”

      “Face Satan, and he flies, is not your motto, then.”

      “Face him when you must; fly him when you may.”

      “But really, — Devil and Densdeth; is it quite polite to identify them?” I asked.

      “If you do not wish to see them melt into one, keep yourself from both.”

      “And stay in a pretty paradise of innocence?”

      “I cannot jest about this, Byng. I knew a fresh, strong, pure soul, — fresher, stronger, purer than the fairest dreams of perfection. It was the destiny of such a soul to battle with Densdeth and be beaten. Yes; defeated, and driven to madness or despair.”

      “You are speaking of Clara Denman.”

      “I am.”

      As he replied, I looked up and caught Densdeth’s eye. He took my glance and carried it with his to the upper end of the table. A flamboyant demirep was seated there. Densdeth marked that I