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- Мари Корелли
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- Стр. 178/279
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Seated
under
one
roof
in
more
or
less
enforced
silence
and
attention
,
the
vague
and
frivolous
throng
grew
hushed
and
passive
--
the
'
society
'
smirk
passed
off
certain
faces
that
were
as
trained
to
grin
as
their
tongues
were
trained
to
lie
--
the
dreadful
giggle
of
the
unwedded
man-hunter
was
no
longer
heard
--
and
soon
the
most
exaggerated
fashion-plate
of
a
woman
forgot
to
rustle
her
gown
.
The
passionate
vibrations
of
a
violoncello
,
superbly
played
to
a
double
harp
accompaniment
,
throbbed
on
the
stillness
with
a
beseeching
depth
of
sound
--
and
people
listened
,
I
saw
,
almost
breathlessly
,
entranced
,
as
it
were
,
against
their
wills
,
and
staring
as
though
they
were
hypnotized
,
in
front
of
them
at
the
gold
curtain
with
its
familiar
motto
--
"
All
the
world
's
a
stage
And
all
the
men
and
women
merely
players
.
"
Before
we
had
time
to
applaud
the
violoncello
solo
however
,
the
music
changed
--
and
the
mirthful
voices
of
violins
and
flutes
rang
out
in
a
waltz
of
the
giddiest
and
sweetest
tune
.
At
the
same
instant
a
silvery
bell
tinkled
,
and
the
curtain
parted
noiselessly
in
twain
,
disclosing
the
first
tableau
--
"
Society
.
"
An
exquisite
female
figure
,
arrayed
in
evening-dress
of
the
richest
and
most
extravagant
design
,
stood
before
us
,
her
hair
crowned
with
diamonds
,
and
her
bosom
blazing
with
the
same
lustrous
gems
.
Her
head
was
slightly
raised
--
her
lips
were
parted
in
a
languid
smile
--
in
one
hand
she
held
up-lifted
a
glass
of
foaming
champagne
--
her
gold-slippered
foot
trod
on
an
hour-glass
.
Behind
her
,
catching
convulsively
at
the
folds
of
her
train
,
crouched
another
woman
in
rags
,
pinched
and
wretched
,
with
starvation
depicted
in
her
face
--
a
dead
child
lay
near
.
And
,
overshadowing
this
group
,
were
two
Supernatural
shapes
--
one
in
scarlet
,
the
other
in
black
--
vast
and
almost
beyond
the
stature
of
humanity
--
the
scarlet
figure
represented
Anarchy
,
and
its
blood-red
fingers
were
advanced
to
clutch
the
diamond
crown
from
'
Society
's
'
brow
--
the
sable-robed
form
was
Death
,
and
even
as
we
looked
,
it
slowly
raised
its
steely
dart
in
act
to
strike
!
The
effect
was
weird
and
wonderful
--
and
the
grim
lesson
the
picture
conveyed
,
was
startling
enough
to
make
a
very
visible
impression
.
No
one
spoke
--
no
one
applauded
--
but
people
moved
restlessly
and
fidgetted
on
their
seats
--
and
there
was
an
audible
sigh
of
relief
as
the
curtain
closed
.
Opening
again
,
it
displayed
the
second
tableau
--
'
Bravery
--
Ancient
and
Modern
.
'
This
was
in
two
scenes
;
--
the
first
one
depicted
a
nobleman
of
Elizabeth
's
time
,
with
rapier
drawn
,
his
foot
on
the
prostrate
body
of
a
coarse
ruffian
who
had
evidently
,
from
the
grouping
,
insulted
a
woman
whose
slight
figure
was
discerned
shrinking
timidly
away
from
the
contest
.
This
was
'
Ancient
Bravery
,
'
--
and
it
changed
rapidly
to
'
Modern
,
'
showing
us
an
enervated
,
narrow-shouldered
,
pallid
dandy
in
opera-coat
and
hat
,
smoking
a
cigarette
and
languidly
appealing
to
a
bulky
policeman
to
protect
him
from
another
young
noodle
of
his
own
class
,
similarly
attired
,
who
was
represented
as
sneaking
round
a
corner
in
abject
terror
.
We
all
recognised
the
force
of
the
application
,
and
were
in
a
much
better
humour
with
this
pictured
satire
than
we
had
been
at
the
lesson
of
'
Society
.
'
Next
followed
'
A
Lost
Angel
,
'
in
which
was
shown
a
great
hall
in
the
palace
of
a
king
,
where
there
were
numbers
of
brilliantly
attired
people
,
all
grouped
in
various
attitudes
,
and
evidently
completely
absorbed
in
their
own
concerns
,
so
much
so
as
to
be
entirely
unconscious
of
the
fact
that
in
their
very
midst
,
stood
a
wondrous
Angel
,
clad
in
dazzling
white
,
with
a
halo
round
her
fair
hair
,
and
a
glory
,
as
of
the
sunset
,
on
her
half
drooping
wings
.
Her
eyes
were
wistful
--
her
face
was
pensive
and
expectant
;
she
seemed
to
say
,
"
Will
the
world
ever
know
that
I
am
here
?
"
Somehow
--
as
the
curtain
slowly
closed
again
,
amid
loud
applause
,
for
the
picture
was
extraordinarily
beautiful
,
I
thought
of
Mavis
Clare
,
and
sighed
.
Sibyl
looked
up
at
me
.
"
Why
do
you
sigh
?
"
she
said
--
"
It
is
a
lovely
fancy
--
but
the
symbol
is
wasted
in
the
present
audience
--
no
one
with
education
believes
in
angels
now-a-days
.
"
"
True
!
"
I
assented
;
yet
there
was
a
heaviness
at
my
heart
,
for
her
words
reminded
me
of
what
I
would
rather
have
forgotten
--
namely
her
own
admitted
lack
of
all
religious
faith
.
'
The
Autocrat
,
'
was
the
next
tableau
,
and
represented
an
Emperor
enthroned
.
At
his
footstool
knelt
a
piteous
crowd
of
the
starving
and
oppressed
,
holding
up
their
lean
hands
to
him
,
clasped
in
anguished
petition
,
but
he
looked
away
from
them
as
though
he
saw
them
not
.
His
head
was
turned
to
listen
to
the
side-whisper
of
one
who
seemed
,
by
the
courtly
bend
and
flattering
smile
,
to
be
his
adviser
and
confidant
--
yet
that
very
confidant
held
secreted
behind
his
back
,
a
drawn
dagger
,
ready
to
strike
his
sovereign
to
the
heart
.
"
Russia
!
"
whispered
one
or
two
of
the
company
,
as
the
scene
was
obscured
;
but
the
scarcely-breathed
suggestion
quickly
passed
into
a
murmur
of
amazement
and
awe
as
the
curtain
parted
again
to
disclose
"
A
Corner
of
Hell
.
"
This
tableau
was
indeed
original
,
and
quite
unlike
what
might
have
been
imagined
as
the
conventional
treatment
of
such
a
subject
.
What
we
saw
was
a
black
and
hollow
cavern
,
glittering
alternately
with
the
flashings
of
ice
and
fire
--
huge
icicles
drooped
from
above
,
and
pale
flames
leaped
stealthily
into
view
from
below
,
and
within
the
dark
embrasure
,
the
shadowy
form
of
a
man
was
seated
,
counting
out
gold
,
or
what
seemed
to
be
gold
.
Yet
as
coin
after
coin
slipped
through
his
ghostly
fingers
,
each
one
was
seen
to
change
to
fire
--
and
the
lesson
thus
pictured
was
easily
read
.
The
lost
soul
had
made
its
own
torture
,
and
was
still
at
work
intensifying
and
increasing
its
own
fiery
agony
.
Much
as
this
scene
was
admired
for
its
Rembrandt
effect
of
light
and
shade
,
I
,
personally
,
was
glad
when
it
was
curtained
from
view
;
there
was
something
in
the
dreadful
face
of
the
doomed
sinner
that
reminded
me
forcibly
and
unpleasantly
of
those
ghastly
Three
I
had
seen
in
my
horrid
vision
on
the
night
of
Viscount
Lynton
's
suicide
.
'
Seeds
of
Corruption
'
was
the
next
picture
,
and
showed
us
a
young
and
beautiful
girl
in
her
early
teens
,
lying
on
a
luxurious
couch
en
deshabille
,
with
a
novel
in
her
hand
,
of
which
the
title
was
plainly
seen
by
all
;
--
a
novel
well-known
to
everyone
present
,
and
the
work
of
a
much-praised
living
author
.
Round
her
,
on
the
floor
,
and
cast
carelessly
on
a
chair
at
her
side
,
were
other
novels
of
the
same
'
sexual
'
type
--
all
their
titles
turned
towards
us
,
and
the
names
of
their
authors
equally
made
manifest
.
"
What
a
daring
idea
!
"
said
a
lady
in
the
seat
immediately
behind
me
--
"
I
wonder
if
any
of
those
authors
are
present
!
"
