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- Мари Корелли
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The
majority
resembled
carefully
trained
baboons
--
respectably
clothed
and
artistically
shaven
--
but
nevertheless
all
with
the
spasmodic
grin
,
the
leering
eye
and
the
uncouth
gestures
of
the
hairy
woodland
monster
.
When
I
was
just
eighteen
I
'
came
out
'
in
earnest
--
that
is
,
I
was
presented
at
Court
with
all
the
foolish
and
farcical
pomp
practised
on
such
occasions
.
I
was
told
before
going
that
it
was
a
great
and
necessary
thing
to
be
'
presented
,
'
--
that
it
was
a
guarantee
of
position
,
and
above
all
of
reputation
--
the
Queen
received
none
whose
conduct
was
not
rigidly
correct
and
virtuous
.
What
humbug
it
all
was
!
--
I
laughed
then
,
and
I
can
smile
now
to
think
of
it
--
why
,
the
very
woman
who
presented
me
had
two
illegitimate
sons
,
unknown
to
her
lawful
husband
,
and
she
was
not
the
only
playful
sinner
in
the
Court
comedy
!
Some
women
were
there
that
day
whom
since
even
I
would
not
receive
--
so
openly
infamous
are
their
lives
and
characters
,
yet
they
make
their
demure
curtseys
before
the
Throne
at
stated
times
,
and
assume
to
be
the
very
patterns
of
virtue
and
austerity
.
Now
and
then
,
it
chances
in
the
case
of
an
exceedingly
beautiful
woman
,
of
whom
all
the
others
are
jealous
,
that
for
her
little
slips
she
is
selected
as
an
'
example
'
and
excluded
from
Court
,
while
her
plainer
sisters
,
though
sinning
seventy
times
seven
against
all
the
laws
of
decency
and
morality
,
are
still
received
--
but
otherwise
,
there
is
very
little
real
care
exercised
as
to
the
character
and
prestige
of
the
women
whom
the
Queen
receives
.
If
any
one
of
them
is
refused
,
it
is
certain
she
adds
to
her
social
enormities
,
the
greater
crime
of
being
beautiful
,
otherwise
there
would
be
no
one
to
whisper
away
her
reputation
!
I
was
what
is
called
a
'
success
'
on
my
presentation
day
.
That
is
,
I
was
stared
at
,
and
openly
flattered
by
certain
members
of
my
sex
who
were
too
old
and
ugly
to
be
jealous
,
and
treated
with
insolent
contempt
by
those
who
were
young
enough
to
be
my
rivals
.
There
was
a
great
crush
to
get
into
the
Throne-Room
;
and
some
of
the
ladies
used
rather
strong
language
.
One
duchess
,
just
in
front
of
me
,
said
to
her
companion
--
'
Do
as
I
do
--
kick
out
!
Bruise
their
shins
for
them
--
as
hard
as
you
can
--
we
shall
get
on
faster
then
!
'
This
choice
remark
was
accompanied
by
the
grin
of
a
fishwife
and
the
stare
of
a
drab
.
Yet
it
was
a
'
great
'
lady
who
spoke
--
not
a
Transatlantic
importation
,
but
a
woman
of
distinguished
lineage
and
connection
.
Her
observation
however
was
only
one
out
of
many
similar
speeches
which
I
heard
on
all
sides
of
me
during
the
'
distinguished
'
mélée
--
a
thoroughly
ill-mannered
'
crush
,
'
which
struck
me
as
supremely
vulgar
and
totally
unfitting
the
dignity
of
our
Sovereign
's
court
.
When
I
curtsied
before
the
Throne
at
last
,
and
saw
the
majesty
of
the
Empire
represented
by
a
kindly
faced
old
lady
,
looking
very
tired
and
bored
,
whose
hand
was
as
cold
as
ice
when
I
kissed
it
,
I
was
conscious
of
an
intense
feeling
of
pity
for
her
in
her
high
estate
.
Who
would
be
a
Monarch
,
to
be
doomed
to
the
perpetual
receiving
of
a
company
of
fools
!
I
got
through
my
duties
quickly
,
and
returned
home
more
or
less
wearied
out
and
disgusted
with
the
whole
ceremony
--
and
next
day
I
found
that
my
'
debût
'
had
given
me
the
position
of
a
'
leading
beauty
'
;
or
in
other
words
that
I
was
now
formally
put
up
for
sale
.
That
is
really
what
is
meant
by
being
'
presented
'
and
'
coming
out
,
'
--
these
are
the
fancy
terms
of
one
's
parental
auctioneer
.
My
life
was
now
passed
in
dressing
,
having
my
photograph
taken
,
giving
'
sittings
'
to
aspiring
fashionable
painters
,
and
being
'
inspected
'
by
men
with
a
view
to
matrimony
.
It
was
distinctly
understood
in
society
that
I
was
not
to
be
sold
under
a
certain
figure
per
annum
--
and
the
price
was
too
high
for
most
would-be
purchasers
.
How
sick
I
grew
of
my
constant
exhibition
in
the
marriage-market
!
What
contempt
and
hatred
was
fostered
in
me
for
the
mean
and
pitiable
hypocrisies
of
my
set
!
I
was
not
long
in
discovering
that
money
was
the
chief-motive
power
of
all
social
success
--
that
the
proudest
and
highest
personages
in
the
world
could
be
easily
gathered
together
under
the
roof
of
any
vulgar
plebeian
who
happened
to
have
enough
cash
to
feed
and
entertain
them
.
As
an
example
of
this
,
I
remember
a
woman
,
ugly
,
passée
and
squint-eyed
,
who
during
her
father
's
life
was
only
allowed
about
half-a-crown
a
week
as
pocket-money
up
to
her
fortieth
year
--
and
who
,
when
that
father
died
,
leaving
her
in
possession
of
half
his
fortune
,
(
the
other
half
going
to
illegitimate
children
of
whom
she
had
never
heard
,
he
having
always
posed
as
a
pattern
of
immaculate
virtue
)
suddenly
blossomed
out
as
a
'
leader
'
of
fashion
,
and
succeeded
,
through
cautious
scheming
and
ungrudging
toadyism
,
in
assembling
some
of
the
highest
people
in
the
land
under
her
roof
.
Ugly
and
passée
though
she
was
,
and
verging
towards
fifty
,
with
neither
grace
,
wit
,
nor
intelligence
,
through
the
power
of
her
cash
alone
she
invited
Royal
dukes
and
'
titles
'
generally
to
her
dinners
and
dances
--
and
it
is
to
their
shame
that
they
actually
accepted
her
invitations
.
Such
voluntary
degradations
on
the
part
of
really
well-connected
people
I
have
never
been
able
to
understand
--
it
is
not
as
if
they
were
actually
in
want
of
food
or
amusement
,
for
they
have
a
surfeit
of
both
every
season
--
and
it
seems
to
me
that
they
ought
to
show
a
better
example
than
to
flock
in
crowds
to
the
entertainments
of
a
mere
uninteresting
and
ugly
nobody
just
because
she
happens
to
have
money
.
I
never
entered
her
house
myself
though
she
had
the
audacity
to
invite
me
--
I
learned
moreover
,
that
she
had
promised
a
friend
of
mine
a
hundred
guineas
if
she
could
persuade
me
to
make
one
appearance
in
her
rooms
.
For
my
renown
as
a
'
beauty
'
combined
with
my
pride
and
exclusiveness
,
would
have
given
her
parties
a
prestige
greater
than
even
Royalty
could
bestow
--
she
knew
that
and
I
knew
that
--
and
knowing
it
,
never
condescended
to
so
much
as
notice
her
by
a
bow
.
But
though
I
took
a
certain
satisfaction
in
thus
revenging
myself
on
the
atrocious
vulgarity
of
parvenus
and
social
interlopers
,
I
grew
intensely
weary
of
the
monotony
and
emptiness
of
what
fashionable
folks
call
'
amusement
,
'
and
presently
falling
ill
of
a
nervous
fever
,
I
was
sent
down
to
the
seaside
for
a
few
weeks
'
change
of
air
with
a
young
cousin
of
mine
,
a
girl
I
rather
liked
because
she
was
so
different
to
myself
.
Her
name
was
Eva
Maitland
--
she
was
but
sixteen
and
extremely
delicate
--
poor
little
soul
!
she
died
two
months
before
my
marriage
.
She
and
I
,
and
a
maid
to
attend
us
,
went
down
to
Cromer
--
and
one
day
,
sitting
on
the
cliffs
together
,
she
asked
me
timidly
if
I
knew
an
author
named
Mavis
Clare
?
I
told
her
no
--
whereupon
she
handed
me
a
book
called
'
The
Wings
of
Psyche
.
'
"
Do
read
it
!
"
she
said
earnestly
--
"
It
will
make
you
feel
so
happy
!
"
I
laughed
.
The
idea
of
a
modern
author
writing
anything
to
make
one
feel
happy
,
seemed
to
me
quite
ludicrous
,
the
aim
of
most
of
them
being
to
awaken
a
disgust
of
life
,
and
a
hatred
of
one
's
fellow-creatures
.
However
,
to
please
Eva
,
I
read
the
'
Wings
of
Psyche
,
'
--
and
if
it
did
not
make
me
actually
happy
,
it
moved
me
to
a
great
wonder
and
deep
reverence
for
the
woman-writer
of
such
a
book
.
I
found
out
all
about
her
--
that
she
was
young
,
good-looking
,
of
a
noble
character
and
unblemished
reputation
,
and
that
her
only
enemies
were
the
press-critics
.
This
last
point
was
so
much
in
her
favour
with
me
that
I
at
once
bought
everything
she
had
ever
written
,
and
her
works
became
,
as
it
were
,
my
haven
of
rest
.
Her
theories
of
life
are
strange
,
poetic
,
ideal
and
beautiful
;
--
though
I
have
not
been
able
to
accept
them
or
work
them
out
in
my
own
case
,
I
have
always
felt
soothed
and
comforted
for
a
while
in
the
very
act
of
wishing
they
were
true
.
And
the
woman
is
like
her
books
--
strange
,
poetic
,
ideal
and
beautiful
--
how
odd
it
is
to
think
that
she
is
within
ten
minutes
walk
of
me
now
!
--
I
could
send
for
her
if
I
liked
,
and
tell
her
all
--
but
she
would
prevent
me
carrying
out
my
resolve
.
She
would
cling
to
me
woman-like
and
kiss
me
,
and
hold
my
hands
and
say
'
No
,
Sibyl
,
no
!
You
are
not
yourself
--
you
must
come
to
me
and
rest
!
'
An
odd
fancy
has
seized
me
,
...
I
will
open
my
window
and
call
her
very
gently
--
she
might
be
in
the
garden
coming
here
to
see
me
--
and
if
she
hears
and
answers
,
who
knows
!
--
why
,
perhaps
my
ideas
may
change
,
and
fate
itself
may
take
a
different
course
!
Well
,
I
have
called
her
.
I
have
sent
her
name
'
Mavis
!
'
softly
out
on
the
sunshine
and
still
air
three
times
,
and
only
a
little
brown
namesake
of
hers
,
a
thrush
,
swinging
on
a
branch
of
fir
,
answered
me
with
his
low
autumnal
piping
.
Mavis
!
She
will
not
come
--
to-day
God
will
not
make
her
His
messenger
.
She
can
not
guess
--
she
does
not
know
this
tragedy
of
my
heart
,
greater
and
more
poignant
than
all
the
tragedies
of
fiction
.
If
she
did
know
me
as
I
am
,
I
wonder
what
she
would
think
of
me
!
