VISIONARIES BY JAMES HUNEKER J'aime les nuages ... Là bas... ! BAUDELAIRE NEW YORKCHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS1916 COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS Published October, 1905. AMON CHER MAÎTRE REMY DE GOURMONTPARIS CONTENTS PAGE I. A MASTER OF COBWEBS 1 II. THE EIGHTH DEADLY SIN 23 III. THE PURSE OF AHOLIBAH 44 IV. REBELS OF THE MOON 64 V. THE SPIRAL ROAD 80 VI. A MOCK SUN 110 VII. ANTICHRIST 135 VIII. THE ETERNAL DUEL 145 IX. THE ENCHANTED YODLER 149 X. THE THIRD KINGDOM 168 XI. THE HAUNTED HARPSICHORD 188 XII. THE TRAGIC WALL 203 XIII. A SENTIMENTAL REBELLION 227 XIV. HALL OF THE MISSING FOOTSTEPS 249 XV. THE CURSORY LIGHT 266 XVI. AN IRON FAN 278 XVII. THE WOMAN WHO LOVED CHOPIN 289 XVIII. THE TUNE OF TIME 309 XIX. NADA 326 XX. PAN 332 VISIONARIES I A MASTER OF COBWEBS I Alixe Van Kuyp sat in the first-tier box presented to her husband withthe accustomed heavy courtesy of the Société Harmonique. She went earlyto the hall that she might hear the entire music-making of theevening--Van Kuyp's tone-poem, Sordello, was on the programme between aWeber overture and a Beethoven symphony, an unusual honour for a youngAmerican composer. If she had gone late, it would have seemed anaffectation, she reasoned. Her husband kept within doors; she could tellhim all. And then, was there not Elvard Rentgen? She regretted that she had invited the Parisian critic to her box. Ithappened at a _soirée_, where he showed his savage profile amongadmiring musical lambs. But he was never punctual at musical affairs. This consoled Alixe. Perhaps he would forget her impulsive, foolish speech, --"without him themusic would fall upon unheeding ears, --he, who interpreted art for themultitude, the holder of the critical key that unlocked masterpieces. "She had felt the banality of her compliment as she uttered it, and sheknew the man who listened, his glance incredulous, his mouth smiling, could not be deceived. Rentgen had been too many years in the candy shopto care for sweets. She recalled her mean little blush as he twisted hispointed, piebald beard with long, fat fingers and leisurelytraversed--his were the measuring eyes of an architect--her face, herhair, her neck, and finally, stared at her ears until they burned like achild's cheek in frost time. Alixe Van Kuyp was a large woman, with a conscientious head and grayeyes. As she waited, she realized that it was one of her timid nights, when colour came easily and temper ran at its lowest ebb. She had beggedVan Kuyp to cancel the habit of not listening to his own music except atrehearsal, and, annoyed by his stubbornness, neglected to tell him ofthe other invitation. The house was quite full when the music began. Uneasiness overtook her as the Oberon slowly stole upon herconsciousness. She forgot Rentgen; a more disquieting problem presenteditself. Richard's music--how would it sound in the company of the oldmasters, those masters who were newer than Wagner, newer than Straussand the "moderns"! She envisaged her husband--small, slim, with hisbushy red hair, big student's head--familiarly locking arms with Weberand Beethoven in the hall of fame. No, the picture did not convince her. She was his severest censor. Not one of the professional critics couldput their fingers on Van Kuyp's weak spots--"his sore music, " as hejestingly called it--so surely as his wife. She had studied; she hadeven played the violin in public; but she gave up her virtuosa ambitionsfor the man she had married during their student years in Germany. Nowthe old doubts came to life as the chivalric tones of Weber rose to hersharpened senses. Why couldn't Richard-- The door in the anteroom opened, her guest entered. Alixe was notdismayed. She left her seat and, closing the curtains, greeted him. The overture was ending as Rentgen sat down beside her in the intimatelittle chamber, lighted by a solitary electric bulb. "You are always thoughtful, " she murmured. "My dear lady, mine is the honour. And if you do not care, can't we hearthe music of your young man--" he smiled, she thought, acidly--"here? IfI sit outside, the world will say--we have to be careful of ourunsmirched reputations--we poor critics and slave-drivers of the deaf. " She drew her hand gently away. He had held it, playfully tapping it ashe slowly delivered himself in short sentences. He was a Dane, but hisFrench and English were without trace of accent; certain intonationsalone betrayed his Scandinavian origin. Alixe could not refuse, for the moment he finished speaking she heard atoo familiar motive, the ponderous phrase in the brass choir which VanKuyp intended as the thematic label for his hero, "Sordello. " "Ah, there's your Browning in tone for you, " whispered the critic. Shewished him miles away. The draperies were now slightly parted and intothe room filtered the grave, languorous accents of the new tone-poem. Her eyes were fixed by Rentgen's. His expression changed; with nostrilsdilated like a hunter scenting prey, his rather inert, cold featuresbecame transfigured; he was the man who listened, the cruel judge whosentenced. And she hoped, also the kind friend who would consider theyouth and inexperience of the culprit. To the morbidly acute hearing ofthe woman, the music had a ring of hollow sonority after the denserpacked phrases of Weber. She had read Sordello with her husband until she thought its meaning wasas clear as high noon. By the critic's advice the subject had beenselected for musical treatment. Sordello's overweening spiritualpride--"gate-vein of this heart's blood of Lombardy"--appealed to VanKuyp. The stress of souls, the welter of cross-purposes which begirt theyouthful dreamer, his love for Palma, and his swift death when all theworld thrust upon him its joys--here were motives, indeed, for anymusician of lofty aim and sympathetic imagination. Alixe recalled the interminable arguments, the snatches of poetry, thehasty rushes to the keyboard; a composer was in travail. At the end of ayear, Rentgen professed his satisfaction; Van Kuyp stood on the highroadto fame. Of that there could be no doubt; Elvard Rentgen would say so inprint. Alixe had been reassured-- Yet sitting now within the loop of her husband's music it suddenlybecame insipid, futile, and lacking in those enchantments for which sheyearned. Her eyes dropped to the shapely hands meekly folded in her lap, dropped because the bold, interrogative expression on Rentgen's facedisturbed her. She knew, as any woman would have known, that he admiredher--but was he not Richard's friend? His glance enveloped her withpiteous mockery. The din was tremendous. After passages of dark music, in which theformless ugly reigned, occurred the poetic duel between Sordello andEglamor at Palma's Court of Love. But why all this stress and fury? Onthe pianoforte the delicate episode sounded gratefully; with the thickriotous orchestration came a disillusioning transformation. There wasnoise without power, there was sensuality that strove to imitate thetenderness of passion; and she had fancied it a cloudy garden of love. Alixe raised an involuntary hand to her ear. "Yes, " whispered the critic, "I warned him not to use his colours with atrowel. His theme is not big enough to stand it. " He lifted thineyebrows and to her overheated brain was an unexpected Mephisto. Thenthe music whirled her away to Italy; the love scene of Palma andSordello. It should have been the apex of the work. "Sounds too much like Tschaïkowsky's Francesca da Rimini, " interruptedRentgen. She was annoyed. "Why didn't you tell Van Kuyp before he scored the work?" she demanded, her long gray eyes beginning to blacken. "I did, my dear lady, I did. But you know what musicians are--" Heshrugged a conclusion with his narrow shoulders. Alixe coldly regardedhim. There was something new and dangerous in his attitude to herhusband's music this evening. Her heart began to beat heavily. What if her suspicions were but theadvance guard of a painful truth! What if this keen analyst of othermen's ideas--she dared not finish the thought. With a sluggish movementthe music uncoiled itself like a huge boa about to engulf a tiny rabbit. The simile forced itself against her volition; all this monstrouspreparation for a--rabbit! In a concert-hall the poetic idea of thetone-poem was petty. And the churning of the orchestra, foaming hysteriaof the strings, bellowing of the brass--would they never cease! Such aninsane chase after a rabbit! Yes, she said the word to herself and foundher lips carved into a hard smile, which she saw reflected as in a trickmirror upon the face of Elvard Rentgen. _He_ understood. Of little avail Sordello's frantic impotencies. She saw through therhetorical trickeries of the music, weighed its cheap splendours, realized the mediocrity of this second-rate poet turned symphonist. Image after image pressed upon her brain, each more pessimistic, moredepressing than its predecessor. Alixe could have wept. Her companionplaced his hand on her arm. His fingers burned; she moved, but she felthis will controlling her mood. With high relief she heard the music end. There was conventional applause. Alixe restlessly peered into theauditorium. Again she saw opera-glasses turned toward the box. "Our goodfriends, " she rather bitterly thought. Rentgen recognized her mentalturmoil. "Don't worry, " he said soothingly. "It will be all right to-morrowmorning. What I write will make the fortune of the composition. " He didnot utter this vaingloriously, but as a man who stated simple truth. Shegazed at him, her timidity and nervousness returning in full tide. "I know I am overwrought. I should be thankful. But--but, isn't itdeception--I mean, will it be fair to conceal from Richard the realcondition of affairs?" He took her hand. "Spoken like a true wife, " he gayly exclaimed. "My dear friend, therewill be no deception. Only encouragement, a little encouragement. As fordeceiving a composer, telling him that he may not be so wonderful as hethinks--that's impossible. I know these star-shouldering souls, thesefarmers of phantasms who exist in a world by themselves. It would be apity to let in the cold air of reality--anyhow Van Kuyp has sometalent. " Like lifting mists revealing the treacherous borders of a masked pool, she felt this speech with its ironic innuendo. She flushed, her vanityirritated. Rentgen saw her eyes contract. "Let us go when the symphony begins, " she begged, "I can't talk to anyone in my present bad humour; and to hear Beethoven would drive memad--now. " "I don't wonder, " remarked her companion, consolingly. Alixe winced. The silver-cold fire of an undecided moon was abroad in the sky andrumours of spring filled the air. They parted at a fiacre. He told herhe would call the next afternoon, and she nodded an unforgiving head. Itwas her turn to be disagreeable. In his music room, Van Kuyp read a volume of verse. He did not hear hiswife enter. It pained her when she saw his serious face with itsundistinguished features and dogged expression. No genius this, was herhasty verdict, as she quickly went to him and put a hand on his head. It was her hand now that was hot. He raised eyes, dolent with dreams. "Well?" he queried. "You are a curious man!" she said wonderingly. "Aren't you interested inthe news about your symphonic poem?" He smiled the smile of the fatuouselect. "I imagine it went all right, " he languidly replied. "I heard itat rehearsal yesterday--I suppose Thelème took the _tempi_ too slow!" She sighed and asked:-- "What are you reading a night like this?" His expression becameanimated. "A volume of Celtic poetry--I've found a stunning idea for music. What atone-poem it will make! Here it is. What colour, what rhythms. It iscalled The Shadowy Horses. 'I hear the shadowy horses, their long manesa-shake'--" "Who gave you the poem?" "Oh, Rentgen, of course. Did you see him to-night?" "You dear boy! You must be tired to death. Better rest. The critics willget you up early enough. " Through interminable hours the mind of Alixe revolved about a phrase shehad picked up from Elvard Rentgen: "Music is a trap for weak souls; forthe strong as the spinning of cobwebs.... " II It was pompous July and the Van Kuyps were still in Paris. They livednear Passy--from her windows high in the air Alixe caught the green atdawn as the sun lifted level rays. Richard was writing his newtone-poem, which the Société Harmonique accepted provisionally for theseason following. Sordello had set the town agog because of theexhaustive articles by Rentgen it brought in its wake. He was a criticwho wrote brilliantly of music in the terms of painting, of plastic artsin the technical phraseology of music, and by him the drama wasdiscussed purely as literature. This deliberate and delicate confusionof æsthetics clouded the public mind. He described Sordello as a vastmural fresco, a Puvis de Chavannes in tone, a symphonic drama whereinagonized the shadowy Æschylean protagonist. Even sculpture was rifledfor analogies, and Van Kuyp to his bewilderment found himself called"The Rodin of Music"; at other times, "Richard Strauss II, " or a "TonalBrowning"; finally, he was adjured to swerve not from the path he had sowonderfully hewn for himself in the virgin jungle of modern art, andbegged to resist the temptations of the music-drama. Rentgen loathed the music of Wagner. Wagner had abused Meyerbeer fordoing what he did himself--writing operas stuffed with spectaculareffects. This man of the foot-lights destroyed all musical imaginationwith his puppet shows, magic lanterns, Turkish bazaars, where, to thebooming of mystic bells, the listener was drugged into opium-fedvisions. Under a tent, as at a fair, he assembled the mangled masterpieces ofBach, Gluck, Beethoven, Weber, Schubert, Schumann, Chopin, and to agullible public sold the songs of these music-lords--songs that shouldswim on high like great swan-clouds cleaving skies blue andinaccessible. And his music was operatic, after all, grand operasaccharine with commonplace melodies gorgeously attired--nothing more. Wagner, declared the indignant critic, was not original. He popularizedthe noble ideas of the masters, vulgarized and debased their dreams. Henever conceived a single new melody, but substituted instead, sadlymauled and pinched thematic fragments of Liszt, Berlioz, and Beethoven, combined with exaggerated fairy-tales, clothed in showy tinsel andtheatrical gauds, the illusion being aided by panoramic scenery; scenerythat acted in company with toads, dragons, horses, snakes, crazyvalkyrs, mermaids, half-mad humans, gods, demons, dwarfs, and giants. What else is all this but old-fashioned Italian opera with a new name?What else but an inartistic mixture of Scribe libretto and Northernmythology? Music-drama--fudge! Making music that one can _see_ is adeath-blow to a lofty idealization of the art. Puzzled by the richness of Rentgen's vocabulary, by his want of logic, Alixe asked herself many times whether she was wrong and her husbandright. She wished to be loyal. His devotion to his work, his inspirationspringing as it did from poetic sources, counted for something. Why not?All composers should read the poets. It is a starting-point. Modernmusic leans heavily on drama and fiction. Richard Strauss embroidersphilosophical ideas, so why should not Richard Van Kuyp go to Ireland, to the one land where there is hope of a spiritual, a poetic renascence?Ireland! The very name evoked dreams! When Rentgen called at the Van Kuyps' it was near the close of a warmafternoon. The composer would not stir, despite the invitation of thecritic or the pleading of his wife. He knew that the angel wings ofinspiration had been brushing his brow all the morning, and such visitswere too rare to be flouted. He sat at his piano and in a composer'sraucous varied voice, imitated the imaginary _timbres_ of orchestralinstruments. Sent forth, Mrs. Van Kuyp and Rentgen slowly walked intothe little Parc of Auteuil, once the joy of the Goncourts. "Musicians are as selfish as the sea, " he asserted, as they sat upon abench of tepid iron. She did not demur. The weather had exhausted herpatience; she was young and fond of the open air--the woods made anirresistible picture this day. The critic watched her changing, dissatisfied face. "Shall we ride?" he suddenly asked. Before she could shake a negativehead, he quickly uttered the words that had been hovering in her mindfor hours. "Or, shall we go to the Bois?" She started. "What an idea! Go to theBois without Richard, without my husband?" "Why not?" he inquired, "it's not far away. Send him a wire asking himto join us; it will do him good after his labours. Come, Madame VanKuyp, come Alixe, my child. " He paused. Her eyes expanded. "I'll go, "she quietly announced--"that is, if you grant me a favour. " "A hundred!" he triumphantly cried. III To soothe her conscience, which began to ring faint alarm-bells atsundown, Alixe sent several despatches to her husband, and then tried atelephone; but she was not successful. Her mood shifted chilly, and theybored each other immeasurably on the long promenade vibrating with gypsymusic and frivolous folk. It was after seven o'clock as the sun slowly swam down the sky-line. Decidedly their little flight from the prison of stone was not offeringrich recompense to Alixe Van Kuyp and her elderly companion. "And now for the favour!" he demanded, his eyes contentedly resting uponthe graceful expanse of his guest's figure. She moved restlessly: "My dear Rentgen, I am about to ask you aquestion, only a plain question. _That_ is the favour. " He bowedincredulously. "I must know the truth about Richard. It is a serious matter, thiscomposing of his. He neglects his pupils--most of them Americans whocome to Paris to study with him. Yet with the reputation he hasattained, due to you entirely"--she waved away an interruption--"herefuses to write songs or piano music that will sell. He is anincorrigible idealist and I confess I am discouraged. What can be ourfuture?" She drew the deep breath of one in peril; this plain talkdevoid of all sham mortified her exceedingly. She was thankful that he did not attempt to play the rôle of fatherlyadviser. His eyes were quite sincere when he answered her:-- "What you say, Alixe--" the familiarity brought with it no condescendingreverberations--"has bothered me more than once. I shall be just asfrank on my side. No, your husband has but little talent; originaltalent, none. He is mediocre--wait!" She started, her cheeks red withthe blood that fled her heart when she heard this doleful news. "Wait!There are qualifications. In the first place, what do you expect from anAmerican?" "But you always write so glowingly of our composers, " she interjected. "And, " he went on as if she had not spoken, "Van Kuyp is your typicalcountryman. He has studied in Germany. He has muddled his brain withthe music of a dozen different nations; if he had had any individualityit would have been submerged. His memory has killed his imagination. Heborrows his inspiration from the poets, from Liszt, Wagner, Berlioz, Richard Strauss. Anyhow, like all musicians of his country, he is toopainfully self-conscious of his nationality. " "You, alone, are responsible for his present ambitions, " retorted theunhappy woman. "Quite true, my dear friend. I acknowledge it. " "And you say this to my face?" "Do you wish me to lie?" She did not reply. After a grim pause she burstforth:-- "Oh, why doesn't he compose an opera, and make a popular name?" "Richard Wagner Number II!" There were implications of sarcasm in thiswhich greatly displeased Mrs. Van Kuyp. They strolled on slowly. It wasa melodious summer night; mauve haze screened all but the exquisitelarge stars. Soothed despite rebellion, Alixe told herself sharply thatin every duel with this man she was worsted. He said things thatscratched her nerves; yet she forgave. He had not the slightestattraction for her; nevertheless, when he spoke, she listened, when hewrote, she read. He ruled the husband through his music; he ruled herthrough her husband. And what did he expect? They retraced their way. A fantastic bridge spanning the briefmarshland, frozen by the moonlight, appealed to them. They crossed. Acoachman driving an open carriage hailed confidentially. Alixe enteredand with a dexterous play of draperies usurped the back seat. Rentgenmade no sign. He had her in full view, the moon streaking her disturbedfeatures with its unflattering pencil. They started bravely, the horses running for home; but the rapid gaitsoon subsided into a rhythmic trot. Rentgen spoke. She hardly recognizedhis voice, so gently monotonous were his phrases. "Dear Alixe. It is a night for confessions. You care for your husband, you are wrapped up in his art work, you are solicitous of his future, ofhis fame. It is admirable. You are a model wife for an artist. But tellme frankly, doesn't it bore you to death? Doesn't all this talk ofmusic, themes, orchestration, of the public, critics, musicians, conductors, get on your nerves? Is it any consolation for you to knowthat Van Kuyp will be famous? What is his fame or his failure to you?Where do you, Alixe Van Kuyp, come in? Why must your charming woman'ssoul be sacrificed, warped to this stunted tree of another's talent? Youare silent. You say he is trying to make me deny Richard! You were nevermore mistaken. I am interested in you both; interested in you as a noblewoman--stop! I mean it. And interested in Richard--well--because he ismy own creation.... " She watched him now with her heart in her eyes; he frightened her morewith these low, purring words, than if he declared open love. "He is my own handiwork. I have created him. I have fashioned hisoutlines, have wound up the mechanism that moves him to compose. Did youever read that terrifying thought of Yeats, the Irish poet? I'veforgotten the story, but remember the idea: 'The beautiful arts weresent into the world to overthrow nations, and, finally, life itself, sowing everywhere unlimited desires, like torches thrown into a burningcity. ' There--'like torches thrown into a burning city!' Richard VanKuyp is one of my burning torches. In the spectacle of his impuissance Ifind relief from my own suffering. " The booming of the Tzigane band was no longer heard--only the horses'muffled footfalls and the intermittent chromatic drone of hidden distanttram-cars. She shivered and shaded her face with her fan. There wassomething remote from humanity in his speech. He continued withincreasing vivacity:-- "Music is a burning torch. And music, like ideas, can slay the brain. Wagner borrowed his harmonic fire from the torch of Chopin--" She brokein:-- "Don't talk of Chopin! Tell me more of Van Kuyp. Why do you call him_yours_?" Her curiosity was become pain. It mastered her prudence. "In far-away Celtic legends there may be found a lovely belief that ourthoughts are independent realities, that they go about in the voidseeking creatures to control. They are as bodiless souls. When theydescend into a human being they possess his moods, in very existence--" "And Richard!" she muttered. His words swayed her like strange music;the country through which they were passing was a blank; she could seebut two luminous points--the nocturnal eyes of Elvard Rentgen, as hespun his cobwebs in the moonshine. She did not fear him; nothing couldfrighten her now. One desire held her. If it were unslaked, she felt shewould collapse. It was to know the truth, to be told everything! He putrestraining fingers on her ungloved hand; they seemed like cold, fatspiders. Yet she was only curious, with a curiosity that murdered thespirit within her. "To transfuse these shadows, my dear Alixe, has been one of my delights, for I can project my futile desires into another's soul. I am denied thegift of music-making, so this is my revenge on nature for bungling itsjob. If Richard had genius, my intervention would be superfluous. He hasnone. He is dull. You must realize it. But since he has known me, hasfelt my influence, has been subject to my volition, my sorcery, you maycall it, --" his laugh was disagreeably conscious, --"he has developed theshadow of a great man. He will seem a great composer. I shall make himthink he is one. I shall make the world believe it, also. It is myfashion of squaring a life I hate. But if I chose to withdraw--" The road they entered was black and full of the buzzing shadows of hotnight, but she was oblivious to everything but his hallucinatingvoice:-- "And if you withdraw?" Her mouth echoed phrases without the complicityof her brain. "If I do--ah, these cobweb spinners! Good-by to Richard Van Kuyp anddreams of glory. " This note of harsh triumph snapped his weaving words. "I don't believe you or your boasts, " remarked Alixe, in her mostconventionally amused manner. "You are trying to scare me, and with thishypnotic joke about Richard you have only hypnotized yourself. I mean totell Mr. Van Kuyp every bit of our conversation. I'm not frightened byyour vampire tales. You critics are only shadows of composers. " "Yes, but we make ordinary composers believe they are great, " he repliedacridly. "I'll tell this to Richard. " "He won't believe you. " "He shall--he won't believe _you_! Oh, Rentgen, how can you invent suchcruel things? Are you always so malicious? What do you mean? Come--whatdo you expect?" She closed her eyes, anticipating an avowal. Why shoulda man seek to destroy her faith in her husband, in love itself, if notfor some selfish purpose of his own? But she was wrong, and becamevaguely alarmed--at least if he had offered his service and sympathy inexchange for her friendship, she might have understood his fantastictalk. Rentgen sourly reflected--despite epigrams, women never vary. Forhim her sentiment was suburban. It strangled poetry. But he saidnothing, though she imagined he looked depressed; nor did he open hismouth as the carriage traversed avenues of processional poplars beforearriving at her door. She turned to him imploringly:-- "You must come with me. I shall never be able to go in alone, without anexcuse. Don't--don't repeat to Richard what you said to me, in joke, Iam sure, about his music. Heavens! What will my husband think?" Therewas despair in her voice, but hopefulness in her gait and gesture, whenthey reached the ill-lighted hall. A night-lamp stood on the composer's study table. The piano was open. Hesat at the keyboard, though not playing, as they hurriedly entered theroom. "You poor fellow! You look worn out. Did you think we had run away fromyou? Did you get the wires, the telephone messages? Oh, why did you keepus expecting you, Richard! We have had a wonderful time and missed youso much! Such a talk with Rentgen! And all about _you_. _Nicht wahr_, Rentgen? He says you are the only man in the world with a musicalfuture. Isn't that so, Rentgen? Didn't you say that Richard was the onlyman in whom you took any interest? Say what you said to me! I _dare_you!" The musician, aroused by this wordy assault, looked from one to theother with his heavy eyes, the eyes of an owl rudely disturbed. Alixealmost danced her excitement. She hummed shrilly and grasped Van Kuyp'sarm in the gayest rebounding humour. "Why don't you speak, Maestro?" "I didn't join you because I was too busy at my score. Listen, children!I have sketched the beginning of The Shadowy Horses. You remember theYeats poem, Rentgen? Listen!" Furiously he attacked the instrument, from which escaped accents ofveritable torture; a delirium of tone followed, meagre melodies fightingfor existence in the boiling madness of it all; it was the parody of aparody, the music of yesterday masquerading as the music of to-morrow. Alixe nervously watched the critic. He stood at the end of the piano andmorosely fumbled his beard. Again a wave of anxious hatred, followed byforebodings, crowded her alert brain. She desperately clutched herhusband's shoulder; he finished in a burst of sheer pounding and brutalroaring. Then she threw her arms about him in an ecstasy of pride--herconfidence was her only anchorage. "There, Elvard Rentgen! What did you tell me? I dare you to say thatthis music is not marvellous, not original!" Her victorious gaze, inwhich floated indomitable faith, challenged him, as she drew the head ofher husband to her protecting bosom. The warring of exasperated eyesendured a moment; to Alixe it seemed eternity. Rentgen bowed and wentaway from this castle of cobwebs, deeply stirred by the wife's tenderuntruths.... She was the last dawn illuminating his empty, sordidlife, --now a burnt city of defaced dreams and blackened torches. II THE EIGHTH DEADLY SIN Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made. --_Genesis. _ I THE SERMON "And the Seven Deadly Sins, beloved brethren, are: Pride, Covetousness, Lust, Anger, Gluttony, Envy, Sloth. To these our wise Mother, theChurch, opposes the contrary virtues: Humility, Chastity, Meekness, Temperance, Brotherly Love, Diligence. " The voice of the preacher wasclear and well modulated. It penetrated to the remotest corner of thechurch. Baldur, sitting near the pulpit, with its elaborate traceries ofmarble, idly wondered why the sins were, with few exceptions, words ofone syllable, while those of the virtues were all longer. Perhapsbecause it was easier to sin than to repent! The voice of the speakerdeepened as he continued:-- "Now the Seven Deadly Arts are: Music, Literature, Painting, Sculpture, Architecture, Dancing, Acting. The mercy of God has luckily purifiedthese once pagan inventions, and transformed them into savinginstruments of grace. Yet it behooves us to examine with the utmostdiligence the possible sources of evil latent in each and every one ofthose arts. Then we shall consider some of the special forms of sin thatmay develop from them. St. Chrysostom warned the faithful against thedanger of the Eighth Deadly Art--Perfume.... " His phrases, which began to fall into the rhythmic drone of a Sundaysermon, lulled Baldur to dreaming. Perfume--that delicious vocable! Andthe contrast with what his own nostrils reported to his consciousnessmade him slightly shiver. It was on a Friday night in Lent that, wearyin flesh and spirit, his conscience out of tune, he had entered thechurch and taken the first vacant seat. Without, the air was sluggish;after leaving his club the idea of theatres or calls had set his teethon edge. He longed to be alone, to weigh in the silence of his heart theutter futility of life. Religion had never been a part of his trainingas the only son of a millionnaire, and if he preferred the RomanCatholic ritual above all others, it was because the appeal was to hisæsthetic sense; a Turkish mosque, he assured his friends, produced thesame soothing impression--gauze veils gently waving and slowly obscuringthe dulling realities of everyday existence. This _morbidezza_ of thespirit the Mahometans call _Kef_; the Christians, pious ecstasy. But now he could not plunge himself, despite the faint odour of incenselingering in the atmosphere, into the deepest pit of his personality. Atfirst he ascribed his restlessness to the sultry weather, then to hisabuse of tea and cigarettes, --perhaps it was the sharp odour of theaverage congregation, that collective odour of humanity encountered inchurch, theatre, or court-rooms. The smell of poverty was mingled withthe heavy scents of fashionable women, who, in the minority, made theirpresence felt by their showy gowns, rustling movements, and attitudes ofsuperior boredom. In a vast building like this extremes touch witheagerness on the part of the poor, to whom these furtive views of therich and indolent brought with them a bitter consolation. Baldur remarked these things as he leaned back in his hard seat andbarely listened to the sermon, which poured forth as though the tapwould never be turned off again. And then a delicate note of iris, mostepiscopal of perfumes, emerged from the mass of odours--musk, garlic, damp shoes, alcohol, shabby clothing, rubber, pomade, cologne, rice-powder, tobacco, patchouli, sachet, and a hundred other tintings ofthe earthly symphony. The finely specialized olfactory sense of theyoung man told him that it was either a bishop or a beautiful woman whoimparted to the air the subtle, penetrating aroma of iris. But it wasneither ecclesiastic nor maid. At his side was a short, rather thick-setwoman of vague age; she might have been twenty-five or forty. Her hairwas cut in masculine fashion, her attire unattractive. As clearly as hecould distinguish her features he saw that she was not good-looking. Astern mask it was, though not hardened. He would not have looked at suchan ordinary physiognomy twice if the iris had not signalled his peculiarsense. There was no doubt that to her it was due. Susceptible as he wasto odours, Baldur was not a ladies' man. He went into society because itwas his world; and he attended in a perfunctory manner to the enormousestate left him by his father, bound up in a single trust company. Buthis thoughts were always three thousand miles away, in that delectablecity of cities, Paris. For Paris he suffered a painful nostalgia. Therehe met his true brethren, while in New York he felt an alien. He wasone. The city, with its high, narrow streets--granite tunnels; its rudereverberations; its colourless, toiling barbarians, with theirundistinguished physiognomies, their uncouth indifference to art, --hedid not deny that he loathed this nation, vibrating only in the presenceof money, sports, grimy ward politics, while exhibiting a depressingsnobbery to things British. There was no _nuance_ in its life or itsliterature, he asserted. France was his _patrie psychique_; he wouldreturn there some day and forever.... The iris crept under his nostrils, and again he regarded the woman. Thistime she faced him, and he no longer wondered, for he saw her eyes. With such eyes only a great soul could be imprisoned in her brain. Theywere smoke-gray, with long, dark lashes, and they did not seem to focusperfectly--at least there was enough deflection to make their expressionodd, withal interesting, like the slow droop of Eleonora Duse's magiceye. Though her features were rigid, the woman's glance spoke to Baldur, spoke eloquently. Her eyes were--or was it the iris?--symbols of asoul-state, of a rare emotion, not of sex, nor yet sexless. The pupilsseemed powdered with a strange iridescence. He became more troubled thanbefore. What did the curious creature want of him! She was neithercoquette nor cocotte, flirtation was not hinted by her intenseexpression. He resumed his former position, but her eyes made hisshoulders burn, as if they had sufficient power to bore through them. Heno longer paid any attention to his surroundings. The sermon was likethe sound of far-away falling waters, the worshippers were so many blackmarks. Of two things was he aware--the odour of iris and her eyes. He knew that he was in an overwrought mood. For some weeks this mood hadbeen descending upon his spirit, like a pall. He had avoided music, pictures, the opera--which he never regarded as an art; even hisfavourite poets he could not read. Nor did he degustate, as was hisdaily wont, the supreme prose of the French masters. The pleasures ofrobust stomachs, gourmandizing and drinking, were denied him by nature. He could not sip a glass of wine, and for meat he entertained distaste. His physique proved him to be of the neurotic temperament--he was verytall, very slim, of an exceeding elegance, in dress a finical dandy;while his trim pointed blue-black beard and dark, foreign eyes were thecause of his being mistaken often for a Frenchman or a Spaniard--whichillusion was not dissipated when he chose to speak their severaltongues. Involuntarily, and to the ire of his neighbours, he arose and indolentlymade his way down the side aisle. When he reached the baize swingingdoors, he saw the woman approaching him. As if she had been anacquaintance of years, she saluted him carelessly, and, accompanied bythe scandalized looks of many in the congregation, the pair left thechurch, though not before the preacher had sonorously quoted from thePsalm, _Domine ne in Furore_, "For my loins are filled with illusions;and there is no health in my flesh. " II THE SÉANCE Je cherche des parfums nouveaux, des fleurs plus larges, des plaisirs inéprouvés. --FLAUBERT. "It may be all a magnificent illusion, but--" he began. "Everything is an illusion in this life, though seldom magnificent, " sheanswered. They slowly walked up the avenue. The night was tepid; motorcars, looking like magnified beetles, with bulging eyes of fire, wentswiftly by. The pavements were almost deserted when they reached thepark. He felt as if hypnotized, and once, rather meanly, was glad thatno one saw him in company of his dowdy companion. "I wonder if you realize that we do not know each other's name, " hesaid. "Oh, yes. You are Mr. Baldur. My name is Mrs. Lilith Whistler. " "Mrs. Whistler. Not the medium?" "The medium--as you call it. In reality I am only a woman, happy, orunhappy, in the possession of super-normal powers. " "Not supernatural, then?" he interposed. He was a sceptic who calledhimself agnostic. The mystery of earth and heaven might be interpreted, but always in terms of science; yet he did not fancy the superior mannerin which this charlatan flouted the supernatural. He had heard of hermiracles--and doubted them. She gave a little laugh at his correction. "What phrase-jugglers you men are! You want all the splendours of theInfinite thrown in with the price of admission! I said super-normal, because we know of nothing greater than nature. Things that are off thebeaten track of the normal, across the frontiers, some callsupernatural; but it is their ignorance of the vast, unexploredterritory of the spirit--which is only the material masquerading in adifferent guise. " "But you go to church, to a Lenten service--?" It was as if he had knownher for years, and their unconventional behaviour never crossed hismind. He did not even ask himself where they were moving. "I go to church to rest my nerves--as do many other people, " shereplied; "I was interested in the parallel of the Seven Deadly Sins andthe Seven Deadly Arts. " "You believe the arts are sinful?" He was curious. "I don't believe in sin at all. A bad conscience is the result of poordigestion. Sins are created so that we pay the poll-tax to eternity--payit on this side of the ferry. Yet the arts may become dangerous enginesof destruction if wrongfully employed. The Fathers of the early Church, Ambrose and the rest, were right in viewing them suspiciously. "--Hespoke:-- "The arts diabolic! Then what of the particular form of wizardrypractised so successfully by the celebrated Mrs. Whistler, one of whosenames is, according to the Talmud, that of Adam's first wife?" "What do you know, my dear young man, of diabolic arts?" "Only that I am walking with you near the park on a dark night of Apriland I never saw you before a half-hour ago. Isn't that magic--white, notblack?" "Pray do not mock magic, either white or black. Remember the fate of theserpents manufactured by Pharaoh's magicians. They were, need I tellyou, speedily devoured by the serpents of Moses and Aaron. Both partiesdid not play fair in the game. If it was black magic to transform a rodinto a snake on the part of Pharaoh's conjurers, was it any lessreprehensible for the Hebrew magicians to play the same trick? It wasprestidigitation for all concerned--only the side of the children ofIsrael was espoused in the recital. Therefore, do not talk of black orwhite magic. There is only one true magic. And it is not slate-writing, toe-joint snapping, fortune-telling, or the vending of charms. Magic, too, is an art--like other arts. This is forgotten by the majority ofits practitioners. Hence the sordid vulgarity of the average mind-readerand humbugging spiritualist of the dark-chamber séance. Besides, thestudy of the super-normal mind tells us of the mind in health--nature isshy in revealing her secrets. " They passed the lake and were turning toward the east driveway. Suddenlyshe stopped and under the faint starlight regarded her companionearnestly. He had not been without adventures in his career--Parisalways provided them in plenty; but this encounter with a homely womanpiqued him. Her eye he felt was upon him and her voice soothing. "Mr. Baldur--listen! Since Milton wrote his great poem theEnglish-speaking people are all devil-worshippers, for Satan is the heroof Paradise Lost. But I am no table-tipping medium eager for yourapplause or your money. I don't care for money. I think you know enoughof me through the newspapers to vouchsafe that. You are rich, and it isyour chief misery. Listen! Whether you believe it or not, you are veryunhappy. Let me read your horoscope. Your club life bores you; you aretired of our silly theatres; no longer do you care for Wagner's music. You are deracinated; you are unpatriotic. For that there is no excuse. The arts are for you deadly. I am sure you are a lover of literature. Yet what a curse it has been for you! When you see one of your friendsdrinking wine, you call him a fool because he is poisoning himself. Butyou--you--poison your spirit with the honey of France, of Scandinavia, of Russia. As for the society of women--" "The Eternal Womanly!" he sneered. "The Eternal Simpleton, you mean. In _that_ swamp of pettiness, idiocy, and materialism, a man of your nature could not long abide. Religion--ithas not yet responded to your need. And without faith your sins losetheir savour. The arts--you don't know them all, the Seven Deadly Artsand the One Beautiful Art!" She paused. Her voice had been as the soundof delicate flutes. He was aflame. "Is there, then, an eighth art?" he quickly asked. "Would you know it if you saw it?" "Of course. Where is it, what is it?" She laughed and took his arm. "Why did you look at me in church?" "Because--it was mere chance--no, it may have been the odour of iris. Iam mad over perfume. I think it a neglected art, degraded to thefunction of anointment. I have often dreamed of an art by which adazzling and novel synthesis of fragrant perfumes would be invented bysome genius, some latter-day Rimmel or Lubin whom we could hail as apeer of Chopin or Richard Strauss--two composers who have expressedperfume in tone. Roinard in his Cantiques des Cantiques attempted aconcordance of tone, light, and odours. Yes--it was the iris thatattracted me. " "But I have no iris about me. I have none now, " she simply replied. Hefaced her. "No iris? What--?" "I _thought_ iris, " she added triumphantly, as she guided him into oneof the side streets off Madison Avenue. He was astounded. She must be ahypnotist, he said to himself. No suggestion of iris clung to her now. And he remembered that the odour disappeared after they left the church. He held his peace until they arrived before a brown-stone house of theordinary kind with an English basement. She took a key from her pocketand, going down several steps, beckoned to him. Baldur followed. Hisinterest in this modern Cassandra and her bizarre words was too greatfor him to hesitate or to realize that he would get himself into somedangerous scrape. And was this truly the Mrs. Whistler whose tricks oftelepathy and other extraordinary antics had puzzled and angered thewise men of two continents? He did not have much time for reflection. Agrilled door opened, and presently he was in a room furnished very muchlike a physician's office. Electric bulbs, an open grate, and twobookcases gave the apartment a familiar, cheerful appearance. Baldur satdown on a low chair, and Mrs. Whistler removed her commonplace headgear. In the bright light she was younger than he had imagined, and her head abeautifully modelled one--broad brows, very full at the back, and themask that of an emotional actress. Her smoke-coloured eyes were mostremarkable and her helmet of hair blue black. "And now that you are my guest at last, Mr. Baldur, let me apologize forthe exercise of my art upon your responsive nerves;" she made thiswitch-burning admission as if she were accounting for the absence oftea. To his relief she offered him nothing. He had a cigarette betweenhis fingers, but he did not care to smoke. She continued:-- "For some time I have known you--never mind how! For some time I havewished to meet you. I am not an impostor, nor do I desire to pose as thegoddess of a new creed. But you, Irving Baldur, are a man among men whowill appreciate what I may show you. You love, you understand, perfumes. You have even wished for a new art--don't forget that there are othersin the world to whom the seven arts have become a thrice-told tale, towhom the arts have become too useful. All great art should be useless. Yet architecture houses us; sculpture flatters us; painting imitates us;dancing is pure vanity; literature and the drama, mere vehicles forbread-earning; while music--music, the most useless art as it shouldhave been--is in the hands of the speculators. Moreover music is toosexual--it reports in a more intense style the stories of our loves. Music is the memory of love. What Prophet will enter the temple of themodern arts and drive away with his divine scourge the vilemoney-changers who fatten therein?" Her voice was shrill as she pacedthe room. A very sibyl this, her crest of hair agitated, her eyessparkling with wrath. He missed the Cumæan tripod. "There is an art, Baldur, an art that was one of the lost arts ofBabylon until now, one based, as are all the arts, on the senses. Perfume--the poor, neglected nose must have its revenge. It has outlivedthe other senses in the æsthetic field. " "What of the palate--you have forgotten that. Cookery, too, is a fineart, " he ventured. His smile irritated her. "Yes, Frenchmen have invented symphonic sauces, they say. But again, eating is a useful art; primarily it serves to nourish the body. Whenman was wholly wild--he is a mere barbarian to-day--his sense of smellguarded him from his foes, from the beasts, from a thousand dangers. Civilization, with its charming odours of decay, --have you ever venturedto savour New York?--cast into abeyance the keenest of all the senses. Little wonder, then, that there was no art of perfume like the arts ofvision and sound. I firmly believe the Hindoos, Egyptians, and theChinese knew of such an art. How account for the power of theocracies?How else credit the tales of the saints who scattered perfumes--St. Francis de Paul, St. Joseph of Cupertino, Venturini of Bergamo?" "But, " he interrupted, "all this is interesting, fascinating. What Iwish to know is what form your art may take. How marshal odours asmelodies in a symphony, as colours on a canvas?" She made an impatientgesture. "And how like an amateur you talk. Melody! When harmony is infinitelygreater in music! Form! When colour is infinitely greater than line! Themost profound music gives only the timbre--melodies are for infantilepeople without imagination, who believe in patterns. Tone is the quality_I_ wish on a canvas, not anxious drawing. So it is with perfumes. I canblend them into groups of lovely harmony; I can give you single notes ofdelicious timbre--in a word, I can evoke an odour symphony which willtransport you. Memory is a supreme factor in this art. Do not forget howthe vaguest scent will carry you back to your youthful dreamland. It isalso the secret of spiritual correspondences--it plays the great rôle ofbridging space between human beings. " "I sniff the air promise-crammed, " he gayly misquoted. "But when willyou rewrite this Apocalypse? and how am I to know whether I shall reallyenjoy this feast of perfume, if you can simulate the odour of iris asyou did an hour ago?" "I propose to show you an artificial paradise, " she firmly asserted. Inthe middle of the room there was a round table, the top inlaid withagate. On it a large blue bowl stood, and it was empty. Mrs. Whistlerwent to a swinging cabinet and took from it a dozen small phials. "Nowfor the incantation, " he jokingly said. In her matter-of-fact manner sheplaced the bottles on the table, and uncorking them, she poured themslowly into the bowl. He broke the silence:-- "Isn't there any special form of hair-raising invocation that goes withthis dangerous operation?" "Listen to this. " Her eyes swimming with fire, she intoned:-- As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: Lo you there, That hillock burning with a brazen glare; Those myriad dusky flames with points aglow Which writhed and hissed and darted to and fro; A Sabbath of the serpents, heaped pell-mell For Devil's roll-call and some fête in Hell: Yet I strode on austere; No hope could have no fear. He did not seem to hear. From out the bowl there was stealing a perfumewhich overmastered his will and led him captive to the lugubrious gladeof the Druids.... III THE CIRCUS OF CANDLES Comme d'autres esprits voguent sur la musique, Le míen, ô mon amour! nage sur ton parfum. --BAUDELAIRE. He was not dreaming, for he saw the woman at the bowl, saw herapartment. But the interior of his brain was as melancholy as a lightedcathedral. A mortal sadness encompassed him, and his nerves were liketaut violin strings. It was within the walls of his skull, that hesaw--his mundane surroundings did not disturb his visions. And the wavesof dolour swept over his consciousness. A mingling of tuberoses, narcissus, attar of roses, and ambergris he detected in the air--as_triste_ as a morbid nocturne of Chopin. This was followed by a blendingof heliotrope, moss-rose, and hyacinth, together with dainty touches ofgeranium. He dreamed of Beethoven's manly music when whiffs ofapple-blossom, white rose, cedar, and balsam reached him. Mozart passedroguishly by in strains of scarlet pimpernel, mignonette, syringa, andviolets. Then the sky was darkened with Schumann's perverse harmonies asjasmine, lavender, and lime were sprayed over him. Music, surely, wasthe art nearest akin to odour. A superb and subtle chord floated abouthim; it was composed of vervain, opoponax, and frangipane. He could notconceive of a more unearthly triad. It was music from Parsifal. Throughthe mists that were gathering he savoured a fulminating bouquet ofpatchouli, musk, bergamot, and he recalled the music of Mascagni. Brahmsstrode stolidly on in company with new-mown hay, cologne, and sweetpeas. Liszt was interpreted as ylang-ylang, myrrh, and maréchale;Richard Strauss, by wistaria, oil of cloves, chypre, poppy, andcrab-apple. Suddenly there developed a terrific orchestration of chromatic odours:ambrosia, cassia, orange, peach-blossoms, and musk of Tonkin, magnolia, eglantine, hortensia, lilac, saffron, begonia, peau d'Espagne, acacia, carnation, liban, fleur de Takeoka, cypress, oil of almonds, benzoin, jacinth, rue, shrub, olea, clematis, the hediosma of Jamaica, olive, vanilla, cinnamon, petunia, lotus, frankincense, sorrel, neroli fromJapan, jonquil, verbena, spikenard, thyme, hyssop, and decaying orchids. This quintessential medley was as the sonorous blasts of Berlioz, repugnant and exquisite; it swayed the soul of Baldur as the wind swaysthe flame. There were odours like wingèd dreams; odours as the pluckedsounds of celestial harps; odours mystic and evil, corrupt and opulent;odours recalling the sweet, dense smell of chloroform; odours evil, angelic, and anonymous. They painted--painted by Satan!--upon hiscerebellum more than music--music that merged into picture; and he wasagain in the glade of the Druids. The huge scent-symphony dissolved in ashower of black roses which covered the ground ankle-deep. An antiquetemple of exotic architecture had thrown open its bronze doors, and outthere surged and rustled a throng of Bacchanalian beings who sported andshouted around a terminal god, which, with smiling, ironic lips, accepted their delirious homage. White nymphs and brown displayed inchoric rhythms the dance of the Seven Deadly Sins, and their goat-hoofedmates gave vertiginous pursuit. At first the pagan gayety of the scenefired the fancy of the solitary spectator; but soon his nerves, disordered by the rout and fatigued by the spoor of so many odours, warned him that something disquieting was at hand. He felt a namelesshorror as the sinister bitter odour of honeysuckle, sandalwood, andaloes echoed from the sacred grove. A score of seductive young witchespranced in upon their broomsticks, and without dismounting surroundedthe garden god. A battalion of centaurs charged upon them. Thevespertine hour was nigh, and over this iron landscape there floated themoon, an opal button in the sky. Then to his shame and fear he saw thatthe Satyr had vanished and in its place there reared the Black Venus, the vile shape of ancient Africa, and her face was the face of Lilith. The screaming lovely witches capered in fantastic spirals, each sportinga lighted candle. It was the diabolic Circus of the Candles, theinfernal circus of the Witches' Sabbath. Rooted to the ground, Baldurrealized with fresh amazement and vivid pain the fair beauty of Adam'sprehistoric wife, her luxurious blond hair, her shapely shoulders, herstature of a goddess--he trembled, for she had turned her mordant gazein his direction. And he strove in vain to bring back the comfortingvision of the chamber. She smiled, and the odours of sandal, coreopsis, and aloes encircled his soul like the plaited strands of her glorioushair. She was that other Lilith, the only offspring of the old Serpent. On what storied fresco, limned by what worshipper of Satan, had theseaccursed lineaments, this lithe, seductive figure, been shown! Names ofSatanic painters, from Hell-fire Breughel to Arnold Böcklin, fromFelicien Rops to Franz Stuck, passed through the halls of IrvingBaldur's memory. The clangour of the feast was become maddening. He heard the Venusballet music from Tannhäuser entwined with the acridities of aloes, sandal, and honeysuckle. Then the aroma of pitch, sulphur, andassafœtida cruelly strangled the other melodic emanations. Lilith, disdaining the shelter of her nymphs and their clowneries, stood forthin all the hideous majesty of Ænothea, the undulating priestess of theAbominable Shape. His nerves macerated by this sinful apparition, Baldurstruggled to resist her mute command. What was it? He saw her wishstreaming from her eyes. Despair! Despair! Despair! There is no hope forthee, wretched earthworm! No abode but the abysmal House of Satan!Despair, and you will be welcomed! By a violent act of volition, set inmotion by his fingers fumbling a small gold cross he wore as awatch-guard, the heady fumes of the orgy dissipated.... He was sitting facing the bowl, and over it with her calm, confidentialgaze was the figure of Lilith Whistler. "Have I proved to you that perfume is the art of arts?" she demanded. Herushed from the room and was shaking the grilled gate in the hallwaylike a caged maniac, when with a pitying smile she released him. Hereached the street at a bound.... * * * * * ... "the evil of perfume, I repeat, was one against which the venerableFathers of the Church warned the faithful. " The preacher's voice hadsagged to a monotone. Baldur lifted his eyes in dismay. Near him sat thesame woman, and she still stared at him as if to rebuke him for hisabstraction. About her hovered the odour of iris. Had it been only adisturbing dream? Intoxicated by his escape from damnation, from thelast of the Deadly Arts, he bowed his head in grateful prayer. Whatecstasy to be once more in the arms of Mother Church! There, dipped inher lustral waters, and there alone would he find solace for his barrenheart, pardon for his insane pride of intellect, and protection from thedemons that waylaid his sluggish soul. The sermon ended as it began:-- "And the Seven Deadly Sins, beloved brethren, are: Pride, Covetousness, Lust, Anger, Gluttony, Envy, Sloth. _Oremus!_" "Amen, " fervently responded Baldur the Immoralist. III THE PURSE OF AHOLIBAH Lo, this is that Aholibah Whose name was blown among strange seas.... --SWINBURNE. I THE AVIARY When the last breakfast guests had gone the waiters of the café begantheir most disagreeable daily task. All the silver was assembled on oneof the long tables in an inner room, where, as at a solemn conclave, theservants took their seats, and, presided over by the major-domo of theestablishment, they polished the knives and forks, spoons, andsugar-tongs, filled the salt-cellars, replenished the pepper-boxes andother paraphernalia of the dining art. The gabble in this closeapartment was terrific. Joseph, the maître d'hôtel, rapped in vain adozen times for silence. The chef poked his head of a truculent Gasconthrough the door and indulged in a war of wit with a long fellow fromMarseilles, --called the "mast" because he was very tall and thin, andhad cooked in the galley of a Mediterranean trading brig. From time totime one of the piccolos, a fat little boy from the South, carried inpitchers of flat beer, brewed in the suburbs. As it was a hot day, hewas kept busy. The waiters had gone through a trying morning; there weremany strangers in Paris. Outside, the Boulevard des Italiens, despiteits shade trees, broiled under a torrid July sun that swam in amercilessly blue sky. The majority of the men were listening to gossip about their colleaguesin the Café Cardinal across the way. Ambroise alone sat apart and pattedand smoothed the salt in its receptacles. He was a young man from somelittle town in Alsace, a furious patriot, and the butt of hiscompanions--for he was the latest comer in the Café Riche. Though hetold his family name, Nettier, and declared that his father and motherwere of French blood, he was called "the German. " He was good-looking, very blond, with big, innocent blue eyes; and while he was nevermolested personally, --a short, sharp tussle with a cook had proved himto be a man of muscle, --behind his back his walk was mimicked, hisprecise attitudes were openly bantered. But Ambroise stood this torturegantlet equably. He had lived long enough among Germans to copy theirimpassive manner and, coupled with a natural contempt for hisfellow-monkeys in the cage, he knew that perhaps in a day a new manwould receive all these unwelcome attentions. Moreover, his work, clear-cut, unobtrusive, and capable, pleased M. Joseph. And when thepatron himself dined at the café, Ambroise was the garçon selected towait upon him. Hence the jealousy of his colleagues. Couple to this thefact that he was reported miserly, and had saved a large sum--which wereall sufficient reasons for his unpopularity. As the afternoon wore on little airs began to play in the tree-tops; thestreet watering carts had been assiduous, and before the terrace waterhad been sprinkled by the piccolos so effectively that at five o'clock, when the jaded stock-brokers, journalists, and business men began toflock in, each for his apéritif, the café was comparatively cool. A few women's frocks relieved the picture with discreet or joyous shadesof white and pink. Ambroise was diligent and served his regularcustomers, the men who grumbled if any one occupied their favouritecorners. Absinthe nicely iced, dominoes, the evening papers--these hebrought as he welcomed familiar faces. But his thoughts were not hisown, and his pose when not in service was listless, even bored. Would_she_ return that evening with the same crowd--was the idea that hadtaken possession of his brain. He was very timid in the presence ofwomen, and it diverted the waiters to see him blush when he waited uponthe gorgeous birds that thronged the aviary at night, making its wallsecho with their chattering, quarrels, laughter. This provincial, modest, sensitive, the only child of old-fashioned parents, was stupefied andshocked in the presence of the over-decorated and under-dressedcreatures, daubed like idols, who began to flock in the café, with orwithout escorts, after eleven o'clock every night in the year. He knewthem all by name. He knew their histories. He could detect at a glancewhether they were unhappy or merely depressed by the rain, whether theydrank champagne from happiness or desperation. Notwithstanding hisdreamy disposition his temperament was ardent; his was an unspoiledsoul; he felt himself a sort of moral barometer for the magnificent andfeline women who treated him as if he were a wooden post when they weregossiping, harried him like an animal when they were thirsty. He notedthat they were always thirsty. They smoked more than they ate, andwhispered more, if no men were present, than they smoked. But then, menwere seldom absent. The night previous, Ambroise recalled the fact, she had not come in witha different set. This was not her custom, and he worried over it. Protected by princes and financiers, she nevertheless loved her libertyso much that one seldom caught her in the same company twice insuccession. For this singular caprice Aholibah, oftener called the Womanfrom Morocco, --because she had lived in Algiers, --was the despair of hercircle. Why, argued the other birds, why fly in the face of luck? To besure, she was still young, still beautiful, with that sort of metallicbeauty which reminded Ambroise of some priceless bronze blackened in thesun. She was meagre, diabolically graceful, dark, with huge saucer-likeeyes that greedily drank in her surroundings. But her lashes were long, and she could veil her glance so that her brilliant face looked as ifthe shutters had been closed on her soul. Across her brows a bar ofblue-black marked the passage of her eyebrows--which sable line wasmatched by her abundant hair, worn in overshadowing clusters. Shedressed winter and summer in scarlet, and her stage name wasAholibah--bestowed upon her by some fantastic poet who had not readEzekiel, but Swinburne. It was rumoured by her intimates that her realname was Clotilde Durval, that her mother had been a seamstress.... With a sinking at the heart Ambroise saw her enter in the company of thesame gentleman she had brought the previous evening. The garçon did notanalyze this strange, jealous feeling, for he was too busily employed inseating his guests and relieving the man of his hat and walking-stick. An insolent chap it was, with his air of an assured conqueror and theeasy bearing of wealth. There was little discussion as to the order--acertain brand of wine, iced beyond recognition for any normal palate, was always served to Aholibah. She loved "needles on her tongue, " sheasseverated if any one offered her weaker stuff. That July night shelooked like a piratical craft that had captured a sleek merchantman forprize. She was all smoothness; Ambroise alone detected the retractedclaws of the leopardess. She blazed in the electric illumination, andher large hat, with its swelling plumes, threw her dusky features intoshadow--her eyes seemed far away under its brim and glowed with unholyphosphorescence. While he arranged the details of the silver wine-pail in the other room, the chef asked him if the Princess Comet had arrived. Ambroise almostsnarled--much to the astonishment of the Gascon. And when the sommelierattempted to help him with the wine, he was elbowed vigorously. Ambroisemust have been drinking too much, said the boys. Joseph rather curiouslyinspected his waiter as he made his accustomed round in the café. But, pale as usual, Ambroise stood near his table, his whole bearing anintent and thoroughly professional one. Joseph was satisfied and drovethe chef back to the kitchen. The young Alsatian had never seen Aholibah look so radiant. She was inhigh spirits, and her pungent talk aroused her companion from incipientmoroseness. After midnight the party grew--some actresses from a near-bytheatre came in with their male friends, and another waiter was detailedto the aid of Ambroise. But he stuck to the first-comers and served somuch wine to them that he had the satisfaction of seeing Aholibah'sdisagreeable protector collapse. She hardly noticed it, for she wastalking vivaciously to Madeleine about the première of Donnay's comedy. Thrice Ambroise sought to fill her glass; but she repulsed him. He wassad. Something told him that Aholibah was farther away from him thanever; was she on the eve of forming one of those alliances that wouldrob him finally of her presence? He eyed the sleeping man--surely amonster, a millionnaire, with the tastes of a brute. It was all verytrying to a man with fine nerves. Several times he caught Aholibah's eyeupon him, and he vaguely wondered if he had omitted anything--or, had hebetrayed his feelings? In Paris the waiter who shows that he has ears, or eyes, or a heart, except in the exercise of his functions, is lost. He is bound to be caught and his telltale humanity scourged by instantdismissal. So when those fathomless eyes glittered in his direction, hisknees trembled, and a ball of copper invaded his throat. He could barelydrag himself to her side and ask if he could help her. A burst ofimpertinent laughter greeted him, and Madeleine cried:-- "Your blond garçon seems smitten, Aholibah!" When Ambroise heard thisawful phrase, his courage quite forsook him, and he withdrew into theobscurity of the hall. So white was he that the kindly Joseph askedsolicitously if he were ill. Ambroise shook his head. The heat, hefeebly explained, had made his head giddy. Better drink some icedmineral water, was suggested--the other man could look after the party!But Ambroise would not hear of this, and feeling once more the beckoninggaze of Aholibah he marched bravely to her and was rewarded by a tap onthe wrist. "There, loiterer! Go call a carriage. The Prince is sleepy--dear sheep!"This last was a tender apostrophe to her snoring friend. Ambroise helpedthem into a fiacre. When it drove away it was past two o'clock; thehouse had to be closed. He walked slowly home to his little chamber onthe Rue Puteaux, just off the Batignolles. But he could not sleep untilthe street-cleaners began the work of another day.... The Woman fromMorocco was the scarlet colour of his troubled dreams.... * * * * * August had almost spent itself, and Aholibah remained in the arid andflavourless town. Her intimate friends had weeks earlier gone toTrouville, to Dinard, to Ostende, to Hombourg, even as far as Brighton;but she lingered, seemingly from perversity. She came regularly to thecafé about eleven, always in company with her Prince, and was untiringlyserved by Ambroise. He was rewarded for his fidelity with many valuabletips and latterly with gifts--for on being questioned he was forced toadmit that gratuities had to be shared with the other waiters. He was soamiable, his smile so winning, his admiration so virginal, thatAholibah kept him near her. Her Prince drank, sulked, or grumbled asmuch as ever. He was bored by the general heat and the dulness, yet madeno effort to escape either. One night they entered after twelve o'clock. Aholibah was in vicious humour and snapped at her garçon. Dog-like hewaited upon her, an humble, devoted helot. He overheard her say to hercompanion that she must have lost the purse at the Folies-Bergères. "Well, go to the Rue de la Paix to-morrow and buy another, " was thereply. "I can't replace that purse. Besides, it was a prized gift--" "From your sainted mother in heaven!" he sneered. Ambroise saw the windows of her eyes close with a snap, and he movedaway, fearing to be present in the surely impending quarrel. Heremembered the purse. It was a long gold affair, its tiny links crustedwith precious pearls--emeralds, rubies, diamonds. And the top he sawbefore him with ease, for its pattern was odd--a snake's head with jawsdistended by a large amethyst. Yes, it was unique, that purse. And itsvalue must have been bewildering for any but the idle rich. Ah! how hehated all this money, coming from nowhere, pouring in golden streamsnowhere. He was not a revolutionist, --not even a socialist, --but therewere times when he could have taken the neck of the Prince between hisstrong fingers and choked out his worthless life. These attacks of envywere short-lived--he could not ascribe them to the reading of the littlehornet-like anarchist sheet, _Père Peinard_, which the other waiterslent him; rather was it an excess of bile provoked by the coveted beautyof Aholibah. She usurped his day dreams, his night reveries. He never took a stepwithout keeping her memory in the foreground. When he closed his eyes, he saw scarlet. When he opened them, he felt her magnetic glance uponhim, though she was far from the café. His one idea was to speak withher. His maddest wish assumed the shape of a couple walking slowly armin arm through the Bois--_she_ was the woman! But this particular visionbordered on delirium, and he rarely indulged in it.... He stooped tolook under the chairs, under the table, for the missing treasure. It wasnot to be seen. Indolently the Prince watched him as he peered all overthe café, out on the terrace. Aholibah was deeply preoccupied. Shesipped her wine without pleasure. Her brows were thunderous. Thecart-wheel hat was tipped low over them. Several times Ambroise soughther glance. He could have sworn that she was regarding him steadily. Sopainful became the intensity of her eyes that he withdrew in confusion. His mind was made up at last. The next day was for him a free one. He wandered up and down the Rue dela Paix staring moodily into the jewellers' windows. That night, thoughhe could have stayed away from the café, he returned at ten o'clock, andluckily enough was needed. Joseph greeted him effusively. The "mast, "the thin fellow from Marseilles, had gone home with a splittingheadache. Would Ambroise stay and serve his usual table? To his immenseastonishment and joy he saw her enter alone. He took her wraps andseated her on her favourite divan near an electric fan. Then he staredexpectantly at the door. But her carriage had driven away. Was a part ofhis dream coming true? He closed his eyes, and straightway saw scarlet. Then he went for wine, without taking her order. Aholibah was preoccupied. She played with the bracelet on her tawny leftwrist. Occasionally she lifted her glass, or else tossed her hair fromher eyes. If any stranger ventured near her, she began to huminsolently, or spoke earnestly with Ambroise. He was in the eleventhheaven of the Persians. Two Ambroises appeared to be in him: one servedhis lady, spoke with her; the other from afar contemplated with theecstasy of a hasheesh eater his counterfeit brother. It was an exquisitesensation. "The purse--has Mademoiselle--" He stammered. "No, " she crisply answered. "Can it never be duplicated? Perhaps--" "Never. It is impossible. It was made in Africa. " "But--but--" he persisted. His bearing was so peculiar that she bentupon him her dynamic gaze. "What's the matter with you this evening, Ambroise? Have you come into asuccessful lottery ticket? Or--" She was suspiciously looking at him. "Or--you haven't found _it_?" He nodded his head, his face beatific with joy. He resembled theyouthful Saint George after slaying the dragon. She was startled. Hereyes positively lightened; he listened for the attendant peal ofthunder. "Speak out, you booby. Cornichon! Where did you find it? Let me seeit--at once. " All fire and imperiousness, she held out grasping fingers. He shook. And then carefully he drew from the inside pocket of his coat, the purse. She snatched it. Yes--it was her purse. And yet there wassomething strange about it. Had the stones been tampered with? Sheexamined it searchingly. She boasted a jeweller's knowledge of diamondsand rubies. One of the stones had been transposed, that she could havesworn. And how different the expression of the serpent's eyes--smallcarbuncles. No--it was not her purse! She looked at Ambroise. He waspaling and reddening in rapid succession. "It is _not_ my purse! How did this come into your possession? It isvery valuable, quite as valuable as mine. But the eyes of my serpentwere not so large--I mean the carbuncles. Ambroise--look at me! Icommand you! Where did you find this treasure--cher ami!" Her seductivevoice lingered on the last words as if they were a morsel of deliciousfruit. He leaned heavily on the table and closed his eyes to shut outher face--but he only saw scarlet. He heard scarlet. "I--I--bought the thing because--you missed the other--" He could get nofurther. She smiled, showing her celebrated teeth. "You bought the thing--_hein_? You must be a prince indisguise--Ambroise! And I have just lost _my_ Prince! Perhaps--youthought--you audacious boy--" He kept his eyes closed. She was in a corner of the room--quiteempty--the other waiters were on the terrace. She weighed his appearanceand smiled mysteriously; her smile, her glance, and her scarlet gownswere her dramatic assets. Then she spoke in a low voice--a contraltolike the darker tones of an English horn:-- "I fancy I'll keep your thoughtful _gift_--Ambroise. And now, like agood boy, get a fiacre for me!" She went away, leaving him standing inthe middle of the room, a pillar of burning ice. When Joseph spoke tohim he did not answer. Then they took him by the arm, and he fell overin a seizure which, asserted the practical head waiter, was caused byindigestion. II ACROSS THE STYX It was raining on the Left Bank. The chill of a November afternoon cutits way through the doors of the Café La Source in the Boul' Mich' andmade shiver the groups of young medical students who were reading orplaying dominos. Ambroise Nettier, older, thinner, paler, waitedcarefully on his patrons. He had been in the hospital with brain fever, and after he was cured, one of the students secured him a position atthis café in the Quartier. He had been afraid to go back to the CaféRiche; Joseph had harshly discharged him on that terrible night; alone, without a home, without a penny, his savings gone, his life insurancehypothecated, --it had been intended for the benefit of his parents, --hisclothes, his very trunk gone, and plunged in debt to his fellow-waiters, his brain had succumbed to the shock. But Ambroise was young and strong;when he left the hospital he was relieved to find that he no longer sawscarlet. He was a healed man. He had intended to seek for a place at theCafé Cardinal, but it was too near the Café Riche--he might meet oldacquaintances, might be asked embarrassing questions. So he gladlyaccepted his present opportunity. The dulness of the day waxed with its waning. It was nearly six o'clockwhen the door slowly opened and Aholibah entered. She was alone. Herscarlet plumage was wet, and she was painted like a Peruvian war-god. She did not appear so brilliant a bird of paradise--or elsewhere--as atthe aviary across the water. Yet her gaze was as forthright as ever. Shesat on a divan between two domino parties, and was hardly noticed by thefanatics of that bony diversion. Recognizing Ambroise, she made a signto him. It was some minutes before he could reach her table; he hadother orders. When he did, she said she wanted some absinthe. He staredat her. Yes, absinthe--she had discarded iced wines. The doctor told herthat cold wine was dangerous. He still stared. Then she held up thepurse. It was a mere shell; all the stones save the amethyst in themouth of the serpent were gone. She laughed shrilly. He went for thedrink. She lighted a cigarette.... Every night for six months she haunted the café. She was alwaysunattended, always in excellent humour. She made few friends among thestudents. Her scarlet dress grew shabbier. Her gloves and boots werepitiful to Ambroise, who recalled her former splendours, her outrageousextravagances. Why had fortune flouted her! Why had she let it, likewater, escape through her jewelled, indifferent fingers! He made noinquiries. She vouchsafed none. They were now on a different footing. Tantalizingly she dangled the purse under his nose as he brought herabsinthe--always this opalescent absinthe. She drank it in the morning, in the afternoon, at night. She seldom spoke save to Ambroise. Andhe--he no longer saw scarlet, for the glorious tone of her hat and gownhad vanished. They were rusty red, a carroty tint. Her face was like themask of La Buveuse d'Absinthe, by Felicien Rops; her eyes, black wellsof regard; her hair without lustre, and coarse as the mane of a horse. Aholibah no longer manifested interest in the life of Paris. She did notread or gossip. But she still had money to spend. The night he quarrelled with his new patron, Ambroise was not well. Allthe day his head had pained him. When he reached La Source, the dame atthe cashier's desk told him that he was in for a scolding. He shruggedhis thin shoulders. He didn't care very much. Later the prophesied eventoccurred. He had been much too attentive to the solitary woman who drankabsinthe day and night. The patron did not propose to see hisestablishment, patronized as it was by the shining lights of medicine--! Ambroise changed his clothes and went away without a word. He was wearyof his existence, and a friend who shared his wretched room in the RueMouffetard had apprised him of a vacant job at a livelier resort, theCafé Vachette, commonly known as the Café Rasta. There he would earnmore tips, though the work would be more fatiguing. And--the MoroccoWoman might not follow him. He hurried away. III AVERNUS She sat on a divan in the corner when he entered the Vachette for thefirst time. He said nothing, nor did he experience either a thrill ofpleasure or disgust. The other waiters assured him that she was an oldcustomer, sometimes better dressed, yet never without money. And she wasliberal. He took her usual order, but did not speak to her, though sheplayed with the purse as if to tempt him--it had become for him a symbolof their lives. A quick glance assured him that the amethyst haddisappeared. She was literally drinking _his_ gift away in absinthe. Thespring passed, and Ambroise did not regain his former health. His limbswere leaden, his head always heavy. The alert waiter was transformed. Hetook his orders soberly, executed them soberly, --he was still a goodroutinier; but his early enthusiasm was absent. Something had gone fromhim that night; as she went to her carriage with her scornful, snapping, petulant _Ça_!--he felt that his life was over. Aholibah watched like acat every night; he was not on for day duty. She never came to the Rastabefore dark. The story of her infatuation for the well-bred, melancholygarçon was noised about; but it did not endanger his position, as at LaSource. He paid little attention to the jesting, and was scrupulouslyexact in his work. But the sense of his double personality began toworry him again. He did not see scarlet as of old; he noticed when hiseyes were closed that the apparition of a second Ambroise swam into thefield of his vision. And he was positively certain that this spectre ofhimself saw scarlet--the attitude of his double assured him of the fact. Simple-minded, ignorant of cerebral disorders, loyal, and laborious, Ambroise could not speak of these disquieting things--indeed, he onlyworked the more.... At last, one night in late summer, she did not appear. It was after aday when she had sung more insolently than ever, drunk more than heraccustomed allowance, and had shown Ambroise the purse--the sockets ofthe serpent's eyes untenanted by the beautiful carbuncles. Apathetic ashe had become, he was surprised at her absence. It was either caprice orserious illness. She had dwindled to a skeleton, with a maleficentsmile. Her teeth were yellow, her hands become claws, the scarlet of herclothes a drab hue, the plumes on her hat gone. Ambroise wondered. Aboutmidnight a mean-looking fellow entered and asked for him. A lady, a veryill lady, was in a coupé at the door. He hurried out. It was Aholibah. Her eyes were glazed and her lips black and cracked. She tried to croon, in a hoarse voice:-- "I am the Woman of Morocco!" But her head fell on the window-sill of thecarriage. Ambroise lifted the weary head on his shoulder. His eyes wereso dry that they seemed thirsty. The old glamour gripped him. The cabmanheld the reins and waited; it was an every-night occurrence for him. Thestarlight could not penetrate to the Boulevard through the harshelectric glare; and the whirring of wheels and laughter of the café'sguests entered the soul of Ambroise like steel nails. She opened hereyes. "I am that Aholibah ... A witness through waste Asia ... That the strongmen and the Captains knew ... " This line of Swinburne's was pronouncedin the purest English. Ambroise did not understand. Then followed somerapidly uttered jargon that might have been Moorish. He soothed her, andsoftly passed his hand over her rough and dishevelled hair. His heartwas bursting. She was after all his Aholibah, his first love. A crowdgathered. He asked for a doctor. A dozen students ran in a dozendifferent directions. The tired horse stamped its feet impatiently, andonce it whinnied. The coachman lighted his pipe and watched his dyingfare. Some wag sang a drunken lyric, and Ambroise repeated atintervals:-- "Please not so close, Messieurs. She needs air. " Then she moved her headand murmured: "Where's--my Prince? My--Prince Ambroise--I have something--" Her headfell back on his shoulder with a rigid jerk. In her clenched fingers herecognized his purse--smudged, torn, the serpent mouth gaping, the eyesempty.... And for the last time Ambroise saw scarlet--saw scarletdouble. His two personalities had separated, never to merge again. IV REBELS OF THE MOON "On my honour, friend, " Zarathustra answered, "what thou speakest of doth not exist: there is no devil nor hell. Thy soul will be dead even sooner than thy body: henceforth fear naught. " The moon, a spiritual gray wafer, fainted in the red wind of a summermorning as the two men leaped a ditch soft with mud. The wall was nothigh, the escape an easy one. Crouching, their clothes the colour ofclay, they trod cautiously the trench, until opposite a wood whose treesblackened the slow dawn. Then, without a word, they ran across the road, and, in a few minutes, were lost in the thick underbrush of the littleforest. It was past four o'clock and the dawn began to trill over therim of night; the east burst into stinging sun rays, while the movingair awoke the birds and sent scurrying around the smooth green park acloud of golden powdery dust.... Arved and Quell stood in a secret glade and looked at each othersolemnly--but only for a moment. Laughter, unrestrained laughter, frightened the squirrels and warned them that they were still indanger. "Well, we've escaped this time, " said the poet. "Yes; but how long?" was the sardonic rejoinder of the painter. "See here, Quell, you're a pessimist. You are never satisfied; which, Itake it, is a neat definition of pessimism. " "I don't propose to chop logic so early in the morning, " was the surlyreply. "I'm cold and nervous. Say, did you lift anything before we gotaway?" Arved smiled the significant smile of a drinking man. "Yes, I did. I waited until Doc McKracken left his office, and then Isneaked _this_. " The severe lines in Quell's face began to swimtogether. He reached out his hand, took the flask, and then threw backhis head. Arved watched him with patient resignation. "Hold on there! Leave a dozen drops for a poor maker of rhymes, " hechuckled, and soon was himself gurgling the liquor. They arose, and after despairing glances at their bespattered garments, trudged on. In an hour, the pair had reached the edge of the forest, and, as the sun sat high and warm, a rest was agreed upon. But this timethey did not easily find a hiding-place. Fearing to venture nearer theturnpike, hearing human sounds, they finally retired from the clearing, and behind a moss-etched rock discovered a cool resting-place on theleafy floor. At full length, hands under heads, brains mellowed by brandy, the mensummed up the situation. Arved was the first to speak. He was tall, blond, heavy of figure, and his beard hung upon his chest. Hisdissatisfied eyes were cynical when he rallied his companion. A man ofbrains this, but careless as the grass. "Quell, let us think this thing out carefully. It is nearly six o'clock. At six o'clock the cells will be unlocked, and then, --well, McKrackenwill damn our bones, for he gets a fat board fee from my people, and thetable is not so cursed good at the Hermitage that he misses a margin ofprofit! What will he do? Set the dogs after us? No, he daren't; we'renot convicts--we're only mad folk. " He smiled good-humouredly, thoughhis white brow was dented as if by harsh thoughts. Quell's little bloodshot eyes stared up into a narrow channel offoliage, at the end of which was a splash of blue sky. He wasmean-appearing, with a horselike head, his mustache twisted into asavage curl. His forehead was abnormal in breadth and the irritableflashes of fire in his eyes told the story of a restless soul. Thenostrils expanded as he spoke:-- "We're only mad folk, as you say; nevertheless, the Lord High Keeperwill send his police patrol wagon after us in a jiffy. He went to beddead full last night, so his humour won't be any too sweet when he hearsthat several of his boarders have vanished. He'll miss you more than me;I'm not at the first table with you swells. " Quell ended his speech with so disagreeable an inflection that Arved wasastonished. He looked around and spat at a beetle. "What's wrong with you, my hearty? I believe you miss your soft ironcouch. Or did you leave it this morning left foot foremost? Anyhow, Quell, don't get on your ear. We'll push to town as soon as it'stwilight, and I know a little crib near the river where we can have allwe want to eat and drink. Do you hear--drink!" Quell made no answer. Theother continued:-- "Besides, I don't see why you've turned sulky simply because your familysent you up to the Hermitage. It's no disgrace. In fact, it steadies thenerves, and you can get plenty of booze. " "If you have the price, " snapped his friend. "Money or no money, McKracken's asylum--no, it's bad taste to call itthat; his retreat, ah, there's the word!--is not so awful. I've a theorythat our keepers are crazy as loons; though you can't blame them, watching us, as they must, from six o'clock in the morning untilmidnight. Say, why were you put away?" "Crazy, like yourself, I suppose. " Quell grinned. "And now we're cured. We cured ourselves by flight. How can they call uscrazy when we planned the job so neatly?" Arved began to be interested in the sound of his own voice. He searchedhis pockets and after some vain fumbling found a half package ofcigarettes. "Take some and be happy, my boy. They are boon-sticks indeed. " Quellsuddenly arose. "Arved, what were you sent up for, may I ask?" The poet stretched his big legs, rolled over on his back again, andscratching his tangled beard, smoked the cigarette he had just lighted. In the hot hum of the woods there was heard the occasional dropping ofpine cones as the wind fanned lazy music from the leaves. They could notsee the sun; its power was felt. Perspiration beaded their shiny facesand presently they removed collars and coats, sitting at ease inshirt-sleeves.... Arved's tongue began to speed:-- "Though I've only known you twenty-four hours, my son, I feel impelledto tell you the history of my happy life--for happiness has itshistories, no matter what the poets say. But the day is hot, our timelimited. Wait until we are recaptured, then I'll spin you a yarn. " "You expect to get caught for sure?" "I do. So do you. No need to argue--your face tells me that. But we'llhave the time of our life before they gather us in. Anyhow, we'll wantto go back. The whole world is crazy, but ashamed to acknowledge it. Weare not. Pascal said men are so mad that he who would not be is a madmanof a new kind. To escape ineffable dulness is the privilege of thelunatic; the lunatic, who is the true aristocrat of nature--the uniqueman in a tower of ivory, the elect, who, in samite robes, traversesmoody gardens. Really, I shudder at the idea of ever living again inyonder stewpot of humanity, with all its bad smells. To struggle withthe fools for their idiotic prizes is beyond me. The lunatic asylum--" "Can't you find some other word?" asked Quell, dryly. "--is the best modern equivalent for the tub of Diogenes--he who was thefirst Solitary, the first Individualist. To dream one's dreams, to bealone--" "How about McKracken and the keepers?" "From the volatile intellects of madmen are fashioned the truths ofhumanity. Mental repose is death. All our modern theocrats, politicians, --whose minds are sewers for the people, --and lawyers arecorpses, their brains dead from feeding on dead ideas. Motion islife--mad minds are always in motion. " "Let up there! You talk like the doctor chaps over at the crazy crib, "interrupted Quell. "Ah, if we could only arrange our dreams in chapters--as in a novel. Sometimes Nature does it for us. There is really a beginning, adevelopment, a dénouement. But, for the most of us, life is a crookedroad with weeds so high that we can't see the turn of the path. Now, mycase--I'm telling you my story after all--my case is a typical one ofthe artistic sort. I wrote prose, verse, and dissipated with truepoetic regularity. It was after reading Nietzsche that I decided to quitmy stupid, sinful ways. Yes, you may smile! It was Nietzsche whoconverted me. I left the old crowd, the old life in Paris, went toBrittany, studied new rhythms, new forms, studied the moon; and thenpeople began to touch their foreheads knowingly. I was suspected simplybecause I did not want to turn out sweet sonnets about the pretty stars. Why, man, I have a star in my stomach! Every poet has. We are of thesame stuff as the stars. It was Marlowe who said, 'A sound magician is amighty god. ' He was wrong. Only the mentally unsound are really wise. This the ancients knew. Even if Gerard de Nerval did walk the boulevardstrolling a lobster by a blue ribbon--that is no reason for judging himcrazy. As he truly said, 'Lobsters neither bark nor bite; and they knowthe secrets of the sea!' His dreams simply overflowed into his dailyexistence. He had the courage of his dreams. Do you remember hisdeclaring that the sun never appears in dreams? How true! But the moondoes, 'sexton of the planets, ' as the crazy poet Lenau called it--themoon which is the patron sky-saint of men with brains. Ah, brains! Whatunhappiness they cause in this brainless world, a world rotten withhypocrisy. A poet polishes words until they glitter with beauty, charging them with fulminating meaning--straightway he is called mad bymen who sweat and toil on the stock exchange. Have you ever, my dearQuell, watched those little, grotesque brokers on a busy day? No? Well, you will say that no lunatic grimacing beneath the horns of the moonever made such ludicrous, such useless, gestures. And for what? Money!Money to spend as idiotically as it is garnered. The world is crazy, Itell you, crazy, to toil as it does. How much cleverer are the apes whowon't talk, because, if they did, they would be forced to abandon theirlovely free life, put on ugly garments, and work for a living. Theseanimals, for which we have such contempt, are freer than men; they arethe Supermen of Nietzsche--Nietzsche whose brain mirrored both aPrometheus and a Napoleon. " Quell listened to this speech withindifference. Arved continued:-- "Nor was Nietzsche insane when he went to the asylum. His sanity wasblinding in its brilliancy; he voluntarily renounced the world offoolish faces and had himself locked away where he would not hear itsfoolish clacking. O Silence! gift of the gods, deified by Carlyle inmany volumes and praised by me in many silly words! My good fellow, society, which is always hypocritical, has to build lunatic asylums inself-defence. These polite jails keep the world in countenance; theygive it a standard. If _you_ are behind the bars--" "Speak for yourself, " growled Quell. "Then the world knows that you are crazy and that _it_ is not. There isno other way of telling the difference. So a conspiracy of fools, lawyers, and doctors is formed. If you do not live the life of thestupid: cheat, lie, steal, smirk, eat, dance, and drink--then you arecrazy! That fact agreed upon, the hypocrites, who are quite mad, butcunning enough to dissemble, lock behind bolted doors those free souls, the poets, painters, musicians--artistic folk in general. They brand ourgifts with fancy scientific names, such as Megalomania, Paranoia, _Foliedes grandeurs_. Show me a genius and I'll show you a madman--accordingto the world's notion. " "There you go again, " cried Quell, arising to his knees. "Genius, _I_believe, is a disease of the nerves; and I don't mind telling you that Iconsider poets and musicians quite crazy. " Arved's eyes were blazing blue signals. "But, my dear Quell, are not all men mad at some time or another? Madlyin love, religiously mad, patriotically insane, and idiotic on thesubject of clothes, blood, social precedence, handsome persons, money?And is it not a sign of insanity when one man claims sanity for his ownparticular art? Painting, I admit, is--" "What the devil do you know about painting?" Quell roughly interposed;"you are a poet and, pretending to love all creation, --altruism, I thinkyour sentimental philosophers call it, --have the conceit to believe youbear a star in your stomach when it is only a craving for rum. I'vebeen through the game. " He began to pace the sward, chewing a blade of grass. He spoke inhurried, staccato phrases:-- "Why was I put away? Listen: I tried to paint the sun, --for I hate yourmoon and its misty madness. To put this glorious furnace on canvas is, as you will acknowledge, the task of a god. It never came to me in mydreams, so I wooed it by day. Above all, I wished to express truth; thesun is black. Think of an ebon sun fringed with its dazzlingphotosphere! I tried to paint sun-rhythms, the rhythms of the quiveringsky, which is never still even when it seems most immobile; I tried topaint the rhythms of the atmosphere, shivering as it is with chords ofsunlight and chromatic scales as yet unpainted. Like Oswald Alving inIbsen's Ghosts, my last cry will be for 'the sun. ' How did my friendsact? What did the critics say? A black sun was too much for the world, though astronomers have proven my theory correct. The doctors swore Idrank too much absinthe; the critics said a species of optical madnesshad set in; that I saw only the peripheral tints--I was yellow and bluecrazy. Perhaps I was, perhaps I am. So is the fellow crazy who inventedwireless telegraphy; so is the man off his base who invents a foldingbird cage. We are all crazy, and the craziest gang are our doctors atthe Hermitage. " He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Arved rolled hishandsome head acquiescingly. "You poets and musicians are trying to compass the inane. You are tryingto duplicate your dreams, dreams without a hint of the sun. The painterat least copies or interprets real life; while the composer dips hisfinger in the air, making endless sound-scrolls--noises with long tailsand whirligig decorations like foolish fireworks--though I think the artof the future will be pyrotechnics. Mad, mad, I tell you! But whethermad or not matters little in our land of freedom, where all men are bornunequal, where only the artists are sad. They are useless beings, openlyderided, and when one is caught napping, doing something that offendschurch or State or society, he is imprisoned. Mad, you know! No wonderanarchy is thriving, no wonder every true artist is an anarch, unavowedperhaps, yet an anarch, and an atheist. " "Not so fast!" interrupted Arved. "I'm an anarchist, but I don't believein blowing up innocent policemen. Neither do you, Quell. You wouldn'thurt a bartender! Give an anarchist plenty to drink, and he sheds hisanarchy like a shirt. There are, I have noticed, three stages in thecareer of a revolutionist: destruction, instruction, construction. Hebegins the first at twenty, at forty he is teaching, at sixty hebelieves in society--especially if he has money in the bank. " Quellregarded the speaker sourly. "You are a wonder, Arved. You fly off on a wild tangent stimulated bythe mere sound of a word. Who said anything about dynamite-anarchy?There's another sort that men of brains--madmen if you will--believe andindirectly teach. Emerson was one, though he hardly knew it. Thoreaurealized it for him, however. Don't you remember his stern rebuke whenEmerson visited him in Concord jail: 'Henry, why art thou here?' meeklyinquired the mystic man. 'Ralph, why art thou _not_ here?' was thecounter-question. Thoreau had brave nerves. To live in peace in thismalicious swamp of a world we must all wear iron masks until we arecarted off to the _domino-park_; pious people call it the cemetery. Now, I'm going to sleep. I'm tired of all this jabbering. We are crazy forsure, or else we wouldn't talk so much. " Arved grumbled, "Yes, I've noticed that when a man in an asylum beginsto suspect his keepers of madness he's mighty near lunacy himself. " "You have crazy blue eyes, Arved! Where's that flask--I'm dry again!Let's sleep. " They drained the bottle and were soon dozing, while about them buzzedthe noon in all its torrid splendour. When they awoke it was solid night. They yawned and damned the darkness, which smelt like stale india-rubber, so Quell said. They cursed life andthe bitter taste in their mouths. Quell spoke of his thirst in wordsthat startled the easy-going Arved, who confessed that if he could ridhimself of the wool in his throat, he would be comparatively happy. Thenthey stumbled along, bumping into trees, feeling with outstretched arms, but finding nothing to guide them save the few thin stars in the tornfoliage overhead. Without watches, they could catch no idea of the hour. The night was far spent, declared Arved; he discovered that he was veryhungry. Suddenly, from the top of a steep, slippery bank they pitchedforward into the highroad. Arved put out his hand, searching for his comrade. "Quell, Quell!" hewhispered. Quell rose darkly beside him, a narrow lath of humanity. Locking arms, both walked briskly until, turning a sharp, short corner, they beheld, all smiling in the night, a summer garden, well lighted andfull of gay people, chattering, singing, eating, drinking--happy! Thetwo fugitives were stunned for a moment by such a joyful prospect. Tearscame slowly to their eyes, yet they never relaxed their gait. Arrivingat an outlying table and seats, they bethought themselves of theirappearance, of money, of other disquieting prospects; but, sitting down, they boldly called a waiter. Luckily it was a country girl who timidly took their order for beer andsandwiches. And they drank eagerly, gobbling the food as soon as itcame, ordering more so noisily that they attracted attention. The beermade them brave. As they poured down glass after glass, reckless of thereckoning, insolent to the servant, they began wrangling over thesubject that had possessed their waking hours. "Look here, Quell!" Arved exclaimed crustily, "you said I had crazy blueeyes. What about your own red ones? Crazy! Why, they glow now like arat's. Poets may be music-mad, drunk with tone--" "And other things, " sneered the painter. "--but at least their work is great when it endures; it does not fadeaway on rotten canvas. " "Now, I know you ought to be in the Brain-College, Arved, where yourfriends could take the little green car that goes by the grounds and seeyou on Sunday afternoons if weather permits. " His accent seemed deliberately insulting to Arved, who, however, let itpass because of their mutual plight. If they fell to fighting, detectionwould ensue. So he answered in placatory phrases:-- "Yes, my friend, we both belong to the same establishment, for we aremen of genius. As the cat said to Alice, 'We must be mad or else weshouldn't be here. ' I started to tell you why my people thought I hadbetter take the cure. I loved the moon too much and loathed sunlight. IfI had never tried to write lunar poetry--the tone quality of musiccombined with the pictorial evocation of painting--I might be in thebosom of my family now instead of--" "Drinking with a crazy painter, eh?" Quell was very angry. He shoutedfor drinks so rapidly that he alarmed the more prudent Arved; and asthey were now the last guests, the head waiter approached and curtlybade them leave. In an instant he was dripping with beer thrown athim--glass and all--by the irate Quell. A whistle sounded, two otherwaiters rushed out, and the battle began. Arved, aroused by the sight ofhis friend on the ground with three men hammering his head, gave a roarlike the trumpeting of an elephant. A chair was smashed over a table, and, swinging one-half of it, he made a formidable onslaught. Two of thewaiters were knocked senseless and the leader's nose and teeth crushedin by the rude cudgel. The morose moon started up, a tragic hieroglyphin the passionless sky. Quell, seeing its hated disk, howled, his faceaflame with exaltation. Then he leaped like a hoarsely panting animalupon the poet; a moment and they were in the grass clawing each other. And the moon foamed down upon them its magnetic beams until darkness, caused by a coarse blanket, enveloped, pinioned, smothered them. Whenthe light shone again, they were sitting in a wagon, their legs tightlybound.... They began singing. The attendant interrupted:-- "Will you fellows keep quiet? How can a man drive straight, listening toyour cackle?" Arved touched his temple significantly and nudged Quell. "Another one of us. Another rebel of the moon!" "Shut up or I'll gag you both!" imperiously commanded the doctor, as thewheels of the ambulance cut the pebbly road. They were entering theasylum; now they passed the porter's lodge. In the jewelled light of asenescent moon, his wife and little daughter gazed at them curiously, without semblance of pity or fear. Then, as if shot from the same vocalspring-board, the voices of poet and painter merged into crazyrhythmatic chanting:-- "Rebels of the moon, rebels of the moon! We are, we are, the rebels ofthe moon!" And the great gates closed behind them with a brazen clangour--metalgates of the moon-rebels. V THE SPIRAL ROAD There can be nothing good, as we know it, nor anything evil, as we know it, in the eye of the Omnipresent and the Omniscient. --_Oriental Proverb. _ I THE STRAND OF DREAMS "I must see him if only for a minute. I can't go back to the city aftercoming so far. Please--" but the girl's face disappeared and the ricketydoor, which had been opened on a chain, was slammed after thisimperative speech, and Gerald Shannon found himself staringexasperatedly at its rusty exterior. To have travelled on foot such adistance only to be turned away like a beggar enraged him. Nor was theprospect of returning over the path which had brought him to Karospina'shouse a cheering one. He turned and saw that a low, creeping mist hadobliterated every vestige of the trail across the swamp lands. There wasno sun, and the twilight of a slow yellow day in late September wouldsoon, in complicity with the fog, leave him totally adrift on thisremote strand--he could hear the curving fall and hiss of the breakers, the monotonous rumour of the sea. So he was determined to faceKarospina, even if he had to force his way into the house. Two hours earlier, at the little railway station, they had informed himthat the road was easy flatland for the greater part of the way. He hadoffered money for a horse or even a wheel; but these were luxuries onthis bleak, poverty-ridden coast. As there was no alternative, Geraldhad walked rapidly since three o'clock. And he had not been told thetruth about the road; where the oozing, green, unwholesome waters werenot he stepped, sometimes sinking over his ankles in the soft mud. Not asign of humanity served him for comfort or compass. He had been assuredthat if he kept his back to the sun he would reach his destination. Andhe did, but not without many misgivings. It was the vision of a squattower-like building, almost hemmed in by a monster gas reservoir, fantastic wooden galleries, and the gigantic silhouettes of strangemachinery, that relieved his mind. But this house and its surroundingssoon repelled him. His reception was the final disenchantment. He played a lively tattoo with his blackthorn stick on the panels of thedoor. For five minutes this continued, interspersed with occasional loudcalls for Karospina. At last the siege was raised. After preliminaryunboltings, unbarrings, and the rattling of the chain, Gerald saw beforehim a middle-aged man with a smooth face and closely shaven head, whoquietly asked his name and business. "I have a letter for you, Mr. Karospina--if you are that gentleman--andas I have put myself to much trouble in getting to you, I think Ideserve a little consideration. " "A letter, my worthy sir! And for me? Who told you to come here? How doyou know my name?" This angered the young man. "It is from Prince K. _The_ Prince. Now are you satisfied?" he added, ashis questioner turned red and then paled as if the news were toostartling for his nerves. "Come in, come in!" he cried. "Mila, Mila, here is a guest. Fetch tea tothe laboratory. " He literally dragged Shannon within doors and led himacross a stone corridor to a large room, but not before he had boltedand barred the entrance to his mysterious fortress. Seeing the other'slook of quiet amusement, he laughed himself:-- "Wolves, my dear sir, wolves, _human_ wolves, prowl on the beach atnight, and while I have no treasures, it is well to be on the safe side. Mila, Mila, the tea, the tea. " There was a passionate intensity in hisutterance that attracted Gerald from his survey of the chamber. He sawthat in the light Karospina was a much older man than he had at firstsupposed. But the broad shoulders, the thick chest, and short, powerfulfigure and bullet head belied his years. Incredulously his visitor askedhimself if this were the wonderful, the celebrated Karospina, chemist, revolutionary, mystic, nobleman, and millionnaire. A Russian, he knewthat--yet he looked more like the monk one sees depicted on the canvasesof the early Flemish painters. His high, wide brow and deep-set, darkeyes proclaimed the thinker; and because of his physique, he might haveposed as a prize-fighter. He took the letter and read it as the door opened and the girl came inwith the tea. She wore her hair braided in two big plaits which hungbetween her shoulders, and her bold, careless glance from eyes sea-bluemade the Irishman forget his host and the rigours of the afternoon. ARussian beauty, with bare, plump arms, and dressed in peasant costume;but--a patrician! Her fair skin and blond hair filled him withadmiration. What the devil!--he thought, and came near saying it aloud. "My niece, Princess Mila Georgovics, Mr. Shannon. " Gerald acknowledgedthe introduction with his deepest bow. He was dazzled. He had come tothis dreary place to talk politics. But now this was out of thequestion. And he began explaining to the Princess; Mila he had fanciedwas some slattern waiting on the old fanatic of a prince. He told Milathis in a few words, and soon the pair laughed and chatted. In themeantime Karospina, who had finished the letter, began to pace theapartment. Apparently he had forgotten the others. "Tea, tea, where's the tea?" he presently shouted. As they drank, hesaid: "The prince asks an impossibility, Mr. Shannon. Say to him, _no_, simply no; he will understand, and so will you, I hope. I'm done withall militant movements. I'm converted to the peace party. What's the useof liberty to people who won't know what to do with it when they get it?Tolstoy is right. Let the peasant be shown how to save his soul--thatand a little to eat and drink and a roof are all he needs in this life. " Gerald was startled. He had expected to find an "advanced" leader of theBakounine type. Instead, a man of the "vegetarian" order, --as he hadheard them called, --who talked religion instead of dynamite;--and afterall the bother of bringing the letter down to this remote country!Decidedly the princess was more enjoyable than a reformed anarchist. Shewas gazing at him seriously now, her society manner gone. Her nose, rather large for the harmony of her face, palpitated with eagerness. Evidently, thought Gerald, the young lady is the real revolutionist inthis curious household. He also ventured to say so to her, but she didnot meet his smiling declaration. Her uncle, irritated by hisinterrupted discourse, exclaimed:-- "Never mind what the Princess Mila thinks, Mr. Shannon. Women changetheir minds. The chief matter just now is that you cannot go awayto-night. You would lose your way, perhaps be drowned. Can you sleep ona hard bed?" He was assured by Gerald that, if he had been turned away, he would have slept in an outhouse, even under one of those windmills hesaw in such number on the strand. Karospina smiled. "Hardly there--that is, if you expected to awaken. " Then he left theroom, saying that some one must see to the supper. His niece burst intolaughter. Gerald joined in. "He's always like that, fussy, nervous, but with a heart of gold, Mr. --Mr. Shannon. Thank you. It's an Irish name, is it not? And you looklike an Irishman; a soldier, too, I fancy!" Gerald blushed. "A soldier in the cause of humanity, " he answered, "butno longer a hireling in the uniform of kings. " He felt so foolish afterthis brave bit of rhetoric that he kept his eyes on the floor. In aninstant she was at his side. "Give me your hand--_comrade_!" she said, with a peculiar intonation. "Oh! if you only knew how I longed to meet the right men. Uncle is aconvert--no, hardly a backslider; but he swears by the regeneratingprocess instead of violence. Formerly the cleverest living chemist, henow--oh! I shame to say it--he now indulges in firework displays insteadof manufacturing bombs with which to execute tyrants. " She slowlydropped his hand and her eyes wore a clairvoyant expression. He wasastounded. "Fireworks! Doesn't the prince hold by his old faith--he, a pupil ofBakounine, Netschajew, and Kropotkin?" Just then the prince came in, bearing a tray. He seemed happy. "Here, sit down, dear sir, and partake of a few things. We live so farfrom civilization that we seldom get a good chicken. But eggs I canoffer you, eggs and ham, cooked by me on an electric machine. " "You have no servants?" Gerald ventured. "Not one. I can't trust them near my--toys. The princess plays Chopinmazourkas after she makes the beds in the morning, and in the afternoonshe is my assistant in the laboratory. " Again the young man looked abouthim. If the room was a laboratory, where were the retorts, the oven, thephials, the jars, the usual apparatus of a modern chemist? He sawnothing, except an old-fashioned electric fan and a few dusty books. Thefireworks--were those overgrown wheels and gaunt windmills and gas-housethe secret of the prince's self-banishment to this dreary coast? Whatdreams did he seek to incarnate on this strand, in this queer tower, locked away from the world with a charming princess--a fairy princesswhose heart beat with love for the oppressed, in whose hand he mightsome time see the blazing torch of freedom? He, himself, was envelopedby the hypnotism of the place. Mila spoke:-- "I fear I must leave you. I am studying to-night and--I go early torest. Pray dine as well as you can, with such a chef. " She smiledmischievously at her uncle, courtesied in peasant fashion to thebewildered Gerald, who put out his hand, fain to touch hers, anddisappeared. The prince gazed inquiringly at the young man. "Revolutionists soon become friends, do they not? The Princess Mila ispart Russian, part Roumanian, --my sister married a Roumanian, --hence herimplacable political attitude. I can't lead her back to civilizedthinking. She sees war in the moon, sun, and stars. And I--I haveforsworn violence. Ah! if I could only make the prince change. Bakounine's death had no effect; Netschajew's fate did not move him; norwas Illowski's mad attempt to burn down Paris with his incendiarysymphony an example to our prince that those who take up the swordperish by the sword. Ah, Tolstoy, dear Leon Nikolaievitch, you showed methe true way to master the world by love and not by hate! Until Iread--but there, it's late. Come with me to your room. You may smoke andsleep when you will. In the morning I will show you my--toys. " Theyshook hands formally and parted. His bed was hard, and his room cheerless, but anything, even a haymow, rather than walking back to the station. After he went to his bed, herehearsed the day's doings from the three hours' ride in the train tothe tower. How weary he was! Hark--some one played the piano! A Chopinmazourka! It was the princess. Mila! How lovely her touch!... Mila! Whata lovely name! A sleeping princess. A prince with such a sleepy head. How the girl could play ... Along the spiral road he saw the music glowin enigmatic figures of fire.... II THE PANACEA OF CORUSCATION He seemed to be uttering her name when he awoke. It was daylight; thesun poured its rays over his face, and he asked himself how he couldhave fallen asleep leaving the lamp burning on the table near his bed. He must have slept long, for he felt rested, cheerful--happy. As hedressed he speculated whether it was the sunshine, or the prospect ofgoing back to life, or--or--Did he wish to return so soon? He wonderedwhat Mila was doing. Then he went into the stone corridor and coughed asa hint that he was up. Not a sound but the persistent fall at a distanceof some heavy metallic substance. It must be Karospina in his workshop, at his rockets, pinwheels, torpedoes, and firecrackers. What a singularchange in a bloodthirsty revolutionist. And how childish! Had hesquandered his millions on futile experimentings? What his object, whathis scheme, for the amelioration of mankind's woes? Gerald's stomachwarned him that coffee and rolls were far dearer to him than thedownfall of tyranny's bastions, and impatiently he began whistling. Therhythmic thud never ceased. He noticed an open door at the back of thehouse, and he went out, his long legs carrying him about the yard, toward the beach. The air was glorious, a soft breeze blowing landwardfrom the ocean. He almost forgot his hunger in the face of such aspectacle. The breakers were racing in, and after crumbling, theyscudded, a film of green, crested by cottony white, across the hard sandto the young man's feet. He felt exhilarated. And his hunger returned. Then Mila's voice sounded near him. She carried a basket and fairly ranin her eagerness. "Mr. Shannon, Mr. Shannon, good Prince Gerald--" he was amazed; wherecould she have heard his Christian name?--"your breakfast. Wait--don'tswim the seas to New York for it. Here it is. " She opened the basket andhanded him a jug of coffee and showed him the rolls inside. Without theslightest embarrassment he thanked her and drank his coffee, walking; heate the bread, and felt, as he expressed it, like leading a forlornhope. They went on, the cutting sunshine and sparkling breeze alluringthem to vague distances. It was long after midday when they marched backat a slower pace, Gerald swinging the basket like a light-hearted boy, instead of the desperado he fancied himself. Entering the house, Mila hunted up some cold meat, and with fresh teaand stale bread they were contented. The formidable pyrotechnist did notappear, and so the young people enjoyed the day in each other's company. She conducted him like a river through the lands of sociology, Dostoïewsky, and Chopin. She played, but made him sit in the hall, forthe piano was in her private room. And then they began to exchangeconfidences. It was dusk before the prince returned, in the attire of aworkingman, his face and hands covered with soot and grease. A hardday's labour, he said, and did not seem surprised to see Shannon. After supper he asked Gerald if he would smoke a pipe with him in hislaboratory. Mila must have bored him enough by this time! They lightedtheir pipes; but Mila refused to be sent away. She sat down beside heruncle and put her elbows on the table--white, strong arms she had, andGerald only took his eyes from their pleasing contemplation to lift themto hers. He was fast losing what little prudence he had; he was a Celt, and he felt that he had known Mila for a century. "Young man, " said Prince Karospina, sharply, "you have the message Igave you last night! Well--and you will say _no_, to my beloved friendK. , without knowing why. And you will think that you have been dealingwith a man whose hard head has turned to the mush of human kindness, --analtruist. Ah! I know how you fellows despise the word. But what haveKropotkin, Elisée Reclus, Jean Grave, or the rest accomplished? Tobuild up, not to tear down, should be the object of the scientificanarch. Stop! You need not say the earth has to be levelled and ploughedbefore sowing the seed. That suits turnip fields, not the garden ofhumanity. Educate the downtrodden into liberty, is my message, not theslaughtering of monarchs. How am I going to go about it? Ah! that's myaffair, my dear sir. After I read a certain book by Tolstoy, I realizedthat art was as potent an agent for mischief as the knout. Music--musicis rooted in sex; it works miracles of evil--" "Now, uncle, I won't hear a word against Chopin, " said Mila, lookingtoward Gerald for approval. "Music, Mila, in the hands of evil men is an instrument dangerous toreligion, to civilization. What of Illowski and his crazy attack onParis and St. Petersburg? You remember, Shannon! Leave Wagner out of thequestion--there is no fusion of the arts in his music drama--only badverse, foolish librettos, dealing with monsters and gods, andindifferent scene-painting. Moreover, this new music is not understoodby the world. Even if the whole of mankind could be assembled on theroof of the world and at a preconcerted signal made to howl theMarseillaise, it would not be educated to the heights I imagine. Stageplays--Shakespeare has no message for our days; Ibsen is ananarchist--he believes in placing the torpedo under the social ark. Painting--it is an affair for state galleries and the cabinets ofwealthy amateurs. Literature is a dead art--every one writes and readsand no one understands. Religion! Ah! Yes, religion; the world will be ablackened cinder or cometary gas before the love of God is stamped fromits heart. But religion and art must go hand in hand. Divorced, art hasfallen into the Slough of Despond; else has been transformed into anacrid poison wherewith men's souls are destroyed as if by a virulentabsinthe. United with religion, art is purified. All art sprang fromreligion. All great art, from a Greek statue to a Gothic cathedral, froma Bach fugue to Michael Angelo, was religious. Therefore, if we are toreach the hearts of the people, we must make art the handmaid ofreligion. " He stopped for breath. Gerald interposed:-- "But, dear prince, you say 'art. ' What art--painting, sculpture, architecture, music, poetry, drama--?" "One art, " harshly cried the now excited man, as he pounded the tablewith his hard fist. "One art, _my_ art, the fusion of all the arts. I, Prince Igorovitch Karospina, tell you that I have discovered the secretof the arts never dreamed of by Wagner and his futile, painted music ona painted stage; I have gone, not to art, but to nature--colour, fire, the elements. The eye is keener than the ear, vision is easiercomprehended than tone. Ah! I have you interested at last. " He began walking as if to overtake a missing idea. His niece watched himcynically. "I fear you are boring Mr. Shannon, " she said in her most birdlikeaccents. Her uncle turned on her. "I don't care if I am. Go to bed! I am nearing the climax of a lifetime, and I feel that I must talk to a sympathetic ear. You are not bored, dear friend. I have pondered this matter for more than thirty years. Ihave studied all the arts--painting particularly; and with colour, withcolourful design I mean to teach mankind the great lessons of themasters and of religion. " "Ah, you will exhibit in large halls, panoramic pictures, I suppose, "interrupted Shannon. "Nothing of the sort, " was the testy reply. "For thousands of years theworld has been gazing upon dead stones and canvases, reading dead words. Dead--all, I tell you, all of these arts. And painting is only in twodimensions--a poor copy of nature. The theatre has its possibilities, but is too restricted in space. Music is alive. It moves; but itsmessage is not articulate to _all_. I want an art that will beunderstood and admired at a glance by the world from pole to pole. Iwant an art that will live and move and tell a noble tale. I want an artthat will appeal to the eye by its colouring and the soul by itsbeautiful designs. Where is that legend-laden art? Hitherto it has notexisted. I have found it. I have tracked it down until I am the masterwho by a touch can liberate elemental forces, which will not destroy, like those of Illowski's, but will elevate the soul and make mankind onegreat nation, one loving brotherhood. Ah! to open once more those doorsof faith closed by the imperious dogmas of science--open them upon alovely land of mystery. Mankind must have mystery. And beyond eachmystery lies another. This will be our new religion. " Gerald had caught the enthusiasm of this swelling prologue and rose, hisface alight with curiosity. "And that art is--is--?" he stammered. "That art is--pyrotechny. " It was too much for the young man's nerves, and he fell back in his chair, purple with suppressed laughter. Angrilydarting at him and catching his left shoulder in a vicelike grip, Karospina growled: "You fool, how dare you mock something you know nothing of?" He shookhis guest roughly. "Uncle, uncle, be patient! Tell Mr. Shannon, and he, too, will become abeliever. I believe in you. I believe in him, Mr. Shannon. Don't sneer!Tell him, uncle. " Mila's words, almost imploring in their tone, calmedthe infuriated inventor, who left the room. He reëntered in a moment, his head dripping, and he was grinning broadly. "Whenever I encounter a refractory pattern in my fireworks--as you callthem--I am compelled to throw a bucket of water over it to quench itstoo ardent spirits. I have just done the same to my own head, dear Mr. Shannon, and I ask your pardon for my rudeness. Get some fresh tea, Mila, strong tea, Mila. " Pipes were relighted and the conversationresumed. "I forgot in my obsession, in what Jacob Boehme calls 'the shudder ofdivine excitement, ' that I was talking to one of the uninitiated. Isuppose you think by pyrotechny I mean the old-fashioned methods of setpieces, ghastly portraits in fire, big, spouting wheels, rockets, warscenes from contemporary history, seaside stuff, badly done--and flowerysquibs. My boy, all that, still admired by our country cousins, is thevery infancy of my art. In China, where nearly everything was inventedages ago, in China I learned the first principles, also thepossibilities of the art of fireworks; yes, call it by its humble title. In China I have seen surprising things at night. Pagodas blown acrossthe sky, an army of elephants in pursuit, and all bathed in the mostdivine hues imaginable. But their art suffers from convention. Theyaccomplish miracles considering the medium they work in--largelygunpowder. And their art has no meaning, no message, no moral principle, no soul. Years ago I discovered all the aids necessary to thepyrotechnist. I am not a chemist for nothing. If I can paint a fairimitation of a Claude Monet on canvas, I can also produce for you acolourless gas which, when handled by a virtuoso, produces astonishingillusions. In the open air, against the dark background of the horizon, I can show you the luminous dots planewise of the Impressionists; or Ican give you the broad, sabrelike brushwork of Velasquez, or theimperial tintings of Titian. I can paint pictures on the sky. I canproduce blazing symphonies. I will prove to you that colour is alsomusic. This sounds as if I were a victim to that lesion of the braincalled 'coloured-audition. ' Perhaps! Not Helmholtz or Chevreul can tellme anything new in the science of optics. I am the possessor of therainbow secrets--for somewhere in Iceland, a runic legend runs, there isa region vast as night, where all the rainbows--worn out or to beused--drift about in their vapoury limbo. I have the key to this land ofdreams. Over the earth I shall float my rainbows of art like a flock ofangels. With them I propose to dazzle the eyes of mankind, to arousesleeping souls. From the chords of the combined arts I shall extortnobler cadences, nobler rhythms, for men to live by, for men to diefor!" Shannon was impressed. Through the smoke of his host's discourse hediscovered genuine fire. The philosopher took his hand and led him tothe window. "Stand there a moment!" he adjured. Mila joined him and after turningthe lamp to a pin-head of light, their shoulders touching--for thewindow was narrow--they peered into the night. They were on the side ofthe water. Suddenly Gerald exclaimed:-- "What's that light out at sea--far out? It looks like the moon!" "It is the sun, " coolly replied his companion. They saw arise from thewaters a majestic, glowing sphere of light, apparently the size of thesun. It flooded the country with its glare, and after sailing nearly infront of the house it shrank into a scarlet cross not larger than aman's hand. Then in a shower of sparks it ceased, its absence making theblackness almost corporeal. Instinctively the hands of the two indulgedin a long pressure, and Mila quickly adjusted the lamp. But Gerald stillstood at the window a prey to astonishment, terror, stupefaction. Karospina entered. His face was slightly flushed and in his eyes thereburned the sombre fire of the fanatic. Triumphantly he regarded hisyoung friend. "That was only a little superfluous gas--nothing I cared to show you. Read the newspapers to-morrow, and you will learn that a big meteorburst off the north coast the night before, and fell into the sea. " Thenhe moved closer and whispered:-- "The time is at hand. Within three weeks--not later than the middle ofOctober--I shall make my first public test. 'Thus saith the Lord God tothe mountains and to the hills, to the rivers and to the valleys:Behold, I, _even_ I, will bring a sword upon you, and I will destroyyour high places. '" His voice rose in passion, his face worked in anger, and he shook hisclenched fists at an imaginary universe. So this man of peace was adestroyer, after all! Gerald aroused him. Again he asked pardon. Milawas nowhere to be seen, and with a sinking at the heart new to hisbuoyant temperament, Gerald bade the magician good night. It wasarranged that he would leave the next day, for, like Milton, he washaunted by "the ghost of a linen decency. " But that night he did notsleep, and no sound of music came to his ears from Mila's chamber. Oncehe tried to open his window. It was nailed down. A gray day greeted his tired eyes. In an hour he was bidding his friendsgood-by and thanking them for their hospitality. He had hoped that Milawould accompany him a few steps on his long journey, but she made nosign beyond a despairing look at her uncle, who was surly, as if he hadfelt the reaction from too prolonged a debauch of the spirit. Gerald lithis pipe, kissed the hand of Mila with emphasis, and parted from them. He had not gone a hundred yards before he heard soft footsteps trackinghim. He turned and was disappointed to see that it was only Karospina, who came up to him, breathing heavily, and in his catlike eyes the fixedexpression of monomania. He stuttered, waving his arms aloft. "The time is at hand and the end of all things shall be accomplished. You shall return for the great night. You shall hear of it in the world. Tell K. That I said _no!_ He must be with us at the transfiguration ofall things, when mankind shall go up the spiral road of perfection. " Gerald Shannon fairly ran to escape knowing more about the universalpanacea. And when he turned for the last time the sea and tower and manwere blotted out by wavering mists of silver. III THE FIERY CHARIOT The young man soon heard of Karospina's project. A week before the eventthe newspapers began describing the experiments of the new Russianwonder-worker, but treated the matter with calm journalisticobliviousness to any but its most superficial aspects. A scientificpyrotechnist was a novelty, particularly as the experimentings were tobe given with the aid of a newly discovered gas. Strange rumours ofhuman levitations, of flying machines seen after dark at unearthlyheights, were printed. This millionnaire, who had expended fortunes intrying to accomplish what Maxim and Langley had failed in achieving, was a good peg upon which to hang thrilling gossip. He promised toconvince the doubting ones that at last man would come into the empireof the air, and by means of fireworks. In searching carefully all thepublished reports Gerald was relieved not to encounter the name of Mila. That celebrated afternoon he found himself, after the distressinglycrowded cars, in company with many thousands, all clamouring andjostling on the road to the tower. This time there were vehicles andhorses, though not in any degree commensurate with the crowd; but thehigh tax imposed by the speculators gave him an opportunity of securinga seat with a few others in a carriage drawn by four horses. Gingerlythey made their way down the narrow road--time was not gained, for thepacked mass of humans refused to separate. Fuming at the delay, he wasforced to console himself with smoking and listening to the stories toldof Karospina and his miracles. They were exaggerated. Karospina here, Karospina there--the name of this modern magician was hummed everywherein the brisk October air. A little man who occupied the seat withShannon informed him that he knew some one who had worked for Karospina. He declared that it was no uncommon sight for the conjurer--he wasusually called by that name--to float like a furled flag over his housewhen the sun had set. Also he had been seen driving in the sky a spanof three fiery horses in a fiery chariot across the waters of the bay, while sitting by his side was the star-crowned Woman of the Apocalypseclothed with the sun and the moon under her feet. Gerald held hiscounsel; but the grandeur of the spectacle he had witnessed still shookhis soul--if he had not been the victim of a hallucination! The journeyseemed endless. At last the strand came into view with the squat tower, the rustingmachinery, and the reservoir back of the house. There were, however, changes in the scene. Within a quarter of a mile of the beach tents wereset and booths erected. Seemingly all the city had rushed to this place, and the plain, with its swampy surfaces, was dotted by masses of noisymen and women. Gerald, finding that approach to the house was impossiblefrom the land side, made a wide detour, and on reaching the shore he wasgratified to find it empty. The local constabulary, powerless to fightoff the mob near the house, had devoted their energies to clearing thespace about the gas retorts. After much bother, and only by telling hisname, did he pass the police cordon. Once inside, he rushed to the backdoor and found, oh! great luck--Mila. Dressed in white, to his taste shewas angelic. He had great difficulty in keeping his arms pinioned to hisside; but his eyes shone with the truth beating at the bars of hisbosom, and Mila knew it. He felt this and was light-headed in hishappiness. They greeted. Mila's face wore a serious expression. "I'm very glad you have come down. I think uncle will be glad also. I am_happy_ to see you again; I have missed you these past weeks. But myhappiness is nothing just now, Gerald! [He started. ] My uncle, you mustspeak with him. From brooding so much over the Holy Scriptures, and thenatural excitement of his discoveries--they are so extraordinary, dearfriend, that he means always to keep them to himself, for he rightlybelieves that the governments of the world would employ them for wickedpurposes, war, the destruction of weaker nations--he has becomeoverwrought. You may not know it, he has a very strong, sane head on hisshoulders; but this scheme for lifting up the masses, I suspect, mayupset his own equilibrium. And his constant study of the Apocalypse andthe Hebraic revelations--it has filled him with strange notions. Understand me: a man who can swim in the air like a fish in the sea isapt to become unstrung. He has begun to identify himself with theprophets. He insists on showing biblical pictures, --worse still, appearing in them himself. " "How 'appearing in them'?" asked Gerald, wonderingly. "In actual person. I, too, have promised to go with him. " "In a transparency of fire, you mean? Isn't it dangerous?" She hung herhead. "No, in mid air, in a fiery chariot, " she murmured. "The Woman of the Apocalypse!" he cried. "Oh! Princess Mila, dearestMila Georgovics, promise me that you will not risk such a crazyexperiment. " Gerald pressed his fingers to his throbbing temples. "It is no experiment at all, " she said, in almost inaudible tones;_"last night we flew over the house. "_ He stared at her, his handstrembling, and no longer able to play the incredulous. "But, dear friend, I fear one other thing; the gas which uncle hasdiscovered is so tenuous that it is a million times lighter than air;but it is ever at a terrible tension--I mean it is dangerous if notcarefully treated. Last summer, one afternoon, a valve broke and a largequantity escaped from the reservoir, luckily on the ocean side. Itcaused a storm and water-spouts, and destroyed a few vessels. Thecoruscating gas creates a vacuum into which the air rushes withincredible velocity. So promise me that while we are flying you willstay with the police at the gas machines and keep off the crowd. Promise!" "But I shan't permit you to go up with this renegade to therevolutionary cause--" he began impetuously. She put warning fingers toher lips. In the white flowing robes of an antique priest, Karospinacame out to them and took Gerald by the hand. He was abstracted andhaggard, and his eyes glared about him. He chanted in a monotone:-- "The time is at hand. Soon you will see the Angels of the Seals. I shallshow the multitude Death on the Pale Horse and the vision of Ezekiel. And you shall behold the star called Wormwood, the great star of thethird angel, which shall fall like a burning lamp upon the waters andturn them bitter. And at the last you will see the chariot of Elijahcaught up to heaven in a fiery whirlwind. In it will be seated thePrincess Mila--we, the conquerors of the wicked world. " "Yes, but only as an image, an illusion, " ejaculated the unhappy lover, "not in reality. " "As she is, " imperiously answered Karospina, and seizing Mila by thearm, said, "Come!" She threw a kiss to Gerald and in her eyes weretears. He saw them and could have wept himself. He followed thesacrificial pair as far as the reservoir, muttering warnings in whichwere mixed the fates of Phaethon and Simon Magus--that heretic whomimicked the miracles of the apostles. * * * * * It was now dark; the order to extinguish all lights on the moor had beenobeyed. Only a panting sound as if from a wilderness of frightenedanimals betrayed the presence of thousands. As long as the sun shonethere had been a babel of sound; at the disappearance of our parentplanet, a hushed awe had fallen with the night. Gone the rude joking andwrangling, the crying of children, and the shrill laughter of the women. A bitter breeze swept across from the waters, and the stars were meretwinkling points. Then from the vault of heaven darted a ribbon of emerald fire. It becamea luminous spiral when it touched the sea of glass, which was like untoa floor of crystal. This was the sign of Karospina's undertaking, hissymbol of the road to moral perfection. Gerald recalled Whistler'spyrotechnical extravaganzas. Following this came a pale moon whichemerged from the north; a second, a third, a fourth, started up from thepoints of the compass, and after wabbling in the wind like giganticballoons, merged overhead in an indescribable disk which assumed thefeatures of Michael Angelo's Moses. Here is a new technique, indeed, thought Gerald; yet he could not detect its moral values. A golden landscape was projected on land and sea. A central aisle ofwaters, paved by the golden rays of a lyric sun high overhead, wasembellished on either side by the marmoreal splendours of statelypalaces. An ilex inclined its graceful head to its liquid image; menmoved the blocks that made famous in the mouth of the world Queen Dido'sCarthage. Clouds of pearl-coloured smoke encircled the enchantingpicture. And the galleys came and went in this symphonic, glitteringspectacle. "Turner would have died of envy, " said Gerald aloud. There was aremarkable vibration of life, not as he had seen it in mechanicalbioscopes, but the vivid life of earth and sunshine. The scenes that succeeded were many: episodes from profane and sacredhistories; simulacra of the great saints. A war between giants andpygmies was shown with all its accompanying horrors. The firmamentdripped crimson. The four cryptic creatures of Ezekiel's vision came outof the north, a great cloud of "infolding fire" and the colour wasamber. A cyclopean and dazzling staircase thronged by moving angelicshapes, harping mute harps, stretched from sea to sky, melting into themilky way like the tail of a starry serpent. Followed the opening of thedread prophetic seals; but, after an angel had descended from heaven, his face as the sun and at his feet pillars of fire, the people, prostrate like stalks of corn beaten by a tempest, worshipped in fear. These things were supernatural. The heavens were displaying the glory ofGod. Not knowing whether the signs in the skies might be construed asblasphemous, and lost in fathomless admiration for the marvellous powerof the wizard, Gerald sought to get closer to Karospina and Mila. Butwedged in by uniformed men, and the darkness thick as an Egyptianplague, he despairingly awaited the apotheosis. His eyes were sated bythe miracles of harmonies--noiseless harmonies. It _was_ a new art, andone for the peoples of the earth. Never had the hues of the universebeen so assembled, grouped, and modulated. And the human eye, adaptingitself to the new synthesis of arabesque and rhythm, evoked order andsymbolism from these novel chords of colour. There were solemn mountainsof opalescent fire which burst and faded into flaming colonnades, and inan enchanting turquoise effervescence became starry spears and scimitersand sparkling shields, and finally the whole mass would reunite andevaporate into brilliant violet auroras or seven-tailed, vermilion-coloured comets. There were gleaming rainbows of unknowntints--strange scales of chromatic pigments; "a fiery snow withoutwind;" and once a sun, twice the size of our own, fell into the ocean;and Gerald could have sworn that he felt a wave of heated air as if froma furnace; that he heard a seething sound, as if white-hot metal hadcome in contact with icy water. Consumed by anxiety for Mila's safety, he wished that these soundless girandoles, this apocalypse ofarchitectural fire and weaving flame, would end. He had not long to wait. A shrewd hissing apprised him that somethingunusual was about to occur. Like the flight of a great rocket a blackobject quickly mounted to the zenith. It did not become visible forseveral seconds; Gerald's nerves crisped with apprehension. Theapparition was an incandescent chariot; in it sat Karospina, and besidehim--oh! the agony of her lover--Mila Georgovics. As the fiery horsesswooped down, he could see her face in a radiant nimbus of meteors, which encircled the equipage. Karospina proudly directed its course overthe azure route, and once he passed Gerald at a dangerously low curveearthward, shouting:-- "The Spiral! The Spiral!" It was his last utterance; possibly through some flaw in the mechanism, the chariot zig-zagged and then drove straight upon the reservoir. Tothe reverberation of smashed steel and blinding fulguration the bigsphere was split open and Mila with Karospina vanished in the nocturnalgulf. Gerald, stunned by the catastrophe, threw himself down, expecting amighty explosion; the ebon darkness was appalling after thescintillating rain of fire. But the liberated gas in the guise of anelongated cloud had rushed seaward, and there gathering density andstrength, assumed the shape of a terrific funnel, an inky spiral, itsgyrating sides streaked with intermittent flashes. Its volcanic roaringand rapid return to land was a signal for vain flight--the miserablelover knew it to be the flamboyant ether of the pyromaniac transformedinto a trumpeting tornado. And he hoped that it would not spare him, asthis phantasm twirled and ululated in the heavens, a grim portent of theiron wrath of the Almighty. In a twinkling it had passed him, high inthe dome of heaven, only to erase in a fabulous blast the moaningmultitude. And prone upon the strand between the stormy waters and thefield of muddy dead, Gerald Shannon prayed for a second cataclysm whichmight bring oblivion to him alone. VI A MOCK SUN Where are the sins of yester-year? I The grating of the carriage wheels awoke her from the dream which hadlightly brushed away the night and the vision of the Arc deTriomphe--looming into the mystery of sky and stars, its monumentalflanks sprawling across the Place de l'Étoile. She heard her name calledby Mrs. Sheldam as their coachman guided his horses through the gatewayof the Princesse de Lancovani's palace. "Now, Ermentrude! Wake up, dear; we are there, " said Mrs. Sheldam, inher kind, drawling tones. Mr. Sheldam sighed and threw away theunlighted cigar he had bitten during the ride along the Champs Élysées. Whatever the evening meant for his wife and niece, he saw littleentertainment in store for himself; he did not speak French very well, he disliked music and "tall talk"; all together he wished himself at theGrand Hôtel, where he would be sure to meet some jolly Americans. Theircarriage had halted in front of a spacious marble stairway, lined oneither side with palms, and though it was a June night, the glass doorswere closed. Ermentrude's heart was in her throat, not because of the splendour, towhich she was accustomed; but it was to be her first meeting with anoble dame, whose name was historic, at whose feet the poets of theSecond Empire had prostrated themselves, passionately plucking theirlyres; the friend of Liszt, Wagner, Berlioz, of Manet, Degas, Monet; thenew school--this wonderful old woman knew them all, from Goncourt andFlaubert to Daudet and Maupassant. Had she not, Ermentrude remembered asshe divested herself of her cloak, sent a famous romancer out of thehouse because he spoke slightingly of the Pope? Had she not cut theemperor dead when she saw him with a lady not his empress? What a nightthis would be in the American girl's orderly existence! And _he_ was tobe there, he had promised the princess. Her heart was overflowing when she was graciously received by the greatlady who stood in the centre of a group at the back of thedrawing-room--a lofty apartment in white and gold, the panels painted byBaudry, the furniture purest Empire. She noted the height and majesticbearing of this cousin of kings, noted the aquiline nose drooped over acontracted mouth--which could assume most winning curves, withal shadedby suspicious down, that echoed in hue her inky eyebrows. The eyes ofthe princess were small and green and her glance penetrating. Her whitehair rolled imperially from a high, narrow forehead. Ermentrude bore herself with the utmost composure. She adored the OldWorld, adored genius, but after all she was an Adams of New Hampshire, her sister the wife of a former ambassador. It was more curiosity than_gaucherie_ that prompted her to hold the hand offered her andscrutinize the features as if to evoke from the significant, etchedwrinkles the tremendous past of this hostess. The princess was pleased. "Ah, Miss Adams, " she said, in idiomatic English, "you have candid eyes. You make me feel like telling stories when you gaze at me soappealingly. Don't be shocked"--the girl had coloured--"perhaps I shall, after a while. " Mr. Sheldam had slipped into a corner behind a very broad table andunder the shaded lamps examined some engravings. Mrs. Sheldam talked inhesitating French to the Marquis de Potachre, an old fellow of venerableand burlesque appearance. His fierce little white mustaches were curledceilingward, but his voice was as timid as honey. He flourished hiswizened hand toward Miss Adams. "Charming! Delightful! She has something English in her _insouciant_pose, and is wholly American in her cerebral quality. And whatcolouring, what gorgeous brown hair! What a race, madame, is yours!" Mrs. Sheldam began to explain that the Adams stock was famous, but themarquis did not heed her. He peered at her niece through a gold-rimmedmonocle. The princess had left the group near the table and with twoyoung men slowly moved down the salon. Miss Adams was immediatelysurrounded by some antiquated gentlemen wearing orders, who paid hercompliments in the manner of the eighteenth century. She answered themwith composure, for she was sure of her French, sure of herself--theprincess had not annihilated her. Her aunt, accompanied by the marquis, crossed to her, and the old nobleman amused her with his saturnineremarks. "Time was, " he said, "when one met here the cream of Parisian wit andfashion: the great Flaubert, a noisy fellow at times, I vow; Dumas_fils_; Cabanel, Gérôme, Duran; ever-winning Carolus--ah, what men! Nowwe get Polish pianists, crazy Belgians, anarchistic poets, andNeo-impressionists. I have warned the princess again and again. " "_Bécasse!_" interrupted the lady herself. "Monsieur Rajewski hasconsented to play a Chopin nocturne. And here are my two painters, MissAdams--Messieurs Bla and Maugre. They hate each other like the Jesuitsand Jansenists of the good old days of Pascal. " "She likes to display her learning, " grumbled the marquis to Mrs. Sheldam. "That younger man, Bla, swears by divided tones; his neighbour, Maugre, paints in dots. One is always to be recognized a half-mile awayby his vibrating waterscapes--he calls them Symphonies of the Wet; theother goes in for turkeys in the grass, fowls that are cobalt-bluedaubs, with grass a scarlet. It's awful on the optic nerves. _Pointillisme_, Maugre names his stuff. Now, give me Corot--" "Hush, hush!" came in energetic sibilants from the princess, who rappedwith her Japanese walking-stick for silence. Mr. Sheldam woke up andfumbled the pictures as Rajewski, slowly bending his gold-dust aureoleuntil it almost grazed the keyboard, began with deliberate accents anocturne. Miss Adams knew his playing well, but its poetry was not forher this evening; rather did the veiled tones of the instrument form amisty background to the human tableau. So must Chopin have woven hismagic last century, and in a salon like this--the wax candles burningwith majestic steadiness in the sculptured sconces; the huge fireplace, monumental in design, with its dull brass garnishing; the subduedrichness of the decoration into which fitted, as figures in a frame, thevarious guests. Even the waxed floor seemed to take on newreverberations as the pianoforte sounded the sweet despair of the Pole. To her dismay Ermentrude caught herself drifting away from the moment'shazy charm to thoughts of her poet. It annoyed her, she sharplyreminded herself, that she could not absolutely saturate herself withthe music and the manifold souvenirs of the old hôtel; perhaps this mayhave been the spell of Rajewski's playing.... The music ceased. A dry voice whispered in her ear:-- "Great artist, that chap Rajewski. Had to leave Russia once because hewouldn't play the Russian national hymn for the Czar. Bless me, but hewas almost sent to Siberia--and in irons too. Told me here in this veryroom that he was much frightened. They lighted fires in Poland to honourhis patriotism. He acknowledged that _he_ would have played twentynational hymns, but he couldn't remember the Russian one, or never knewit--anyhow, he was christened a patriot, and all by a slip of thememory. Now, that's luck, isn't it?" She began to dislike this cynical old man with his depreciating tales ofgenius. She knew that her idols often tottered on clay feet, but shehated to be reminded of that disagreeable reality. She went to MonsieurRajewski and thanked him prettily in her cool new voice, and again theprincess nodded approval. "She is _chic_, your little girl, " she confided in her deep tones toMrs. Sheldam, whose tired New England face almost beamed at thecompliment. "We were in Hamburg at the Zoölogical Garden; I always go to seeanimals, " declaimed the princess, in the midst of a thick silence. "Foryou know, my friends, one studies humanity there in the raw. Well, Idragged our party to the large monkey cage, and we enjoyedourselves--immensely! And what do you think we saw! A genuine novelty. Some mischievous sailor had given an overgrown ape a mirror, and thepoor wretch spent its time staring at its image, neglecting its food andsnarling at its companions. The beast would catch the reflection ofanother ape in the glass and quickly bound to a more remote perch. Thekeeper told me that for a week his charge had barely eaten. It sleptwith the mirror held tightly in its paws. Now, what did the mirror meanto the animal! I believe"--here she became very vivacious--"I reallybelieve that it was developing self-consciousness, and in time it wouldbecome human. On our way back from Heligoland, where we were entertainedon the emperor's yacht at the naval manœuvres, we paid another visit toour monkey house. The poor, misguided brute had died of starvation. Ithad become so vain, so egotistical, so superior, that it refused foodand wasted away in a corner, gazing at itself, a hairy Narcissus, orrather the perfect type of your modern Superman, who contemplates hisego until his brain sickens and he dies quite mad. " Every one laughed. Mrs. Sheldam wondered what a Superman was, andErmentrude felt annoyed. Zarathustra was another of her gods, and thisbrusquely related anecdote did not seem to her very spirituelle. Butshe had not formulated an answer when she heard a name announced, a namethat set her heart beating. At last! The poet had kept his word. She wasto meet in the flesh the man whose too few books were her bibles of art, of philosophy, of all that stood for aspiration toward a lovely ideal ina dull, matter-of-fact world. "Now, " said the princess, as if smiling at some hidden joke, "now youwill meet _my_ Superman. " And she led the young American girl to OctaveKéroulan and his wife, and, after greeting them in her masculine manner, she burst forth:-- "Dear poet! here is one of your adorers from overseas. Guard yourhusband well, Madame Lys. " So he was married. Well, that was not such a shocking fact. Nor wasMadame Kéroulan either--a very tall, slim, English-looking blonde, whodressed modishly and evidently knew that she was the wife of a famousman. Ermentrude found her insipid; she had studied her face first beforecomparing the mental photograph of the poet with the original. Nor didshe feel, with unconscious sex rivalry, any sense of inferiority to thewife of her admired one. He was nearly forty, but he looked older; grayhairs tinged his finely modelled head. His face was shaven, and with thebulging brow and full jaw he was more of the German or Belgian thanFrench. Black hair thrown off his broad forehead accented thisresemblance; a composer rather than a prose-poet and dramatist, was therapid verdict of Ermentrude. She was not disappointed, though she hadexpected a more fragile type. The weaver of moonshine, of mysticphrases, of sweet gestures and veiled sonorities should not have wornthe guise of one who ate three meals a day and slept soundly after hismellow incantations. Yet she was not--inheriting, as she did, a modicumof sense from her father--disappointed. The conversation did not move more briskly with the entrance of theKéroulans. The marquis sullenly gossiped with Mr. Sheldam; the princesswithdrew herself to the far end of the room with her two painters. Rajewski was going to a _soirée_, he informed them, where he would playbefore a new picture by Carrière, as it was slowly undraped; no one lessin rank than a duchess would be present! A little stiffly, ErmentrudeAdams assured the Kéroulans of her pleasure in meeting them. The poettook it as a matter of course, simply, without a suspicion of posedgrandeur. Ermentrude saw this with satisfaction. If he had clayfeet, --and he must have them; all men do, --at least he wore his geniuswith a sense of its responsibility. She held tightly her hands andleaned back, awaiting the precious moment when the oracle would speak, when this modern magician of art would display his cunning. But he wasfatuously commonplace in his remarks. "I have often told Madame Kéroulan that my successes in Europe do notappeal to me as those in far-away America. Dear America--how it mustenjoy a breath of real literature!" Mrs. Sheldam sat up primly, and Ermentrude was vastly amused. With aflash of fun she replied:-- "Yes, America does, Monsieur Kéroulan. We have so many Europeans overthere now that our standard has fallen off from the days of Emerson andWhitman. And didn't America give Europe Poe?" She knew that this boasthad the ring of the amateur, but it pleased her to see how it startledhim. "America is the Great Bribe, " he pursued. "You have no artists in NewYork. " "Nor have we New Yorkers, " the girl retorted. "The original writingnatives live in Europe. " He looked puzzled, but did not stop. "You have depressed literature tothe point of publication, " he solemnly asserted. This was too much andshe laughed in mockery. Husband and wife joined her, while Mrs. Sheldamtrembled at the audacity of her niece--whose irony was as much lost onher as it was on the poet. "But _you_ publish plays and books, do you not?" Ermentrude naïvelyasked. Madame Kéroulan interposed in icy tones:-- "Mademoiselle Adams misunderstands. Monsieur Kéroulan is the GrandDisdainer. Like his bosom friend, Monsieur Mallarmé, he cares little forthe Philistine public--" He interrupted her: "Lys, dear friend, you must not bore Miss Adams withmy theories of art and life. _She_ has read me--" Ermentrude gave him a grateful glance. He seemed, despite hisself-consciousness, a great man--how great she could not exactly define. His eyes--two black diamonds full of golden reflections, the eyes of aconqueror, a seer--began to burn little bright spots into herconsciousness, and, selfishly, she admitted, she wished the two womenwould go away and leave her to interrogate her idol in peace. There wereso many things to ask him, so many difficult passages in The GoldenGlaze and Hesitations, above all in that great dramatic poem, TheVoices, which she had witnessed in Paris, with its mystic atmosphere ofpity and terror. She would never forget her complex feelings, when at aParis theatre, she saw slowly file before her in a Dream-Masque thewraith-like figures of the poet, their voices their only corporeal gift. Picture had dissolved into picture, and in the vapours of these crooningenchantments she heard voices of various timbres enunciating inmonosyllables the wisdom of the ages, the poetry of the future. Thisplay was, for her, and for Paris, too, the last word in dramatic art, the supreme _nuance_ of beauty. Everything had been accomplished:Shakespeare, Molière, Ibsen; yet here was a new evocation, a fresh peepat untrodden paths. In bliss that almost dissolved her being, theemotional American girl reached her hotel, where she tried to sleep. When her aunt told her of the invitation tendered by the princess, arare one socially, she was in the ninth heaven of the Swedenborgians. Any place to meet Octave Kéroulan! And now he sat near her signalling, she knew, her sympathies, and as thefates would have it two dragons, her aunt and his wife, guarded thegateway to the precious garden of his imagination. She could have criedaloud her chagrin. Such an inestimable treasure was genius that to seeit under lock and key invited indignation. The time was running on, andher great man had said nothing. He could, if he wished, give her amillion extraordinary glimpses of the earth and the air and the watersbelow them, for his eyes were mirrors of his marvellous andmany-coloured soul; but what chance had he with a conjugal iceberg onone side, a cloud of smoke--poor Aunt Sheldam--on the other! She felt inher fine, rhapsodic way like a young priestess before the altar, readyto touch with a live coal the lips of the gods, but withheld by amalignant power. For the first time in her life Ermentrude Adams, delicately nurtured in a social hothouse, realized in wrath the majortyranny of caste. The evening wore away. Mrs. Sheldam aroused her husband as she cast ahorrified glance at the classic prints he had been studying. Theprincess dismissed her two impressionists and came over to the poet. She, too plainly, did not care for his wife, and as the party broke upthere was a sense of relief, though Ermentrude could not conceal herdissatisfaction. Her joy was sincere when Madame Kéroulan asked MissAdams and her aunt to call. It was slightly gelid, the invitation, though accepted immediately by Ermentrude. The _convenances_ could lookout for themselves; she would not go back to America without aninterview. The princess raised her hand mockingly. "What, I go to one of your conferences! Not I, _cher poète_. Keep yourmysteries for your youthful disciples. " She looked at Ermentrude, whodid not lower her eyes--she was triumphant now. Perhaps _he_ might saysomething before they parted. He did not, but the princess did. "Beware, young America, of my Superman! You remember the story of theape with the mirror!" Ermentrude flushed with mortification. This princess was decidedly rudeat times. But she kept her temper and thanked the lady for a uniqueevening. Her exquisite youth and grace pleased the terrible old woman, who then varied her warning. "Beware, " she called out in comical accents as they slowly descended thenaked marble staircase, "of the Sleeping Princess!" The American girl looked over her shoulder. "I don't think your Superman has a mirror at all. " "Yes, but his princess holds one for him!" was the jesting reply. The carriage door slammed. They rolled homeward, and Ermentrude sufferedfrom a desperate sense of the unachieved. The princess had beenimpertinent, the Kéroulans rather banal. Mrs. Sheldam watched hercharge's face in the intermittent lights of the Rue de Rivoli. "I think your poet a bore, " she essayed. Then she shook herhusband--they had reached their hôtel. II It was the garden of a poet, she declared, as, with the Kéroulans andher aunt, Ermentrude sat and slowly fanned herself, watching the Bois deBoulogne, which foamed like a cascade of green opposite this prettylittle house in Neuilly. The day was warm and the drive, despite theshaded, watered avenues, a dusty, fatiguing one. Mrs. Sheldam had, doubtfully, it is true, suggested the bourgeois comfort of theMétropolitain, but she was frowned on by her enthusiastic niece. What!ride underground in such weather? So they arrived at the poet's not inthe best of humour, for Mrs. Sheldam had quietly chidden her charge onthe score of her "flightiness. " These foreign celebrities were wellenough in their way, but--! And now Ermentrude, instead of lookingOctave Kéroulan in the face, preferred the vista of the pale blue sky, awash with a scattered, fleecy white cloud, the rolling edges of whichechoed the dazzling sunshine. The garden was not large, its few treeswere of ample girth, and their shadows most satisfying to eyes weary ofthe city's bright, hard surfaces. There were no sentimental plastercasts to disturb the soft harmonies of this walled-in retreat, and ifErmentrude preferred to regard with obstinacy unusual in her mobiletemperament the picture of Paris below them, it was because she feltthat Kéroulan was literally staring at her. A few moments after their arrival and with the advent of tea, he hadaccomplished what she had fervently wished for the night she had methim--he succeeded, by several easy moves, in isolating her from heraunt, and, notwithstanding her admiration, her desire to tap with herknuckles the metal of her idol and listen for a ring of hollowness, shewas alarmed. Yet, perversely, she knew that he would not exhibit hispaces before his wife--naturally a disinterested spectator--or beforeher aunt, who was hardly "intimate" enough. The long-desired hour foundher disquieted. She did not have many moments to analyze these mixedemotions, for he spoke, and his voice was agreeably modulated. "You, indeed, honour the poor poet's abode with your youth and yourresponsive soul, Miss Adams. I thank you, though my gratitude will seemas poor as my hospitality. " She looked at him now, a little fluttered. "You bring to me across seas the homage of a fresh nation, a freshnature. " She beat a mental retreat at these calm, confident phrases;what could he know of her homage? "And if Amiel has said, 'Un paysageest un état de l'âme, ' I may amend it by calling _my_ soul a state oflandscape, since it has been visited by your image. " This was morereassuring, if exuberant. "Man is mere inert matter when born, but his soul is his own work. Hence, I assert: the Creator of man is--man. " _Now_ she felt at ease. This wisdom, hewn from the vast quarry of his genius, she hadencountered before in his Golden Glaze, that book which had builttemples of worship in America wherein men and women sought and found thepabulum for living beautifully. He was "talking" his book. Why not? Itwas certainly delightful plagiarism! "You know, dear young lady, " he continued, and his eyes, with theircontracting and expanding disks, held her attention like a clear flame, "do you know that my plays, my books, are but the drama of my conscienceexteriorized? Out of the reservoirs of my soul I draw my inspiration. Ihave an æsthetic horror of evidence; like Renan, I loathe the deadlyheresy of affirmation; I have the certitude of doubt, for are we poetsnot the lovers of the truth decorated? When I built my lordly palace ofart, it was not with the ugly durability of marble. No; like theMohammedan who constructed his mosque and mingled with the cementsweet-smelling musk, so I dreamed my mosque into existence with musicwedded to philosophy. Music and philosophy are the twin edges of mysword. Ah! you smile and ask, Where is Woman in this sanctuary? She isnot barred, I assure you. My music--is Woman. Beauty is a promise ofhappiness, Stendhal says. I go further: Life--the woman one has;Art--the woman one loves!" She was startled. Her aunt and Madame Kéroulan had retired to the end ofthe garden, and only a big bee, brumming overhead, was near. He hadarisen with the pontifical air of a man who has a weighty gospel toexpound. He encircled with his potent personality the imagination of hislistener; the hypnotic quality of his written word was carried leaguesfarther in effect by his trained, soothing voice. Flattered, no longerfrightened, her nerves deliciously assaulted by this coloured rhetoric, Ermentrude yielded her intellectual assent. She did not comprehend. Shefelt only the rhythms of his speech, as sound swallowed sense. He heldher captive with a pause, and his eloquent eyes--they were of anextraordinary lustre--completed the subjugation of her will. "Only kissed hands are white, " he murmured, and suddenly she felt avelvety kiss on her left hand. Ermentrude did not pretend to follow thewords of her aunt and Madame Kéroulan as they stopped before a bed ofJune roses. Nor did she remember how she reached the pair. The one vividreality of her life was the cruel act of her idol. She was not consciousof blushing, nor did she feel that she had grown pale. His wife treatedher with impartial indifference, at times a smile crossing her face, with its implication--to Ermentrude--of selfish reserves. But thishateful smile cut her to the soul--one more prisoner at his chariotwheels, it proclaimed! Kéroulan was as unconcerned as if he had writtena poetic line. He had expected more of an outburst, more of a rebuff;the absolute snapping of the web he had spun surprised him. His choicestmusic had been spread for the eternal banquet, but the invited onetarried. Very well! If not to-day, to-morrow! He repeated a verse ofVerlaine, and with his wife dutifully at his side bowed to the twoAmericans and told them of the pleasure experienced. Ermentrude, hercandid eyes now reproachful and suspicious, did not flinch as she tookhis hand--it seemed to melt in hers--but her farewell was conventional. In the street, before they seated themselves in their carriage, Mrs. Sheldam shook her head. "Oh, my dear! What a woman! What a man! I have _such_ a story to tellyou. No wonder you admire these people. The wife is a genius--isn't shehandsome?--but the man--he is an angel!" "I didn't see his wings, auntie, " was the curt reply. III The Sheldams always stayed at the same hôtel during their annual visitsto Paris. It was an old-fashioned house with an entrance in the RueSaint-Honoré and another in the Rue de Rivoli. The girl sat on a smallbalcony from which she could view the Tuileries Gardens without turningher head; while looking farther westward she saw the Place de laConcorde, its windy spaces a chessboard for rapid vehicles, whosewheels, wet from the watered streets, ground out silvery fire in thesun-rays of this gay June afternoon. Where the Avenue des Champs Élyséesbegan, a powdery haze enveloped the equipages, overblown with theirsummer toilets, all speeding to Longchamps. It was racing day, andErmentrude, feigning a headache, had insisted that her uncle and aunt goto the meeting. It would amuse them, she knew, and she wished to bealone. Nearly a week had passed since the visit to Neuilly, and she hadbeen afraid to ask her aunt what Madame Kéroulan had imparted toher--afraid and also too proud. Her sensibility had been grievouslywounded by the plainly expressed feelings of Octave Kéroulan. She hadreviewed without prejudice his behaviour, and she could not set down tomere Latin gallantry either his words or his action. No, there was toomuch intensity in both, --ah, how she rebelled at the brutaldisillusionment!--and there were, she argued, method and sequence in hisapproach and attack. If she had been the average coquetting creature, the offence might not have been so mortal. But, so she told herselfagain and again, --as if to frighten away lurking darker thoughts, readyto spring out and devour her good resolutions, --she had worshipped heridol with reservations. His poetry, his philosophy, were so inextricablyblended that they smote her nerves like the impact of some brightperfume, some sharp chord of modern music. Dangerously she had filed ather emotions in the service of culture and she was now paying thepenalty for her ardent confidence. His ideas, vocal with goldenmeanings, were never meant to be translated into the vernacular of life, never to be transposed from higher to lower levels; this base betrayalof his ideals she felt Kéroulan had committed. Had he not said that loveshould be like "un baiser sur un miroir"? Was he, after all, what theprincess had called him? And was he only a mock sun swimming in afirmament of glories which he could have outshone? A servant knocked and, not receiving a response, entered with a letter. The superscription was strange. She opened and read:-- DEAR AND TENDER CHILD: I know you were angry with me when we parted. I am awaiting here below your answer to come to you and bare my heart. Say yes! "Is the gentleman downstairs?" she asked. The servant bowed. The bloodin her head buzzing, she nodded, and the man disappeared. Standing therein the bright summer light, Ermentrude Adams saw her face in the ovalglass, above the fireplace, saw its pallor, the strained expression ofthe eyes, and like a drowning person she made a swift inventory of herlife, and, with the insane hope of one about to be swallowed up by thewaters, she grasped at a solitary straw. Let him come; she would have anexplanation from him! The torture of doubt might then be brought to anend.... Some one glided into the apartment. Turning quickly, Ermentruderecognized Madame Kéroulan. Before she could orient herself that ladytook her by both hands, and uttering apologetic words, forced the amazedgirl into a chair. "Don't be frightened, dear young lady. I am not here to judge, but toexplain. Yes, I know my husband loves you. But do not believe in him. Heis a _terrific_ man. " This word she emphasized as if doubtful of itsmeaning. "Ah, if you but knew the inferno of my existence! There are somany like you--stop, do not leave! You are not to blame. I, LilliasKéroulan, do not censure your action. My husband is an evil man and acharlatan. Hear me out! He has only the gift of words. He steals all hisprofundities of art from dead philosophers. He is not a genuine poet. Heis not a dramatist. I swear to you that he is now the butt of artisticParis. The Princesse de Lancovani made him--she is another of his sort. He _was_ the mode; now he is desperate because his day has passed. Heknows you are rich. He desires your money, not _you_. I discovered thathe was coming here this day. Oh, I am cleverer than he. I followed. HereI am to save you from him--and from yourself--he is not now below in thesalon. " "Please go away!" indignantly answered Ermentrude. She was furious atthis horrible, plain-spoken, jealous creature. Save her from herself--asif ever she had wavered! The disinterested adoration she had entertainedfor the great artist--what a hideous ending was this! The tall, blondwoman with the narrow, light blue eyes watched the girl. How could anyone call her handsome, Ermentrude wondered! Then her visitor noticed thecrumpled letter on the table. With a gesture of triumph she secured itand smiling her superior smile she left, closing the door softly behindher. Only kissed hands are white! Ermentrude threw herself on the couch, hercheeks burning, her heart tugging in her bosom like a ship impatient atits anchorage. And was this the sordid end of a beautiful dream?... "Do you know, dearest, we have had such news!" exclaimed Mrs. Sheldam asshe entered, and so charged with her happiness that she did not noticethe drawn features of her niece. "Charlie, Charlie will be here sometime next week. He arrives at Havre. He has just cabled his father. Letus go down to meet the boy. " Charlie was the only son of the Sheldamsand fonder of his cousin than she dare tell herself. She burst intotears, which greatly pleased her aunt. In the train, eight days later, Ermentrude sat speechless in companywith her aunt and uncle. But as the train approached Havre sheremembered something. "Aunt Clara, " she bravely asked, "do you recall the afternoon we spentat the Kéroulans'? What did Madame Kéroulan tell you then? Is it asecret?" She held tightly clenched in her hand the arm-rest at the sideof the compartment. "Oh, dear, no! The madame was very chatty, very communicative. It'sfunny I've not told you before. She confessed that she was the happiestwoman on earth; not only was she married to a grand genius, --for thelife of me I can't see where _that_ comes in!--but he was a good maninto the bargain. It appears that his life is made weary by women whopester him with their attentions. Even our princess--yes, _the_princess; isn't it shocking?--was a perfect nuisance until Mr. Kéroulanassured her that, though he owed much of his success in the world toher, yet he would never betray the trust reposed in him by his wife. What's the matter, dear, does the motion of the car affect you? It_does_ rock! And _he_ shows her all the letters he gets from silly womenadmirers--oh, these foreign women and their queer ways! And he tells herthe way they make up to him when he meets them in society. " Ermentrude shivered. The princess also! And with all her warning aboutthe Superman! Now she understood. Then she took the hand of Mrs. Sheldam, and, stroking it, whispered:-- "Auntie, I'm so glad I am going to Havre, going to see Charlie soon. "The lids of her eyes were wet. Mrs. Sheldam had never been so motherly. "You _are_ a darling!" she answered, as she squeezed Ermentrude's arm. "But there is some one who doesn't seem to care much for Havre. " Shepointed out Mr. Sheldam, who, oblivious of picturesque Normandy throughwhich the train was speeding, slept serenely. Ermentrude envied him hisrepose. He had never stared into the maddening mirror which turned poetsinto Supermen and--sometimes monsters. Had she herself not gazed intothis distorting glass? The tune of her life had never sounded sodiscouragingly faint and inutile. Perhaps she did not posses the higherqualities that could extort from a nature so rich and various as OctaveKéroulan's its noblest music! Perhaps his wife had told the truth toMrs. Sheldam and had lied to her! And then, through a merciful mist oftears, Ermentrude saw Havre, saw her future. VII ANTICHRIST To wring from man's tongue the denial of his existence is proof of Satan's greatest power. --PÈRE RAVIGNAN. The most learned man and the most lovable it has been my good fortune toknow is Monsignor Anatole O'Bourke--alas! I should write, was, for hisnoble soul is gathered to God. I met him in Paris, when I was a musicstudent. He sat next to me at a Pasdeloup concert in the Cirque d'Hiver, how many years ago I do not care to say. A casual exclamation betrayedmy nationality, and during the intermission we drifted into easyconversation. Within five minutes he held me enthralled, did thisbig-souled, large-brained Irishman from the County Tipperary. Wediscussed the programme--a new symphonic poem by Rimski-Korsakoff, Sadko, had been alternately hissed and cheered--and I soon learned thatmy companion mourned a French mother and rejoiced in the loving presenceof a very Celtic father. From the former he must have inherited hisvigorous, logical intellect; the latter had evidently endowed him with arobust, jovial temperament, coupled with a wonderful perception ofthings mystical. After the concert we walked slowly along the line of the boulevards. Itwas early May, and the wheel of green which we traversed, together withthe brilliant picture made by the crowds, put us both in a happy temper. It was not long before Monsignor heard the confession of my ideals. Hesmiled quickly when I raved of music, but the moment I drifted into thetheme of mysticism--the transposition is ever an easy one--I saw hisinterest leap to meet mine. "So, you have read St. John of the Cross?" I nodded my head. "And St. Teresa, that marvellous woman? The Americans puzzle me, " hecontinued. "You are the most practical people on the globe and yet themost idealistic. When I hear of a new religion, I am morally certainthat it is evolved in America. " "A new religion!" I started. This phrase had often assailed me, both inprint and in the depths of my imagination. He divined my thought--ah! hewas a wonder-worker in the way he noted a passing _nuance_. "When we wear out the old one, it will be time for a new religion, " heblandly announced; "you Americans, because of your new mechanicalinventions, fancy you have free entry into the domain of the spiritual. But come, my dear young friend. Here is my hôtel. Can't I invite you todinner?" We had reached the Boulevard Malsherbe and, as I was miles outof my course, I consented. The priest fascinated me with his erudition, which swam lightly on the crest of his talk. He was, so I discoveredduring the evening, particularly well versed in the mystical writers, inthe writings of the Kabbalists and the books of the inspired Northman, Swedenborg. As we sat drinking our coffee at one of the little tables inthe spacious courtyard, I revived the motive of a new religion. "Monsignor, have you ever speculated on the possible appearance of asecond Mahomet, a second Buddha? What if, from some Asiatic jungle, there sallied out upon Europe a terrible ape-god, a Mongolian withexotic eyes and the magnetism of a religious madman--" "You are speaking of Antichrist?" he calmly questioned. "Antichrist! Do you really believe in the Devil's Messiah?" "Believe, man! why, I have _seen_ him. " I leaned back in my chair, wondering whether I should laugh or looksolemn. He noted my indecision, and his eyes twinkled--they were theblue-gray of the Irish, the eyes of a seer or an amiable ironist. "Listen! but first let us get some strong cigars. Garçon!" As we smokedour panatelas he related this history:-- "You ask me if I believe in an Antichrist, thereby betraying yourslender knowledge of the Scriptures--you will pardon the liberty! I mayrefer you not only to John's Epistles, to the revelations of thedreamer of Patmos, but to so many learned doctors of the faith that itwould take a week merely to enumerate the titles of their works allbearing on the mysterious subject. Our Holy Mother the Church has heldaloof from any doctrinal pronouncements. The Antichrist has beenpredicted for the past thousand years. I recall as a boy poring over themap of the world which a friend of my mother had left with her. Thislady my father called 'the angel with the moulting wings, ' because shewas always in an ecstatic tremor over the second coming of the Messiah. She would go to the housetop at least once every six months, and there, with a band of pious deluded geese dressed in white flowing robes, wouldinspect the firmament for favourable signs. Nothing ever happened, as weknow, yet the predictions sown about the borders of that strange-lookingchart have in a measure come true. "There were the grimmest and most resounding quotations from theApocalypse. 'Babylon is fallen, is fallen!' hummed in my ears for many aday. And the pale horse also haunted me. What would I have given to hearthe music of that 'voice from heaven, as the voice of many waters, andas the voice of great thunder. ' I mean the 'harpers harping with theirharps' the 'new song before the throne, before the four beasts and theelders. ' It is recorded that 'no man could learn that song but thehundred and forty _and_ four thousand, which were redeemed from theearth. ' That is a goodly multitude. Let us hope we shall be of it. Learned Sir Thomas Browne asked what songs the sirens sang. I prefer tohear that wonderful 'harpèd' song. "But I wander. The fault lies in that wondrous map of the world, withits pictured hordes of Russians sweeping down upon Europe and Americalike a plague of locusts, the wicked unbaptized Antichrist at the headof them, waving a cross held in reversed fashion. Don't ask me themeaning of this crazy symbolism. The sect to which my mother's friendbelonged--God bless her, for she was a dear weak-minded lady--must haveset great store by these signs. I admit that as a boy they scared me. Sitting here now, after forty years, I can still see those cryptograms. However, to my tale. About ten years ago I was in Paris, and in mycapacity as Monsignor I had to attend a significant gathering at theembassy of the Russian ambassador in this city of light. " He waved hisleft hand, from which I caught the purple fire of amethyst. "It was a notable affair, and I don't mind telling you now that it waslargely political. I had just returned from a secret mission at Rome, and I was forced to mingle with diplomatic people. Prince Wronsky wasthe representative of the Czar at that time in France, a charming manwith a flavour of _diablerie_ in his speech. He was a fervent GreekCatholic, like most of his countrymen, and it pleased him to fencemischievously with me on the various dogmas of our respective faiths. He called himself _the_ Catholic; I was only a Roman Catholic. I toldhim I was satisfied. "On this particular night he was rather agitated when I made mysalutations. He whispered to me that madame the princess had that veryday presented him with a son and heir. Naturally I congratulated him. His restlessness increased as the evening wore on. At last he beckonedto me--we were very old friends--to follow him into his library. Therehe hesitated. "'I want you to do me a favour, an odd one; but as you are known to meso long I venture to ask it. Do go upstairs and see my boy--' His tonewas that of entreaty. I smiled. "'Dear prince, I am, as a priest, hardly a judge of children. But if youwish it--is there anything wrong with the little chap's health?' "'God forbid!' he ejaculated and piously crossed himself. We went to thefirst _étage_ of his palace--he was gorgeously housed--and there hesaid:-- "'Madame is in another wing of our apartments--go in here--the child isattended by the nurse. ' With that he pushed me through a swinging doorand left me standing in a semi-lighted chamber. I was very near illtemper, I assure you, for my position was embarrassing. The room waslarge and heavily hung with tapestries. A nurse, a hag, a witch, a darkold gypsy creature, came over to me and asked me, in Russian:-- "'Do you wish to see his Royal Highness the King of Earth and Heaven?'Thinking she was some stupid _moujik's_ wife, I nodded my headseriously, though amused by the exalted titles. She put up a thin handand I tiptoed to a cradle of gold and ivory--it certainly seemed so tomy inexperienced eyes--the nurse parted the curtains, and there I saw--Isaw--but my son, you will think I exaggerate--I saw the most exquisitebaby in the universe. You laugh at an old bachelor's rhapsody! Inreality I don't care much for children. But that child, that suprememorsel of humanity, was too much for me. I stood and stared and stoodand stared, and all the while the tiny angel was smiling in my eyes, oh!such a celestial smile. From his large blue eyes, like flowers, hesmiled into my very soul. I was chained to the floor as if by lead. Every fibre of my soul, heart, and brain went out to that littlewanderer from the infinite. It was a pathetic face, full of suppressedsorrow--_Dieu_! but he was older than his father. I found my mindbeginning to wander as if hypnotized. I tried to divert my gaze, but invain. Some subtle emanation from this extraordinary child entered mybeing, and then, as if a curtain were being slowly lowered, a mistencompassed my soul; I was ceding, I felt, the immortal part of me toanother, and all the time I was smiling at the baby and the babysmiling back. I remember his long blond hair, parted in the middle andfalling over his shoulders; but even that remarkable trait for an infanta few hours old did not puzzle me, for my sanity was surely beingundermined by the persistent gaze of the boy. I vaguely recall passingmy hand across my breast as if to stop the crevice through which mypersonality was filtering; I was certain that my soul was about to bestolen by that damnable child. Then the nurse dropped something, and mythoughts came back, --they were surely on the road to hell, for they werered and flaming when I got hold of them, --and the spell, or whatever itwas, snapped. "I looked up and noticed the woman maliciously smiling--if it had beenin the days of the inquisition, I would have sent her to the faggots, for she was a hell-hag. The child had fallen back in his cradle as ifthe effort of holding my attention had exhausted him. Then it struck methat there was something unholy about this affair, and I resolutelystrode to the crib and seized the baby. "'What changeling is this?' I demanded in a loud voice, for the beingthat twisted in my grip was two or two hundred years old. "'Lay him down, you monster!' clamoured the nurse, as I held thesquirming bundle by both hands. It was a task--and I'm very strong. Asuperhuman strength waged against my muscles; but I was an old footballhalf-back at the university, so I conquered the poor little devil. Itmoaned like a querulous old man; the nurse, throwing her weight upon me, forced me to let go my hold. As I did so the baby turned on its face, its dainty robe split wide open, and to my horror I saw on its back, between its angelically white shoulders, burnt in as if by brandingirons, the crucifix--and _upside down_!" I shuddered. I knew. He lowered his voice and spoke in detached phrases. "It was--oh! that I live to say it--it was the dreaded Antichrist--yes, this Russian baby--it was predicted that he would be born in Russia--Itrembled so that my robes waved in an invisible wind. The reversedcross--the mark of the beast--the sign by which we are to know the HumanSatan--the last opponent of Christianity. I confess that I wasdiscomposed at the sight of this little fiend, for it meant that the redstar, the baleful star of the north, would rise in the black heavens andbloody war spread among the nations of the earth. It also meant thatdoomsday was not far off, and, good Christian as I believe myself to be, a shiver ran down my spine at the idea of Gabriel's trump and theresurrection of the dead. Yes, I shan't deny it--so material are thesons of men, I among them! And the very thought of Judgment Day and itsblasting horrors withered my heart. Still something had to be done, prophecy or no prophecy. To fulfil the letter of the law this infernalvisitor was let loose from hell. There was one way, so I grasped--" "Great God, Monsignor, you didn't strangle the demon?" I cried. "No, no--something better. I rushed over to a marble wash-basin andseized a ewer of water, and, going back to the crib, despite the franticremonstrances of the old sorceress, I baptized the Antichrist in thename of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Before my eyes Isaw the inverted cross vanish. Then I soundly spanked the presumptuousyoungster and, running down the staircase, I sought the prince and saidto him:-- "'Your boy is now a Roman, not a Greek Catholic. We are quits!'" The idea of a spanked Antichrist disconsolately roaming the earth, unwilling to return to his fiery home for fear of a scolding, his gunsof evil spiked, his virus innocuous, his mission of spiritualdestruction a failure--for what could a baptized devil's child do butpray and repent?--all this dawned upon me, and I burst into laughter, the worthy Monsignor discreetly participating. His bizarre recitalproved to me that, despite his Gallic first name, Monsignor AnatoleO'Bourke hailed from the County Tipperary. VIII THE ETERNAL DUEL What is the sorriest thing that enters Hell? --D. G. ROSSETTI, _Vain Virtues_. The face set him to a strange wondering; he sat at the coffin andwatched it. His wife's face it was, and above the sorrow of irrevocableparting floated the thought that she did not look happy as she lay inher bed of death. Monross had seen but two dead faces before, those ofhis father and mother. Both had worn upon the mask which death models anexpression of relief. But this face, the face of his wife, of the womanwith whom he had lived--how many years! He asked himself why heshuddered when he looked down at it, shuddered and also flushed withindignation. Had she ever been happy? How many times had she not voicedher feelings in the unequivocal language of love! Yet she seemed sohideously unhappy as she stretched before him in her white robes ofdeath. Why? What secret was this disclosed at the twelfth hour of life, on the very brink of the grave? Did death, then, hold the solution tothe enigma of the conquering Sphinx! Monross, master of psychology, tormented by visions of perfection, avictim to the devouring illusion of the artist, --Monross asked himselfwith chagrin if he had missed the key in which had sounded the symphonyof this woman's life. This woman! His wife! A female creature, long-haired, smiling, loquacious--though reticent enough when her realself should have flashed out signals of recognition at him--this wife, the Rhoda he had called day and night--what had she been? She had understood him, had realized his nobility of ideal, his gifts, his occasional grandeur of soul, --like all artistic men he was desultoryin the manifestation of his talent, --and had read aloud to him thosepoems written for another woman in the pitch-hot passion of hisyouth--before he had met her. To her he had been always, so he toldhimself, a cavalier in his devotion. Without wealth, he had kept thesoles of her little feet from touching the sidewalks of life. Upon herdainty person he had draped lovely garments. Why then, he wondered, thevindictive expression etched, as if in aqua fortis, upon her carvedfeatures? Some Old World superstition held him captive as he gazed. Death is thegrand revealer, he thought; death alone stamps upon the crumbling canvasof mortality the truth. Rhoda was dead. Yet her face was alive for thefirst time. He saw its truth; and he shuddered, for he also discernedthe hate that had lurked a life long in its devious and smilingexpressions--expressions like a set of scenery pushed on and off as theorder of the play demanded. Oh, the misery of it all! He, Monross, poet, lover, egoist, husband, to be confronted by this damnable defiance, thisearly-born hate! What had he done! And in the brain cells of the manthere awakened a processional fleet of pictures: Rhoda wooed; Rhodadazzled; Rhoda won; Rhoda smiling before the altar; Rhoda resigned uponthat other altar; Rhoda, wife, mother; and Rhoda--dead! But Rhoda loved--again he looked at the face. The brow was virginallyplacid, the drooping, bitter mouth alone telling the unhappy husband astory he had never before suspected. Rhoda! Was it possible this tinyexquisite creature had harboured rancour in her soul for the man who hadadored her because she had adored him? Rhoda! The shell of his egoismfell away from him. He saw the implacable resentment of this tender girlwho, her married life long, had loathed the captain that had invaded thecitadel of her soul, and conqueror-like had filched her virgin zone. Thewoman seemingly stared at the man through lids closed in death--thewoman, the sex that ages ago had feared the barbarian who dragged her tohis cave, where he subdued her, making her bake his bread and bear hischildren. In a wide heaven of surmise Monross read the confirmation of hissuspicions--of the eternal duel between the man and the woman; knewthat Rhoda hated him most when most she trembled at his master bidding. And now Rhoda lay dead in her lyre-shaped coffin, saying these ironicthings to her husband, when it was too late for repentance, too earlyfor eternity. IX THE ENCHANTED YODLER A MARIENBAD ELEGY I The remorseless rain had washed anew the face of the dark blue sky thatdomed Marienbad and its curved chain of hills. Hugh Krayne threw openhis window and, leaning out, exclaimed, as he eagerly inhaled the softair of an early May morning:-- "At last! And high time!" For nine days he had waded through the wetstreets, heavily leaping the raging gutters and stopping before the doorof every optician to scrutinize the barometer. And there are many inthis pretty Bohemian health resort, where bad weather means bad temper, with enforced confinement in dismal lodgings or stuffy _restaurations_, or--last resort of the bored--the promenade under the colonnade, whilethe band plays as human beings shuffle ponderously over the cold stonesand stare at each other in sullen desperation. But this day was a glorious one; in high spirits the Englishman left thehouse on the Oberkreuzbrunnenstrasse and moved slowly toward thesprings. He was not thirty, but looked much older, for his weight wasexcessive. An easy-going temperament, a good appetite, a well-filledpurse, and a conscience that never disturbed his night's slumbercontributed to this making of flesh. He waddled, despite his greatheight, and was sufficiently sensitive to enjoy Marienbad as much forits fat visitors as for its curative virtues. Here at least he was notremarkable, while in London or Paris people looked at him sourly when heoccupied a stall at the theatre or a seat in a café. Not only had heelbow room in Marienbad, but he felt small, positively meagre, incomparison with the prize specimens he saw painfully progressing aboutthe shaded walks or puffing like obese engines up the sloping roads tothe Rübezahl, the Egerländer, the Panorama, or the distant Podhorn. The park of the Kreuzbrunnen was crowded, though the hour of six hadjust been signalled from a dozen clocks in the vicinity. The crowd, gathered from the four quarters of the globe, was in holiday humour, as, glass in hand, it fell into line, until each received the water doledout by uniformed officials. Occasionally a dispute as to precedencewould take place when the serpentine procession filed up the steps ofthe old-fashioned belvedere; but quarrels were as rare as a lean man. Afat crowd is always good-tempered, irritable as may be its individualmembers. Hugh Krayne kept in position, while two women shoved him aboutas if he were a bale of hay. He heard them abusing him in Bohemian, alanguage of which he did not know more than a few words; theirintonations told him that they heartily disliked his presence. Yet hecould not give way; it would not have been Marienbad etiquette. At lasthe reached the spring and received his usual low bow from the man whoturned the polished wheel--the fellow had an eye tuned for gratuities. With the water in his glass three-fourths cold and one-fourth warm, asmall napkin in his left hand, the Englishman moved with the jauntygrace of a young elephant down the smooth terraced esplanade that hasmade Marienbad so celebrated. The sun was riding high, and the tendergreen of the trees, the flashing of the fountains, and the music of theband all caused Hugh to feel happy. He had lost nearly a pound since hisarrival the week before, and he had three more weeks to stay. What mightnot happen! Just where the promenade twists under the shaded alleys that lead to theFerdinandsbrunnen, he saw four women holding hands. They were dressed inTyrolean fashion--pleated skirts, short enough to show white, plumpstockings, feet in slippers, upon the head huge caps, starched andballoony; their massive white necks, well exposed, were encircled bycollars that came low on bodices elaborately embroidered. Behind themmarched several burly chaps, in all the bravery of the AustrianTyrol--the green alpine hat, with the feather at the back, the shortgray jacket, the bare knees, and the homespun stockings. Krayne regardedcuriously this strolling band of singers. Their faces seemed familiar tohim, and he rapidly recalled souvenirs of Salzburg and an open-airconcert. But this morning there was something that arrested hisattention in the group. It was a girl of eighteen or twenty, with abrilliant complexion, large blue eyes, and a robust, shapely figure. Asshe passed she gave him such an imploring look, such an appealing look, that all his chivalric instincts rushed into the field of hisconsciousness. He awkwardly dropped his tumbler. He turned around, halfexpecting to see the big child still looking at him. Instead he gazedupon the athletic backs of her male companions and to the unpleasantaccompaniment of hearty feminine laughter. Were these women laughing athim? No fool like a fat one, he merrily thought, as he bought a newglass at a bazaar, which a grinning, monkey-faced creature sold him atthe regular price redoubled. Before his meagre breakfast of one egg and a dry rusk, Krayneendeavoured to evoke the features of the pretty creature who had sostrongly attracted him. He saw a tangle of black hair, a glance thattouched his heart with its pathos, a pair of soft, parted red lips, anddazzling teeth. It was an impression sufficiently powerful to keep himcompany all the forenoon. Fat men, he reasoned on the steep pass thatconducts to the Café Forstwarte, are always sentimental, by no meansalways amiable, and, as a rule, subject to sudden fancies. Ten years ofhis sentimental education had been sown with adventures that had begunwell, caprices that had no satisfactory endings. He had fallen in lovewith the girl who played Chopin on the piano, the girl who playedMendelssohn on the violin, the girl who played Goltermann on thevioloncello. Then followed girls who painted, poetized, botanized, andhammered metal. Once--an exception--he had succumbed to the charms of anactress who essayed characters in the dumps--Ibsen soubrettes, Strindberg servants, and Máxim Górky tramps. Yet he had, somehow orother, emerged heart whole from his adventures among those masterpiecesof the cosmos--women. Certainly this might be another romance added to the long list of hissentimental fractures. He ate his dinner, the one satisfactory meal ofthe day allowed him by a cruel doctor, with the utmost deliberation. Hehad walked three hours during the morning, and now, under the spaciousbalconies of the Forstwarte, he knew that his beef and spinach would benone the worse for a small bottle of very dry, light Vöslauer. Besides, his physician had not actually forbidden him a little liquid at themidday meal. Just before bedtime he was entitled--so his dieteticschedule told him--to one glass of Pilsner beer. Not so bad, after all, this banting at Marienbad, he reflected. Anyhow, it was better than theexistence of those fellows at sea-shore and mountain, who gorged andguzzled their summer away. Then he tried to remember among his Londonclub friends any who were as heavy as he, but he could not. Idlysmoking, he regarded the piazzas, with their tables and groups of obesehumanity, eating, drinking, and buzzing--little fat flies, he thought, as he drew his waistcoat in, feeling quite haughty and slender. He read on a placard that the "Präger Bavarian Sextet" would give a"grand" concert at the Hotel Bellevue this very afternoon. "Ah ha!" saidKrayne aloud, "that's the girl I saw!" Then he wasted several hours moreloitering about the beautiful park on the Kaiserstrasse and looking inthe shop windows at views of Marienbad on postal cards, atyellow-covered French, German, and Russian novels, at pictures of kings, queens, and actresses. He also visited the houses wherein Goethe, Chopin, and Wagner had dwelt. It was four o'clock when he entered thegarden of the Bellevue establishment and secured a table. The waiter athis request removed the other chairs, so he had a nook to himself. Not avery large crowd was scattered around; visitors at Marienbad do not careto pay for their diversions. In a few minutes, after a march had beenbanged from a wretched piano--were pianos ever tuned on the Continent, he wondered?--the sextet appeared, looking as it did in the morning, andsang an Austrian melody, a capella. It was not very interesting. The women stood in front and yelled with a hearty will; the men roaredin the background. Krayne saw his young lady, holding her apron by thesides, her head thrown back, her mouth well opened; but he could notdistinguish her individual voice. How pretty she was! He sipped hiscoffee. Then came a zither solo--that abominable instrument of pluckedwires, with its quiver of a love-sick clock about to run down; thisparody of an æolian harp always annoyed Krayne, and he was glad when theman finished. A stout soprano in a velvet bodice, her arms bare andbrawny, the arms of a lass accustomed to ploughing and digging potatoes, sang something about turtle doves. She was odious. Odious, too, was hercompanion, in a duo through which they screamed and rumbled--"Verlassenbin i. " At last she came out and he saw by the programme that her namewas Röselein Gich. What an odd name, what an attractive girl! Hefinished his coffee and frantically signalled his waitress. It wasagainst the doctor's orders to take more than one cup, and then thesugar! Hang the doctor, he cried, and drank a second cup. She sang. Her voice was an unusually heavy, rich contralto. That she wasnot an accomplished artiste he knew. He did not haunt opera houses fornaught, and, like all fat men who wear red ties in the forenoon, he wasa trifle dogmatic in his criticism. The young woman had the making of anopera singer. What a Fricka, Brangaene, Ortrud, Sieglinde, Erda, thisclever girl might become! She was musical, she was dramatic intemperament--he let his imagination run away with him. She only sang anOberbayerische yodel, and, while her voice was not very high, shecontrived a falsetto that made her English listener shiver. This yodelseemed to him as thrilling as the "_Ho yo to ho!_" of Brunnhilde as sherushes over the rocky road to Valhall. _La la liriti! La la lirita!Hallali!_ chirped Röselein, with a final flourish that positivelyenthralled Hugh Krayne. He applauded, beating with his stick upon thetable, his face flushed by emotion. Decidedly this girl was worth thevisit to Marienbad. And he noted with delight that Fräulein Gich had left the stage. Basketin hand, she went from table to table, selling pictures and programmesand collecting admission fees. At last he would be able to speak withthe enchantress, for he prided himself on the purity of his German. Smiling until she reached his table, she suddenly became serious whenshe saw this big Englishman in the plaid suit and red necktie. Again hefelt the imploring glance, the soft lips parted in childishsupplication. It was too much for his nerves. He tossed into her basketa gold piece, grabbed at random some pictures, and as her beseechingexpression deepened, her eyes moist with wonder and gratitude, he tuggedat a ring on his corpulent finger, and, wrenching it free, presented itto her with a well-turned phrase, adding:-- "Thou hast the making of a great singer in thee, Fräulein Röselein. Iwish I could help thee to fame!" The girl gave him an incredulous stare, then reddening, the muscles onher full neck standing out, she ran like a hare back to her companions. Evidently he had made an impression. The honest folk about him whowitnessed the little encounter fairly brimmed over with gossip. Thestout basso moved slowly to Krayne, who braced himself for trouble. Nowfor it! he whispered to himself, and grasped his walking-stick firmly. But, hat in hand, his visitor, a handsome blond man, approached andthanked Hugh for his generosity. He was a lover of music, the yodlerassured him, and his wife and himself felt grateful for the interest hedisplayed in Fräulein Röselein, his wife's sister. Yes, she had aremarkable voice. What a pity--but wouldn't the gentleman attend theconcert to be given that evening up at the Café Alm? It was, to be sure, rather far, the café, but the moon would be up and if he could find hisway there he might do the company the honour of coming back with them. The Fräulein would sing a lot for him--Bohemian, Tyrolean, French, andGerman songs. Ah, she was versatile! The man did not speak like apeasant, and seemed a shrewd, pleasant fellow. Hugh Krayne, in excellentthough formal German, assured the other of his pleasure and accepted theinvitation. Then he looked over at Röselein, who stood on the stage, and as he did so she waved a crimson handkerchief at him as a friendlysign. He took off his hat, touched significantly his own tie to indicatea reciprocity of sentiment, and all aglow he ordered a third cup ofcoffee. The cure could take care of itself. _Man lebt nur einmal!_ II On his way to the Alm he met the fattest man in Marienbad, a former chefof the German emperor, and gave him a friendly salute. He liked to seethis monster, who made the scales groan at six hundred pounds, more thandouble his own weight, for it put him at ease with himself. But thisevening he felt uncomfortable. What if he were to reach such a climax inadiposity What if in the years to come he should be compelled, as wasthe unfortunate man from Berlin, to sit on a chair every five minutes, achair carried by an impudent boy! What--here his heart sank--if theFräulein should mock his size! He walked so rapidly at this idea thatother victims of rotundity stopped to look at his tall figure and noddedapproval. Ach! Marienbad was wonderful! After he had found a seat at the Alm next to the low wall, across whichhe could see a vast stretch of undulating country, lighted by a moonthat seemed to swing like a silver hoop in the sky, Krayne orderedPilsner. He was fatigued by the hilly scramble and he was thirsty. Oh, the lovely thirst of Marienbad--who that hath not been within thyhospitable gates he knoweth it not! The magic of the night was making ofhim a poet. He could see his Tyrolean friends behind the glass partitionof the little hall. There would they sing, not in the open. It wasnearly the same, for presently the windows were raised and their voicescame floating out to him, the bourdon of Röselein's organ easilydistinguishable. Love had sharpened his ears. He drained his glass andsent for another. He felt that he was tumbling down an abyss of passionand that nothing in the world could save him. The intermission! He stood up to attract the attention of Herr JohanPräger. Röselein saw him and at once neared him, but without the basket. This delicacy pleased Krayne very much. It showed him that he was not onthe same footing as the public. He made the girl take a seat, and thoughhe felt the eyes of the crowd upon him, he was not in the leastconcerned. London was far away and the season was too young for theannual rush of his compatriots. Would the Fräulein take something? Sheaccepted coffee, which she drank from a long glass with plenty of milkand sugar. She again gazed at him with such a resigned expression thathe felt his starched cuffs grow warm from their contiguity to hisleaping pulses. "Yes, Fräulein, " he said, employing the familiar _du_, "thou hastovercome me. Why not accept my offer?" Was this the prudent Hugh Kraynetalking? She smiled sweetly and shook her head. Her voice was deliciousin colour and intonation, nor did it betray humble origin. "I fear, dear sir, that what you offer is impossible. My sister, thesoprano, would never hear of such a thing. My brother, her husband, would not allow it. And I owe them my living, my education. How could Irepay them if I left them now?" she hesitated. "Simply enough. You would be a singer at the opera some day, and takethem all to live with you. Is there no other reason?" He recollectedwith a vivid sense of the disagreeable the lively antics of a litheyouth in the company, who, at the close of the concert, executed withdiabolic dexterity what they called a _Schuhplattltanz_. This dance hadglued Krayne's attention, for Röselein was the young tenor singer'spartner. With their wooden sabots they clattered and sang, waving wildlytheir arms or else making frantic passages of pretended love andcoquetry. It upset the Englishman to see the impudence of this commonpeasant fellow grasping Röselein by the waist, as he whirled her aboutin the boorish dance. Hence the clause to his question. She endured hisinquiring gaze, as she simply answered:-- "No, there is no other reason. " She put her hand on the arm of hercompanion and the lights suddenly became misty, for he was of anapoplectic tendency. They talked of music, of the opera in Vienna andPrague. She was born in Bavaria, not more than a day's ride fromMarienbad. You could almost see her country from the top of thePodhornberg, in the direction of the Franconian Mountains, not far fromBayreuth. The place was called Schnabelwaid, and it was very high, verywindy. Since her tenth year she had been singing--yes, even in thechorus at the Vienna opera, with her sister and brother. They were nocommon yodlers. They could sing all the music of the day. The yodlingwas part of their business, as was the costume. Later, when she hadenough saved, she would study in Vienna for grand opera! He was enraptured. How romantic it all was! A free-born maiden--he wascertain she was reared in some old castle--wandering about earning moneyfor her musical education. What a picture for a painter! What a storyfor a novelist! They were interrupted. The dancer, a young man with aheavy shock of hair growing low on his forehead, under which twinkledbeady black eyes, had been sent to tell Fräulein Röselein that hercolleagues were waiting for her. With a courtesy she went away. Kraynenow thoroughly hated the dancer. It was long after eleven when the concert was over and the party startedon its homeward trip. Krayne and Röselein walked behind the others, andsoon the darkness and the narrowness of the road forced him to treadafter the girl. The moon's rays at intervals pierced the foliage, making lacelike patches of light in the gloom. At times they skirted theedges of a circular clearing and saw the high pines fringing thesouthern horizon; overhead the heavens were almost black, except wheregreat streams of stars swept in irregular bands. It was a glorioussight, Krayne told Röselein--too sublime to be distracted by mere mortallove-making, he mentally added. Nevertheless he was glad when they wereagain in the woods; he could barely distinguish the girl ahead of him, but her outline made his heart beat faster. Once, as they neared thetown, he helped her down a declivity into the roadway, and he could nothelp squeezing her hand. The pressure was returned. He boldly placed herarm within his, and they at last reached the streets, but not before, panting with mingled fright and emotion, he solemnly kissed her. She didnot appear surprised. "Call me Rösie--thou!" she murmured, and her naïveté brought the readytears to his eyes. They made a rendezvous for the next morning on thePromenade Platz. The only thing he did not like was the scowling face ofthe dancer when he said good night to the others under the electriclights of the Kreuzbrunnen. He was correct, then, in his premonition. That night Hugh Krayne dreamed he was a very skeleton for thinness--notan unusual vision of fat men--and also a Tyrolean yodler, displayinghimself before a huge audience of gigantic human beings, who laughed soloudly that he could not open his lips to frame the familiar words ofhis song. In the despair of a frantic nightmare, his face streaming withanguished tears, he forced his voice:-- _La, la, liriti! La, la, larita! Hallali!_ Then he awoke in triumph. Washe not a yodler? III He told her of his dream and strange ambition. She did not discouragehim. It could be settled easily enough. Why not join the company andtake a few lessons? "With such a teacher?" he had exclaimed, and hisgesture was so impassioned that the promenaders, with their shiningmorning goblets of water, were arrested by the spectacle. Wonderful, wonderful Marienbad! was the general comment! But Krayne was pastridicule. He already saw Röselein his bride. He saw himself a yodler. The cure? Ay, there was the rub. He laid bare his heart. She aided himwith her cool advice. She was very sensible. Her brother-in-law and hersister would welcome him in their household, for he was a lover of musicand his intentions were honourable. Of course, he sighed, of course, andfingered his red tie. Why not, she argued, remain at Marienbad for threeweeks more and complete his cure? Anyhow, he was not so stout! Shelooked up at him archly. Again he saw mist. That settled it. For another three weeks he lived in a cloud ofexpectation, of severe training, long walks, dieting, and Turkish baths. No man worked harder. And he was rewarded by seeing his flesh melt awaya pound or two daily. When the company returned after its itinerary inthe neighbourhood Rösie was surprised to meet a man who did not weighmuch over two hundred pounds, healthy, vigorous, and at least five yearsyounger in appearance. She was very much touched. So was her sister. There was a family consultation, and despite the surly opposition of thedancer, Hugh Krayne was welcomed as a member of the Präger BavarianSextette company. Forgetting the future he had arranged for Rösie, hebegan his vocal lessons immediately. In July he sang for the first time in public at Eger. He was extremelyfrightened, but as it was only a duo he managed fairly well. Then hesang at Tepl, this time alone. His voice broke badly in the yodel and hewas jeered by a rude audience. He had grown very much thinner. Hisdoctor warned him against continuing the waters, and advised rice, potatoes, and ale, but he did not listen. He now paid the bills of thecompany while travelling. Rösie had confessed with tears that they werefearfully poor. From that time he handed her his purse. He even placatedthe jealous dancer with a gold watch and a box of hair pomade. Ah! howhe loathed the fellow's curly locks, his greasy familiarities! Rösietold him this acrobat was necessary in the company until he could bereplaced. Already Hugh--she called him "Ü"--could yodel better. Some dayhe might, when thinner, dance better. Perhaps--again that appealingglance, the corner of her lips faintly touched by the mysterious smileof a Monna Lisa. Krayne redoubled his arduous training, practisedyodling in the forests, danced jigs on the pine-needles, and doubled hisallowance of the waters. They went to Carlsbad. He yodled. He was applauded. The dancer was in afine rage. Although Krayne had asked Rösie to buy a first-classcompartment on the railroad trip over and back, they went in athird-class car. Präger declared that it was good enough for him, and hedidn't wish to spoil his troupe! His wife now held the purse-strings, asRösie was too engrossed with her art and Hugh too absorbed in his loveto notice such mere sublunary matters. The girl had promised nothingpositive for the future. She kept him on the brittle edge of nervousexpectation. The opposition of the dancer had been successfully met bythreats of dismissal; Hugh continued to lose flesh and gain in vocal andpedal agility. He danced for the first time at Königswart, not far from the château ofthe Metternichs. It was August. So great was the applause that theyounger dancer was discharged. He left with muttered threats ofvengeance. The next day Krayne turned over all his business affairs tothe able hand of Frau Präger; he lived only for Rösie and his art.... September was at hand. The weather was so warm and clear, that the kingof England deferred his departure for a few days. One afternoon, justbefore the leaves began to brown on the hills, there was a concert atthe garden of the Hotel Bellevue. The royal party attended. The yodlingwas much praised, especially that of a good-looking young woman and herescort, a very tall man of cadaverous aspect, his shanks like the woodenstilts of the shepherds on the Bordeaux Landes. His face, preternaturally emaciated and fatigued, opened to emit an amazing yodel. When the _Schuhplattltanz_ was reached he surprised the audience by anextraordinary exhibition. He threw his long legs about like billiardcues, while his arms flapped as do windmills in a hard gale. He waspointed out as a celebrity--once a monster Englishman, who had taken the_Kur_; who was in love, but so poor that he could not marry. The girlwith him was certain to make a success in grand opera some day. Yes, Marienbad was proud of Krayne. He was one of her show sons, a witness toher curative powers. Proud also of the Bavarian Präger Sextette. HerrPräger was reputed a rich man.... The night of that concert Marienbad saw the last of the Bavariansextette, which at midnight, joined by its old dancer with the tenorvoice, left in a third-class carriage for Vienna. Hugh Krayne, notpossessing enough to pay his passage, had not been invited; nor was heinformed of the sudden departure until a day later.... * * * * * On the road to the Alm, of moonlight nights, toiling visitors catchglimpses of a human, almost a skeleton, dressed in rags, his head bareas his feet, about his neck a flaming crimson handkerchief. He is knownto Marienbäders as "The Man Who Stayed Too Long. " He never addressespassers-by; but as they lose sight of him they hear the woods resoundwith his elegiac howl:-- _La la liriti! La la lirita! Hallali!_ X THE THIRD KINGDOM I A DOUBTER Brother Hyzlo sat in his cell and read. The gentle stillness of a rarespring morning enveloped him with its benison. And the clear light fellupon the large pages of a book in his hand, --the window through which itstreamed was the one link between the young recluse and the life of theworld. From it he could see the roofs of the city beneath him; when heso wished, he might, without straining his gaze, distinguish thePantheon at the end of that triumphal avenue which spanned the Seine andhad once evoked for him visions of antique splendour. But Brother Hyzlono longer cared for mundane delights. His doubting soul was thebattle-field over which he ranged day and night searching for diabolicopponents. Exterior existence had become for him a shadow; the only lifeworth living was that of the spirit. In his book that fresh spring morning he read as if in the flare of apassing meteor these disquieting words:-- "How were it if, some day or night, a demon stole after thee into thymost solitary solitude, and said to thee: 'This life, as thou livest itnow, and hast lived it, thou shalt have to live over again, and not oncebut innumerable times; and there will be nothing new in it, but everypain and every pleasure and every thought and sigh, and everything inthy life, the great and the unspeakably petty alike, must come again tothee, and all in the same series and succession; this spider, too, andthis moonlight betwixt the trees and this moment likewise and I myself. The eternal sand-glass of time is always turned again, and thou with it, thou atom of dust'? Wouldst thou not cast thyself down and with gnashingof teeth curse the demon who thus spoke? Or, hast thou ever experiencedthe tremendous moment in which thou wouldst answer him: 'Thou art a godand never heard I anything more divine'?" The book slipped from his hands. "Why not?" he murmured, "why not? Thereis no such thing as chance. The law of probabilities is not a merefancy, but an austere need. Matter is ever in evolution. Energy alone isindestructible. Radium has revealed this to us. In eternity when theInfinite throws the dice, double-sixes are sure to come up more thanonce. Miracles? But why miraculous? Infinity of necessity must repeatitself, and then I, sitting here now, will sit here again, sit and doubtthe goodness of God, ay, doubt His existence.... How horrible!" Hepaused in the whirl of his thoughts. "Yet how beautiful, for if the eternal recurrence be truth, then mustthe great drama of the Redemption be repeated. Then will our foes beconvinced of Christianity and its reality. But shall we be conscious inthat far-off time of our anterior existence? Ah! hideous, coiling doubt. What a demon is this Nietzsche to set whirring in the brains of poor, suffering humanity such torturing questions! Better, far better for theworld to live and not to think. Thought is a disease, a morbid secretionof the brain-cells. Ah! materialist that I am, I can no longer thinkwithout remembering the ideas of Cabanis, that gross atheist. Why am Ipunished so? What crimes have I committed in a previousexistence--Karma, again!--that I must perforce study the writings ofimpious men? Yet I submitted myself as a candidate for the task, to savemy brethren in Christ from soiling their hearts. Heaven preserve me fromthe blight of spiritual pride, but I believe that I am now a scapegoatfor the offences of my fellow-monks, and, thus, may redeem my ownwretched soul. Ah! Nietzsche--Antichrist. " He arose and threw the volume across his cell. Then going to the windowregarded with humid gaze the world that sprawled below him in thevoluptuous sunshine. But so sternly was the inner eye fixed on thethings of the spirit that he soon turned away from the delectablepicture, and as he did so his glance rested upon a crucifix. He started, his perturbed imagination again touched. "What if Nietzsche were right? The first Christian, the only Christian, died on the cross, he has said. What an arraignment of our preciousfaith, Jesus Christ, our Lord God! What sweet names are Thine! How couldNietzsche not feel the music of that Hebrew-Greek combination? Perhapshe did; perhaps he masked a profound love behind his hatred. Jesus ourLord! Hebrew-Greek. But why Greek? Why ... ?" Another pause in thissequestered chamber where the buzzing of an insect could assume athunderous roar. "The eternal return. Why should Christ return? Must theearth be saved again and again and a billion times again? Awful thoughtof a God descending to a horrible death to cleanse the nameless myriadsfrom sins which they seek ever as flies treacle. More ghastly still isthe thought that the atheist Scandinavian put into the mouth of hisJulian the Apostate: When our Christ is not saving this earth frometernal damnation then he may be visiting remote planets or inaccessiblestars, where coloured double suns of blinding brilliancy revolveterrifically in twin harness. There, too, are souls to be rescued. Whata grand idea! It is Ibsen's, as is the interpretation of the ThirdKingdom. It should have been Nietzsche's. Why this antinomianism? Whythis eternal conflict of evil and good, of night and day, of sweet andsour, of God and devil, of Ormuzd and Ahriman?" The exotic names transposed his thoughts to another avenue. If Christ isto come again, and the holy word explicitly states that He will, why notBuddha? Why not Brahma? Why not ... ? Again a hiatus. This time somethingsnapped in his head. He sank back in his chair. Buddha! Was there ever aBuddha? And if there was not, was there ever such a personality asChrist's? Scholar that he was he knew that myth-building was a pastimefor the Asiatic imagination, great, impure, mysterious Asia--Asia themother of all religions, the cradle of the human race. To deny theobjective existence of Christ would set at rest all his doubts, oneoverwhelming doubt swallowing the minor doubts. He had never speculatedat length upon the Christ legend, for did not Renan, yes, that silkyheretic, believe in the personality of Jesus, believe and lovinglyportray it? The Nietzsche doctrine of the eternal recurrence had soworked upon his sensitive mental apparatus that he could have almostdenied the existence of Christ rather than deny that our universerepeats itself infinitely. Eternity is a wheel, earthly events are thespokes of this whirring wheel. It was the seeming waste of divinematerial that shocked his nerves. One crucifixion--yes; but two or twoquintillions and infinitely more! Brother Hyzlo stared at the crucifix. Was it only a symbol, as somelearned blasphemers averred? The human figure so painfully extendedupon it was a God, a God who descended from high heaven to become ashield between the wrath of His Father and humanity. Why? Why should theGod who created us grow angry with our shortcomings? We are Hishandiwork. Are we then to blame for our imperfections? Is not Jesus, instead of a mediator, rather a votive offering to the wounded vanity ofthe great Jehovah? Was not Prometheus--a light broke in upon Hyzlo. Prometheus, a myth, Buddha a myth. All myths. There were othervirgin-born saviours. Krishna, Mithra, Buddha. Vishnu had not one butnine incarnations. Christianity bears alarming resemblances toMithraism. Mithra, too, was born in a cave. The dates of Christ's birthand death may be astronomical: the winter and vernal equinoxes. But theconflict of the authorities regarding these dates is mortifying. Thefour gospels are in reality four witnesses warring against each other. They were selected haphazard at a human council. They were not composeduntil the latter part of the second century, and the synoptic gospelsare compilations from unknown writers, while the fourth gospel is a muchlater work. And how colourless, imitative, is the New when compared tothe Old Testament, --echoing with the antiphonal thunders of Jehovah andhis stern-mouthed Prophets! The passage in Josephus touching on Christis now known to have been interpolated. Authentic history does notrecord the existence of Christ. Not one of His contemporaries mentionshim. That tremendous drama in Galilee was not even commented upon by theRomans, a nation keen to notice any deviation from normal history. TheJewish records are doubtful, written centuries after His supposed death. And they are malicious. What cannot happen in two centuries? Hyzloreflected sadly upon Moslemism, upon Mormonism, upon the vagaries of astrange American sect at whose head was said to be a female pope. The similarity of circumstances in the lives of Buddha and Christ alsoannoyed him. Both were born of virgins, both renounced the world, bothwere saviours. There were the same temptations, the same happenings;prophecies, miracles, celestial rejoicings, a false disciple, the sevenbeatitudes--a reflection of the Oriental wisdom--an expiatory death andresurrection. The entire machinery of the Christian church, its saints, martyrs, festivals, ritual, and philosophies are borrowed from themythologies of the pagans. Sun-worship is the beginning of allreligions. To the genius of the epileptic Paul, or Saul, --founders ofreligions are always epilepts, --a half Greek and disciple of thePharisee Gamaliel, who saw visions and put to the sword his enemies, toPaul, called a saint, a man of overwhelming personal force, to thiscruel anarchist, relentless, half-mad fanatic and his theologicaldoctrines we owe the preservation and power of the Christian Church. Atfirst the Christians were the miserable offscourings of society, slaves, criminals, and lunatics. They burrowed in the Catacombs, they fastenedthemselves upon a decaying and magnificent civilization like theparasites they were. A series of political catastrophes, a popularuprising against the rotten emperors of decadent Rome, and the widegrowth of the socialist idea--these things and an unscrupulous man, Constantine the Great, put the Christians firmly in the saddle. And sooncame cataracts of blood. If the tales of the imperial persecutions aretrue, then hath Christianity been revenged a million fold; where herskirt has trailed there has been the cruel stain of slaughter. It mustnot be forgotten, too, that immorality of the grossest sort was promisedthe deluded sectarians, compared with which the Mahometan paradise isspiritual. And the end of the world was predicted at the end of everycentury, and finally relegated to the millennial celebration ofChristianity's birth. When, in 1000 A. D. , this catastrophe didnot occur, the faith received its first great shock. He summoned to his memory a cloud of witnesses, all contradictory. Josephus was barred. Philo Judæus, who was living near the centre ofthings, an observer on the scent of the spiritual, a man acquainted withthe writings of Rabbi Hillel, and the father of Neoplatonism--nevermentions Jesus, nor does he speak of any religious uprising in Judea. The passage in Virgil, which has through the doubtful testimony ofmonkish writers been construed into a prophecy of a forthcoming Messiah, Hyzlo, who was a scholar, knew to have been addressed to a son ofVirgil's intimate friend. Tacitus, too, has been interpolated. Seneca'sideal man is not Jesus, for Jesus is Osiris, Horus, Krishna, Mithra, Hercules, Adonis, --think of this beautiful young god's death!--Buddha. Such a mock trial and death could not have taken place under the Romanor Jewish laws. The sacraments derive from the Greeks, from theIndians--the mysteries of Ceres and Bacchus, from the _Haoma_ sacrificeof the Persians, originally Brahmanic. The Trinity, was it not a relicof that ineradicable desire for polytheism implanted in the human bosom?Was the crucifixion but a memory of those darker cults and bloodsacrifices of Asia, and also of the expiating goats sent out into thewilderness? What became of that Hosanna-shouting crowd which welcomedChrist on Palm Sunday? And there never were such places as Gethsemaneand Calvary. Alas! the Son of Man had indeed no spot to lay his head. And why had He made no sign when on earth! Brother Hyzlo wept bittertears. But he wiped them away as he considered the similarity of the massacreof the Innocents in Judea and the massacre of the male children orderedby the wicked Indian Rajah of Madura, who feared the Krishna, justconceived by divine agency. Yes, the chronicles were full of these godsborn of virgins, of crucifixions, --he could remember sixteen, --of thesesolar myths. He caught tripping in a thousand cases the translations ofour holy books. The Ox and Ass legend at the Nativity he realized wasthe Pseudo-Matthew's description to Habakkuk of the literal presence:"In the midst of two animals thou shalt be known;" which is amistranslated Hebrew text in the Prayer ascribed to Habakkuk. It gotinto the Greek Septuagint version of the Prophet made by Egyptian Jewsbefore 150 B. C. It should read, "in the midst of the years, "not "animals. " "Ah!" cried Hyzlo, "in this as in important cardinaldoctrines have the faithful been the slaves of the learned andunscrupulous pious forgers. Even the notorious Apollonius of Tyanaimitated the miracles of Christ--all of them. And what of that wickedwizard, Simon Magus?" The very repetition of these miracles in all races, at all epochs, pointed to the doctrine of recurrence. But back of all the negations, back of the inexpugnable proof that no such man or God as Christexisted, or was known to his contemporaries, Jewish and Roman, theremust have been some legend which had crystallized into a mightyreligion. Was He an agitator who preferred His obscurity that His glorymight be all the greater? There _must_ have been a beginning to themyth; behind the gospels--though they are obviously imitated from theolder testaments, imitated and diluted--were unknown writings; previousto these there was word of mouth and--and ... ? The day had advanced, the sun was very warm. A shaft of light fell uponthe cold stone floor, and in its fiery particles darted myriads ofmotes. Hyzlo followed their spiral flights, thinking all the while ofhumanity which flashes from out the dark void, plays madly in the light, only to vanish into the unknown night. His gaze was held by thesmoothness of the flagging at his feet. Then it became transformed intomarble, the walls of his cell widened, and he closed his eyes, soblinding were the long ladders of light.... II TWO DREAMERS He opened them ... The harbour with its army of galleys and pleasurecraft lay in the burning sunshine, its surface a sapphire blue. Overheadthe sky echoed this tone, which modulated into deeper notes of purple onthe far-away hills whose tops were wreathed in mist. Under his sandalledfeet was marble, back of him were the gleaming spires and towers of thegreat city, and at his left was a mountain of shining marble, thePharos. "Alexandria?" he called out as he was jostled by a melon-seller, andstartled by the fluted invitations of a young girl--an antique statuecome to life. "Of course it is Alexandria, " replied a deep, harsh voice at his elbow. He turned. It was his friend Philo. "You have at last emerged from your day-dream, Hyzlo! I thought, as ourbark clove the water, that you were enjoying visions. " And it seemed toHyzlo that he had just awakened from a bizarre dream of a monastic cell, to more beautiful sights and shapes and sounds. The pair now traversedthe quay, past the signal masts, the fortified towers, pushing throughthe throng of sailors, courtesans, philosophers, fruitsellers, soldiers, beggars, and idle rich toward the spacious city. Past the palace to thewall of the Canal, along the banks of the Royal Port, they finallystruck into a broad, deserted avenue. At its head was a garden wall. Philo introduced himself and his companion through a low door andpresently they were both in an apartment full of parchments, glitteringbrass and gold instruments all reposing on a wide, long table. "Hyzlo, " said the Jewish philosopher, in his slightly accented Greek, "Ihave long promised you that I would reveal to you my secret, my lifework. I am downcast by sadness. Rome is full of warring cults, Greek, African, Babylonian, Buddhistic; the writings of the great teachers, themasters, Heraclitus, Zeno, Anaxagoras, Plato, Socrates, Epictetus, Seneca, are overlaid with heretical emendations. The religion of myfellow-countrymen is a fiery furnace, Jerusalem a den of warringthieves. The rulers of earth are weary and turn a deaf ear on theirpeoples. The time is ripe for revolt. Sick of the accursed luxury anddebauchery, fearful of the threatening barbarians from Asia and theboreal regions, who are hemming the civilized world, waiting likevultures for the first sign of weakness to destroy everything, theslaves in revolt--all these impending terrors assure me that the end ofthe old order is at hand. But what will become of the new if there is nocentral belief to steady the ensanguined hands of furious mobs? Foryears I have bethought me of a drama, a gigantic world-drama which shallembody all the myths of mankind, all the noblest thoughts of thephilosophers. I shall take the Buddha myth, surely the supreme myth, andtranspose its characters to Jerusalem. A humble Jew shall be _my_Buddha. He shall be my revenge on our conquerors; for my people havebeen trampled upon by the insolent Romans, and who knows--a Jewish God, a crucified God, may be worshipped in the stead of Jupiter and his vilepantheon of gods and goddesses! _One_ God, the son of Jahveh who comesupon earth to save mankind, is crucified and killed, is resurrected andlike Elijah is caught up to heaven in a fiery chariot. But you know theusual style of these Asiatic legends! They are all alike; a virginbirth, a miraculous life, and transfiguration. That sums up myths fromAdonis to Krishna, from Krishna to Buddha; though Monotheism comes fromthe Hebrews, the Trinity from the Indians, and the _logos_ wasdeveloped by Plato. Where I am original is that I make my hero aJew--the Jews are still half-cracked enough to believe in the coming ofa Messiah. And to compass a fine dramatic moment I have introduced anincident I once witnessed in Alexandria at the landing of King Agrippa, when the populace dressed up a vagabond named Karabas as a mock king andstuck upon his head papyrus leaves for a crown, in his hand a reed for asceptre, and then saluted him as king. I shall make my Jew-God seized bythe Jews, his own blood and kin, given over to the Romans, mocked, reviled, and set aside for some thief who shall be called Karabas. Then, rejected, he shall be crucified, he a god born of a virgin, by the verypeople who are looking for their Messiah. He is their Messiah; yet theyknow it not. They shall never know it. That shall be their tragedy, thetragedy of my race, which, notwithstanding the prophecies, turned itsback upon the Messiah because he came not clothed in the purple ofroyalty. Is that not a magnificent idea for a drama?" "Excellent, " answered Hyzlo, in a critical tone; "but continue!" "You seem without enthusiasm, Hyzlo. I tell you that Æschylus, Sophocles, or Euripides never conceived a story more infinitely dramaticor pathetic, or--thanks to my Hebraic blood--so suffused with tragicirony. I shall make a very effective tableau at the death; on someforbidding stony hill near Jerusalem I shall plant my crucified hero, and near him a converted courtesan--ah! what a master of the theatre Iam!--in company with a handful of faithful disciples. The others haverun away to save their cowardly skins in the tumult. The mobs thathailed him as King of the Jews now taunt him, after the manner of allmobs. His early life I shall borrow outright from the Buddha legends. Heshall be born of a virgin; he shall live in the desert; as a child heshall confute learned doctors in the temple; and later in the desert heshall be tempted by a demon. All this is at hand. My chief point is thephilosophies in which I shall submerge my characters. "My hero shall be the _logos_ of Heraclitus with the superaddedauthority of the Hebrew high priest. You may recall the fact that Igreatly admire the Essenes and their system. My deity is a pure essence;not Jehovah the protector or avenger. The _logos_, or mediator, I haveborrowed from the writings of the Greek philosophers. This _logos_returns to the bosom of God after the sacrifice. Greek philosophycombined with Hebraic moral principles! Ah! it is grand synthesis;Seneca with his conception of a perfected humanity, Lucretius, Manlius--who called, rightfully too, Epicurus a god--and Heraclitus withthe first idea of a _logos_: all these ancient ideas I have worked intomy romantic play, including the old cult of the Trinities; theBuddhistic: Buddha, Dharma, and Saingha; the Chinese: Heaven, Earth, and Emperor; the Babylonian: Ea, the father, Marduk, the son, and theFire God, Gibil, who is also the Paraclete. So my philosophy is merely acontinuation and modification of that taught by Heraclitus and Plato, but with a Jewish background--for _mine_ is the only moral nation. Thewisdom of the Rabbis, their Monotheism and ethics, are all there. " Hiseyes were ablaze. "You are very erudite, Philo Judæus!" exclaimed his listener; "but, tellme, is there no actual foundation for your Jewish god?" Hyzlo eagerlyawaited a reply, though he could not account for this curiosity. "Yes, " answered Philo, lightly, "there is, I freely acknowledge, aslight foundation. Some years ago in Jerusalem they arrested apoverty-stricken fanatic, the son of a Jewess. His father was said tohave been an indigent and aged carpenter. This Joshua, or Ieshua, wasdriven out of Jerusalem, and he took refuge among a lot of poorfishermen on Lake Gennesareth. There he joined a sect called theBaptists, because their founder, a socialist named Ioakanaan, pouredwater on the heads of the converted. Ieshua never married and wassuspected of idolatrous practices, which he had absorbed from hermits ofthe Egyptian Thebaïd. Josephus, a wise friend and companion of my youth, wrote me these details. He said that Ieshua disappeared after his madattempt to take Jerusalem by storm, riding--as is depicted the BonaDea--on the back of a humble animal. Yet, if you wish to appeal to thecommon folk, make your hero a deposed king or divinity, who walksfamiliarly among the poor, as walked the gods at the dawn of time withthe daughters of men. I depict my protagonist as a half-cracked Jew. Icall him Iesus Christos--after Krishna; and this poor man's god proposesto redeem the world, to place the lowly in the seats of the mighty--heis an Anarchos, as they would say in Athens. He promises the Kingdom ofGod to those who follow him; but only a few do. He is the friend ofoutcasts, prostitutes, criminals. And though he does not triumph onearth, nevertheless he is the spiritual ruler of earth; he is the Son ofthe Trinity which comprises the Father and Holy Ghost. The contendingforces to my hero will be incarnated by Pontius Pilatus, the Romangovernor, and Judas of Kerioth, a very dangerous and powerful Hebrewpolitician--a man of very liberal ideas, one who believed in thesupremacy of the West. What a glorious play it will make! I have namedit The Third Kingdom, Hyzlo. What a glorious idea it is, Hyzlo--thegreatest drama the world has ever witnessed!" III THE DOVE "The greatest drama the world has ever witnessed" ... Mumbled hisdisciple.... The sun still shone on the cold stone flagging, and uponthe wall facing him hung the crucifix. But the motes no longer dancedmerrily in the light. Evening was setting in apace, and Hyzlo, acceptingone dream as equal in veracity with the other, crossed to the embrasureand, his elbows on the sill, watched the sun--looking like asulphur-coloured cymbal--sink behind the sky-line. He was still in thesame attitude when the blue of the heavens--ah! but not that gorgeous, hard Alexandrian blue--melted into peacock and cool saffron hues. Hemused aloud:-- "By the very nature of his mental organs man can never grasp reality. Itis always the sensation, never the real thing, he feels. Themetaphysicians are right. We can never know the actual world outside ofourselves. We are imprisoned in a dream cage; the globe itself is a cageof echoes. Science, instead of contradicting religion, has but affirmedits truths. Matter is radiant energy--matter is electric phenomenon. Thegerm-plasma from which we stem--the red clay of Genesis--is eternal. Theindividual is sacrificed to the species. The species never dies. And howbeautifully logical is the order of our ancestry as demonstrated by thescience of embryology. Fish, batrachians, reptiles, mammals; in whichlatter are included the marsupials as well as lemurs, primates, Man. Andafter what struggles Man assumed an erect position and looked into theeyes of his mate! After Man? Nietzsche preaches that man is a linkbetween the primate and Superman; Superman--the angels! But intelligencein man may be an accident caused by over-nutrition, the brain developingfrom rich phosphors. If this were so--how would fall to earth our houseof pride! Are we so close to the animal? But Quinton proves that _after_man in the zoölogical series comes the bird. Birds--half reptiles, halfangels. Angels! Do evolution and revelation meet here on common ground?Or was Joachim, the Abbot of Flores, inspired when he wrote of the ThirdKingdom, that Kingdom in which the empire of the flesh is swallowed upin the empire of the spirit; that Third Kingdom in which thetwin-natured shall reign, as Ibsen declares; the Messiah--neitherEmperor nor Redeemer, but the Emperor-God. The slime shall become sapand the sap become spirit! From gorilla to God! Man in the coming ThirdKingdom may say: "I, too, am a god. " But is this not blasphemous? Andafter the wheel of the universe has again revolved, will I see, asforesaw Nietzsche, the selfsame spider, the same moonlight? There isnothing new under the sun, says Ecclesiastes. Wretched man is never toknow the entire truth but will be always at daggers drawn with hisdestiny. After classic Paganism came romantic Christianity; after theromantic will the pendulum swing back--or--alas! is there coming anotherhorde of atheists with a new Attila at their head?" He threw himself before the crucifix and sobbed. "Lord Jesus, Our Christ! Thou art the real Christ and not the fiction ofthat supersubtle Greek-Jewish and boastful philosopher in Alexandria!Make for me, O God, a sign! Give me back in all its purity my faith;faith, noblest gift of all! Oh! to hear once more the thrilling of theharps divine, whereon the dawn plays, those precursors of the EternalHarmony! _Gloria in Excelsis_. " He remained prostrate, his heart nolonger battered by doubts and swimming in blissful love for hiscrucified God. The celestial hurricane subsided in his bosom; he aroseand again interrogated the heavens. The stars in the profound splendoursof the sky stared at him like the naked eyes of _houris_. Suddenly avast white cloud sailed over the edge of the horizon and as itapproached his habitation assumed the shape of a monstrous dove, itsfleecy wings moving in solemn rhythms. In the resurgence of his hopesthis apparition was the coveted sign from the Almighty. And flat upon the floor of his cell, his face abased in the dust, Hyzloworshipped in epileptic frenzy, crying aloud, after the manner of thesad-tongued Preacher:-- "The thing that hath been, it _is_ that which shall be!" XI THE HAUNTED HARPSICHORD [In the Style of Mock-Mediæval Fiction] I told Michael to look sharply to his horse. It was dusk; a few bits oftorn clouds, unresolved modulations of nebulous lace, trembled over thepink pit in the west, wherein had sunk the sun; and one evening star, silver pointed, told the tale of another spent day. Michael was surly, I was impatient, and the groom, who lagged in therear, whistled softly; but I knew that both men were tired and hungry, and so were the horses. The road, hard and free from dust, echoed theresilient hoof-falls of our beasts. The early evening was finely cool, for it was the month of September. We had lost our way. Green fields oneither side, and before us the path declined down a steep slope, thatlost itself in huddled foliage. Michael spoke up:-- "We are astray. I knew this damnable excursion would lead to no good. " I gently chided him. "Pooh, you braggart! Even Arnold, who rides a brutea world too wide for him, has not uttered a complaint. Brave Michael, ifher ladyship heard you now!" His face grew hard as he muttered:-- "Her ladyship! may all the saints in the calendar watch over herladyship! But I wish she had never taken you at your hot-headed word. Then we would not have launched upon this madcap adventure. " I grew stern. "Her ladyship, I bid you remember, my worthy man, is ourmistress, and it ill behooves you to question her commands, especiallyin the presence of a groom. " Michael growled, and then the sudden turn in the road startled ourhorses on a gallop, and for a quarter of an hour we thrashed our wayahead in the twilight. We had entered a small thicket when anejaculation from Arnold--who had been riding abreast--brought us all upto a sharp standstill. "There's a light, " said the groom, in a most tranquil manner, pointinghis heavy crop stick to the left. How we had missed seeing the inn fromthe crest of the hill was strange. A hundred yards away stood a low, red-tiled house, with lights burning downstairs, and an unmistakable airof hostlery for man and beast. We veered at once in our course, and in afew minutes were hallooing for the host or the hostler. "Now I hope that you are satisfied, my friend, " I said exultantly toMichael, who only grunted as he swung off his animal. Arnold followed, and soon we were chatting with an amiable old man in a white cap andapron, who had run out of the house when we shouted. "Amboise?" he answered me when I told him of our destination. "Amboise;why, sirrah, you are a good five leagues from Amboise! Step within andremain here for the night. I have plenty of convenience for you and yoursuite. " I glanced at Michael, but he was busily employed in loosening hispistols from the holster, and Arnold, in company with a lame man, ledthe horses to the stable. There was little use in vain regrets. The_other_ had the start of the half-day, and surely we could go no furtherthat night. I gritted my teeth as the little fat landlord led us intothe house. In half an hour we were smoking our pipes before a lively fire--thenight had grown chilly--and enjoying silent recollections of a round ofbeef and several bottles of fortifying burgundy. Our groom had gone to bed, and I soon saw that I could get nothing outof Michael for the present. He stared moodily into the fire. I noticedthat his pistols were handy. The host came in and asked my permission tojoin us. He felt lonely, he explained, for he was a widower, and hisonly son was away in the world somewhere. I was very glad to ease myselfwith gossip; my heart was not quite at peace with this expedition ofours. I knew what her ladyship asked of us was much, so much that only abold spirit and a thirst for the unknown could pardon the folly of thechase. I bade the innkeeper to take a seat at the fire, and soon we fell tochatting like ladies' maids. He was a Norman and curious as a cat. Heopened his inquiries delicately. "You have ridden far and fast to-day, my sir. Your horses were all butdone for. Yet there is no cloud of war in the sky and you are too farfrom Paris to be honourable envoys. I hope you like our country?" I dodged his tentative attempt at prying by asking him a questionmyself. "You don't seem to have many guests, good host? Yet do I hardly wonderat it. You are all but swallowed up in the green and too far from themain travelled road. " The little man sighed and said in sad accents: "Too true, yet theScarlet Dragon was once a thriving place, a fine money-breeding house. Before my son went away--" I interrupted him. "Your son, what is he, and where is he now?" The other became visibly agitated and puffed at his pipe some minutesbefore replying. "Alas! worthy sir, " he said at last in a lower key, "my son dare notreturn here for reasons I cannot divulge. Indeed, this was no cheerfulhouse for the boy. He had his ambitions and he left me to pursue them. " "What does he do, this youngster?" interrupted Michael, in his gruffesttones. The landlord started. "Indeed, good sir, I could not tell you, for I know not myself. " "Humph!" grunted my sullen companion; but I observed his suspiciouslittle eyes fixed persistently on the man of the inn. I turned the talk, which had threatened to languish. The old man did notrelish the questions about his son, and began deploring the poor crops. At this juncture an indefinable feeling that we were losing time instopping at this lonely place came over me. I am not superstitious, butI swear that I felt ill at ease and confused in my plans. On bended knee I had sworn to my lady that I would bring back to her thefugitive unharmed, and I would never return to her empty-handed, confessing failure. Michael's queer behaviour disconcerted me. From theoutset of the chase he had turned sour and inaccessible, and now he wasso ill-tempered that I feared he would pick a quarrel at the slightestprovocation with our host. With a strange sinking at the heart I asked about our horses. "They will be attended to, my sirs; my servant is a good boy. He ishandy, although he can't get about lively, for he was thrown in a turnipfield from our only donkey. " I was in no mood for this sort of chatter and quizzed the fellow as toour beds. "We must be off early in the morning; we have important business totransact at Amboise before the sun sets to-morrow, " I testily remarked. "At Amboise--h'm, h'm! Well, I don't mind telling you that you can reachAmboise by stroke of noon; and so you have business at Amboise, eh?" I saw Michael's brow lower at this wheedling little man's question, andanswered rather hastily and imprudently:-- "Yes, business, my good man, important business, as you will see when wereturn this road to-morrow night with the prize we are after. " Michael jumped up and cried "Damnation!" and I at once saw my mistake. The landlord's manner instantly altered. He looked at me triumphantlyand said:-- "Beds, beds! but, my honoured sirs, I have no beds in the house. Iforgot to tell you that no guest has been upstairs in years, for certainreasons. Indeed, sirs, I am so embarrassed! I should have told you atonce I have only a day trade. My regular customers would not dare tostop here over night, as the house, "--here a cunning, even sinister, look spread over the fellow's fat face--"the house bears an evilreputation. " Michael started and crossed himself, but not I. I suspected some deepdevilry and determined to discover it. "So ho? Haunted, eh? Well, ghosts and old women's stories shan't make mebudge until dawn. Go fetch more wine and open it here, mine host of theScarlet Dragon, " I roared. The little man was nonplussed, hesitated amoment, and then trotted off. I saw that Michael was at last aroused. "What diabolical fooling is this? If the place is haunted, I'm off. " "I'm damned if I am, " I said quite bravely, and more wine appeared. Weboth sat down. The air had become nipping, and the blaze on the hearth was reassuring. Besides, the wind was querulous, and I didn't fancy a ride at midnight, even if my lady's quest were an urgent one. Michael held his peace as the wine was poured out, and I insisted on thelandlord drinking with us. We finished two bottles, and I sent for more. I foresaw that sleep was out of the question, and so determined to makea night of it. "Touching upon this ghost, " I began, when the other bade me in God'sname not to jest. There were some things, he said, not to be broached inhonest Christian company. "A fig for your scruples!" I cried, emptying my glass; my head was hotand I felt bold. "A fig, I say, for your bogie-man nonsense! Tell me atwhat time doth this phantom choose to show itself. " The landlordshivered and drew his seat closer to the fire. "Oh, sir, do not jest! What I tell you is no matter for rude laughter. Begging your pardon for my offer, if you will be patient, I will relateto you the story, and how my misfortune came from this awful visitant. " Even Michael seemed placated, and after I nodded my head in token ofassent the landlord related to us this story:-- * * * * * Once upon a time, sirs, when the great and good Louis, sixteenth of hisname, was King of France, this domain was the property of the Duke ofLanglois. The duke was proud and rich, and prouder and haughtier was hisduchess, who was born Berri. Ah! they were mighty folk then, before theRevolution came with its sharp axes to clip off their heads. This innwas the stable of the château, which stood off yonder in the woods. Alas! nothing remains of it to-day but a few blackened foundations, forit was burned to the earth by the red devils in '93. But at the time Ispeak of, the château was a big, rich palace, full of gay folk; all thenobility came there, and the duchess ruled the land. She was crazy for music, and to such lengths did she go in her madnessthat she even invited as her guests celebrated composers and singers. The duke was old-fashioned and hated those crazy people who lived onlyto hum and strum. He would have none of them, and quarrels with hisduchess were of daily occurrence. Indeed, sirs, so bad did it becomethat he swore that he would leave the house if Messire Gluck, or MessirePiccini, or any of the other strolling vagabonds--so the duke calledthem--entered his château. And he kept his word, did the duke. TheChevalier Gluck, a fine, shapely man, was invited down by the duchessand amused her and her guests by playing his wonderful tunes on thebeautiful harpsichord in the great salon. The duke would have none of this nonsense and went to Paris, where heamused himself gambling and throwing gold into his mistresses' laps. Theduchess kept right on, and then the gossips of the neighbourhood beganto wag their busy tongues. The lady of the château was getting very finepleasure from the company of the handsome Austrian chevalier. It waswhispered that the Queen Marie Antoinette had looked with favourableeyes upon the composer, and, furthermore, had lent him certain moneys tofurther his schemes for reforming the stage. Reform, forsooth! all he cared for was the company of the duchess, andhe vowed that he could make better music at the château than up in noisyParis. On a fine afternoon it is said that it was no uncommon sight tosee the chevalier, all togged up in his bravest court costume, sword andall, sitting at his harpsichord, playing ravishing music. This was outin the pretty little park back of the château, and the duchess would sitat Gluck's side and pour out champagne for him. All this may have beenidle talk, but at last the duke got wind of the rumours, and one nighthe surprised the pair playing a duo at the harpsichord, and stabbed themboth dead. Since then the château was burned down, but the place has been haunted. I, myself, good gentlemen, have heard ghostly music, and I swear toyou-- "Oh, my God, listen, listen!" "What pagan nonsense!" blurted out Michael. I cautioned silence, and we all listened. The old man had slid off hischair, and his face was chalky white. Michael's ugly mouth was halfopened in his black beard, and I confess that I felt rather chilly. Music, faint, tinkling, we certainly heard. It came with the wind inlittle sobs, and then silence settled upon us. "It's the Chevalier Gluck, and he is playing to his duchess out in thefields. See, I will open the door and show you, " whispered the fatlandlord. He went slowly to the door, and we followed him breathlessly. The doorwas pushed open, and we peered out. The wind was still high, and themoon rode among rolling boulders of yellow, fleecy clouds. "There, there, over yonder, look; Mother of Christ, look at the ghost!"the old man pointed a shaking hand. Just then the moonlight was blackened by a big cloud, and we heard thetinkling music of a harpsichord again, but could see naught. The soundswere plainer now, and presently resolved into the rhythmic accents of agavotte. But it seemed far away and very plaintive! "Hark, " said Michael, in a hoarse voice. "That's the gavotte fromPagliacci. Listen! Don't you remember it?" "Pshaw!" I said roughly, for my nerves were all astir. "It's the Alcestemusic of Gluck. " "Look, look, gentlemen!" called our host, and as the moon glowed againin the blue we saw at the edge of the forest a white figure, saw it, Iswear, although it vanished at once and the music ceased. I started tofollow, but Michael and the old man seized my arms, the door was closedwith a crash, and we found ourselves staring blankly into the fire, allfeeling a bit shaken up. It was Michael's turn to speak. "You may do what you please, but I stayhere for the night, no sleep for me, " and he placed his pistols on hisknee. I looked at the landlord and I thought I saw an expression ofdisappointment on his face, but I was not sure. He made some excuseabout being tired and went out of the room. We spent the rest of thenight in gloomy silence. We did not speak five words, for I saw thatconversation only irritated my companion. At dawn we walked into the sweet air and I called loudly for Arnold, wholooked sleepy and out of sorts when he appeared. The fat old man came tosee us off and smilingly accepted the silver I put into his hand for ournight's reckoning. "Au revoir, my old friend, " I said as I pressed the unnecessary spurinto my horse's flank. "Au revoir, and look out for the ghost of thegallant Chevalier Gluck. Tell him, with my compliments, not to playsuch latter-day tunes as the gavotte from Pagliacci. " "Oh, I'll tell him, you may be sure, " said he, quite dryly. We saluted and dashed down the road to Amboise, where we hoped tocapture our rare prize. We had ridden about a mile when a dog attempted to cross our path. Weall but ran the poor brute down. "Why, it's lame!" exclaimed Arnold. "Oh, if it were but a lame man, instead of a dog!" fervently said thegroom, who was in the secret of our quest. A horrid oath rang out on the smoky morning air. Michael, his wickedeyes bulging fiercely, his thick neck swollen with rage, was cursinglike the army in Flanders, as related by dear old Uncle Toby. "Lame man! why, oddsbodkins, that hostler was lame! Oh, fooled, by God!cheated, fooled, swindled and tricked by that scamp and scullion of theinn! Oh, we've been nicely swindled by an old wives' tale of a ghost!" I stared in sheer amazement at Michael, wondering if the strangely spentnight had upset his reason. He could only splutter out between his awfulcurses:-- "Gluck, the rascal, the ghost, the man we're after! Thatharpsichord--the lying knave--that tune--I swear it wasn't Gluck--oh, the rascal has escaped again! The ghost story--the villain was told toscare us out of the house--to put us off the track. A thousand devilschase the scamp!" And Michael let his head drop on the pommel of hissaddle as he fairly groaned in the bitterness of defeat. I had just begun a dignified rebuke, for Michael's language wasinexcusable, when it flashed upon me that we had been, indeed, duped. "Ah, " I cried, in my fury, "of course we were taken in! Of course hisson was the lame hostler, the very prize we expected to bag! O Lord!what will we say to my lady? We are precious sharp! I ought to haveknown better. That stuff he told us! Langlois, pshaw, Berri--pouf! ABerri never married a Langlois, and I might have remembered that Gluckwasn't assassinated by a jealous duke. What shall we do?" We all stood in the middle of the road, gazing stupidly at the lame dogthat gave us the clue. Then Arnold timidly suggested:-- "Hadn't we better go back to the inn?" Instantly our horses' heads were turned and we galloped madly back onour old tracks. Not a word was uttered until we reined up in front ofthe lonely house, which looked more haunted by daylight than it did thenight before. "What did I tell you?" suddenly cried Michael. "What do you mean?" I asked. "Over there, you blind bat!" he said, coarsely and impatiently; andpulling out his pistol he fired thrice, and a low, melodious soundfollowed the reports of his weapon. When the smoke cleared away I sawthat he had hit an old harpsichord which stood against a tree, facingthe house. "The ghost!" we yelled, and then we laughed consumedly. But the shotsthat winged the old-fashioned instrument had a greater result. The fathost appeared on the edge of the forest, and he waved a large napkin asa flag of truce. With him was the lame hostler. "Mercy, gentlemen, mercy, we beseech you!" he cried, and we soonsurrounded both and bound them securely. "You will pay dearly for the trick you put upon us, my man, " saidMichael, grimly, and, walking our horses, we went by easy stages towardthe castle, towing our prisoners along. When I fetched the lame man to my lady, her face glowed with joy, andher Parisian eyes grew brilliant with victory. "So you tried to escape?" she cruelly asked of the poor, coweringwretch. "You will never get another chance, I'll warrant me. Go, let theservants put you to work in the large music room first. Begin with thegrands, then follow with the uprights. Thank you, gentlemen both, forthe courage and finesse you displayed in this desperate quest. I'll seethat you are both suitably rewarded. " I fancied that Michael regardedme sardonically, but he held his peace about the night's adventures. We had indeed reason to feel flattered at the success of the dangerousexpedition. Had we not captured, more by sheer good luck than strategy, the only piano-tuner in mediæval France? XII THE TRAGIC WALL I BY THE DARK POOL It was not so high, the wall, as massive, not so old as moss-covered. After Rudolph Côt, the painter, had achieved celebrity with hishistorical canvas, The Death of the Antique World, now in the Louvre, hebought the estate of Chalfontaine, which lies at the junction of twohighroads: one leading to Ecouen, the other to Villiers-le-Bel. Almosttouching the end of the park on the Ecouen side there is a little lake, hardly larger than a pool, and because of its melancholyaspect--sorrowful willows hem it about, drooping into stagnantwaters--Monsieur Côt had christened the spot: The Dark Tarn of Auber. Hewas a fanatical lover of Poe, reading him in the Baudelaire translation, and openly avowing his preference for the French version of the greatAmerican's tales. That he could speak only five words of English did notdeter his associates from considering him a profound critic ofliterature. After his death his property and invested wealth passed into the handsof his youthful widow, a charming lady, a native of Burgundy, and--ifgossip did not lie--a former model of the artist; indeed, some went sofar as to assert that her face could be seen in her late husband'smasterpiece--the figure of a young Greek slave attired as a joyousbacchante. But her friends always denied this. Her dignified bearing, sincere sorrow for her dead husband, and her motherly solicitude for herdaughter left no doubt as to the value of all petty talk. It was hercustom of summer evenings to walk to the pool, and with her daughterBerenice she would sit on the broad wall and watch the moon rise, oracknowledge the respectful salutations of the country folk with theirbran-speckled faces. In those days Villiers-le-Bel was a dull town ahalf-hour from Paris on the Northern Railway, and about two miles fromthe station. The widow was not long without offers. Her usual answer was to point outthe tiny Berenice, playing in the garden with her nurse. Then alandscape painter, one of the Barbizon group, appeared, and, as a formerassociate of Rudolph Côt, and a man of means and position, his suit wassuccessful. To the astonishment of Villiers-le-Bel, Madame Valerie Côtbecame Madame Théophile Mineur; on the day of the wedding littleBerenice--named after a particularly uncanny heroine of Poe's by hisrelentless French admirer--scratched the long features of herstepfather. The entire town accepted this as a distressing omen and itwas not deceived; Berenice Côt grew up in the likeness of a determinedyoung lady whose mother weakly endured her tyranny, whose new fathersecretly feared her. At the age of eighteen she had refused nearly all the young paintersbetween Ecouen and Domaine de Vallières; and had spent several summersin England, and four years at a Lausanne school. She feared neither mannor mouse, and once, when she saw a famous Polish pianist walking on histerrace at Morges, she took him by the hand, asked for a lock of hishair, and was not refused by the amiable virtuoso. After that Berenicewas the acknowledged leader of her class. The teachers trembled beforeher sparkling, wrathful black eyes. At home she ruled the household, andas she was an heiress no one dared to contradict her. Her contempt forher stepfather was only matched by her impatience in the company ofyoung men. She pretended--so her intimates said--to loathe them. "Frivolous idiots" was her mildest form of reproof when an ambitious boywould trench upon her pet art theories or attempt to flirt. She calledher mother "the lamb" and her stepfather "the parrot"--he had a longcurved nose; all together she was very unlike the pattern French girl. Her favourite lounging place was the wall, and after she had draped itwith a scarlet shawl and perched herself upon it, she was only toohappy to worry any unfortunate man who presented himself. The night Hubert Falcroft called at Chalfontaine Mademoiselle ÉliseEvergonde told him that her cousin, Madame Mineur, and Berenice had gonein the direction of the pool. He had walked over from the station, preferring the open air to the stuffy train. So a few vigorous stepsbrought to his view mother and daughter as they slowly moved, encirclingeach other's waist. The painter paused and noted the general lovelinessof the picture; the setting sun had splashed the blue basin overheadwith delicate pinks, and in the fretted edges of some high floatingcloud-fleece there was a glint of fire. The smooth grass parquet sweptgracefully to the semicircle of dark green trees, against the foliage ofwhich the virginal white of the gowns was transposed to an ivory tone bythe blue and green keys in sky and forest. "By Jove!" he exclaimed, "paint in the foreground a few peacockslanguidly dragging their gorgeous tails, and you have a Watteau or aFragonard--no, a Monticelli! Only, Monticelli would have made thepeacocks the central motive with the women and trees as an arabesque. " He was a portraitist who solemnly believed in the principle ofdecoration--character must take its chances when he painted. Falcroftwas successful with women's heads, which he was fond of depicting inmisty shadows framed by luxurious accessories. They called him theMaster of Chiffon, at Julien's; when he threw overboard his old friendsand joined the new crowd, their indignation was great. His title now wasthe Ribbon Impressionist, and at the last salon of the Independents, Falcroft had the mortification of seeing a battalion of his formercompanions at anchor in front of his picture, The Lady with the Cat, which they reviled for at least an hour. He was an American who hadlived his life long in France, and only showed race in his nervous, brilliant technic and his fondness for bizarre subjects.... He had not stood many minutes when a young voice saluted him:-- "Ah, Monsieur Falcroft. Come, come quickly. Mamma is delighted to seeyou!" His mental picture was decomposed by the repeated waving of thefamous shawl, which only came into view as Berenice turned. Hubertregretted that she had not worn it--the peacocks could have beenexchanged for its vivid note of scarlet. Pretending not to have heardher speech, he gravely saluted the mother and daughter. But Berenice wasunabashed. "Mamma was wondering if you would visit us to-night, Monsieur Falcroft, when I saw you staring at us as if we were ghosts. " A burst of maliciouslaughter followed. "Berenice, Berenice, " remonstrated her mother, "when will you cease suchtasteless remarks!" She blushed in her pretty matronly fashion and puther hand on her daughter's mouth. "Don't mind her, Madame Mineur! I like to meet a French girl with alittle unconventionality. Berenice reminds me now of an English girl--" "Or one of your own countrywomen!" interrupted Berenice; "andplease--_Miss_, after this, I am a grown young lady. " He joined in themerriment. She was not to be resisted and he wished--no, he did notwish--but he thought, that if he were younger, what gay days he mighthave. Yet he admired her mother much more. Elaine Côt-Mineur was anold-fashioned woman, gentle, reserved, and at the age when her beautyhad a rare autumnal quality--the very apex of its perfection; in a fewyears, in a year, perhaps, the change would come and crabbed winter setin. He particularly admired the oval of her face, her soft brown eyes, and the harmonious contour of her head. He saw her instantly with apainter's imagination--filmy lace must modulate about her head like adreamy aureole; across her figure a scarf of yellow silk; in her handshe would paint a crystal vase, and in the vase one rose with a heart ofsulphur. And her eyes would gaze as if she saw the symbol of herage--the days slipping away like ropes of sand from her grasp. He couldmake a fascinating portrait he thought, and he said so. Instantlyanother peal of irritating laughter came from Berenice:-- "Don't tell papa. He is _so_ jealous of the portrait he tried to make ofmamma last summer. You never saw it! It's awful. It's hid away behind alot of canvases in the atelier. It looks like a Cézanne still-life. I'llshow it to you sometime. " Her mother revealed annoyance by compressingher lips. Falcroft said nothing. They had skirted the pool in singlefile, for the path was narrow and the denseness of the trees caused apartial obscurity. When they reached the wall, the moon was rising inthe eastern sky. "_L'heure exquise_, " murmured Madame Mineur. Berenice wandered down theroad and Hubert helped her mother to the wall, where he sat beside herand looked at her. He was a big, muscular man with shaven cheeks, darkeyes, and plenty of tumbled hair, in which flecks of gray were showing. He had been a classmate of Théophile Mineur, for whose talents orpersonality he had never betrayed much liking. But one day at a_déjeûner_, which had prolonged itself until evening, Mineur insisted onhis old friend--the Burgundy was old, too--accompanying him toVilliers-le-Bel, and not without a motive. He knew Falcroft to be rich, and he would not be sorry to see his capricious and mischievousstepdaughter well settled. But Falcroft immediately paid court to MadameMineur, and Berenice had to content herself with watching him and makingfun to her stepfather of the American painter's height and gestures. The visit had been repeated. Berenice was amused by a dinner _en ville_and a theatre party, and then Hubert Falcroft became a friend of thehousehold. When Mineur was away painting, the visits were notinterrupted. "Listen, " said Madame Mineur; "I wish to speak with you seriously, mydear friend. " She made a movement as if to place her hand on hisshoulder, but his expression--his face was in the light--caused her totransfer her plump fingers to her coiffure, which she toucheddexterously. Hubert was disappointed. "I am listening, " he answered; "is it a sermon, or consent--to thatportrait? Come, give in--Elaine. " He had never called her by this namebefore, and he anxiously awaited the result. But she did not relax hergrave attitude. "You must know, Monsieur Falcroft, what anxieties we undergo aboutBerenice. She is too wild for a French girl, too wild for her age--" "Oh, let her enjoy her youth, " he interrupted. "Alas! that youth will be soon a thing of the past, " she sighed. "Berenice is past eighteen, and her father and I must consider herfuture. Figure to yourself--she dislikes young men, eligible or not, andyou are the only man she tolerates. " "And I am hopelessly ineligible, " he laughingly said. "Why?" asked the mother, quietly. "Why! Do you know that I am nearing forty? Do you see the pepper andsalt in my hair? After one passes twoscore it is time to think of thepast, not of the future. I am over the brow of the hill; I see the easydecline of the road--it doesn't seem as long as when I climbed the otherhalf. " He smiled, threw back his strong shoulders, and inhaled a hugebreath of air. "Truly you are childish, " she said; "you are at the best part of yourlife, of your career. Yes, Théophile, my husband, who is so chary in hispraise, said that you would go far if you cared. " Her low, warm voice, with its pleading inflections, thrilled him. He took her by the wrist. "And would it please _you_, if I went far?" She trembled. "Not too far, dear friend--remember Berenice. " "I remember no one but you, " he impatiently answered; and relaxing hishold, he moved so that the moonlight shone on her face. She was pale. Inher eyes there were fright and hope, decision and delight. He admiredher more than ever. "Let me paint you, Elaine, these next few weeks. It will be a surprisefor Mineur. And I shall have something to cherish. Never mind aboutBerenice. She is a child. I am a middle-aged man. Between us is thewall--of the years. Never should it be climbed. While you--" "Be careful--Hubert. Théophile is your friend. " "He is not. I never cared for him. He dragged me out here after he hadbeen drinking too much, and when I saw you I could not stay away. Hearme--I insist! Berenice is nice, but the wall is too high for her toclimb; it might prove a--" "How do you know the wall is too steep for Berenice?" the girl cried asshe scaled the top with apish agility, where, after a few mocking stepsin the moonlight, she sank down breathless beside Hubert, and laughed soloudly that her mother was fearful of hysteria. "Berenice! Berenice!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Berenice is all right, mamma. Master Hubert, I want you to paint myportrait before papa returns--that's to be in four weeks, isn't it?" Theelder pair regarded her disconcertedly. "Oh, you needn't look so dismal. I'll not tell tales out of school. Hubert and mamma flirting! What a glorious jest! Isn't life a jest, Hubert? Let's make a bargain! If you paint mamma, you paint me, also. Then--you see--papa will not be jealous, and--and--" She was near tearsher mother felt, and she leaned over Hubert and took the girl's hand. She grazed the long fingers of the painter, who at once caught bothfeminine hands in his. "Now I have you both, " he boasted, and was shocked by a vicious tap onthe cheek--Berenice in rage pulled her left hand free. Silence ensued. Hubert prudently began to roll another cigarette, and Madame Mineurretreated out of the moonlight, while Berenice turned her back and soonbegan to hum. The artist spoke first: "See here, you silly Berenice, turn around! I want to talk to you like aDutch uncle--as we say in the United States. Of course I'll paint you. But I begin with your mother. And if you wish me to like you better thanever, don't say such things as you did. It hurts your--mother. " Hisvoice dropped into its deepest bass. She faced him, and he saw theglitter of wet eyelashes. She was charming, with her hair in disorder, her eyes two burning points of fire. "I beg your pardon, mamma; I beg your pardon, Hubert. I'll be good therest of this evening. Isn't it lovely?" She sniffed in the breeze withdilating nostrils, and the wild look of her set him to wondering howsuch a gentle mother could have such a gypsy daughter. Perhaps it wasthe father--yes, the old man had been an Apache in his youth accordingto the slang of the studios. "But you must paint me as I wish, not as you will, " resumed Berenice. "Ihate conventional portraits. Papa Mineur chills me with his cabinetpictures of haughty society ladies, their faces as stiff as theirstarched gowns. " "Oh, Berenice, will you never say polite things of your father?" "Never, " she defiantly replied. "He wouldn't believe me if I did. No, Hubert, I want to pose as Ophelia. Oh, don't laugh, please!" They couldnot help it, and she leaped to the grass and called out:-- "I don't mean a theatrical Ophelia, singing songs and spilling flowers;I mean Ophelia drowned--" she threw herself on the sward, her armscrossed on her bosom, and in the moonlight they could see her eyesclosed as if by death. "Help me down, Hubert. That girl will go mad some day. " He reached theearth and he gave her a hand. Berenice had arisen. Sulkily she said:-- "Shall I step into the Dark Tarn of Auber and float for you? I'll make arealistic picture, my Master Painter--who paints without imagination. "And then she darted into the shrubbery and was lost to view. Withoutfurther speech the two regained the path and returned to the house. II THE CRIMSON SPLASH When Éloise was asked by Berenice how long Monsieur Mineur would remainaway on his tour, she did not reply. Rather, she put a question herself:why this sudden solicitude about the little-loved stepfather. Berenicejokingly answered that she thought of slipping away to Switzerland fora _vacance_ on her own account. Éloise, who was not agreeable looking, viewed her charge suspiciously. "Young lady, you are too deep for me. But you'll bear watching, " shegrimly confessed. Berenice skipped about her teasingly. "I know something, but I won't tell, unless you tell. " "What is it?" "Will you tell?" "Yes. " "When is he coming back, and where is he now?" she insisted. "Your father, you half-crazy child, expects to return in a month--by thefirst of June. And if you wish to wire or write him, let me know. " "Now I won't tell you _my_ secret, " and she was off like a gale of wind. Éloise shook her head and wondered. In the atelier Hubert painted. Elaine sat on a dais, her hands folded inher lap; about her head twisted nun's-veiling gave her the old-fashionedquality of a Cosway miniature--the very effect he had sought. It was tobe a "pretty" affair, this picture, with its subdued lighting, the facebeing the only target he aimed at; all the rest, the suave background, the gauzy draperies, he would brush in--suggest rather than state. "I'll paint her soul, that sensitive soul of hers which tremulouslypeeps out of her eyes, " he thought. Elaine was a patient subject. Shetook the pose naturally and scarcely breathed during the weary sittings. He recalled the early gossip and sought to evoke her as a professionalmodel. But he gave up in despair. She was hopelessly "ladylike, " and tointerpret her adequately, only the decorative patterns of earliermen--Mignard, Van Loo, Nattier, Largillière--would translate her nativedelicacy. For nearly four weeks he had laboured on the face, painting it in withmeticulous touches only to rub it out with savage disgust. To transcribethose tranquil, liquid eyes, their expression more naïve than herdaughter's--this had proved too difficult a problem for the usuallyfacile technique of Falcroft. Give him a brilliant virtuoso theme and hecould handle it with some of the sweep and splendour of the earlyCarolus Duran or the brutal elegance of the later Boldini. But MadameMineur was a pastoral. She did not express nervous gesture. She wasseldom dynamic. To "do" her in dots like the _pointillistes_ or intouches after the manner of the earlier impressionists would beridiculous. Her abiding charm was her repose. She brought to him thequiet values of an eighteenth-century eclogue--he saw her as a divinelyartificial shepherdess watching an unreal flock, while the haze ofdecorative atmosphere would envelop her, with not a vestige of real lifeon the canvas. Yet he knew her as a natural, lovable woman, a mother whohad suffered and would suffer because of her love for her only child. It was a paradox, like many other paradoxes of art. The daughter--ah! perhaps she might better suit his style. She wasadmirable in her madcap carelessness and exotic colouring. Decidedly hewould paint her when this picture was finished--if it ever would be. Berenice avoided entering the studio during these sittings. She nolonger jested with her mother about the picture, and with Hubert shepreserved such an air of dignity that he fancied he had offended her. Heusually came to Villiers-le-Bel on an early train three or four times aweek and remained at Chalfontaine until ten o'clock. Never but once hada severe storm forced him to stay overnight. Since the episode on thewall he had not attempted any further advances. He felt happy in thecompany of Elaine, and gazing into her large eyes rested his spirit. Itwas true--he no longer played with ease the rôle of a soul-hunter. Hisyouth had been troubled by many adventures, many foolish ones, and nowhe felt a calm in the midway of his life and that desire for domesticease which sooner or later overtakes all men. He fancied himselfpainting Elaine on just such tranquil summer afternoons under a softlight. And oh! the joys of long walks, discreet gossip, and dinners at awell-served table with a few chosen friends. Was he, after all, longingfor the flesh-pots of the philistine--he, Hubert Falcroft, who hadpatrolled the boulevards like other sportsmen of midnight! At last the picture began to glow with that inner light he had sopatiently pursued. Elaine Mineur looked at him from the canvas withveiled sweetness, a smile almost enigmatic lurking about her lips. Deepen a few lines and her expression would be one of contentedsleekness. _That_ Hubert had missed by a stroke. It was in her eyes thather chief glory abided. They were pathetic without resignation, liquidwithout humidity, indescribable in colouring and form. Their full cupand the accents which experience had graven under them were something hehad never dreamed of realizing. It was a Cosway; but a Cosway broadenedand without a hint of genteel namby-pamby or overelaborate finesse. Hubert was fairly satisfied. Madame Mineur had little to say. During thesittings she seldom spoke, and if their eyes met, the richness of herglance was a compensation for her lack of loquacity. Hubert did notcomplain. He was in no hurry. To be under the same roof with thisadorable woman was all that he asked. The day after he had finished his picture, he returned to Chalfontainefor the midday breakfast. Berenice was absent--in her room with aheadache, her mother explained. The weather was sultry. He questionedElaine during the meal. Had Berenice's temper improved? They passed outto the balcony where their coffee was served, and when he lighted hiscigarette, Madame Mineur begged to be excused. She had promised CousinÉloise to pay some calls. He strolled over the lawn, watching thehummocks of white clouds which piled up in architectural masses acrossthe southern sky. Then he remembered the portrait and mounted to theatelier. As he put his hand on the knob of the door he thought he heardsome one weeping. Suddenly the door was pulled from his grasp andBerenice appeared. Her hair hung on her shoulders. She was in a whitedressing-gown. Her face was red and her eyes swollen. She did notattempt to move. Affectionately Hubert caught her in his arms and askedabout her headache. "It is better, " she answered in scarcely audible accents. "Why, you poor child! I hope you are not going to be ill! Have you beenracing in the sun without your hat?" "No. I haven't been out of doors since yesterday. " "What's the matter, little Berenice? Has some one been cross with her?"She pushed him from her violently. "Hubert Falcroft, when you treat me as a woman and not as a child--" "But I am treating you as a woman, " he said. Her dark face becametragic. She had emerged from girlhood in a few hours. And as he held hercloser some perverse spirit entered into his soul. Her vibrating youthand beauty forced him to gaze into her blazing eyes until he saw thepupils contract. "Let me go!" she panted. "Let me free! I am not a doll. Go to yourportrait and worship it. Let me free!" "And what if I do not?" Something of her rebellious feeling filled hisveins. He felt younger, stronger, fiercer. He put his arms about herneck and, after a silent battle, kissed her. Then she pushed by him anddisappeared. He could see nothing, after the shock of the adventure, forsome moments, and the semi-obscurity of the atelier was grateful to hiseyes. A picture stood on the easel, but it was not, he fancied, theportrait. He went to the centre of the room where hung the cords thatcontrolled the curtains covering the glass roof. Then in the flood oflight he barely recognized the head of Elaine. It was on the easel, andwith a sharp pain at his heart he saw across the face a big crimsonsplash. * * * * * III MOON-RAYS The dewy brightness of tangled blush roses had faded in the vaguetwilight; through the aisles of the little wood leading to the pool thelight timidly flickered as Hubert and Elaine walked with the hesitatingsteps of perplexed persons. They had not spoken since they left thehouse--there in a few hurried words he told her of the accident andnoted with sorrow the look of anguish in her eyes. Without knowing why, they went in the direction of the wall. There was no moon when they reached the highroad. It would rise later, Elaine said in her low, slightly monotonous voice. Hubert was so stunnedby the memory of his ruined picture that he forgot his earlier encounterwith Berenice--that is, in describing it he had failed to minutelyrecord his behaviour. But in the cool evening air his conscience becamealive and he guiltily wondered whether he dare tell his misconduct--no, imprudence? Why not? She regarded him as a possible husband forBerenice--but how embarrassing! He made up his mind to say nothing; whenthe morrow came he would write Elaine the truth and bid her good-by. Hecould not in honour continue to visit this home where resided the womanhe loved--with a jealous daughter. Why jealous? What a puzzle, and whatan absurd one! He helped Elaine to a seat on the wall and sat near her. For several minutes neither spoke. They were again facing the pool, which looked in the dusk like a cracked mirror. "It is not clear yet to me, " murmured Elaine. "That the unfortunatechild has always been more or less morbid and sick-brained, I have beenaware. The world, marriage, and active existence will mend all that, Ihope. I fear she is a little spoilt and selfish. And she doesn't love mevery much. She has inherited all her father's passion for Poe's tales. My dear friend, she is jealous--that's the only solution of thisshocking act. She disliked the idea of my portrait from the start. Youremember on this spot hardly a month ago she challenged you to paint heras the drowned Ophelia!--and all her teasing about Monsieur Mineur andhis jealousy, and--" "Our flirtation, " added Hubert, sadly. "Oh, pray do not say such a thing! She is so hot-headed, so fond of you. Yes, I saw it from the beginning, and your talk about the insurmountablewall of middle-age did not deceive me. I only hope that will not be atragic wall for her, for you--or for me.... " Her words trailed into a mere whisper. He put his hand over hers andagain they were silent. About them the green of the forest had beentransformed by the growing night into great clumps of velvety darknessand the vault overhead was empty of stars. June airs fanned theirdiscontent into mild despair, and simultaneously they dreamed of anotherlife, of a harmonious existence far from Paris, into which the phantomof Théophile Mineur would never intrude. Yet they made no demonstrationof their affection--they would have been happy to sit and dream on thismoon-haunted wall, near this nocturnal pool, forever. Hubert picturedBerenice in her room, behind bolted doors, lying across the bed weeping, or else staring in sullen repentance at the white ceiling. Why had sheindulged in such vandalism? The portrait was utterly destroyed by theflaring smear laid on with a brush in the hand of an enraged younganimal. What sort of a woman might not develop from this tempestuousgirl! He knew that he had mortally offended her by his rudeness. But itwas after, not before, the cruel treatment of his beloved work. Yet, howlike a man had been his rapid succumbing to transitory temptation! Forit was transitory--of that he was sure. The woman he loved, with areverent love, was next to him, and if his pulse did not beat asfuriously at this moment as earlier in the day, why--all the better. Hewas through forever with his boyish recklessness. "Another peculiar thing, " broke in Elaine, as if she had been thinkingaloud, "is that Berenice has been pestering Éloise for her father'saddress. " "Her father's address?" echoed her companion. "Yes; but whether she wrote to him Éloise could not say. " "Why should she write to him? She dislikes him--dislikes him almost asmuch--" he was about to pronounce his own name. She caught him up. "Yes, that is the singular part of this singular affair. She feltslighted because you painted my portrait before hers. I confess I havehad my misgivings. You should have been more considerate of herfeelings, Hubert, my friend. " She paused and sighed. For him the sighwas a spark that blew up the magazine of his firmest resolves. He hadbeen touching her hands fraternally. His arm embraced her so that shecould not escape, as this middle-aged man told his passion with theardour of an enamoured youth. "You dare not tell me you do not care for me! Elaine--let us reason. Iloved you since the first moment I met you. It is folly to talk ofMineur and my friendship for him. I dislike, I despise him. It is follyto talk of Berenice and her childish pranks. What if she did cruellyspoil my work, _our_ work! She will get over it. Girls always do getover these things. Let us accept conditions as they are. Say you loveme--a little bit--and I'll be content to remain at your side, a friend, _always_ that. I'll paint you again--much more beautifully than before. "He was hoarse from the intensity of his feelings. The moon had risen andtipped with its silver brush the tops of the trees. "And--my husband? And Berenice?" "Let things remain as they are. " He pressed her to him. A crackling inthe underbrush and a faint plash in the lake startled them asunder. Theylistened with ears that seemed like beating hearts. There was nomovement; only a night bird plaintively piped in the distance and aclock struck the quarter. Elaine, now thoroughly frightened, tried to get down from the wall. Hubert restrained her, and as they stood thus, a moaning like the windin autumnal leaves reached them. The moon-rays began to touch the water, and suddenly a nimbus of light formed about a floating face in the pool. The luminous path broadened, and to their horror they saw Berenice, herhair outspread, her arms crossed on her young bosom, lying in the littlelake. Elaine screamed:-- "My God! My God! It is Berenice!--Berenice, I am punished for mywickedness to you!" Hubert, stunned by the vision, did not stir, as thealmost fainting mother gripped his neck. And then the eyes of the whimsical girl opened. A malicious smiledistorted her pretty face. Slowly she arose, a dripping ghost in white, and pointing her long, thin fingers in the direction of the Ecouen roadshe mockingly cried:-- "There is some one to see your portrait at last, dear Master Painter. "And saying this she vanished in the gloom, instantly followed by heragitated mother. Hubert turned toward the wall, and upon it he recognized the stepfatherof Berenice. After staring at each other like two moon-struck wights, the American spoke:-- "I swear that I, alone, am to blame for this--" The other wore the grinof a malevolent satyr. His voice was thick. "Why apologize, Hubert? You know that it has been my devoted wish thatyou marry Berenice. " He swayed on his perch. Hubert's brain was in afog. "Berenice!" said he. "Yes--Berenice. Why not? She loves you. " "Then--you--Madame Mineur--" stammered Hubert. The Frenchman placed hisfinger on his nose and slyly whispered:-- "Don't be afraid! I'll not tell my wife that I caught Berenice with youalone in the park--you Don Juan! Now to the portrait--I must see thatmasterpiece of yours. Berenice wrote me about it. " He nodded his headsleepily. "Berenice wrote you about it!" was the mechanical reply. "I'll join you and we'll go to the house. " He tried to step down, butrolled over at Hubert's feet. "What a joke is this champagne, " he growled as he was lifted to histottering legs. "We had a glorious time this afternoon before I leftParis. Hurrah! You're to be my son-in-law. And, my boy, I don't envyyou--that's the truth. With such a little demon for a wife--I pity you, pity you--hurrah!" "I am more to be despised, " muttered Hubert Falcroft, as they moved awayfrom the peaceful moonlit wall. XIII A SENTIMENTAL REBELLION I came not to send peace, but a sword.... I am come to send fire on the earth. I Her living room was a material projection of Yetta Silverman's soul. Theapartment on the north side of Tompkins Square, was small, sunny, andcomfortable. From its windows in spring and summer she could see theboys and girls playing around the big, bare park, and when her eyes grewtired of the street she rested them on her beloved books and pictures. On one wall hung the portraits of Herzen, Bakounine and Kropotkin--theFather, Son, and Holy Ghost of the anarchistic movement, as she piouslycalled them. Other images of the propaganda were scattered over thewalls: Netschajew--the St. Paul of the Nihilists--Ravachol, OctaveMirbeau, Jean Grave, Reclus, Spies, Parsons, Engels, and Lingg--the lastfour victims of the Haymarket affair, and the Fenians, Allen, Larkin, and O'Brien, the Manchester martyrs. Among the philosophers, poets, andartists were Schopenhauer, Tolstoy, Max Stirner--a rare drawing--Ibsen, Thoreau, Emerson--the great American individualists--Beethoven, Zola, Richard Strauss, Carlyle, Nietzsche, Gorky, Walt Whitman, Dostoiēwsky, Mazzini, Rodin, Constantin Meunier, Shelley, Turgénieff, Bernard Shaw, and finally the kindly face and intellectual head of the lawyer who sozealously defended the Chicago anarchists. This diversified group, together with much revolutionary literature, poems, pamphlets, the worksof Proudhon, Songs Before Sunrise, by Swinburne, and a beautiful etchingof Makart's proletarian Christ, completed, with an old squarepianoforte, the ensemble of an individual room, a room that expressed, as her admirers said, the strong, suffering soul of Yetta Silverman, Russian anarchist, agitator, and exile. "Come in, " she cried out in her sharp, though not unpleasant, voice. Athin young man entered. She clapped her hands. "Oh, so you changed your mind!" He looked at her over his glasses withhis weak, blue eyes, the white of which predominated. Simply dressed, henevertheless gave the impression of superior social station. He was ofthe New England theological-seminary type--narrow-chested, gaunt as tovisage, by temperament drawn to theology, or, in default of religiousbelief, an ardent enthusiast in sociology. The contracted temples, uncertain gaze, and absence of fulness beneath the eyes betrayed theunimaginative man. Art was a sealed book to him, though taxation fairlyfired his suspicious soul. He was nervous because he was dyspeptic, andat one time of his career he mistook stomach trouble for a call to thepulpit. And he was a millionnaire more times than he took the trouble tocount. "Yes, " he timidly replied, "I _did_ change my wavering mind--as you callthat deficient organ of mine--and so I returned. I hope I don't disturbyou!" "No, not yet. I am sitting with my hands folded in my lap, like thewomen of your class--_ladies_, you call them. " She accented the title, without bitterness. A cursory estimate of her appearance would haveplaced her in the profession of a trained nurse, or perhaps in theremotest analysis, a sewing woman of superior tastes. She was small, wiry, her head too large for her body; but the abounding nervousvitality, the harsh fire that burned in her large brown eyes, and thefirm mouth would have attracted the attention of the most careless. Hermask, with its high Slavic cheek-bones and sharp Jewish nose, proclaimedher a magnetic woman. In her quarter on the far East Side the childrencalled her "Aunt Yetta. " She was a sister of charity in the guise of arevolutionist. "You sit but you think, and _my_ ladies never think, " he answered, inhis boyish voice. He seemed proud to be so near this distinguishedcreature. Had she not been sent to Siberia, driven out of France andGermany, and arrested in New York for her incendiary speeches? Shepossessed the most extraordinary power over an audience. Once, at CooperUnion, Arthur had seen her control a crazy mob bent on destroying thebuilding because a few stupid police had interfered with the meeting. Among her brethren Yetta Silverman was classed with Louise Michel, Sophia Perowskaia, and Vera Zassoulitch, those valiant women, trueguardian angels, veritable martyrs to the cause. He thought of them ashe watched the delicate-looking young woman before him. Arthur was too chilly of blood to fall in love with her; his admirationwas purely cerebral. He was unlucky enough to have had for a father ashrewd, visionary man, that curious combination of merchant and dreameronce to be found in New England. A follower of Fourier, a friend ofEmerson, the elder Wyartz had gone to Brook Farm and had left it in afew months. Dollars, not dreams, was his true ambition. But heregistered his dissatisfaction with this futile attempt by christeninghis only son, Arthur Schopenhauer; it was old Wyartz's way of gettingeven with the ideal. Obsessed from the age of spelling by hispessimistic middle name, the boy had grown up in a cloudy compromise ofrebellion and the church. For a few years he vacillated; he went toHarvard, studied the Higher Criticism, made a trip abroad, wrote alittle book recording the contending impulses of his pale, harassedsoul--Oscillations was the title--and returned to Boston a mild anarch. Emerson the mystic, transposed to the key of France, sometimes makesbizarre music. She arose and, walking over to him, put her hand nonchalantly on hisshoulder. "Arthur, comrade, what do you mean to do with yourself--come, what willall this enthusiasm bring forth?" He fumbled his glasses with his thumband index finger--a characteristic gesture--and nervously regarded herbefore answering. Then he smiled at his idea. "We might marry and fight the great fight together like the Jenkinscrowd. " "Marry!" she exclaimed--her guttural Russian accent manifested itselfwhen she became excited--"marry! You are only a baby, ArthurSchopenhauer Wyartz--_Herrgott_, this child bears _such_ a name!--andwhile I am sure the thin Yankee blood of the Jenkins family needed aJewish wife, and a Slav, I am not that way of thinking for myself. I ammarried to the revolution. " Her eyes dwelt with reverence on her newChristian saints, those Christs of the gutter, who had sacrificed theirlives in the modern arena for the idea of liberty, who were thrown tothe wild beasts and slaughtered by the latter-day pagans of wealth, andbarbarians in purple. He followed her glance. It lashed him to jerkyenthusiasm. "I am not joking, " he earnestly asserted, "so pardon my rashness. Onlybelieve in my sincerity. I am no anarch on paper. I am devoted to yourcause and to you, Yetta, to my last heart's blood. Do you need mywealth? It is yours. You can work miracles with millions in America. Take it all. " "It's not money we need, but men, " she answered darkly. "Your millions, which came to you innocently enough, represent the misery of--how many?Let the multi-millionnaires give away their money to found theologicalcolleges and libraries--_my_ party will have none of it. Its men arearmed by the ideas that we prefer. I don't blame the rich or thepolitical tyrants--the mob has to be educated, the unhappy proletarians, who have so long submitted to the crack of the whip that they wouldn'tknow what to do with their freedom if they had it. All mobs believealike in filth and fire, whether antique slaves free for their day'sSaturnalia, or the Paris crowds of '93. Their ideas of happiness arepillage, bloodshed, drunkenness, revenge. Every popular uprising sinksthe _people_ deeper in their misery. Every bomb thrown discredits thecause of liberty. " Astonished by this concession, Arthur wondered how she had ever earnedher reputation as the Russian "Red Virgin, " as an unequivocal terrorist. Thus he had heard her hailed at all the meetings which she addressed. But she did not notice his perturbation, she was following anothertrain. "You Americans do not love money as much as the Europeans--who hoard itaway, who worship it on their naked knees; but you do somethingworse--you love it for the sake of the sport, a cruel sport for thepoor. You go into speculation as the English go after big game. It is asport. This sport involves food--and you gamble with wheat and meat forcounters, while starving men and women pay for the game. America is yetrich enough to afford this sport, but some day it will become crowdedlike Europe, and then, beware! Wasn't it James Hinton who said that'Overthrowing society means an inverted pyramid getting straight'? "And America, " she continued, "bribes us with the gilded sentimentalphrases of Rousseau, Mirabeau, and Thomas Paine woven into your nationalconstitution, with its presumptuous declaration that all men are bornfree and equal--shades of Darwin and Nietzsche!--and that universalsuffrage is a panacea for all evils. In no country boasting itselfChristian is there a system so artfully devised for keeping the _poor_free and unequal, no country where so-called public opinion, asexpressed in the press, is used to club the majority into submission. And you are all proud of this liberty--a liberty at which the despisedserf in Russia or the man of the street in London sneers--there isto-day more _individual_ liberty in England and Germany than in theUnited States. Don't smile! I can prove it. As for France or Italy--theyare a hundred years ahead of you in municipal government. But I shan'ttalk blue-books at you, Arthur!" "Why not, why not?" he quickly interposed. "You always impress me byyour easy handling of facts. And why won't my money be of use to thesocial revolution?" Scornfully she started up again and began walking. "Why? Because convictions can't be bought with cash! Why! Becausephilanthropy is the most selfish of vices. You may do good here andthere--but you do more harm. You create more paupers, you finegentlemen, with your Mission houses and your Settlement workers! You aretrying to cover the ugly sores with a plaster of greenbacks. It won'theal the sickness--it won't heal it, I tell you. " Her eyes were flamingand she stamped the floor passionately. "We workers on the East Side have a name for you millionnaires. We callyou the White Mice. You have pretty words and white lies, pretty waysand false smiles. Lies! lies! lies! You are only giving back, with theaid of your superficial fine ladies, the money stolen from the truemoney earners. You have discovered the Ghetto--you and the impertinentnewspaper men. And like the reporters you come down to use us for'copy. ' You live here in comfort among us and then go away, write a bookabout our wretchedness and pose as altruistic heroes in your own sillyset. How I loathe that word--altruism! As if the sacrifice of yourpersonality does not always lead to self-deception, to hypocrisy! It isan excuse for the busybody-rich to advertise their charities. If theywere as many armed as Briareus or the octopus, their charity would beknown to each and every hand on their arms. These sentimental anarchs!They even marry our girls and carry them off to coddle their consciencewith gilded gingerbread. Yet they would turn their backs on Christ if hecame to Hester Street--Christ, the first modern anarch, adestructionist, a proletarian who preached fire and sword for the evilrich of his times. Nowadays he would be sent to Blackwell's Island forsix months as a disturber of the peace or for healing without a licensefrom the County Medical Association!" "Like Johann Most, " he ventured. She blazed at the name. "No jokes, please. Most, too, has suffered. But I am no worshipper ofbombs--and beer. " This made him laugh, but as the laugh was not echoedhe stared about him. "But Yetta, --we must begin somewhere. I wish to become--tobecome--something like you. --" She interrupted him roughly: "To become--you an anarch! You are a sentimental rebel because yourstomach is not strong enough for the gourmands who waste their time atyour clubs. If your nerves were sound you might make a speech. But theNew England conscience of your forefathers--they were nearly allclergymen, weren't they?--has ruined your strength. The best thing youcan do, my boy, is to enter a seminary and later go to China as amissionary; else turn literary and edit an American edition of Who's Whoin Hell! But leave our East Side alone. Do you know what New Yorkreminds me of? Its centre is a strip of green and gold between twosmouldering red rivers of fire--the East and West Sides. If they everspill over the banks, all the little parasites of greater parasites, thelawyers, brokers, bankers, journalists, ecclesiastics, and middle men, will be devoured. Oh, what a glorious day! And oh, that terrible nightwhen we marched behind the black flag and muffled drums down Broadway, that night in 1887 when the four martyrs were murdered, the hero Lingghaving killed himself. What would you have done in those awful times?" "Try me, " he muttered, as he pulled down his cuffs, "try me!" "Very well, I'll try you. Like Carlo Cafiero, the rich Italian anarch, you must give your money to us--every cent of it. Come with me to-night. I address a meeting of the brethren at Schwab's place--you know, thesaloon across the street, off the square. We can eat our supper there, and then--" "Try me, " he reiterated, and his voice was hoarse with emotion, hispulse painfully irregular. II Notwithstanding his vows of heroism, Arthur could not force himself tolike the establishment of Schwab, where the meeting was to take place. It was a beer-saloon, not one of those mock-mediæval uptown palaces, buta long room with a low ceiling, gaslit and shabby. The tables and chairsof hard, coarse wood were greasy--napkins and table-cloths were not tobe mentioned, else would the brethren suspect the presence of anaristocrat. At the upper end, beyond the little black bar, there was aplatform, upon it a table, a pianoforte, and a stool. Still he managedto conceal his repugnance to all these uninviting things and he sippedhis diluted Rhine wine, ate his sandwich--an unpalatable one--under thewatchful eyes of his companion. By eight o'clock the room was jammedwith working-people, all talking and in a half dozen tongues. Occasionally Yetta left him to join a group, and where she went silencefell. She was the oracle of the crowd. At nine o'clock Arthur's headached. He had smoked all his Turkish cigarettes, the odour of whichcaused some surprise--there was a capitalist present and they knew him. Only Yetta prevented disagreeable comment. The men, who belonged to theproletarian class, were poorly dressed and intelligent; the women woreshawls on their heads and smoked bad cigarettes. The saloon did notsmell nice, Arthur thought. He had offered Yetta one of his importedcigarettes, but she lighted a horrible weed and blew the smoke in hisface. At ten o'clock he wished himself away. But a short, stout man with alopsided face showing through his tangled beard, stood up and said inGerman:-- "All who are not _our_ friends, please leave the house. " No one stirred. The patron went from group to group saluting hiscustomers and eying those who were not. Whether any password or signalwas given Arthur could not say. When the blond, good-natured Schwabreached him, Yetta whispered in his ear. The host beamed on the youngAmerican and gave him a friendly poke in the back; Arthur felt as if hehad been knighted. He said this to Yetta, but her attention waselsewhere. The doors and windows were quickly shut and bolted. Shenudged his elbow--for they were sitting six at the table, much to hisdisgust; the other four drank noisily--and he followed her to the top ofthe room. A babble broke out as they moved along. "It's Yetta's new catch. Yetta's rich fellow. Wait until she getsthrough with him--poor devil. " These broken phrases made him shiver, especially as Yetta's expression, at first enigmatic, was now openlysardonic. What did she mean? Was she only tormenting him? Was this to behis test, his trial? His head was almost splitting, for the heat wasgreat and the air bad. Again he wished himself home. They reached the platform. "Jump up, Arthur, and help me, " shecommanded. He did so. But his discomfiture only grew apace with theincreased heat--the dingy ceiling crushed him--and the rows in front, the entire floor seemed transformed to eyes, malicious eyes. She toldhim to sit down at the piano and play the Marseillaise. Then standingbefore the table she drew from her bosom a scarlet flag, and accompaniedby the enthusiastic shoutings she led the singing. Arthur at thekeyboard felt exalted. Forgotten the pains of a moment before. Hehammered the keys vigorously, extorting from the battered instrument aseries of curious croakings. Some of the keys did not "speak, " some gaveforth a brazen clangour from the rusty wires. No one cared. The singingstopped with the last verse. "Now La Ravachole for our French brethren. " This combination ofrevolutionary lyrics--Ça Ira and Carmagnole--was chanted fervidly. Thencame for the benefit of the German the stirring measures from theScotch-German John Henry Mackay's Sturm:-- Das ist der Kampf, den allnächtlich Bevor das Dunkel zerrinnt, Einsam und gramvoll auskämpt Des Jahrhunderts verlorenes Kind. Yetta waved her long and beautifully shaped hands--they were hersolitary vanity. The audience became still. She addressed them at firstin deliberate tones, and Arthur noted that the interest was genuine--hewondered how long his fat-witted club friends could endure orappreciate the easy manner in which Yetta Silverman quoted from greatthinkers, and sprinkled these quotations with her own bitingobservations. "Richard Wagner--who loved humanity when he wrote Siegfried andregretted that love in Parsifal! "Richard Wagner--who loved ice-cream more than Dresden'sfreedom--Wagner: the Swiss family bell-ringer of '48! "To Max Stirner, Ibsen, and Richard Strauss belongs the twentiethcentury! "Nietzsche--the anarch of aristocrats! "Karl Marx--or the selfish Jew socialist! "Lassalle--the Jew comedian of liberty! "Bernard Shaw--the clever Celt who would sacrifice socialism for anepigram. "Curse all socialists!" she suddenly screamed. Arthur, entranced by the playful manner with which she disposed offriend and foe, was aghast at this outbreak. He saw another Yetta. Herface was ugly and revengeful. She sawed the air with her thin arms. "Repeat after me, " she adjured her hearers, "the Catechism of SergeiNetschajew, but begin with Herzen's noble motto: 'Long live chaos anddestruction!'" "Long live chaos and destruction!" was heartily roared. The terrific catechism of the apostle Netschajew made Arthur shake withalternate woe and wrath. It was bloody-minded beyond description. Likea diabolic litany boomed the questions and answers:-- "Day and night we must have but one thought--inexorable destruction. "And Arthur recalled how this pupil of Bakounine had with the assistanceof Pryow and Nicolajew beguiled a certain suspected friend, Ivanow, intoa lonely garden and killed him, throwing the body into a lake. Afterthat Netschajew disappeared, though occasionally showing himself inSwitzerland and England. Finally, in 1872, he was nabbed by the Russiangovernment, sent to Siberia, and--! _Ugh!_ thought Arthur, what a people, what an ending! And Yetta--why didshe now so openly proclaim destruction as the only palliative for socialcrime when she had so eloquently disclaimed earlier in the day thepropaganda by force, by dagger, and dynamite?--He had hardly askedhimself the question when there came a fierce rapping of wooden clubs atdoor and window. Instantly a brooding hush like that which precedes ahurricane fell upon the gathering. But Yetta did not long remain silent. "Quick, Arthur, play the Star-Spangled Banner! It's the police. I wantto save these poor souls--" she added, with a gulp in her throat;"quick, you idiot, the Star-Spangled Banner. " But Arthur was almostfainting. His ringers fell listlessly on the keys, and they were tooweak to make a sound. The police! he moaned, as the knocking deepenedinto banging and shouting. What a scandal! What a disgrace! He couldnever face his own world after this! To be caught with a lot of crazyanarchists in a den like this!--Smash, went the outside door! And thenewspapers! They would laugh him out of town. He, Arthur SchopenhauerWyartz, the Amateur Anarch! He saw the hideous headlines. Why, the verydaily in which some of his fortune was invested would be the first tomock him most! The assault outside increased. He leaped to the floor, where Yetta wassurrounded by an excited crowd. He plucked her sleeve. She gazed at himdisdainfully. "For God's sake, Yetta, get me out of this--this awful scrape. Mymother, my sisters--the disgrace!" She laughed bitterly. "You poor chicken among hawks! But I'll help you--follow me. " He reachedthe cellar stairs, and she showed him a way by which he could walksafely into the alley, thence to the street back of their building. Heshook her hand with the intensity of a man in the clutches of the ague. "But you--why don't you go with me?" he asked, his teeth chattering. The brittle sound of glass breaking was heard. She answered, as she tookhis feverish hand:-- "Because, you brave revolutionist, I must stick to my colours. Farewell!" And remounting the stairs, she saw the bluecoats awaitingher. "I hope the police will catch him anyhow, " she said. It was her onerelapse into femininity, and as she quietly surrendered she did notregret it. III Old Koschinsky's store on the avenue was the joy of the neighbourhood. For hours, their smeary faces flattened against the glass, the childrenwatched the tireless antics of the revolving squirrels; the pouterpigeons expand their breasts into feathered balloons; the goldfish, asthey stolidly swam, their little mouths open, their eyes following thequeer human animals imprisoned on the other side of the plate-glasswindow. Canary birds by the hundreds made the shop a trying one forsensitive ears. There were no monkeys. Koschinsky, whose heart was assoft as butter, though he was a formidable revolutionist--so he sworeover at Schwab's--declared that monkeys were made in the image oftyrannical humans. He would have none of them. Parrots? There wereenough of the breed around him, he told the gossiping women, who, withtheir _scheitels_, curved noses, and shining eyes, lent to the quarterits Oriental quality. It was in Koschinsky's place that Arthur first encountered Yetta. He wasalways prowling about the East Side in search of sociological prey, andthe modest little woman with her intelligent and determined faceattracted him strongly. They fell into easy conversation near a cage ofcanaries, and the acquaintance soon bloomed into a friendship. A weekafter the raid on Schwab's, Arthur, very haggard and nervous, wanderedinto Koschinsky's. The old man greeted him:-- "Hu! So you've just come down from the Island! Well--how did you like itup there? Plenty water--eh?" The sarcasm was too plain, and the youngman, mumbling some sort of an answer, turned to go. "Hold on there!" said Koschinsky. "I expect a very fine bird soon. You'dbetter wait. It was here only last night; and the bird asked whether youhad been in. " Arthur started. "For me? Miss Silverman?" "I said a bird, " was the dogged reply. And then Yetta walked up toArthur and asked:-- "Where have you been? Why haven't you called?" He blushed. "I was ashamed. " "Because you were so, so--frightened, that night?" "Yes. " "But nothing came of the affair. The police could get no evidence. Wehad no flags--" "That scarlet one I saw you with--what of it?" She smiled. "Did you look in your pockets when you got home? I stuffed the flag inone of them while we were downstairs. " He burst into genteel laughter. "No, I threw off my clothes in such disgust that night that I vowed Iwould never get into them again. I gave the suit to my valet. " "Your valet, " she gravely returned; "he may become _one of us_. " "Fancy, when I reached the house--I went up in a hansom, for I wasbareheaded--my mother was giving the biggest kind of a ball. I had noend of trouble trying to sneak in unobserved. " She regarded him steadily. "Isn't it strange, " she went on, "how thebull-dog police of this town persecute us--and they _should_ besympathetic. They had to leave their own island because of tyranny. Yetas soon as they step on this soil they feel themselves self-constitutedtyrants. Something of the sort happened with your own ancestors--" shelooked at him archly--"the Pilgrim Fathers were not very tolerant to theQuakers, the Jews, Catholics, or any sect not their own. Now you do notseem to have inherited that ear-slicing temperament--" "Oh, stop, Yetta! Don't make any more fun of me. I confess I amcowardly--I hate rows and scandals--" "'What shall it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses hisliberty?'" "Yes, I know. But this was such a nasty little affair. The newspaperswould have driven me crazy. " "But suppose, for the sake of argument, " she said, "that the row wouldnot have appeared in the newspapers--what then?" "What do you mean? By Jove, there was nothing in the papers, now that Icome to think of it. I went the next morning out to Tuxedo andforgot--what do you mean by this mystery, Yetta?" "I mean this--suppose, for the sake of further argument, I should tellyou that there was no row, no police, no arrests!" He gasped. "O-h, what an ass I made of myself. So that was your trial! And Ifailed. Oh, Yetta, Yetta--what shall I say?" The girl softened. She tookboth his hands in her shapely ones and murmured:-- "Dear little boy, I treated you roughly. Forgive me! There was a realdescent by the police--it was no deception. That's why I asked you toplay the Star-Spangled Banner--" "Excuse me, Yetta; but why did you do that? Why didn't you meet thepolice defiantly chanting the Marseillaise? That would have beenbraver--more like the true anarchist. " She held down her head. "Because--because--those poor folks--I wanted to spare them as muchtrouble with the police as possible, " she said in her lowest tones. "And why, " he pursued triumphantly, "why did you preach bombs afterassuring me that reform must come through the spiritual propaganda?" Shequickly replied:-- "Because our most dangerous foe was in the audience. You know. The manwith the beard who first spoke. He has often denounced me as lukewarm;and then you know words are not as potent as deeds with theproletarians. One assassination is of more value than all the philosophyof Tolstoy. And that old wind-bag sat near us and watched us--watchedme. That's why I let myself go--" she was blushing now, and oldKoschinsky nearly dropped a bird-cage in his astonishment. "Yetta, Yetta!" Arthur insisted, "wind-bag, you call your comrade? Wereyou not, just for a few minutes, in the same category? Again she wassilent. "I feel now, " he ejaculated, as he came very close to her, "that we mustget outside of these verbal entanglements. I want you to become mywife. " His heart sank as he thought of his mother's impassive, high-bredair--with such a figure for a Fifth Avenue bride! The girl looked intohis weak blue eyes with their area of saucer-like whiteness. She shookher stubborn head. "I shall never marry. I do not believe in such an institution. Itdegrades women, makes tyrants of men. No, Arthur--I am fond of you, perhaps--" she paused, --"so fond that I might enter into any relationbut marriage, --that never!" "And I tell you, Yetta, anarchy or no anarchy, I could never respect thewoman if she were not mine legally. In America we do these thingsdifferently--" he was not allowed to finish. She glared at him, then she strode to the shop door and opened it. "Farewell to you, Mr. Arthur Schopenhauer Wyartz, amateur anarchist. Better go back to your mother and sisters! _Mein Gott_, Schopenhauer, too!" He put his Alpine hat on his bewildered head and without a wordwent out. She did not look after him, but walked over to the oldbird-fancier and sat on his leather-topped stool. Presently she restedher elbows on her knees and propped her chin with her gloveless hands. Her eyes were red. Koschinsky peeped at her and shook his head. "Yetta--you know what I think!--Yetta, the boy was right! You shouldn'thave asked him for the Star-Spangled Banner! The Marseillaise would havebeen better. " "I don't care, " she viciously retorted. "I know, I know. But a nice boy--_so_ well fixed. " "I don't care, " she insisted. "I'm married to the revolution. " "Yah, yah! the revolution, Yetta--" he pushed his lean, brown forefingerinto the cage of an enraged canary--"the revolution! Yes, YettaSilverman, the revolution!" She sighed. XIV HALL OF THE MISSING FOOTSTEPS So I saw in my dream that the man began to run. --_Pilgrim's Progress_. I As the first-class carriage rolled languidly out of Balak's only railwaystation on a sultry February evening, Pobloff, the composer, was notsorry. "I wish it were Persia instead of Ramboul, " he reflected. Luga, hiswife, he had left weeping at the station; but since the day shedisappeared with his orchestra for twenty-four hours, Pobloff'saffection had gradually cooled; he was leaving the capital without apang on a month's leave of absence--a delicate courtesy of the king'sextended to a brother ruler, though a semi-barbarous one, the khedive ofRamboul. Pobloff was not sad nor was he jubilantly glad. The journey was an easyone; a night and day and the next night would see him, God willing, --hecrossed himself, --in the semi-tropical city of Nirgiz. From Balak toNirgiz, from southeastern Europe to Asia Minor! The heir-apparent was said to be a music-loving lad, very much underthe cunning thumb of his grim old aunt, who, rumour averred, wore ablack beard, and was the scourge of her little kingdom. All that mightbe changed when the prince would reach his majority; his failing healthand morbid melancholy had frightened the grand vizier, and the king ofBalakia had been petitioned to send Pobloff, the composer, designer ofinimitable musical masques, Pobloff, the irresistible interpreter ofChopin, to the aid of the ailing youth. So this middle-aged David left his nest to go harp for a Saul yet in hisadolescence. What his duties were to be Pobloff had not the slightestidea. He had received no special instructions; a member of the royalhousehold bore him the official mandate and a purse fat enough to soothehis wife's feelings. After appointing his first violin conductor of theBalakian Orchestra during his absence, the fussy, stout, good-naturedRussian (he was born at Kiew, 1865, the biographical dictionaries say)secured a sleeping compartment on the Ramboul express, from the windowsof which he contemplated with some satisfaction the flat land thatgradually faded in the mists of night as the train tore its way noisilyover a rude road-bed. II Pobloff slept. He usually snored; but this evening he was too fatigued. He heard not the sudden stoppages at lonely way stations where hoarsevoices and a lantern represented the life of the place; he did not heedthe engine as it thirstily sucked water from a tank in the heart of theKarpakians; and he was surprised, pleased, proud, when a hot Februarysun, shining through his window, awoke him. It was six o'clock of a fine morning, and the train was toiling up aprecipitous grade to the spine of the mountain, where the down-slopewould begin and air-brakes rule. Pobloff looked about him. He scratchedhis long nose, a characteristic gesture, and began wondering when coffeewould be ready. He pressed the bell. The guard entered, a miserablebandit who bravely wore his peaked hat with green plumes à la Tyrol. Hespoke four tongues and many dialects; Pobloff calculated his monthlysalary at forty roubles. "No, Excellency, the coffee will be hot and refreshing at Kerb, where wearrive about seven. " He cleared his throat, put out his hand, bowed low, and disappeared. The composer grumbled. Kerb!--not until that wretchedeyrie in the clouds! And such coffee! No matter. Pobloff never felt inrobuster health; his irritable nerves were calmed by a sound night'ssleep. The air was fresher than down in the malarial valley, where stoodthe shining towers of Balak; he could see them pinked by the morning sunand low on the horizon. All together he was glad.... Hello, this must be Kerb! A moment later Pobloff bellowed for theguard; he had shattered the electric annunciator by his violence. Then, not waiting to be served, he ran into the vestibule, and soon was on thestation platform, inhaling huge drafts of air into his big chest. Ah! Itwas glorious up there. What surprised him was the number of human beingsclambering over the steps, running and gabbling like a lot of animalslet loose from their cages. The engineer beside his quivering machineenjoyed his morning coffee. And there were many turbaned pagans and someveiled women mixed with the crowd. The sparkling of bright colours and bizarre costumes did not disturbPobloff, who had lived too long on anonymous borders, where Jew, Christian, Turk, Slav, African, and outlandish folk generally meltedinto a civilization which still puzzled ethnologists. A negro, gorgeously clad, guarding closely a slim female, draped fromhead to foot in virginal white, attracted the musician. The man's facewas monstrous in its suggestion of evil, and furthermore shocking, because his nose was a gaping hole. Evidently a scimiter had performedthis surgical operation, Pobloff mused. The giant's eyes offended him, they so stared, and threateningly. Pobloff was not a coward. After his adventure in Balak, he fearedneither man nor devil, and he insolently returned the black fellow'sgaze. They stood about a buffet and drank coffee. The young woman--heroutlines were girlish--did not touch anything; she turned her face inPobloff's direction, so he fancied, and spoke at intervals to herattendant. "I must be a queer-looking bird to this Turk and her keeper--probablysome Georgian going to a rich Mussulman's harem in company with hiseunuch, " Pobloff repeated to himself. A gong was banged. Before its strident vibrations had ceased troublingthe thin morning air, the train began to move slowly out of Kerb. Pobloff again was glad. He remained on the rear platform of his car as long as the whitestation, beginning to blister under a tropical sun, was in sight. Thenhe sought his compartment. His amazement and rage were great when hefound the two window seats occupied by the negro and the mysteriouscreature. Pobloff's bag was tumbled in a corner, his overcoat, hat, andumbrella tossed to the other end of the room. The big black man baredhis teeth smilingly, the shrouded girl shrank back as if in fear. "Well, I'll be--!" began the composer. Then he leaned over and pushedthe button, the veins in his forehead like whipcords, his throat parchedwith wrath. But to no avail--the bell was broken. Pobloff's firstimpulse was to take the smiling Ethiopian by the neck and pitch him out. There were several reasons why he did not: the giant looked dangerous;he plainly carried a brace of pistols, and at least one dagger, thejewelled handle of which flashed over his glaring sash of many tints. And then the lady--Pobloff was very gallant, too gallant, his wife said. The bell would not ring! What was he to do? He soon made up his mind, supple Slav that he was. With a muttered apology he sank back and closedhis eyes in polite despair. His consternation was overwhelming when a voice addressed him inRussian, a contralto voice of some indefinable timbre, the voice of afemale, yet not without epicene intonations. His eyes immediatelyopened. From her gauze veiling the young woman spoke:-- "We are sorry to derange you. The guard made a mistake. Pardon!" Thetone was slightly condescending, as if the goddess behind the cloud haddeigned to notice a mere mortal. Her attendant was smiling, and toPobloff his grin resembled a newly sliced watermelon. But her voicefilled him with ecstasy. His ear, as sensitive as the eye of a ClaudeMonet, noted every infinitesimal variation in tone-colour, and eachshade was a symbol for the fantastic imagination of this poeticcomposer. The girlish voice affected him strangely. It pierced his soullike a poniard. It made his spine chilly. It evoked visions of whitewomen languorously moving in processional attitudes beneath the chasterays of an implacable moon. The voice modulated into crisp morninginflections:-- "You are going far, Excellency?" She knew him! And the slave whogrinned and grinned and never spoke--what was _he_? She seemed to followPobloff's thought. "Hamet is dumb. His tongue was cut at the same time he lost his nose. Itall happened at the siege of Yerkutz. " Pobloff at last found words. "Poor fellow!" he said sympathetically, and then forgot all about themutilated one. "You are welcome to this compartment, " he assured her inhis oiliest manner. "What surprises me is that I did not see your SereneHighness when we left Balak. " She started at the title that he bestowedupon her, and he inwardly chuckled. Clever dog, Pobloff, clever dog! Hereyes were brilliant despite obstructing veils. "I was _en route_ to Balak yesterday, but my servant became ill and Istopped over night at Kerb. " Pobloff was entranced. She was undoubtedlya young dame of noble birth and her freedom, the freedom of a Europeanwoman, delighted him. It also puzzled. "How is it--?" he asked. But they had begun that fearful descent, at once the despair and delightof engineers. The mountain fell away rapidly as the long, clumsy trainraced down its flank at a breakneck pace. Pobloff shivered and clutchedthe arms of his seat. He saw nothing but deep blue sky and the tall topof an occasional tree. The racket was terrific, the heat depressing. Shesat in her corner, apparently sleeping, while the giant smiled, alwayssmiled, never removing his ugly eyes from the perspiring countenance ofPobloff. As they neared earth's level, midday was over. Pobloff hungered. Beforehe could go in search of the ever absent guard, the woman suddenly satup, clapped her hands, and said something; but whether it was Turkish, Roumanian, or Greek, he couldn't distinguish. A hamper was hauled fromunder the seat by the servant, and to his joy Pobloff saw white rolls, grapes, wine, figs, and cheese. He bowed and began eating. The otherslooked at him and for a moment he could have sworn he heard faintlaughter. "I am so hungry, " he said apologetically. "And you, Serenity, won't youjoin me?" He offered her fruit. It was declined with a short nod. He wasdying to smoke, and, behold! priceless Turkish tobacco was thrust intohis willing hand. He rolled a stout cigarette, lighted it. Then a sighreached his ears. "The lady smokes, " he thought, and slyly chuckled. A sound of something tearing was heard, and a pair of beautiful handsreached for the tobacco. In a few moments the slender fingers werepressing a cigarette; the slave lighted a wax fusee; the lady took it, put the cigarette in a rent of her veil, and a second volume of odorousvapour arose. Pobloff leaned back, stupefied. A Mohammedan woman smokingin a Trans-Caucasian railway carriage before a Frank! Stupendous! Hefelt unaccountably gay. "This is joyful, " he said aloud. She smoked fervently. "Western mannersare certainly invading the East, " he continued, hoping to hear againthat voice of marvellous resonance. She smoked. "Why, even Turkish womenhave been known to study music in Paris. " "I am not a Turk, " she said in her deepest chest tones. "Pardon! A Russian, perhaps? Your accent is perfect. I am a Russian. "She did not reply. The day declined, and there was no more conversation. As the traindevoured leagues of swampy territory, villages were passed. Thejourney's end was nearing. Soon meadows were seen surroundingmagnificent villas. A wide, shallow river was crossed, the Oxal; Pobloffknew by his pocket map that Nirgiz was nigh. And for the first time intwenty-four hours he sorrowed. Despite his broad invitations andunmistakable hints, he could not trap his travelling companion into anavowal of her identity, of her destination. Nothing could be coaxed fromthe giant, and it was with a sinking heart--Pobloff was verysentimental--that he saw the lights of Nirgiz; a few minutes later thetrain entered the Oriental station. In the heat, the clamour of half athousand voices, yelling unknown jargons, his resolution to keep hiscompanions in view went for naught. Beset by jabbering porters, he didnot have an opportunity to say farewell to the veiled lady; with herescort she had disappeared when the car stopped--and without a word ofthanks! Pobloff was wretched. III It was past nine o'clock as he roamed the vast garden surrounding thePalace of a Thousand Sounds--thus named because of the tiny bellstinkling about its marble dome. He had eaten an unsatisfying meal in asmall antechamber, waited upon by a stupid servant. And worse still, thefood was ill cooked. On presenting his credentials, earlier in theevening, the grand vizier, a sneaky-appearing man, had welcomed himcoldly, telling him that her Serene Highness was too exhausted toreceive so late in the day; she had granted too many audiences thatafternoon. "And the prince?" he queried. The prince was away hunting by moonlight, and could not be seen for at least a day. In the interim, Pobloff wastold to make himself at home, as became such a distinguished composerand artistic plenipotentiary of Balakia's king. Then he was bowed out ofthe chamber, down the low malachite staircase, into his supper room. Itwas all very disturbing to a man of Pobloff's equable disposition. He thought of Luga, his little wife, his dove; but not long. She did notappeal to his heart of hearts; she was a coquette. Pobloff sighed. Hewas midway in his mortal life, a dangerous period for susceptiblemanhood. He lifted moist eyes to the stars; the night was delicious. Herested upon a cushioned couch of stone. About him the moonlight paintedthe trees, until they seemed like liquefied ermine; the palace arose inpyramidal surges of marble to the sky, meeting the moonbeams as if infriendly defiance, and casting them back to heaven with triumphantreflections. And the stillness, profound as the tomb, was punctuated byglancing fireflies. Pobloff hummed melodiously. "A night to make music, " whispered a deep, sweet voice. Before he couldrise, his heart bounding as if stung to its centre, a woman, swathed inwhite, sat beside him, touched him, put such a pressure upon hisshoulder that his blood began to stir. It was she. He stumbled in hisspeech. She laughed, and he ground his teeth, for this alone saved himfrom foolishness, from mad behaviour. "Maestro--you could make music this lovely night?" Pobloff started. "In God's name, who are you, and what are you doing here? Where did yougo this evening? I missed you. Ah! unhappy man that I am, you will driveme crazy!" She did not smile now, but pressed close to him. "I am a prisoner--like yourself, " she replied simply. "A prisoner! How a prisoner? I am not a prisoner, but an envoy from myking to the sick princeling. " She sighed. "The poor, mad prince, " she said, "he is in need of your medicine, sadly. He sent for me a year ago, and I am now his prisoner for life. " "But I saw you on the train, a day's journey hence, " interrupted themusician. "Yes, I had escaped, and was being taken back by black Hamet when wemet. " Pobloff whistled. So the mystery was disclosed. A little white slavefrom the seraglio of this embryo tyrant had flown the cage! No wondershe was watched, little surprise that she did not care to eat. Hestraightened himself, the hair on his round head like porcupine quills. "My dear young lady, " he exclaimed in accents paternal, "leave all tome. If you do not wish to stay in this place, you may rely on me. When Isee this same young man, --he must be a nice sprig of royalty!--I proposeto tell him what I think of him. " Pobloff threw out his chest andsnorted with pride. Again he fancied that he heard suppressed laughter. He darted glances in every direction, but the fall of distant waterssmote upon his ears like the crepuscular music of Chopin. His companionshook with ill-suppressed emotion. It was some time before she couldspeak. "Pobloff, " she begged, in her dangerous contralto, a contralto like themedium register of a clarinet, "Pobloff, let me adjure you to becareful. Your coming here has caused political disturbances. The aunt ofthe prince hates music as much as he adores it. She is no party to yourinvitation. So be on your guard. Even now there may be spies in theshrubbery. " She put her hand on his arm. It was too much. In an instant, despite her feeble struggle, the ardent musician grasped the creaturethat had tantalized him since morning, and kissed her a dozen times. Hishead whirled. Pobloff! Pobloff! a voice cried in his brain--and onlyyesterday you left your Luga, your pretty pigeon, your wife! The girl was dragged away from him. In the moonshine he saw the grinningHamet, suspiciously observing him. The runaway stood up and pressedPobloff's hand desperately, uttering the cry of her forlorn heart:-- "Don't play in the great hall; don't play in that accursed place. Youwill be asked, but refuse. Make any excuse, but do not set foot on itsebon floors. " He was so confused by the strangeness of this adventure, so confused bythe admonition of the unknown when he saw her white draperies disappear, that his jaw fell and his courage wavered. A moment later two oddlycaparisoned soldiers, bearing lights, approached, and in the name of herHighness invited him make midnight music in the Palace of a ThousandSounds. IV Seated before a Steinway grand pianoforte, an instrument that found itsway to this far-away province through the caprice of some artisticpotentate, Pobloff nervously preluded. Notwithstanding the warning ofthe girl, he had allowed himself to be convoyed to the great Hall ofEbony, and there, quite alone, he sat waiting for some cue to begin. None came. He glanced curiously about him. For all the signs of humanityhe might as well have been on the heights of Kerb, out among its thornygroves, or in its immemorial forests. He preluded as he gazed around. Hecould see, by the dim light of two flambeaux set in gold sconces, columnafter column of blackness receding into inky depths of darkness. Afringe of light encircled his instrument, and beside him was a gallery, so vast that it became a gulf of the infinite at a hundred paces. Now, Pobloff was a brave man. He believed that once upon a time he had peeredinto strange crevices of space; what novelty could existence hold forhim after that shuddering experience? Again he looked into the tenebrousrecesses of the hall. He saw nothing, heard nothing. His fingers went their own way over the keyboard. Finally, followingsome latent impulse, they began to shape the opening measures ofChopin's Second Ballade, the one of the enigmatic tonalities, sometimescalled _The Lake of the Mermaids_. It began with the chanting, childishrefrain, a Lithuanian fairy-tale of old, and as its naïve, drowsy, lulling measures--the voices of wicked, wooing sirens--sang and sank inrecurrent rhythms, Pobloff heard--this time he was sure--the regularreverberation of distant footsteps. It was as if the monotonous beat ofthe music were duplicated in some sounding mirror, some mirror thatmagnified hideously, hideously mimicked the melody. Yet these footfallsmurmured as a sea-shell. Every phrase stood out before the pianist, exquisitely clear; his brain had only once before harboured such anexalted mood. There was the expectation of great things coming to pass;dim rumours of an apocalyptic future, when the glory that never was onsea or land should rend the veil of the visible and make clear all thatobscures and darkens. The transfiguration which informs the soul of onetaken down in epileptic seizure possessed him. Every cranny of his beingwas flooded with overmastering light--and the faint sound of footstepsmarking sinister time to his music, drew closer, closer. Shaking off an insane desire to join his voice in the immortal choiringof the Cherubim, Pobloff dashed into the passionate storm-scream of themusic, and like a pack of phantom bloodhounds the footsteps pressed himin the race. He played as run men from starving wolves in Siberianwastes. To stop would mean--God! what would it mean? These were nomortal steps that crowded upon his sonorous trail. His fingers flewover the keys as he finished the scurrying tempests of tone. Again thefirst swaying refrain, and Pobloff heard the invisible multitude of feetpause in the night, as if waiting the moment when the Ballade wouldcease. He quivered; the surprises and terrors were telling upon hiswell-seasoned nerves. Still he sped on, fearing the tremendous outburst at the close, whereChopin throws overboard his soul, and with blood-red sails signals thehellish _Willis_, the Lamias of the lake, to his side. Ah, if Pobloffcould but thus portion his soul as hostage to the infernal host that nowhemmed him in on all sides! Riding over the black and white rocks of hiskeyboard, he felt as if in the clutches of an unknown force. Hediscerned death in the distance--death and the unknown horror--and waspowerless to resist. Still the galloping of unseen feet, horrible, nakedflesh, that clattered and scraped the earth; the panting, hoarse andsubdued, of a mighty pack, whose thirst for destruction, for revenge, was unslaked. And always the same trampling of human feet! Were theyhuman? Did not resilient bones tell the tale of brutes viler than men?The glimmering lights seemed cowed, as they sobbed in vacuity and slowlyexpired. Pobloff no longer asked himself what it meant; he was become a maniac, pursued by deathless devils. He could have flown to the end of theuniverse in this Ballade; but, at last, his heart cracking, headbursting, face livid, overtaken by the Footsteps of the Missing, hesmashed both fists upon the keys and fell forward despairingly.... * * * * * ... The gigantic, noseless negro, the grand vizier himself, sternlyregarded the prince, who stood, torch in hand, near the shatteredpianoforte. The dumb spoke:-- "Let us hope, Exalted Highness, that your masquerades and mystificationsare over forever. To-day's prankish sport may put us to trouble for asatisfactory explanation. " He waved his hand vaguely in the direction ofthe prostrate composer. "And hasheesh sometimes maddens for a lifetime!"He lightly touched the drugged Pobloff with his enormous foot. The youthful runaway ashamedly lowered his head--in reality he adoredmusic with all the fulness of his cruel, faunlike nature. XV THE CURSORY LIGHT To this day Pinton could never explain why he looked out of that pantrywindow. He had reached his home in a hungry condition. He was tired anddead broke, so he had resolved to forage. He had listened for two orthree, perhaps five, minutes in the hall of his boarding-house; then hewent, soft-footed, to Mrs. Hallam's pantry on the second floor. He wassure that it was open, he was equally sure that it contained somethingedible on its hospitable shelves. Ah! who has not his bread at midnightstolen, ye heavenly powers, ye know him not! Pinton, however, knew one thing, and that was a ravenous desire to sinkhis teeth into pie, custard, or even bread. He felt with large, eagerhands along the wall on the pantry side. With feverish joy he touchedthe knob--a friendly knob, despite its cold, distant glaze--of the doorhe sought. Pinton gave a tug, and then his heart stopped beating. The door waslocked. Something like a curse, something like a prayer, rose to hislips, and his arms fell helplessly to his side. Mrs. Hallam, realizing that it was Saturday night--the predatory nightof the week--had secured her pastry, her confitures, her celebrateddesserts; and so poor Pinton, all his sweet teeth furiously aching, hismouth watering, stood on the hither side of Paradise, a baffled peri inpantaloons! After a pause, full of pain and troublous previsions of a restless, discontented night, Pinton grew angry and pulled at the knob of thedoor, thinking, perhaps, that it might abate a jot of its dignifiedresistance. It remained immovable, grimly antagonistic, until hisfingers grew hot and cold as they touched a bit of cold metal. The key in the lock! In a second it was turned, and the hungry one waswithin and restlessly searching and fumbling for food. He felt along thelower shelves and met apples, oranges, and sealed bottles containingruined, otherwise miscalled preserved, fruit. He knelt on the dresserand explored the upper shelf. Ah, here was richness indeed! Pies, pies, cakes, pies, frosted cakes, cakes sweating golden, fruity promises, andcakes as icy as the hand of charity. Pinton was happy, glutton that hewas, and he soon filled the pockets of his overcoat. What Mrs. Hallammight say in the morning he cared not. Let the galled jade wince, hisbreakfast appetite would be unwrung; and then he started violently, losthis balance, and almost fell to the floor. Opposite him was the window of the pantry, which faced the wall of thenext house. Pinton had never been in the pantry by daylight, so he wasrudely shocked by the glance of a light--a cursory, moving light. Itshowed him a window in the other house and a pair of stairs. Itflickered about an old baluster and a rusty carpet, it came from below, it mounted upward and was lost to view. The burglar of pies, the ravisher of cakes, was almost shocked by thisunexpected light. He watched it dancing fantastically on the discolouredwall of the house; he wondered--ill at ease--if it would flash in hisface. His surmise was realized, for a streak of illumination reached thenarrow chamber in which he cowered, and then he was certain some one waslooking at him. He never budged, for he was too frightened. Suddenly thelight vanished and a head was dimly silhouetted in the window opposite. It nodded to Pinton. Pinton stared stupidly, and the head disappeared. The hungry man, his appetite now gone, was numb and terrified. What did it mean, who was the man? A detective, or a friend of Mrs. Hallam's in a coign from which the plunderers of her pantry could benoted? Beady repentance stood out on Pinton's forehead. And the light came back. This time it was intelligible, for it was alantern in the hand of a young man of about thirty. His face was openand smiling. He wore his hair rather long for an American, and it wasblond and curling. He surveyed Pinton for a moment, then he said, in a most agreeablevoice:-- "What luck, old pal?" Pinton dropped his pies, slammed the window, and got to his bedroom asfast as his nervous legs could carry him. He undressed in a nightmare, and did not sleep until the early summer sun shot hot shafts of heatinto his chamber. With a shamed Sabbath face he arose, dressed, and descended to hismorning meal. Mrs. Hallam was sitting in orotund silence, but seemed ingood humour. She asked him casually if he had enjoyed his Saturdayevening, and quite as casually damned the wandering cats that had playedhavoc in her pantry. She remarked that leaving windows open was a poorpractice, even if hospitable in appearance, and nervous Mr. Pinton drankhis coffee in silent assent and then hurried off to the church where hetrod the organ pedals for a small salary's sake. The following Friday was rehearsal night, and the organist left hischoir in a bad humour. His contralto had not attended, and as she wasthe only artiste and the only good-looking girl of the lot, Pinton tookit into his head to become jealous. She had not paid the slightestattention to him, so he could not attribute her absence to a personalslight; but he felt aggrieved and vaguely irritated. Pinton's musicianship was not profound. He had begun life as an organsalesman. He manipulated the cabinet organ for impossible customers inWisconsin, and he came to New York because he was offered a betterchance. The inevitable church position occurred. Then came Zundel voluntariesand hard pedal practice. At last Mendelssohn's organ sonatas werereached and with them a call--organists, like pastors, have calls--to afashionable church. The salary was fair and Mr. Pinton grewside-whiskers. He heard Paderewski play Chopin, and became a crazy lover of the piano. He hired a small upright and studied finger exercises. He consulted athousand books on technic, and in the meantime could not play Czerny'svelocity studies. He grew thin, and sought the advice of many pianists. He soon found thatpressing your foot on the swell and pulling couplers for tone colourwere not the slightest use in piano playing. Subtle finger pressures, the unloosening of the muscles, the delicate art of _nuance_, the artunfelt by many organists, all were demanded of the pianist, and Pintonalmost despaired. He grew contemptuous of the king of instruments as he essayed the Cmajor invention of Bach. He sneered at stops and pedals, and believed, in his foolish way, that all polyphony was bound within the boards ofthe Well-Tempered Clavichord. Then the new alto came to the choir, andPinton--at being springtide, when the blood is in the joyfulmood--thought that he was in love. He was really athirst. This Friday evening he was genuinely disappointed and thirsty. He turnedwith a sinking heart and parched throat into Pop Pusch's dearly belovedresort. Earlier in his life he had often solaced himself with the freelunch that John, the melancholy waiter, had dispensed. Pinton's mind wasa prey to many emotions as he entered the famous old place. He sat downbefore a brown table and clamoured for amber beer. He was not alone at the table. As Pinton put the glass of Pilsner to hislips he met the gaze of two sardonic eyes. He could not finish hisglass. He returned the look of the other man and then arose, with anervous jerk that almost upset the table. "Sit down, old pal; don't be crazy. I'll never say a word. Sit down, youfool; don't you see people are looking at you?" The voice was low, kindly in intonation, but it went through Pinton likea saw biting its way into wood. He sat down all in a heap. He knew the eyes; he knew the voice. It wasthe owner of the dark lantern--the mysterious man in the other house ofthat last Saturday night. Pinton felt as if he were about to become ill. "Lord, but you are a nervous one!" said the other, most reassuringly. "Sit still and I'll order brandy. It will settle your stomach. " That brought Pinton to his senses at once. "No, no, I'll be all right in a moment, " he said rather huskily. "Inever drink spirits. Thank you, all the same. " "Don't mention it, " said the man, and he tossed off his Würzburger. Eachman stealthily regarded the other. Pinton saw the stranger of thelantern and staircase. Close by he was handsome and engaging. His hairwas worn like a violin virtuoso's, and his hands were white, delicate, and well cared for. He spoke first. "How did you make out on that job?--I don't fancy there was much in it. Boarding-houses, you know!" Pinton, every particle of colour leaving his flabby face, asked:-- "What job?" The stranger looked at him keenly and went on rather ironically:-- "You are the most nervous duck I ever ran across. When I saw you lastyour pocket was full of the silver plate of that pantry, and I can thankyou for a fright myself, for when I saw you, I was just getting ready tocrack a neat little crib. Say! why didn't you flash your glim at me ormake some friendly signal at least? You popped out of sight like aprairie rabbit when a coyote heaves in view. " Pinton felt the ground heave beneath him. What possible job could theman mean? What was a "glim, " and what did the fellow suggest by silverplate? Then it struck him all of a sudden. Heavens! he was taken for aburglar by a burglar. His presence in the pie pantry had beenmisinterpreted by a cracksman; and he, the harmless organist of Dr. Bulgerly's church, was claimed as the associate of a dangerous, perhapsnotorious, thief. Pinton's cup of woe overflowed. He arose, put on his hat, and started to go. The young man grasped hisarm, and said in a most conciliatory fashion:-- "Perhaps I have hurt your sensitive nature. It was far from my intentionto do so. I saluted you at first in the coarse, conventional mannerwhich is expected by members of our ancient and honourable craft, and ifI have offended you, I humbly beg your pardon. " His accent was that of a cultivated gentleman. Pinton, somewhat assured, dropped back in his seat, and, John passing by just then, more beer wasordered. "Hear me before you condemn me, " said the odd young man. "My name isBlastion and I am a burglar by profession. When I saw you the othernight, at work on the premises next door to me, I was struck by yourrefined face. I said to myself: 'At last the profession is beingrecruited by gentlemen, men of culture, men of refinement. At last aprofitable, withal risky, pursuit is being dignified, nay, graced, bythe proper sort of person. ' And I saluted you in a happy, haphazardfashion, and then you flew the coop. Pardon my relapse into thevernacular. " Pinton felt that it was time to speak. "Pardon me, if I interrupt you, Mr. Blastion; but I fear we are notmeeting on equal ground. You take me for a--for a man of yourprofession. Indeed, sir, you are mistaken. When you discovered me lastSaturday night I was in the pantry of Mrs. Hallam, my boarding-housekeeper, searching for pie. I am not a burglar--pardon my harshexpression; I am, instead, an organist by profession. " The pallor of the burglar's countenance testified to the gravity of hisfeeling. He stared and blushed, looked apprehensively at the variousgroups of domino players in the back room, then, pulling himselftogether, he beckoned to melancholy John, and said:-- "Johann, two more beers, please. Yes?" Pinton became interested. There was something appealing in the signalthe man flashed from his eyes when he realized that he had unbosomedhimself to a perfect stranger, and not to a member of his beloved guild. The organist put his hand on the man's arm and said--faint memories offlatulent discourses from the Reverend Bulgerly coming to his aid: "Benot alarmed, my friend. I will not betray you. I am a musician, but Irespect art ever, even when it reveals itself in manifold guises. " Pinton felt that he was a man of address, a fellow of some wit; hisconfidential and rather patronizing pose moved his companion, who slylygrimaced. "So you are an organist and not a member of the noble Knights of theCentrebit and Jimmy?" he asked rather sarcastically. "Yes, " admitted Pinton, "I am an organist, and an organist who wouldfain become a pianist. " The other started. "I am a pianist myself, and yet I cannot say that I would like to playthe organ. " "You are a pianist?" said Pinton, in a puzzled voice. "Well, why not? I studied in Paris, and I suppose my piano technic stoodme in good stead in my newer profession. Just look at my hands if youdoubt my word. " Aghast, the organist examined the shapely hands before him. Withoutperadventure of a doubt they were those of a pianist, an expert pianist, and one who had studied assiduously. He was stupefied. A burglar and apianist! What next? Mr. Blastion continued his edifying remarks: "Yes, I studied very hard. I was born in the Southwest, and went to Paris quite young. I had goodfingers and was deft at sleight-of-hand tricks. I could steal ahandkerchief from a rabbi--which is saying volumes--and I played all theChopin études before I was fifteen. At twenty-one I knew twenty-fiveconcertos from memory, and my great piece was the _Don Juan Fantasy_. Oh, I was a wonder! When Liszt paid his last visit to Paris I playedbefore him at the warerooms of the Pleyels. "Monsieur Théodore Ritter was anxious for his old master to hear such apupil. I assure you there must be some congenital twist of evil in me, for I couldn't for the life of me forbear picking the old fellow'spockets and lifting his watch. Now don't look scandalized, Mr. ---- eh?Oh! thank you very much, Mr. Pinton. If you are born that way, all thepunishments and preachments--excuse the alliteration--will not stand inyour way as a warning. I have done time--I mean I have served severalterms of imprisonment, but luckily not for a long period. I sufferedmost by my incarceration in not having a piano. Not even a dumb keyboardwas allowed, and I practised the Jackson finger exercises in the air andthus kept my fingers limber. On Saturdays the warden allowed me, as aspecial favour, to practise on the cabinet organ--an odiousinstrument--so as to enable me to play on Sundays in chapel. Of courseno practice was needed for the wretched music we poor devils howled oncea week, but I gained one afternoon in seven for study by my ruse. "Oh, the joy of feeling the ivory--or bone--under my expectant fingers!I played all the Chopin, Henselt, and Liszt études on the miserablekeyboard of the organ. Yes, of course, without wind. It was, I assureyou, a truly spiritual consolation. You can readily imagine if a man hasbeen in the habit of practising all day, even if he does 'burgle' atnight, that to be suddenly deprived of all instrumental resources is abitter blow. " Pinton stuttered out an affirmative response. Then both arose afterpaying their checks, and the organist shook the burglar's hand at thecorner, after first exacting a promise that Blastion should play for himsome morning. "With pleasure, my boy. You're a gentleman and an artist, and I trustyou absolutely. " And he walked away, whistling with rare skill the Dflat valse of Chopin. "You can trust me, I swear!" Pinton called after him, and then wentunsteadily homeward, full of generous resolves and pianistic ambitions. As he intermittently undressed he discovered, to his rage and amazement, that both his purse and watch had disappeared. The one was well filled;the other, gold. Blastion's technic had proved unimpeachable. XVI AN IRON FAN Effinghame waited for Dr. Arn in the study, a small chamber crowded withthe contents of the universe--so it seemed to the visitor. There was atable unusual in size, indeed, big enough to dissect a body thereon. Itwas littered with books and medical publications and was not veryattractive. The walls were covered with original drawings of famousJapanese masters, and over the fireplace hung a huge fan, dull gray incolouring, with long sandalwood spokes. Not a noteworthy example ofJapanese art, thought Effinghame, as he glanced without marked curiosityat its neutral tinting, though he could not help wondering why thecunning artificers of the East had failed to adorn the wedge-shapedsurfaces of this fan with their accustomed bold and exquisitearabesques. He impatiently paced the floor. His friend had told him to come at nineo'clock in the evening. It was nearly ten. Then he began to fingerthings. He fumbled the papers in the desk. He examined the two Japaneseswords--light as ivory, keen as razors. He stared at each of the prints, at Hokusai, Toyokimi, Kuniyoshi, Kiyonaga, Kiosai, Hiroshighé, Utamaro, Oukoyo-Yé, --the doctor's taste was Oriental. And again he fell toscrutinizing the fan. It was large, ugly, clumsy. What possessed Arn toplace such a sprawling affair over his mantel? Tempted to touch it, hediscovered that it was as silky as a young bat's wing. At last, hiscuriosity excited, he lifted it with some straining to the floor. Whatpuzzled him was its weight. He felt its thin ribs, its soft, paper-likematerial, and his fingers chilled as they closed on the two outermostspokes. They were of metal, whether steel or iron he could notdetermine. A queer fan this, far too heavy to stir the air, and-- Effinghame held the fan up to the light. He had perceived a shadowyfigure in a corner. It resolved itself into a man's head--bearded, scowling, crowned with thorns or sunbeams. It was probably a Krishna. But how came such a face on a Japanese fan? The type was Oriental, though not Mongolian, rather Semitic. It vaguely recalled to Effinghamea head and face he had seen in a famous painting. But where and by whom?It wore a vile expression, the eyes mean and revengeful; there was acruel mouth and a long, hooked, crafty nose. The forehead was lofty, even intellectual, and bore its thorns--yes, he was sure they werethorns--like a conqueror. Just then Dr. Arn entered and laughed when hesaw the other struggling with the fan. "My _Samurai_ fan!" he exclaimed, in his accustomed frank tones; "howdid you discover it so soon?" "You've kept me here an hour. I had to do something, " answered theother, sulkily. "There, there, I apologize. Sit down, old man. I had a very sick patientto-night, and I feel worn out. I'll ring for champagne. " They talkedabout trifling personal matters, when suddenly Effinghame asked:-- "Why _Samurai_? I had supposed this once belonged to some prehistoricgiant who could waft it as do ladies their bamboo fans, when they brushthe dust from old hearts--as the Spanish poet sang. " "That fan is interesting enough, " was the doctor's reply. "When a_Samurai_, one of the warrior caste Japanese, was invited to the houseof a doubtful friend, he carried this fan as a weapon of defence. Compelled to leave his two swords behind a screen, he could close thisfighting machine and parry the attack of his hospitable enemy until hereached his swords. Just try it and see what a formidable weapon itwould prove. " He took up the fan, shut it, and swung it over his head. "Look out for the bottles!" cried Effinghame. "Never fear, old chap. And did you notice the head?" "That's what most puzzled me. " "No wonder. I too was puzzled--until I found the solution. And it tookme some years--yes, all the time you were in Paris learning how topaint and live. " He paused, and his face became gloomy. "Well--well?" "There is no well. It's a damned bad fan, that iron one, and I don'tmind saying so to you. " "Superstitious--you! Where is your Haeckel, your Wundt, your Weismann?Do you still believe in the infallibility of the germ-plasm? Has the fanbrought you ill-luck? The fact is, Arn, ever since your return fromChina you've been a strange bird!" It was Effinghame's turn to laugh. "Don't say another word. " The doctor was vivacious in a moment andpoured out wine. They both lighted cigars. Slowly puffing, Arn took upthe fan and spread it open. "See here! That head, as you must have noticed, is not Japanese. It'sJewish. Do you recall the head of Judas painted by Da Vinci in his LastSupper? Now isn't this old scoundrel's the exact duplicate--well, if notexact, there is a very strong resemblance. " Effinghame looked andnodded. "And what the devil is it doing on a fan of the _Samurai_? It's notcaprice. No Japanese artist ever painted in that style or ever expressedthat type. I thought the thing out and came to the conclusion--" "Yes--yes! What conclusion?" eagerly interrupted his listener. "To the conclusion that I could never unravel such a knotty questionalone. " Effinghame was disappointed. "So I had recourse to an ally--to the fan itself, " blandly added Arn, ashe poured out more wine. "The fan?" "Precisely--the fan. I studied it from tip to tip, as our bird-shootingfriends say, and I, at last, discovered more than a picture. You know Iam an Orientalist. When I was at Johns Hopkins University I attended theclasses of the erudite Blumenfeld, and what you can't learn fromhim--need I say any more? One evening I held the fan in front of a vividelectric light and at once noticed serried lines. These I decipheredafter a long time. Another surprise. They were Chinese characters of aremotely early date--Heaven knows how many dynasties back! Now what, youwill ask, is Chinese doing on a _Samurai_ fighting fan! I don't know. Inever shall know. But I do know that this fan contains on one side of itthe most extraordinary revelation ever vouchsafed mankind, particularlyChristian mankind. " Excited by his own words, Arn arose. "Effinghame, my dear fellow, I know you have read Renan. If Renan hadseen the communication on this iron fan, he would have never written hislife of the Messiah. " His eyes blazed. "Why, what do you mean?" "I mean that it might have been a life of Judas Iscariot. " "Good God, man, are you joking?" ejaculated Effinghame. "I mean, " sternly pursued Arn, "that if De Quincey had studied thisidentical fan, the opium-eater would have composed another gorgeousrhetorical plea for the man preëlected to betray his Saviour, theapostle who spilt the salt. " He sat down and breathed heavily. "Go on! Go on!" "Shall I relate the history upon the fan?" And without waiting for ananswer he began at the left of the fan and slowly read to the right:-- I who write this am called Moâ the Bonze. What I write of I witnessed in a walled city of Judea. I travelled there attracted by the report of miraculous happenings brought about by the magic art of a youthful barbarian called Ieshua. The day I arrived in the city they had sentenced the wise man to death by crucifixion. I was disappointed. I had come many moons and many leagues from the Yellow Kingdom to see something rare. I was too late. The magician, whom his disciples called a god, had been executed. I tarried a few days in the city. After many questions put to beggars and outcasts, I heard that a certain woman of rank had a portrait of Ieshua. I called and without hesitation asked her to show me this picture. She was an exalted soul. She wept bitter tears as she drew from a secret cabinet a scarf upon which was imprinted a bloody image. She continued to weep as I made a copy of the head. I confess I was not impressed. The face was bearded and ugly. The new god was said to have been as fair as the sun. And I told the woman this. She only wept the more. "If he were a god, " I asked, "where are outward evidences?" She became frantic. "The real man!" she cried; "_this_ one died for the man he betrayed, " and again fell to lamenting. Seeing I could gain nothing more from her, I left, wondering at the strange heretics I had encountered. I went back to my country and after weaving this tale and painting the head, there awaited the fifth Buddha, the successor to Siddartha, whose coming has been predicted. Arn's voice ceased. There was silence in the chamber. Then Effinghamestarted up and fiercely growled:-- "What do _you_ make of it, Arn?" "Isn't it clear enough? There's been a frightful error somewhere, one ofincalculable consequences. A tremendous act of heroism has beencommitted by a man whose name has been universally execrated through theages. Perhaps he repented at the eleventh hour and by some meansimpersonated his betrayed friend; perhaps--" "But that _other_ body found in the blasted field of Aceldama!"demanded the agitated Effinghame. Dr. Arn did not answer. After a lugubrious pause, he whispered:-- "There's more to follow. You haven't heard the worst. " "What--more! I thought your damnable old Bonze died in the odour ofsanctity over there in his Yellow Kingdom. " "True. He died. But before he died he recorded a vision he had. It isinscribed on the other side of the fan. " Effinghame's features lengthened. "Still the same fan. " "The same. Here is what it prophesies. " Reversing the clumsy fan, Arnagain read:-- Before I pass over into Nirvana I must relate what I saw in the country of the Christians. It was not a dream. It was too real. And yet it is to be, for it has not yet happened. The Campagna was now become a shallow lake from the sea almost to the Sabine Mountains. What had been Rome was a black waste spot, full of stones and weeds. And no two stones stood together. Ah! our war with the white races had been successful. We had not used their fighting machines, as did that nation of little brown men, the Japanese. The Chinese were too sage. They allowed the Christians to exterminate the Japanese; but when they attacked us and attempted to rob us of our land, we merely resorted to our old-time weapon--the Odour-Death. With it we smothered their armies, sunk their navies, swept through their countries like the simoon. The awful secret of the Odour-Death is one that has been ours from the beginning of time. Known only to the College of Bonzes, it was never used except in extreme peril. Its smell is more revolting in its consequences than the Black Plague. It ravaged the earth. I sat in a flat-bottomed boat, enjoying the soft melancholy Italian evening. Not a human did I see; nor had I encountered one on my slow voyage from the Middle Seas. In meditation I pondered the ultimate wisdom of Confucius and smiled at the folly of the white barbarians who had tried to show us a new god, a new religion. At last they, too, had succumbed like the nations before their era. The temple of Jupiter on the Capitol had fallen, so had the holy temple of Jerusalem. And now St. Peter's. Their central religion had been destroyed, and yet prophecies of the second coming of their divinity had not been accomplished. When the last Pope of Rome dies, so it was said, then time would be accomplished. The last Pope _had_ died. Their basilica with its mighty dome was a desert where scorpions and snakes abounded. The fifth Buddha would appear, not the second Christos. Suddenly I saw before me in a puny boat a beautiful beardless youth. He was attired in some symbolical garments and upon his head a triple tiara. I could not believe my aged eyes. He sat upright. His attitude was hieratic. His eyes were lifted heavenwards. He clasped his hands and prayed:-- "O Lord, remove thy servant. The time is at hand foretold by thy slaughtered saints. I am the last Pope and the humblest of thy servants. Though the heathen hath triumphed upon the earth, I go to thy bosom, for all things are now accomplished. " And he tumbled forward, dead. The last Pope! I had seen him. Nothing could happen after that. And as I turned my boat in the direction of the sea a moaning came upon the waters. The sky became as brass. A roar, like the rending asunder of the firmament, caused my soul to expand with horror and joy. Yes, time _was_ accomplished. The last Pope had uttered the truth. Eternity was nigh. But the Buddha would now prove to the multitudes awakened from their long sleep that _He_, not other gods, was the true, the only God. In a flare of light sounded the trumpets of destiny; eternity unrolled before me, and on the vast plain I saw the bones of the buried dead uniting, as men and women from time's beginnings arose in an army, the number whereof is unthinkable. And oh! abomination of desolation, the White Horse, not _Kalki_ the tenth incarnation of Vishnu, but the animal foretold in _their_ Apocalypse, came through the lightnings, and in the whirlwinds of flame and thunder I saw the shining face of Him, the Son of Man! Where our Buddha? Alas! the last Pope spake truth. I, Moâ the Bonze, tell you this ere it be too late to repent your sins and forswear your false gods. The Galilean is our master.... "_Farceur!_ Do you know what I would do with that accursed fan? I'ddestroy it, sell it, get rid of it somehow. Or else--" Effinghamescrutinized the doctor, whose eyes were closed--"or else I would returnto the pious practices of my old religion. " No smile crossed the face ofhis friend as he firmly held the fighting fan, the iron and mystical fanof the _Samurai_. XVII THE WOMAN WHO LOVED CHOPIN I When Marco Davos left Ischl on the midday train, that picturesque, huddled Austrian watering-place was stuffy. He was surprised then mostpleasantly by the coolness of Aussee, further down the line in thedirection of Vienna. Ischl is not a bad place, but it lies, as thenatives say, smothered in a kettle. He rode over from the station to thestadt park, where the band was playing. There he dismounted, for he wasgoing further--Aussee is not very interesting, but it principally servesas a good starting-point for trips to many of the charming lakes withwhich Styria is dotted. After asking his way, Davos passed the swimmingbaths, and keeping on the left bank of a tiny stream, he presently foundhimself walking through an earthly paradise. Since his advent in Ischl, where he drank the waters and endeavoured to quiet his overtaxed nerves, he had made up his mind to visit Alt-Aussee; several Viennese friendshad assured him that this hamlet, beneath a terrific precipice and onthe borders of a fairy-like lake, would be well worth the while. It was a relief to breathe the thinner mountain air, and the youngartist inhaled it with satisfaction, his big hat in hand, his long curlyblack hair flowing in the gentle breeze. He found himself in tunnels ofverdure, the sunlight shut off by the heavy leafage; then the pathdebouched into the open and, skirting closely the rocky wall, it widenedinto an island of green where a shady pagoda invited. He sat down for afew minutes and congratulated himself that he had escaped the intimatediscomforts of the omnibus he discerned on the opposite bank, packedwith stout people. This was the third week of his vacation, one enforcedby a nerve specialist in the Austrian capital, and for the first timeDavos felt almost cheerful. Perhaps the absolute hush of the country andthe purity of the atmosphere, with its suggestion of recent rain, --theskies weep at least once a day in the Salzkammergut region, --proved awelcome foil to fashionable Ischl, with its crowds, its stiffness, itscourt ceremonial--for the emperor enjoys his _villegiatura_ there. AndDavos was sick and irritable after a prolonged musical season. He hadstudied the pianoforte with Rosenthal, and his success, from his début, had been so unequivocal that he played too much in public. There was afiery particle in his interpretations of Chopin, Schumann, and Lisztthat proclaimed the temperament, if not the actual possession, ofgenius. Still in his early manhood--he was only twenty--the maturity ofhis musical intelligence and the poetry of his style created havoc inimpressionable hearts. With his mixed blood, Hungarian and Italian, Marco Davos' performance of romantic composers was irresistible; in itthere was something of Pachmann's wayward grace and Paderewski'splangency, but with an added infusion of gypsy wildness which evoked forold concert-goers memories of Liszt the brilliant rhapsodist. But he soon overpaid the score presented by the goddess Fortune--hisnerves were sadly jangled. A horror of the human face obsessed hiswaking and sleeping hours; he dreamed of colossal countenances withthreatening eyes, a vast composite of the audiences he nightly faced. Ashis popularity increased the waning of his self-respect told him that hemust go into retreat, anywhere out of the musical world--else would hisart suffer. It did suffer. The nervous diffidence, called stage-fright, which had never assailed his supreme self-balance, intruded itsunwelcome presence. Marco, several months after he had discovered allthese mischievous symptoms, the maladies of artistic adolescence, wasnot assured when the critics hinted of them--the public would surelyfollow suit in a few weeks. Then came the visit to the learned Viennesedoctor and the trip to Ischl. A few more months of this appallingabsorption in his own personality, this morbid marriage of man to hisown image, and he suspected that his brain would be irretrievablyinjured. He was a curious student of matters psychologic as well as musical. Afriendly laboratory had inducted him into many biologic mysteries. Particularly fascinating to him was the tactile sense, that sense oftouch wherewith man acquaints himself with this earth-clot swimming inspace. Davos contemplated the tips of his fingers as he sat in thegrateful cool, his ten voices as he named them. With them he sang, thundered, and thought upon the keyboard of his grand piano-forte. Amiracle, indeed, these slender cushions of fat, ramified by a network ofnerves, sinews, and bones as exquisite in their mechanism as the motionof the planets. If hearing is a miracle, so is touch; the ear is not aresonator, as has been so long maintained, but an apparatus whichrecords variations of pressure. This makes it subservient to the laws ofsensation; touch and hearing are akin. It aroused the pride of Davosafter he had read the revolutionary theories of Pierre Bounier regardingthe touch. So subtle could the art of touch be cultivated, the pianistbelieved, that the blind could _feel_ colour on the canvas of thepainter. He spent weeks experimenting with a sensitive manometer, gauging all the scale of dynamics. No doubt these fumblings on the edgeof a new science temporarily hurt his play. With a dangerous joy hepressed the keys of his instrument, endeavouring to achieve moredelicate shadings. He quarrelled with the piano manufacturers for theirobstinate adherence to the old-fashioned clumsy action; everything hadbeen improved but the keyboard--that alone was as coldly unresponsiveand inelastic as a half-century ago. He had fugitive dreams of wiresthat would vibrate like a violin. The sounding-board of a pianoforte istoo far from the pianist, while the violinist presses his strings as onekisses the beloved. Little wonder it is the musical monarch. A newpianoforte, with passionately coloured overtones, that could sob like avioloncello, sing like a violin, and resound with the brazen clangoursof the orchestra--Liszt had conceived this synthesis, had by the sheerforce of his audacious genius compelled from his instrument ravishingtones that were never heard before or--alas!--since. Even the antique harpsichord had its compensations; not so powerful inits tonal capacity, it nevertheless gave forth a pleading, human qualitylike the still small angelic voice. Davos pondered these problems, pondered Chopin's celestial touch and the weaving magic of his many-huedpoems; Chopin--Keats, Shelley, and Heine battling within the walls of afrail tender soul. The sound of footsteps and voices aroused him. He shivered with disgust. More people! Two men, well advanced in life, followed by two women, barely attracted his notice, until he saw that the little creature whowaddled at the rear of the party was a Japanese in European clothes. Notwithstanding her western garb, she resembled a print of Utamaro. Beside her walked a tall, grave girl, with dark hair and gray eyes, attired in the quaint garb of some early nineteenth-century epoch--1840or thereabouts. As old-fashioned as she looked, a delicate girlishbeauty was hers, and when she indifferently gazed at Davos, straightwayhe heard humming in his head the "glance motive" from Tristan andIsolde. They passed on, but not leaving him as he was before; a voicewhispered in the secret recesses of his being: "You love! Follow! Seekher!" And under the sudden impulsion of this passion he arose and made afew steps toward the curve of the path around which the girl and hercompanions had disappeared. The absurdity of this hasty translation intoaction of his desire halted him. Yes, his nerves must be in a bad way ifa casual encounter with a pretty woman--but was she pretty? He did notreturn to his seat. He continued his stroll leisurely. Pretty! Notexactly pretty--distinguished! Noble! Lovely! Beautiful! He smiled. Herehe was playing the praises of the unknown in double octaves. He did notovertake her. She had vanished on the other side of the bridge, and in afew minutes he found himself entering Alt-Aussee. It wore a brightappearance, with its various-coloured villas on the lake shores, and itschurch and inn for a core. The garden of this hotel he found to belarger than he had imagined; it stretched along the bank and onlystopped as if stone and mortar had been too lazy to go farther. Again he hesitated. The garden, the _restauration_--full of people:women knitting, children bawling, men reading; and all sipping coffee toa background of gossip. He remembered that it was the sacred hour of_Kaffeeklatsch_, and he would have escaped by a flight of steps that leddown to the beach, but he was hailed. A company of a half-dozen sat at alarge table under the trees, and the host was an orchestral conductorwell known to Davos. There was no alternative. He took a chair. He wasintroduced as the celebrated pianoforte-virtuoso to men and women he hadnever seen before, and hoped--so rancorous was his mood--never to seeagain. A red-headed girl from Brooklyn, who confessed that she thoughtMaeterlinck the name of some new Parisian wickedness, further botheredhim with questions about piano teachers. No, he didn't give lessons! Henever would! She dropped out of the conversation. Finally by an efforthe swore that his head was splitting, that he must return to Ischl. Hebroke away. When he discovered that the crowd was also bound for thesame place, he abruptly disappeared. It took him just two hours totraverse the irregular curves of the lake on the Franz Carl Promenade, and he ate his dinner in peace at the inn upon a balcony that projectedover the icy waters. Davos decided, as he smoked a mild cigarette, that he would remain atAlt-Aussee for the night. The peace of the landscape purified his soulof its irritability, though he wished that the Dachstein would notdominate so persistently the sky-line--it was difficult to avoid theview of this solitary and egotistic peak, the highest in Styria. He wasassigned a comfortable chamber, but the night was too fine for bed. Hedid not feel sleepy, and he went along the road he had come by; thechurch was an opaque mass, the spire alone showing in the violettwilight, like some supernatural spar on a ship far out at sea. Heattempted to conjure to his tired brain the features, the expression, ofthe girl. They would not reappear; his memory was traitorous. The murmur of faint music, piano music, made his ears wince--how hehated music! But afar as were these tonal silhouettes, traced againstthe evening air, his practised hearing told him that they were made byan artist. He languidly followed the clue, and soon he was at the gateof a villa, almost buried in the bosk, and listening with all hiscritical attention to a thrilling performance--yes, thrilling was theword--of Chopin's music. What! The last movement of the B flat minorsonata, the funeral march sonata, but no more like the interpretation hehad heard from others--from himself--than--than.... But, good heavens! _Who_ was playing! The unison passages that mount andrecede were iridescent columns of mist painted by the moonlight andswaying rhythmically in the breeze. Here was something rare. No longerconscious of the technical side of the playing, so spiritualized was it, so crystalline the touch, Davos forgot his manners and slipped throughthe gateway, through the dark garden, toward an open window in whichburned a solitary candle. The mystery of this window and the quicksilverdartings of the music--gods, what a touch, what gossamer delicacy!--sethis heart throbbing. He forgot his sick nerves. When the trumpet blows, the war-horse lusts for action--and this was not a trumpet, but a hornof elf-land. He moved as closely as he dared to the window, and themusic ceased--naturally enough, the movement had concluded. His earsburned with the silence. _She_ came to the window. Arrested by thevision--the casement framed her in a delicious manner--he did not stir. She could not help seeing this intruder, the light struck him full inthe face. She spoke:-- "Dear Mr. Davos, won't you come into the house? My father and my unclewill be most happy to receive you. " * * * * * She knew him! Stunned by his overstrung emotions, he could only bow hishead. II He received the welcome of a king. The two men he had seen earlier inthe day advanced ceremoniously and informed him that the honour of hispresence was something they had never hoped for; that--as news fliesswiftly in villages--they had heard he was at Alt-Aussee; they hadrecognized the _great_ Marco Davos on the road. These statements weredelivered with exaggerated courtesy, though possibly sincere. The elderof the pair was white-whiskered, very tall and spare, his expression asadly vague one. It was her father. The other an antique person, aroly-poly fellow who chuckled and quavered, was her uncle. Davos sat ina drawing-room containing a grand pianoforte, a few chairs, and couches. The floor was stained, and when a cluster of lights was brought by theuncle, he noticed that only Chopin portraits hung on the walls. Heapologized for his intrusion--the music had lured him from the highroad. "We are very musical, " said the father. "I should say so, " reiterated his brother-in-law. "Musical!" echoed Davos. "Do you call it by such an everyday phrase? Iheard the playing of a marvellous poet a moment ago. " The two men lookedshyly at each other. She entered. He was formally presented. "Monsieur Davos, this is Constantia Grabowska, my daughter. My name isJoseph Grabowski; my late wife's brother, Monsieur Pelletier. " Davoswas puzzled by the name, Constantia Grabowska! She sat before him, dressed in black silk with crinoline; two dainty curls hung over herears; her profile, her colouring, were slightly Oriental, and in hernebulous gray eyes with their greenish light there was eternal youth. Constantia! Polish. And how she played Chopin--ah! it came to him beforehe had finished his apologies. "You are named after Chopin's first love, " he ejaculated. "Pardon theliberty. " She answered him in her grave, measured contralto. "Constantia Gladowska was my grandmother. " The playing, the portraits, were now explained. A lover of the Polish composer, Davos knew everyincident of his biography. "I am the son of that Joseph Grabowski, the Warsaw merchant who marriedthe soprano singer, Constantia Gladowska, in 1832, " said the father, smilingly. "My father became blind. " "Chopin's _Ideal_!" exclaimed Marco. He was under the spell of thegirl's beauty and music. He almost stared at her, for the knowledge thatshe was a great artiste, perhaps greater than himself, rather dampenedhis passion. She was adorable as she returned without coquetry hisardent gaze; but she was--he had to admit it--a rival. This compositefeeling he inwardly wrestled with as the conversation placidlyproceeded. They only spoke of Poland, of Chopin. Once the name ofEmilia Plater, the Polish Joan of Arc, was mentioned--she, too, was adistant connection. The young pianist hinted that more music would beagreeable, but there was no response. He was quite alone withConstantia, and they talked of Poland's tone-poet. She knew much more ofChopin than he did, and she recited Mickïewicz's patriotic poems withincomparable verve. "Do you believe in heredity?" he cried, as the father entered with thetea. "Do you believe that your love of Chopin is inherited? Chopincomposed that wonderful slow movement of the F minor concerto because ofhis love for your grandmother. How I wish I could have seen her, heardher. " The girl, without answering him, detached from her neck a large broochand chain. Davos took it and amazedly compared the portrait with theliving woman. "You _are_ Constantia Gladowska. " She smiled. "Her love of Chopin--she must have loved her youthful adorer--has beentransmitted to you. Oh, please play me that movement again, the oneRubinstein called 'the night wind sweeping over the churchyard graves. '"Constantia blushed so deeply that he knew he had offended her. She hadfor him something of the pathos of old dance music--its statelysweetness, its measured rhythms. After drinking a cup of tea he driftedto the instrument--flies do not hanker after honey as strongly as dopianists in the presence of an open keyboard. A tactful silence ensued. He began playing, and, as if exasperated at the challenge implied by herrefusal, he played in his old form. Then he took the theme of Chopin's Eflat minor Scherzo, and he juggled with it, spun it into fine fibres oftone, dashed it down yawning and serried harmonic abysses. He wasmagnificent as he put forth all the varied resources of his art. Constantia, her cheeks ablaze, her lips parted, interposed a fan betweenher eyes and the light. There was something dangerous and passionate inher regard. In all the fury of his play he knew that he had touched her. Once, during a pause, he heard her sigh. As he finished in a thunderouscrash he saw in the doorway the figure of the Japanese maid--an ugly, gnarled idol with slitted eyes. She withdrew when he arose to receivethe unaffected homage of his hosts. He was curious. Monsieur Pelletier, who looked like a Brazilian parrot in beak and hue, cackled:-- "That's Cilli, our Japanese. She was born in Germany, and is my niece'sgoverness. Quite musical, too, I should say so. Just look at my twoMaltese cats! I call them Tristan and Isolde because they make noises inthe night. Don't you _loathe_ Wagner?" It was time to go. Enamoured, Davos took his leave, promising to callthe next forenoon before he went back to Ischl. He held her fingers fora brief moment and longed to examine their tips, --the artist stillstruggled to subdue the man, --but the pressure he received was sounmistakable that he hurried away, fearing to betray his emotion. Hehovered in the vicinity of the house, longing for more music. He wasdisappointed. For a full hour he wandered through the dusty lanes in thefaded light of an old moon. When he reached his chamber, it was longpast one o'clock; undaunted, his romantic fervour forced him to thewindow, and he watched the shining lake. He fell asleep thinking ofConstantia. But he dreamed of Cilli, the Japanese maid with the hideouseyes. III Not only that morning, but every morning for two weeks, did Marco Davosvisit Alt-Aussee. He came down from Ischl on the earliest train, andsome nights he stopped at the hotel near his new friends. After a fewvisits he saw little of the father and uncle, and he was not sorry--theywere old bores with their archaic anecdotes of dead pianists. Twomaniacs on the subject of music, Davos wished them to the devil after hehad known them twenty-four hours. His passion had reached the acute key. He could not eat or drink in normal fashion, and no sooner had he leftthe girl than the sky became sombre, his pulse weakened, and he longedto return to her side to tell her something he had forgotten. He didthis several times, and hesitated in his speech, reddened, and left her, stumbling over the grass like a lame man. Never such a crazy wooer, never a calmer maiden. She looked unutterable sentiment, but spoke itnot. When he teased her about her music, she became a statue. She was tootimid to play before artists; her only master had been her father. Oncemore he had heard the piano as he returned unexpectedly, and almostcaught her; he saw her at the instrument, but some instinct must havewarned her that she was being spied upon. She stopped in the middle of aphrase from a Mendelssohn song, and even to his prejudiced ears hertouch had seemed commonplace. Yet he loved her all the more despite herflat refusal to play. The temptation to his excited artistic temperamentwas removed. He played, often, gloriously. His nerves were steel. Thiswas a cure his doctor had not foreseen. What did it matter, anyhow?--hewas near Constantia daily, and the sunshine was royal. Only--why did herrelatives absent themselves so obstinately! She told him, with hersecret smile, that she had scolded them for talking so much; but when heplayed they were never far away, she assured him. Nor was the Japanesewoman, Cilli--what a name! A nickname given by Constantia in herbabyhood. Cilli was a good soul. He hoped so--her goodness was notapparent. She had a sneering expression as he played. He never looked upfrom the keyboard that he did not encounter her ironical gaze. She wasundoubtedly interested. Her intensity of pose proved it; but there wasno sympathy in her eyes. And she had a habit of suddenly appearing indoor or window, and always behind her mistress. She ended by seriouslyannoying him, though he did not complain. It was too trivial. One afternoon he unfolded his novel views on touch. If the action of themodern pianoforte could be made as sensitive in its response as thefingerboard of a fiddle.... Constantia listened with her habitualgravity, but he knew that she was bored. Then he shifted to the subjectof fingers. He begged to be allowed the privilege of examining hers. Atfirst she held back, burying her hand in the old Mechlin lace flounce ofher sleeves. He coaxed. He did not attempt to conceal his chagrin whenhe finally saw her fingers. They were pudgy, good-humoured, fit to lifta knife and fork, or to mend linen. They did not match her cameo-likeface, and above all they did not reveal the musical soul he knew her topossess. For the first time since he met her she gave evidence of illhumour. She sharply withdrew her hand from his, and as she did so abarbaric croon was heard, a sort of triumphant wailing, and Constantia, without making an excuse, hurriedly left the room. The singing stopped. "It's that devil of a Japanese woman, " he muttered testily. He waitedfor nearly an hour, and in a vile temper took up his hat and stick andwent away. Decidedly this was his unlucky day, he grumbled, as hereached the water. He saw Grabowski and Pelletier, arm in arm, trudgingtoward the villa, but contrived to evade them. In ten minutes he foundhimself spying on the house he had quitted. He skirted a little privateway back of the villa, and to his amazement father, uncle, andConstantia came out and hailed the omnibus which travelled hourly toAussee. Davos was furious. He did not risk following them, for herealized he had been treated shabbily. His wrath softened as hereflected; perhaps Constantia, agitated by his rudeness, --had he beenrude?--persuaded her family to follow him to Ischl. The sky cleared. That was the solution--Marco Davos straightened himself--his pride wasno longer up in arms. Poor child--she was so easily wounded! How heloved her! His body trembled. He could not believe he was awake. Incredible musicwas issuing from behind the closed blinds of the villa. Music! And themusic he had overheard that first night. But Constantia had just goneaway; he had seen her. There must be some mistake, some joke. No, no, byanother path she had managed to get back to the house. Ay! but whatplaying. Again came that purling rush of notes, those unison passages, as if one gigantic hand grasped them--so perfect was the tonal accord. He did not hesitate. At a bound he was in the corridor and pushed openthe door of the drawing-room.... At first the twilighted room blinded him. Then to his disgust and terrorhe saw the apelike features of the squat Japanese governess. She sat atthe piano, her bilious skin flushed by the exertion of playing. "You--you!" he barely managed to stammer. She did not reply, butpreserved the immobility of a carved idol. "You are a wonderful artiste, " he blurted, going to her. She stolidlyanswered:-- "The Japanese have the finest sense of touch in the world. I was once apupil of Karl Tausig. " Involuntarily he bowed his head to the reveredname of the one man he had longed to hear. Then his feelings almoststrangled him; his master passion asserted itself. "Your fingers, your fingers--let me see them, " he hoarsely demanded. With a malicious grin she extended her hands--he groaned enviously. Yes, they were miracles of sculpture, miracles of colour and delicacy, theslender tips well-nigh prehensile in their cunning power. And thefingers of Constantia, of his love, of the woman who loved Chopin--thatChopin whose first passion was for her grandmother, the opera singerConstantia Gladowska! The knowledge of her cruel deception crept into his consciousness. Hewas chilled for several seconds. Grief at his lost love, implacableanger at her trickery, crowded into his unhappy brain. But he only bowedto Cilli, and summoning all his will he politely said:-- "It is quite true that when the Japanese choose to play the piano, weEuropeans must shut up shop. " He hurried out to the road and walkeddesperately.... The next morning, as he nervously paced the platform of the Ischlrailway station, he encountered his old friend Alfred Brünfeld, thejovial Viennese pianist. "Hullo!" "Hullo!" "Not going back to Vienna?" "Yes--I'm tired of the country. " "But, man, you are pale and tired. Have you been studying up here afteryour doctor bade you rest?" The concern in Brünfeld's voice touchedDavos. He shook his head, then bethought himself of something. "Alfred, you are acquainted with everybody in Europe. How is it younever told me about that strange Grabowski crowd--you know, thegranddaughter of Chopin's first love?" Brünfeld looked at him withinstant curiosity. "You also?" he said. The young man blushed. After _that_ he could neverforgive! The other continued:-- "Granddaughter, fiddlesticks! They are not Poles, those Grabowskis, butimpostors. Their real name is--is--" Davos started. "What, you have met them?" "Yes, the stupid father, the odious uncle, the fair Constantia--what ameek saint!--and that diabolical Japanese, who plays the piano like ahouse on fire. " Tears came to the eyes of Marco Davos. "Did they--I mean, did _she_ take you in, too?" "Here, at Ischl, last summer, " was the grim reply. XVIII THE TUNE OF TIME Ferval returned to Rouen after a fatiguing trip down the Seine as far asCroisset, the old home of Gustave Flaubert. Here he viewed, not withouta dismal sense of fame and its futility, the little garden-house inwhich the masterpieces of the great Frenchman had been conceived in joyand executed in sorrow. He met the faithful Colange, one-time attendantof Flaubert, and from him learned exacerbating details of the novelist'slonesome years; so he was in a mood of irritation as he went ashore nearthe Boïeldieu Bridge and slowly paced toward his hotel. He loved thisNorman Rouen, loved the battered splendour of Nôtre-Dame Cathedral, loved the church of Saint-Ouen--that miracle of the Gothic, with itsupspringing turrets, its portal as perfect as a Bach fugue. And in theSolferino Garden he paid his tribute of flowers at the monuments ofMaupassant and Flaubert. Ferval was modern in his tastes; he believednothing in art was worth the while which did not date from thenineteenth century. Deplorably bored, he passed his hotel on the Quai and turned into theRue Jeanne d'Arc, which led by the façade of the Palais de Justice. Hehad studied it carefully, and it did not, this dull afternoon inSeptember, hold his interest long; he sauntered on, not feeling strongenough to light a cigarette. Decidedly, Rouen was become tiresome. Hewould go back to Paris by the evening train--or to Dieppe, thence toLondon, on the morning boat. Presently he found himself nearing thePorte de la Grosse Horloge. Through its opening poured vivacious workinggirls and men in blouse and cap, smoking, chattering, gesticulating. Itwas all very animated, and the wanderer tried to enjoy the picture. Thenover against the crenellated wall, under the tablet bearing the quaintinscription picked out in choice Latin, Ferval saw a tall girl. Her barehead would not have marked her in a crowd where motley prevailed; it washer pose that attracted him, --above all, her mediæval face, with itslong, drooping nose which recalled some graven image of Jean Goujon. Herskin was tanned; her hair, flame-coloured, was confined by a classicfillet; her eyes, Oriental in fulness, were light blue--Ferval hadcrossed to the apparition and noted these things. She did not return hisstare, but continued to gaze at the archway as if expecting some one. Young, robust, her very attitude suggested absolute health; yet herexpression was so despairing, her eyes so charged with misery, thatinvoluntarily he felt in his pocket for money. And then he saw that inher hand she held a tambourine. She wore a faded uniform of theSalvation Army. Suddenly an extraordinary noise was heard; music, but of such a peculiarand excruciating quality that the young man forgot his neighbour andwondered what new pain was in store for his already taut nerves. Theshops emptied, children stopped their games, and the Quarter suspendedits affairs to welcome the music. Ferval heard rapturous and mockingremarks. "Baki, Baki, the human orchestra!" cried one gossip to another. And the reverberating music swelled, multifarious and amazing as if amilitary band from piccolo to drum were about to descend the highway. Aclatter and bang, a sweet droning and shrill scraping, and then an oldman proudly limped through the gateway of the Great Clock. This was theconjurer, this white-haired fellow, who, with fife, cymbals, bells, concertinas, --he wore two strapped under either arm, --at times fiddler, made epileptic music as he quivered and danced, wriggled, and shook hisvenerable skull. The big drum was fastened to his back, upon its topwere placed cymbals. On his head he wore a pavilion hung with bells thatpealed when he twisted or nodded his long, yellow neck. He carried aweather-worn fiddle with a string or two missing, while a pipe thatmight have been a clarinet years before, now emitted but cackling tonesfrom his thin lips, through which shone a few fanglike teeth. By someincomprehensible coördination of muscular movements he contrived to makesound simultaneously his curious armoury of instruments, and thewhistling, screeching, scratching, drumming, wheezing, and tinkling ofmetal were appalling. But it was rhythmic, and at intervals the edge ofa tune could be discerned, cutting sharply through the dense cloud ofvibrations, like the prow of a boat cleaving the fog. Baki, his face redand swollen by his exertions, moved to the spot where waited the girl. "_Ai_, Debora!" cried a boy, "here's the old man. Pass the plate, passthe plate!" To his amazement, though he could give no reason for thefeeling, Ferval saw the girl go from group to group, her tambourineoutstretched, begging for coppers. Once she struck an insulting youthacross the face, but when she reached Ferval and met his inquiring look, she dropped her eyes and did not ask for alms. A red-headed Sibyl, hethought discontentedly, a street beggar, the daughter of an old ruffian. And as he walked away rapidly he remembered her glance, in which therelurked some touch of antique pride and wrath. II Rouen lay below him, a violet haze obscuring all but the pinnacles ofits churches. The sinking sun had no longer power to pierce this mistygulf, at the bottom of which hummed the busy city; but Ferval sawthrough rents in the twirling, heat-laden atmosphere the dim shapes ofbridges mirrored by the water beneath him; and once the two islandsapparently swept toward him, a blur of green; while at the end of thevalley, framed by hills, he seemed to discern the odd-lookingTransbordeur spanning the Seine. For twenty-four hours he had not ceased thinking of the girl with thetambourine, of her savage, sullen grace, her magnificent poise andstrange glance. He had learned at his hotel that she was called "_Deborala folle_, " and that she was the daughter of the still crazier Baki. Wasshe some sort of a gypsy, or a Continental version of Salvation Armylass? No one knew. Each year, at the beginning of autumn, the pairwandered into Rouen, remained a few weeks, and disappeared. Where?Paris, perhaps, or Italy or--_là bas!_ The shoulder-shrugging provedthat Baki and his daughter were not highly regarded by reputablecitizens of Rouen, though the street people followed their music andsinging as long as it lasted. Singing? queried Ferval; does the womansing? He became more interested. His visits to the country where Pissarropainted and Flaubert wrote revealed other possibilities besides thosepurely artistic ones in which this amateur of fine shades and sensationsdelighted. He did not deny, on the esplanade where behind him stoodBonsecours and the monument of Jeanne d'Arc, that souvenirs of the girlhad kept his eyelids from closing during the major portion of the night. To cool his brain after the midday breakfast he had climbed the white, dusty, and winding road leading to the Monumental Cemetery wherein, trueFlaubertian, he had remained some moments uncovered at the tomb of themaster. Now he rested, and the shade of the trees mellowed the slow duskof a Rouen evening. A deep contralto voice boomed in his ears. As he had seen but a scanthalf-dozen persons during the afternoon on the heights, Ferval wasstartled from his dreams. He turned. Sitting on a bank of green was thegirl. Her hands were clasped and she spoke carelessly to her father, who, unharnessed from his orchestra, appeared another man. RapidlyFerval observed his striking front, his massive head with the long, white curls, the head of an Elijah disillusioned of his mission. He, too, was sitting, but upright, and his arm was raised with a threateninggesture as if in his desolating anger he were about to pronounce amalediction upon the vanishing twilighted town. Ferval movedimmediately, as he did not care to be caught spying upon his queerneighbours. He was halted by their speech. It was English. His surprisewas so unaffected that he turned back and went up to the two and badethem good-day. At once he saw that the girl recognized him; the fatherdropped his air of grandeur and put on the beggar's mask. What an actor!thought Ferval, at the transformation. "Would the good gentlemanplease--?" The girl plucked at her father's arm imploringly. With her grave, coldexpression she answered the other's salutation and fixed him with herwonderful eyes so inquiringly that Ferval began a hasty explanation. "English was rarely spoken here ... And then the pleasure of the music!"The old man burst into scornful laughter. "The music!" he exclaimed. "The music!" echoed his daughter. Fervalwished himself down in Rouen. But he held his position. "Yes, " he continued, "your music. It interested me. And now I find youspeaking my own tongue. I must confess that I am curious, that mycuriosity has warrant. " Thus was he talking to beggars as if they werehis social equals. Unconsciously the tone he adopted had been forcedupon him by the bearing of his companions, above all by their accent, that of cultivated folk. Who and what were they? The musician no longersmiled. "You are a music-lover, monsieur?" he asked in a marked French _patois_. "I love music, and I am extremely engaged by your remarkable combinationof instruments, " answered Ferval. Baki regarded his wretched orchestraon the grass, then spoke to his daughter. "Debora, " he said in English, and his listener wondered if it wereCeltic or Scotch in its unusual intonations, "Debora, you must singsomething for the gentleman. He loves our art, "--there was indescribablepathos in this phrase, --"so sing something from Purcell, Brahms, orRichard Strauss. " These words were like the sting of hail; they seemed to drop from thesky, so out of key were they with the speaker's ragged clothes and theoutlandish garb of his daughter. Purcell! Brahms! Strauss! What couldthese three composers mean to such outcasts? Believing that he was thevictim of a mystification, Ferval waited, his pulses beating as if hehad been running too hard. The girl slowly moved her glorious eyes inhis direction; light as they were in hue, their heavy, dark lashes gavethem a fantastic expression--bright flame seen through the shadow ofsmoke. He felt his own dilating as she opened her throat and poured outa broad, sonorous stream of sound that resolved into Von ewiger Liebe byBrahms. He had always loved deep-voiced women. Had he not read in theTalmud that Lilith, Adam's first wife, was low of voice? And thisbeggar-maid? Maybe a masquerading singer with a crazy father! What elsecould mean such art wasted on the roads, thrown in the faces of arabble! Ferval kindled with emotion. Here was romance. Brahms and hisdark song under the bowl of the troubled blue sky strongly affected him. He took the lean, brown hand of the singer and kissed it fervently. Shedrew back nervously, but her father struck her on the shoulderchidingly. "A trifle too dreary, " he rumbled in his heavy bass. "Now, Purcell forthe gentleman, and may he open his heart and his purse for the poor. " "Father, " she cried warningly, "we are not beggars, _now_!" She turnedsupplicatingly to the young man and made a gesture of dismissal. Hegently shook his head and pretended that he was about to leave, thoughhe felt that his feet were rooted in the earth, his power of willinggone. "Ay, ay, my girl!" continued the musician, "you can sing as well as thebest of them, only you love your sinful old father so much that you havelaid aside your ambitions, to follow him in his pilgrimage of expiationabout this wicked globe. Ah, sir, if you but knew--I _will_ speak, Debora, for he is a gentleman and a lover of music! If you but knew ourhistory, you would not be surprised at us. Have ye ever been in Wales?" Ferval stumbled in his answer. It was overlooked; the old man continued:"If ye have, ye must have heard of the sin-eaters. I am one of them, Iam an eater of sin--" Again the girl exclaimed, this time piteously, "Oh, father, rememberyour vow!" "Poor lass! Yes, I was a doer of evil, and I became an eater of sin. Some day my sins will be forgiven--this is my penance. " He pointed tohis instruments. Ferval kept silence. He feared a word would blow awaythe cobweb foundations of the narrative. The girl had turned and waswatching a young tilted moon which with a single star made silvery dentslow in the western horizon. "I am an eater of sin. We still have a few such in Wales. They put apiece of bread and cheese on the breast of a dead man and when thesin-eater eats it, the sins of the dead are passed into the bread andcheese and the soul of the dead is shrived of them. Ay, ay, but it's agrave duty, my friend, to take upon your own soul the crime of another. If you are free from sin yourself, you may walk through life a bravecreature; but ... I took his sins, sins, the sins of the wickedestcomposer of our century, God rest his soul. And for the wicked things heput into his symphonies I must march through life playing on thisterrible collection of instruments the Tune of Time--" His daughterfaced him. "Father, we must go; you are only keeping the gentleman. " Again shesignalled Ferval, but he disregarded her warning. He would not stir. Thestory and the man who told it, a prophet shorn of his heaven-stormingpowers, fascinated him. "I took his sins to myself and they were awful. Once every night I playthe Tune of Time in which the wickedness of the dead man is spread outlike dry rot in a green field. This man kept his genius so long stagnantthat it decayed on his hands, and then into his pestilential music hepoured his poison, and would have made the world sick. Oh, for deliveryfrom the crushing transgressions of another! His name? Ah, but that ismy secret! I ate his sin, and truth, my son, is stranger than theology!Listen!" Before his daughter could check him he had hastily donned his armamentof instruments and, tramping slowly the broad, smooth path, beganplaying. Ferval, much disappointed, was about to disappear, for heremembered the racking noises of the previous day. But this music, thisTune of Time!... III It was like the flare of lightning which illuminates strange regionsbeyond the borders of the soul. Ferval no longer heard, he felt; he feltno more, he saw. The white veil was torn asunder, and it showed him amelodious thunder-pool wherein tapering tiny bodies swam, whose eyeswere the eyes of Debora. They split and coalesced into other creatures, and to the drummings of spheric harmonies resolved themselves scaly andmonstrous. Never did they cease changing. As the music buzzed he saw thegreat ladder of life, the lowermost rungs resting in lakes of meltedamber, the top threatening the remotest rims of the universe. And stillthe Tune of Time whirred on, as facet after facet of the Infinitewheeled toward creation. Numberless legions of crumpled nightmare shapesmodulated into new, familiar forms. Ferval saw plasmic dew becomeanthropoidal apes, fiercely roaming primeval forests in search of prey. The music mounted ever upward, for the Tune of Time is the Tune ofLove--love and its inseparable shadow, hate, fashion the firmament. Thesolid, circular earth shivered like a mighty harp under this lyricburden of love. The very stars sported in their orbits; and from thefulgurating ovens of the Milky Way there shot forth streams of audiblelight that touched the heart-strings of the hairy, erect primates andset them chanting; thus were the souls born which crowned them men. Thisspace-bridging music ranged from sun to sun, and its supernaturalsymphony had no beginning and never shall end. But the magician or devil who revealed this phantasmagoria of theCosmos--how had he wrested from the Inane the Tune of Time that in asequence of chromatic chords pictured the processes of the eternalenergy? Was this his sin, the true sin against the Holy Ghost? How hadhe blundered upon the secret of the rhythmic engine which spun soulsthrough the ages? No man could live after this terrific peep at theAncient of Days. Debora's eyes peered into Ferval's, filled with themusic that enmeshes. And now sounded the apocalyptic trumpets even untothe glittering edges of eternity.... Amid this vertiginous tempest of tones Debora danced the Dance of Space. She revolved in lenten movement to the lilt of the music, her eyesstaring and full of broken lights. As her gaze collided with hercompanion's he saw a disk of many-coloured fire; and then her languorousgestures were transformed into shivering intensities. She danced likethe wine-steeped Noah; she danced as danced David before the Ark of theCovenant. And she was Herodias pirouetting for the price of John's head, and her brow was wreathed with serpents. Followed the convulsivecurvings of the Nautch and the opaque splendours of stately Moorishslaves. Debora threw her watcher into a frenzy of fear. He crouchedunder a sky that roofed him in with its menacing blackness; the orbs ofthe girl were shot with crescent lightnings. Alien in his desolation, hewondered if her solemn leaps, as the music dashed with frantic speedupon his ear-drums, signified the incarnation of Devi, dread slayer ofmen! The primal charmers affrighted his vision: Lilith, Ourania, Astarté, Ashtaroth, Belkis, Ishtar, Mylitta, Cotytto, and manyimmemorial figures from before the Flood streamed by and melted into thewoven paces of Debora--this new Jephtha's daughter dancing to her doomas her father fingered the Tune of Time. In the whirling patterns of herdance, Ferval discerned, though dimly, the Veil of Maya, the veil ofillusion called Space, on the thither side of which are embroidered thefugacious symbols of Time.... ... As the delirious music faltered and fainted, he watched the tragiceyes of Debora yellowing cat-like. His senses and imagination had beenhypnotized by all this fracas and by the beauty of the girl. With such amate and such formidable music, he could conquer the earth! His brainwas afire with the sweetness of the odour that enveloped them, an odouras penetrating as the music of the nocturnal Chopin. "Debora, " he whispered, "you must never go away from me. " She hung herhead. The old man was not to be seen; the darkness had swallowed him. Ferval quietly passed his arm about the waist of the silent woman andslowly they walked in the tender night. She was the first to speak:-- "You did not hear a madman's story, " she asserted in her clear, candidvoice, which had for him the hue of a cleft pomegranate. "It is thehistory of my father's soul. It is his own sin he expiates. " "But you, you!" Ferval cried unsteadily. "Why must your life besacrificed to gratify the bizarre egotism of such a--" He cut short thephrase, fearful of wounding her. He felt her body tremble and her armcontract. They reached the marble staircase of the Jeanne d'Arcmemorial. She stopped him and burst forth:-- "Would you be willing to share his burden? Would you take upon yourshoulders his sin? He may have committed the one unpardonable sin, forhe discovered the true philosopher's stone, that can transmute metals, make mountains nod, the stars to stop, and command the throne ofJehovah--oh, what blasphemy has been his in his daring music! If hecould persuade one other soul besides mine to help him, he might bereleased from his woe. Will you be that other?" She put this question as if she were proposing a commonplace humanundertaking. Ferval in his confusion fancied that she was provoking himto a declaration. To grasp his receding reason he fatuously exclaimed:-- "Is this a Salvation Army fantasy?" With that she called out, in harsh resentment: "Not salvation for you!" She then thrust him from her so violently that he tumbled backward downthe steps to the very bottom, where, unnerved by the ferocity of theattack and his head bruised by the fall, he felt his consciousnessescape like gas from a punctured balloon. When found the next morning, he was barely covered by the old sin-eater's rags, while near by wasscattered the entire orchestra of that eloquent wizard. Shudderingly herealized that it had been no dream; shudderingly he wondered if upon hissoul had been shifted the unknown crime of the fanatic! The witching, enigmatic Debora haunted his memory; and with dismay he recalled theblistering vision evoked by the music, through which she had glided likesome tremulous Lamia. Decidedly his imagination had carried him far. Hecursed his easy credulity, he reviled his love of the exotic.... Ferval made inquiry of the authorities, but received little comfort. Salvation Army people they were not, this father and daughter; thetambourine, assumed garb, and prophet's beard had deceived him. Impostors! But of what incredible caliber, of what illusion-creatingpower! For years he could not see a Salvation Army girl without a senseof cerebral exaltation. If he could have met Debora again, he would haveforgiven her sibylline deceptions, her father's chicanery. And how didthey spin their web? Ferval, student of the occult, greedy ofmetaphysical problems, at first set it down to Indian Yogi magic. Butthe machinery--the hideously discordant human orchestra, the corybanticdancing! No, he rejected the theory. Music is sometimes hypnotic, butnot such music; dancing is the most alluring of the spatial arts, andDebora's miming was a delight to the eye; but could it have so obscuredhis judgments as to paint upon the canvas of his fancy those prodigiousfrescoes of time and space? In the iron solitude of his soul he tortured himself with thesequestions. His stupor lasted for days--was it the abrupt fall or was itthe result of his absinthe-like dreams? He was haunted by an odour thatassailed his brain like one tune persistently played. The odour! Whencedid it come with its sickly sweetness? Perhaps therein lay the secret ofhis hallucinating visions. Perhaps a drug had perverted his brain. Butwithin the week the dangerous perfume had become dissipated, and with itvanished all hope of solving the riddle. Oh, to sense once more theenchantments of its fragrance, once more revel in the sublimatedintoxication of mighty forces weaving at the loom of life! By thecadences of what infernal art had he been vouchsafed a glimpse of theprofiles of the gods? Henceforth Ferval became a lover of shadows. XIX NADA The tenderness of the growing night disquieted the dying woman. "Aline!" she called. But it was only the name that reverberated withinthe walls of her brain, harrowed by fever. A soft air rustled the drawncurtains of lawn; and on the dressing table the two little lampsfluttered in syncopated sympathy. One picture the room held. It wasafter a painting by Goya, and depicted a sneering skeleton scrawling onhis dusty tomb, with a bony fore-finger, the sinister word, _Nada_--nothing! The perturbation of the woman increased, thoughphysical power seemed denied her. "Aline, my child!" This time aclucking sound issued from her throat. The girl went to the bedside and gently fanned. Her aunt wagged her headnegatively. "No, no!" she stuttered. Aline stopped, and kneeling, tookthe sick hands in her own. Their eyes met and Aline, guided by theglance, looked over at the picture with its sardonic motto. "Shall I take it away, Aunt Mary?" The elder woman closed her eyes as ifto shut out the ghoulish mockery. Then Aline saw the tabouret that stoodbetween the windows--it was burdened with magnolias in a deep whitebowl. "Do you wish them nearer?" "No, no, " murmured her aunt. Her eyes brightened. She pushed her chinforward, and the young girl removed the flowers, knowing that theirodour had become oppressive. She was not absent more than a few seconds. As she returned the maid touched her arm. "The gentlemen are waiting below, miss. They won't leave until they seeyou. " "How can I go now? Send them away, send them away!" "Yes, miss; but I told them what you said this afternoon about thedanger of Holiest Mother--" "Hush! she is calling. " Aline slipped into the room on hurried feet, hereyes dilated, her hair in anxious disorder. But the invalid made nosignal. She lay with closed eyelids, the contraction of her nostrils afaint proclamation of life. Again the niece took her place at theheadboard, and with folded fingers watched the whispering indications ofspeedy flight. The maid soon beckoned her from a narrowed door. Alinejoined her. "They say that if you don't go down, they will come up. " "Who says?" was the stern query. "The Second Reader and the Secretary. I think you had better see them;they both look worried. Really I do, Miss Allie. " "Very well, Ellen; but you must stay here, and if Holiest Mother makesthe slightest move, touch the bell. I'll not be gone five minutes. " Without arranging her hair or dress, Aline opened the folding doors ofthe drawing-room. Only the centre lamp was lighted, but she recognizedthe two men. They were sitting together, and arose as she entered. Theburly Second Reader wore a dismayed countenance. His cheeks were flabby, his eyes red. The other was a timid little man who never had anything tosay. "How is Holiest Mother?" asked the Reader. "Dying. " "Oh, Sister Aline! Why such a blunt way of putting it? _She_ may beexchanging her earthly garb for a celestial one--but die! We do notacknowledge death in the Church of the New Faith. " He paused and blandlystroked his huge left hand, covered with red down. "Holiest Mother, my aunt, has not an hour to live, " was the coolresponse of the girl. "If you have no further question, I must ask youto excuse me; I am needed above. " She stepped to the door. "Wait a moment, sister! Not so fast. The situation is serious. Hundredsof thousands of the faithful depend on our report of this--of this sadevent. We may tell them that the female pope of our great religion"--hebent his big neck reverently--"was wafted to her heavenly abode by theangels. But there are the officers of the law, the undertaker, thecemetery people, to be considered. Shall we acknowledge that our founderhas died like any other human--in bed, of a fever? And who is to be hersuccessor? Has she left a will?" "Poor Aunt Mary!" muttered the girl. "It must be a woman, will or no will, " continued the Second Reader, inthe tone of a conqueror making terms with a stricken foe. "Now Aline, sister, you are the nearest of kin. You are a fervent healer. _You_ arethe Woman. " "How can you stand there heartlessly plotting such things and a dyingwoman in the house?" Aline's voice was metallic with passion. "You careonly for the money and power in our church. I refuse to join with you inany such scheme. Aunt Mary will die. She will name her successor. Thenit will be time to act. Have you forgotten her last words to thefaithful?" She pointed to a marble tablet above the fireplace, whichbore this astounding phrase: "My first and forever message is one andeternal. " Nothing more, --but the men cowered before the sublime wisdomuttered by a frail woman, wisdom that had started the emotionalmachinery of two continents. "But, great God! Miss Aline, you mustn't go off and leave us in thisfix. " Drops of water stood on the forehead of the Second Reader. Hishands dropped to his side with a gesture of despair. His companion keptto the corner, a scared being. "You know as well as I do that _somebody_ has to take the throne seatafter--after your Aunt Mary dies--I mean, after Holiest Mother istranslated to eternity. Ask her, beg her, for some advice. We can't letthe great undertaking go to pieces--" "You have little faith, brother, " replied Aline. "If that message meansanything, then the New Faith will take care of itself--" "Yes, yes, I know, " was the testy interruption; "but the world is not soeasily led in matters of religion. The message, as you say, is divine;but it may sound like meaningless twaddle to the world at large. If weare to heal mankind and dispel the heresy of disease and death, whycan't Holiest Mother save herself? Mind you, I am looking at this thingwith the eyes of the sceptics--" "You are an unbeliever, a materialist, yourself, " was the bold retort. "Do as you please, but you can't drag me into your money calculations. "The swift slam of the door left them to their fears. Her aunt, sitting as upright as a candle, was conducting an invisibleorchestra when Aline returned. The frightened maid tried to hold thelean, spasmodic arms as they traced in the air the pompous rhythm of amarch that moved on silent funereal pinions through the chamber. Thewoman stared threateningly at the picture on the wall, the picture ofthe skeleton which had come from nothingness to reveal nothingness tothe living. The now distraught girl, her nerves crisped by her doubts, threw herself upon the bed, her fears sorely knocking at her heart. "Aunt, Aunt Mary--Holiest Mother, in Christ's name, in the name of theNew Faith, tell me before you go--tell me what is to become of our holychurch after you die--after you pass over to the great white light. Isit all real? Or is it only a dream, _your_ beautiful dream?--What is thesecret truth? Or--or--is there no secret--no--" her voice was cracked bysobs. The stately, soundless music was waved on by her aunt. ThenHoliest Mother fell back on her pillow, and with a last long glance atthe picture, she pointed, with smiling irony at the picture. _Nada, Nada ... _ The night died away in tender complicity with the two little lamps onthe dressing table, and the sweet, thick perfume of magnolias modulatedinto acrid decay as day dawned. Below, the two men anxiously awaited themessage from the dead. And they saw again upon the marble tablet abovethe fireplace her cryptic wisdom:-- "My first and forever message is one and eternal. " XX PAN For the Great God Pan is alive again. --DEAN MANSEL. I The handsome Hungarian kept his brilliant glance fixed upon Lora Crowne;she sat with her Aunt Lucas and Mr. Steyle at a table facing theorchestra. His eyes were not so large as black; the intensity of theirgaze further bewildered the young woman, whose appearance that eveningat the famous café on the East Side was her initial one. The heat, thebristling lights, the terrific appealing clamour of the gypsy band, setmurmuring the nerves of this impressionable girl. And the agility of the_cymbalom_ player, his great height, clear skin, and piercing eyes, quite enthralled her. "It is the gypsy dulcimer, Lora; I read all about it in Liszt's book ongypsy music, " said Aunt Lucas, in an airy soprano. Mr. Steyle was impressed. Lora paid no attention, but continued to gazecuriously at the antics of the player, who hammered from his instrumentof wire shivering, percussive music. With flexible wrists he swung thefelt-covered mallets that brought up such resounding tones; at timeshis long, apelike arms would reach far asunder and, rolling his eyes, hetouched the extremes of his _cymbalom_; then he described furiousarpeggios, punctuated with a shrill tattoo. And the crazy music defiledby in a struggling squad of chords; but Aŕpad Vihary never lifted hiseyes from Lora Crowne.... The vibration ceased. Its withdrawal left the ear-drums buzzing with aminute, painful sensation, like that of moisture rapidly evaporatingupon the naked skin. A battalion of tongues began to chatter as thered-faced waiters rushed between the tables, taking orders. It was aftereleven o'clock, and through the swinging doors passed a throng of motleypeople, fanning, gossiping, bickering--all eager and thirsty. ClarenceSteyle pointed out the celebrities with conscious delight. Overyonder--that man with the mixed gray hair--was a composer who came everynight for inspiration, --musical and otherwise, Clarence added, with alaugh. And there was the young and well-known decadent playwright whowore strangling high collars and transposed all his plays from Frenchsources; he lisped and was proud of his ability to dramatize the latestmental disease. And a burglar who had written a famous book on themanagement of children during hot weather sat meekly resting before asolitary table. The leader of the Hungarian band was a gypsy who called himself AlfassyJanos, though he lived on First Avenue, in a flat the door of whichbore this legend: _Jacob Aron_. The rest of the band seemed gypsy. Whois the _cymbalom_ player? That is not difficult to answer; the programmegives it. "There you are, Miss Lora. " She looked. "Oh, what a romantic name! He must be a count at least. " "Lora, dear, gypsies never bear titles, " remarked Aunt Lucas, patronizingly. "How about the Abbé Liszt?" triumphantly asked her charge. Aunt Lucas laughed coldly. "Liszt was Hungarian, not Romany. But yourartist with the drumsticks certainly is distinguished-looking. If heonly would not wear that odious scarlet uniform. I wonder why he doesnot sit down, like the rest of his colleagues. " Aŕpad Vihary leaned against the panelled wall, his brow puckered inboredom, his long black mustaches drooping from sheer discouragement. His was a figure for sculpture--a frame powerfully modelled, a bisquecomplexion. Thin as a cedar sapling, he preserved such an immovableattitude that in the haze of the creamy atmosphere he seemed a carved, marmoreal image rather than a young man with devouring eyes. The three visitors ate sandwiches and pretended to relish Munich beerserved in tall stone mugs. Aunt Lucas, who was shaped like a 'cello, made more than a pretence of sipping; she drank one entirely, regretting the exigencies of chaperonage: to ask for more might shockthe proper young man. "It's horrid here, after all, " she remarked discontentedly. "So manypeople--_such_ people--and very few nice ones. The Batsons are overthere, Lora; but then you don't care for them. O dear, I wish the bandwould strike up again. " It did. A vicious swirl of colour and dizzy, dislocated rhythms prefacedthe incantations of the Czardas. Instantly the eating, gabbling crowdbecame silent. Alfassy Janos magnetized his hearers with cradling, caressing movements of his fiddle. He waved like tall grass in the wind;he twisted snakewise his lithe body as he lashed his bow upon thescreaming strings; the resilient tones darted fulgurantly frominstrument to instrument. After chasing in circles of quicksilver, theyall met with a crash; and the whole tonal battery, reënforced by thethrobbing of Aŕpad Vihary's dulcimer, swept through the suite of roomsfrom ceiling to sanded floor. It was no longer enchanting music, butsheer madness of the blood; sensual and warlike, it gripped theimagination as these tunes of old Egypt, filtered through savagecenturies, reached the ears. Lora trembled in the gale that blew acrossthe Puzta. She imagined a determined Hungarian prairie, over whichdashed disordered centaurs brandishing clubs, driving before them a bandof satyrs and leaping fauns. The hoofed men struggled. At their frontwas a monster with a black goat-face and huge horns; he fought fiercelythe half-human horses. The sun, a thin scarf of light, was eclipsed byearnest clouds; the curving thunder closed over the battle; the air wasflame-sprinkled and enlaced by music; and most melancholy were the eyesof the defeated Pan--the melancholy eyes of Aŕpad Vihary.... Aunt Lucas was scandalized. "Do you know, Lora, that the impudentdulcimer virtuoso"--she prided herself on her musical terms--"actuallystared you out of countenance during the entire Czardas?" And she couldhave added that her niece had returned the glance unflinchingly. Mr. Steyle noticed Lora's vacant regard when he addressed her andinsisted on getting her away from the dangerous undertow of this "tabled'hôte music, " as he contemptuously called it. He summoned the waiter. Lora shed her disappointment. "Oh, let's wait for the _cymbalom_ solo, "she frankly begged. Her aunt was unmoved. "Yes, Mr. Steyle, we had better go; the air ispositively depressing. These slumming parties are delightful if youdon't overdo them--but the people!" Up went her lorgnon. They soon departed. Lora did not dare to look back until she reached thedoor that opened on the avenue; as she did so her vibrant gaze collidedwith the Hungarian's. She determined to see him again. II Nice Brooklyn girls always attend church and symphony concerts. Thisdual custom is considered respectable and cultured. Lora's parentsduring their lifetime never missed the Theodore Thomas concerts and thesermons of a certain famous local preacher; but there were times whenthe young woman longed for Carmen and the delights of fashionableBohemia. Carefully reared by her Aunt Lucas, she had nevertheless ataste for gypsy bands and "Gyp's" novels. She read the lattertranslated, much to the disedification of her guardian, who was alinguist and a patron of the fine arts. This latter clause includedsubscriptions to the Institute Course and several scientific journals. If Lora were less romantic, all would be well. Once the careful chaperonhad feared music and its disturbing influences; but after she had readan article about its healing effect upon the insane she felt that itcould work no evil in Lora; indeed, it was an elevating art. She wasfond of music herself, and, as dancing was strictly tabooed, thereseemed little likelihood of the noble art of "sweet concordance"--AuntLucas had picked this quotation up somewhere--doing mischief to herimpressionable niece. Nearly all dwelling-houses look alike in Brooklyn, even at midday. Thestreet in which the Crownes lived was composed of conventionalbrown-stone buildings and English basements. Nielje, the Dutch maid, stood at the half-opened door, regarding with suspicion the big, darkman who had pulled the bell so violently. Aunt Lucas was in New York atthe meeting of a society devoted to Ethical Enjoyment. Though Nielje hadbeen warned secretly of an expected visitor, this wild-looking young manwith long black hair, wearing a flaring coat of many colours and baggyTurkish trousers, gave her a shock. Why did he come to the basement asif he were one of the cook's callers? She paused. Then the door wasshoved in by a muscular arm, and she was pushed against the wall. "Don't try that again, man, " she protested. He answered her in gibberish. "Mees, Mees Lora, " he repeated. "Ach!" she exclaimed. Aŕpad Vihary gloomily followed her into the dining-room, where Lorastood trembling. This was the third time she had met the Hungarian, andfearing Prospect Park, --after two timid walks there, under thefiery-fingered leaves of early autumn, --she had been prevailed upon toinvite Aŕpad to her home. She regretted her imprudence the moment heentered. All his footlight picturesqueness vanished in the cold, hardlight of an unromantic Brooklyn breakfast-room. He seemed like a clumsycircus hero as he scraped his feet over the parquetry and attempted tokiss her hand. She drew away instantly and pointed to a chair. Herefused to sit down; his pride seemed hurt. Then he gave the girl an intense look, and she drew nearer. "Oh, Aŕpad Vihary, " she began. He interrupted. "You do not love me now. Why? You told me you loved me, in the park, yesterday. I am a poor artist, that is the reason. " This speech he uttered glibly, and, despite the extraordinarypronunciation, she understood it. She took his long hand, the fingersamazed her. He bent them back until they touched his wrist, and wasproud of their flexibility. He walked to the dining-table and tossed itscover-cloth on a chair. Upon his two thumbs he went around it like anacrobat. "Shall I hold you out with one arm?" he softly asked. Lora wasvastly amused; this was indeed a courtship out of the ordinary--itpleased her exotic taste. "Hungarian gypsies are very strong, are they not?" she innocently asked. "I am not gypsy nor am I Hungarian; I am an East Indian. My family isroyal. We are of the Rajpoot tribes called Ranas. My father once ruledRoorbunder. " Lora was amazed. A king's son, a Rana of Roorbunder! She became verysympathetic. Again she urged him to sit down. "My nation never sits before a woman, " he proudly answered. "But I will sit beside you, " she coaxed, pushing him to a corner. Heresisted her and went to the window. Lora again joined him. The manpiqued her. He was mysterious and very unlike Mr. Steyle--poor, sentimental Clarence, who melted with sighs if she but glanced at him;and then, Clarence was too stout. She adored slender men, believing thatwhen fat came in at the door love fled out of the window. "They put me in a circus at Buda-Pesth, " remarked Aŕpad Vihary, as if hewere making a commonplace statement about the weather. She gave a little scream; he regarded her with Oriental composure. "In acircus! You! Did you ride?" "I cannot ride, " he said. "I played in a cage all day. " "Because you were wild?" She then went into a fit of laughter. He wassuch a funny fellow, though his ardent gaze made her blush. So blond andpink was Lora that her friends called her Strawberry--a delicatecompliment in which she delighted. It was this golden head and radiantface, with implacably blue eyes, that set the blood pumping into Aŕpad'sbrain. When he looked at her, he saw sunlight. "Do you know, you absurd prince, that when you played the Czardas theother night I seemed to see a vision of a Hungarian prairie, coveredwith fighting centaurs and satyrs! I longed to be a _vivandière_ amongall those fauns. You were there--in the music, I mean--and you were bigPan--oh, so ugly and terrible!" "Pan! That is a Polish title, " he answered quite simply. "Stupid! The great god Pan--don't you know your mythology? Haven't youread Mrs. Browning? He was the god of nature, of the woods. Even now, Ibelieve you have ears with furry tips and hoofs like a faun. " He turned a sickly yellow. "Anyhow, why did they put you in a cage? Were you a wild boy?" "They thought so in Hungary. " "But why?" He stared at her sorrowfully, and was about to empty his soul; but sheturned away with a shudder. "I know, I know, " she whispered; "your hands--they are like the handsof--" Aŕpad threw out his chest, and Lora heard with a curiosity that becamenervous a rhythmic wagging sound, like velvet bruised by some dullimplement. It frightened her. "Do not be afraid of me, " he begged. "You cannot say anything I do notknow already. " He walked to the door, and the girl followed him. "Don't go, Aŕpad, " she said with pretty remorse. The fire blazed in his eyes and with a single swift grasp he seized her, holding her aloft like a torch. Lora almost lost consciousness. She hadnot counted upon such barbarous wooing, and, frightened, cried out, "Nielje, Nielje!" Nielje burst into the room as if she had been very near the keyhole. She was a powerful woman from Holland, who did not fear an army. "Put her down!" she insisted, in her deepest gutturals. "Put her down, you brute, or I'll hurt you. " Lora jumped to the floor as Nielje struck with her broomstick at Aŕpad'sretreating back. To the surprise of the women he gave a shriek of agonyand ran to the door, Nielje following close behind. Lora, her eyesstrained with excitement, did not stir; she heard a struggle in thelittle hall as the man fumbled at the basement entrance. Again heyelled, and then Lora rushed to the window. Nielje, on her knees, wasbeing dragged across the grassy space in front of the house. She heldon, seemingly, to the coat-tail of the frantic musician; only by avigorous shove did he evade her persistent grasp and disappear. A policeman with official aptness went leisurely by. Nielje flew intothe house, locking and bolting the door. Her face was red as she rolledon the floor, her hands at her sides. Lora, alarmed, thought she wasseriously hurt or hysterical from fright; but the laughter was toohearty and appealing. "Oh, Meeslora! Oh, Meeslora!" she gasped. "He must be monkey-man--he hasmonkey tail!" Lora could have fainted from chagrin and horror. Had the great god Pan passed her way? BOOKS BY JAMES HUNEKER What Maeterlinck wrote: Maurice Maeterlinck wrote thus of James Huneker: "Do you know that'Iconoclasts' is the only book of high and universal critical worth thatwe have had for years--to be precise, since Georg Brandes. It is at oncestrong and fine, supple and firm, indulgent and sure. " The _Evening Post_ of June 10, 1915, wrote of Mr. Huneker's "The NewCosmopolis": "The region of Bohemia, Mr. James Huneker found long ago, is within us. At twenty, he says, he discovered that there is no such enchanted spotas the Latin Quarter, but that every generation sets back the mythicalland into the golden age of the Commune, or of 1848, or the days of'Hernani. ' It is the same with New York's East Side, 'the fabulous EastSide, ' as Mr. Huneker calls it in his collection of international urbanstudies, 'The New Cosmopolis. ' If one judged externals by grime, bypoverty, by sanded back-rooms, with long-haired visionaries assailingthe social order, then the East Side of the early eighties has gone downbefore the mad rush of settlement workers, impertinent reformers, sociological cranks, self-advertising politicians, billionairesocialists, and the reporters. To-day the sentimental traveller 'feels aheart-pang to see the order, the cleanliness, the wide streets, theplaygrounds, the big boulevards, the absence of indigence that havespoiled the most interesting part of New York City. ' But apparently thisis only a first impression; for Mr. Huneker had no trouble indiscovering in one café a patriarchal figure quite of the type belovedof the local-color hunters of twenty years ago, a prophet, thoughspeaking a modern language and concerned with things of the day. So thatwe owe to Mr. Huneker the discovery of a notable truth, namely, thatBohemia is not only a creation of the sentimental memory, but, beingpsychological, may be located in clean and prosperous quarters. Thetendency has always been to place it in a golden age, but a tattered andunswept age. Bohemia is now shown to exist amidst model tenements andsanitary drinking-cups. " IVORY APES AND PEACOCKS _WITH FRONTISPIECE PORTRAIT OF DOSTOÏEVSKY_ 12mo. $1. 50 net * * * * * NEW COSMOPOLIS 12mo. $1. 50 net * * * * * THE PATHOS _of_ DISTANCE A Book of a Thousand and One Moments 12mo. $2. 00 net * * * * * PROMENADES _of an_ IMPRESSIONIST 12mo. $1. 50 net "We like best such sober essays as those which analyze for us thetechnical contributions of Cézanne and Rodin. Here Mr. Huneker is a realinterpreter, and here his long experience of men and ways in art countsfor much. Charming, in the lighter vein, are such appreciations as theMonticelli, and Chardin. "--FRANK JEWETT MATHER, JR. , in _NewYork Nation_ and _Evening Post_. * * * * * EGOISTS A Book of Supermen STENDHAL, BAUDELAIRE, FLAUBERT, ANATOLE FRANCE, HUYSMANS, BARRÈS, HELLO, BLAKE, NIETZSCHE, IBSEN, AND MAX STIRNER _With Portrait and Facsimile Reproductions_ 12mo. $1. 50 net * * * * * ICONOCLASTS: A Book of Dramatists 12mo. $1. 50 net CONTENTS: Henrik Ibsen--August Strindberg--HenryBecque--Gerhart Hauptmann--Paul Hervieu--The Quintessence of Shaw--MaximGorky's Nachtasyl--Hermann Sudermann--Princess Mathilde's Play--Duse andD'Annunzio--Villiers de l'Isle Adam--Maurice Maeterlinck. "His style is a little jerky, but it is one of those rare styles inwhich we are led to expect some significance, if not wit, in everysentence. "--G. K. CHESTERTON, in _London Daily News_. * * * * * OVERTONES: A Book of Temperaments _WITH FRONTISPIECE PORTRAIT OF RICHARD STRAUSS_ 12mo. $1. 50 net "In some respects Mr. Huneker must be reckoned the most brilliant of allliving writers on matters musical. "--_Academy, London_. * * * * * MEZZOTINTS IN MODERN MUSIC BRAHMS, TSCHAÏKOWSKY, CHOPIN, RICHARD STRAUSS, LISZT, AND WAGNER 12mo. $1. 50 net "Mr. Huneker is, in the best sense, a critic; he listens to the musicand gives you his impressions as rapidly and in as few words aspossible; or he sketches the composers in fine, broad, sweeping strokeswith a magnificent disregard for unimportant details.... A distinctlyoriginal and very valuable contribution to the world's tiny musicalliterature. "--J. F. RUNCIMAN, in _London Saturday Review_. * * * * * FRANZ LISZT _WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS_ 12mo. $2. 00 net * * * * * CHOPIN: The Man and His Music _WITH ETCHED PORTRAIT_ 12mo. $2. 00 net * * * * * VISIONARIES 12mo. $1. 50 net CONTENTS: A Master of Cobwebs--The Eighth Deadly Sin--The Purseof Aholibah--Rebels of the Moon--The Spiral Road--A MockSun--Antichrist--The Eternal Duel--The Enchanted Yodler--The ThirdKingdom--The Haunted Harpsichord--The Tragic Wall--A SentimentalRebellion--Hall of the Missing Footsteps--The Cursory Light--An IronFan--The Woman Who Loved Chopin--The Tune of Time--Nada--Pan. "In 'The Spiral Road' and in some of the other stories both fantasy andnarrative may be compared with Hawthorne in his most unearthly moods. The younger man has read his Nietzsche and has cast off his heritage ofsimple morals. Hawthorne's Puritanism finds no echo in these modernsouls, all sceptical, wavering and unblessed. But Hawthorne's splendorof vision and his power of sympathy with a tormented mind do live againin the best of Mr. Huneker's stories. "--_London Academy_ (Feb. 3, 1906). * * * * * MELOMANIACS 12mo. $1. 50 net "It would be difficult to sum up 'Melomaniacs' in a phrase. Never did abook, in my opinion at any rate, exhibit greater contrasts, not, perhaps, of strength and weakness, but of clearness andobscurity. "--HAROLD E. GORST, in _London Saturday Review_. * * * * * CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, NEW YORK