ERIK DORN

by

BEN HECHT

G. P. Putnam's SonsNew York and LondonThe Knickerbocker Press1921

Copyright, 1921byBen Hecht

Printed in the United States of America

To

MARIE

CONTENTS

 PAGE

 PART I

 SLEEP 1

 PART II

 DREAM 75

 PART III

 WINGS 173

 PART IV

 ADVENTURE 277

 PART V

 SILENCE 369

ERIK DORN

PART I

SLEEP

CHAPTER I

An old man sat in the shadows of the summer night. From a veranda chairhe looked at the stars. He wore a white beard, and his eyes, grown smallwith age, watered continually as if he were weeping. Half-hidden underhis beard his emaciated lips kept the monotonous grimace of a smile onhis face. 

He sat in the dark, a patient, trembling figure waiting for bedtime. Hisfeet, though he rested them all day, grew heavy at night. Of late thisweariness had increased. It reached like a caress into his mind. Thoughts no longer formed themselves in the silences of his hours. Instead, a gentle sleep, dreamless and dark, came upon him and left himsitting with his little eyes, open and moist, fastened without sightupon familiar objects. 

As he sat, the withered body of this old man seemed to grow always moremotionless, except for his hands. Resting on his thighs, his twig-likehands remained forever awake, their thin contorted fingers crawlingvaguely about like the legs of 8 long-impaled spiders. 

The sound of a piano from the room behind him dropped into the old man'ssleep, and he found himself once more looking out of his eyes andoccupying his clothes. His attitude remained unchanged except for aquickened movement of his fingers. Life returned to him as gently as ithad left. The stars were still high over his head and the night, cooland murmuring, waited for him. 

He lowered his eyes toward the street beyond the lawn. People werestraying by, seeming to drift under the dark trees. He could not seethem distinctly, but he stared at their flowing outlines and at momentswas rewarded by a glimpse of a face--a featureless little glint of whitein the shadows: dark shadows moving within a motionless darkness withlittle dying candle-flame faces. "Men and women, " he thought, "men andwomen, mixed up in the night . .. Mixed up. "

As he stared, thoughts as dim and fluid as the people in the streetmoved in his head. But he remembered things best not in words. Hismemories were little warmths that dropped into his heart. His cold thinfingers continued their fluttering. "Mixed up, mixed up, " said thenight. "Dark, " said the shadows. And the years spoke their memories. "Wehave been; we are no more. " Memories that had lost the bloom of words. The emaciated lips of the old man held a smile beneath the white beard. 

This was Isaac Dorn, still alive after eighty years. 

The music from the house ended and a woman's voice called through anopen window. 

"I'm afraid it's chilly outside, father. "

He offered no answer. Then he heard Erik, his son, speak in an amusedvoice. 

"Leave the old man be. He's making love to the stars. "

"I'll get him a blanket, " said Erik's wife. "I can't bear to think ofhim catching cold. "

Isaac Dorn arose from his chair, shaking his head. He did not fancybeing covered with a blanket and feeling Anna's kindly hands tucking itsedges around his feet. They were too kindly, too solicitous. Theirlittle pats and caressings presumed too much. One grew sad under theirministrations and murmured to oneself, "Poor child, poor child. " Bettera half-hour under the cold, amused eyes of his son, Erik. There wassomething between Erik and him, something like an unspoken argument. ToAnna he was a pathetic little old man to be nursed, coddled, defendedagainst chills and indigestions, "poor child, poor child. " But Eriklooked at him with cold, amused eyes that offered no quarter to age andasked for nothing. Good Erik, who asked for nothing, whose eyes smiledbecause they were too polite to sneer. Erik knew about the stars and themixed-up things, the dim things old senses could feel in the nightthough he chose to laugh at them. 

But one thing Erik didn't know, and the old man, turning from his chair, grew sad. What was that? What? His thought mumbled a question. Sittingmotionless in a corner of the room he could smile at Erik and his smileunder the white beard seemed to give an answer to the mumble--an answerthat irritated his son. The answer said, "Wait, wait! it is too earlyfor you to say you have lived. " What a son, what a son! whose eyes madefun of his father's white hair. 

The old man moved slowly as if his infirmities were no more thanmeditations, and entered the house. 

CHAPTER II

The crowds moving through the streets gave Erik Dorn a picture. It wasmorning. Above the heads of the people the great spatula-toppedbuildings spread a zigzag of windows, a scribble of rooftops against thesky. A din as monotonous as a silence tumbled through the streets--anunvarying noise of which the towering rectangles of buildings tiltedlike great reeds out of a narrow bowl, seemed an audible part. 

The city alive with signs, smoke, posters, windows; falling, rising, flinging its chimneys and its streets against the sun, wound itself upinto crowds and burst with an endless bang under the far-away sky. 

Moving toward his office Erik Dorn watched the swarming of men and womenof which he was a part. Faces like a flight of paper scraps scatteredabout him. Bodies poured suddenly across his eyes as if emptied out offunnels. The ornamental entrances of buildings pumped figures in andout. Vague and blurred like the play of gusty rain, the crowds darkenedthe pavements. 

Dorn saluted the spectacle with smiling eyes. As always, in the aimlessdin and multiplicity of streets he felt himself most securely at home. The smear of gestures, the elastic distortion of crowds winding andunwinding under the tumult of windows, gave him the feeling of ageometrical emptiness of life. 

Here before him the meanings of faces vanished. The greedy littlepurposes of men and women tangled themselves into a generality. It wasthus Dorn was most pleased to look upon the world, to observe it as oneobserves a pattern--involved but precise. Life as a whole lay in thestreets--a little human procession that came toiling out of a yesterdayinto an interminable to-morrow. It presented itself to him as apicture--legs moving against the walls of buildings, diagonals ofbodies, syncopating face lines. 

Things that made pictures for his eyes alone diverted Dorn. Beyond thiscapacity for diversion he remained untouched. He walked smiling intocrowds, oblivious of the lesser destinations of faces, pleased to dreamof his life and the life of others as a movement of legs, a bobbing ofheads. 

His appreciation of crowds was typical. In the same manner he held anappreciation of all things in life and art which filled him with theemotion of symmetry. He had given himself freely to his tastes. A creedhad resulted. Rhythm that was intricate pleased him more than themetronomic. In art, the latter was predominant. In life, the former. Outof these decisions he achieved almost a complete indifference toliterature and especially toward painting. No drawn picture stirred himto the extent that did the tapestry of a city street. No music arousedthe elation in him that did the curious beat upon his eyes of windowrows, of vari-shaped building walls whose oblongs and squares translatedthemselves in his thought into a species of unmelodious but perfectsound. 

The preoccupation with form had developed in him as complement of hisnature. The nature of Erik Dorn was a shallows. Life did not live inhim. He saw it as something eternally outside. To himself he seemed attimes a perfect translation of his country and his day. 

"I'm like men will all be years later, " he said to his wife, "when theiremotions are finally absorbed by the ingenious surfaces they'vesurrounded themselves with, and life lies forever buried behind theinventions of engineers, scientists, and business men. "

Normal outwardly, a shrewd editor and journalist, functioning daily inhis home and work as a cleverly conventional figure, Dorn had livedsince boyhood in an unchanging vacuum. He had in his early youth becomeaware of himself. As a young man he had waited half consciously forsomething to happen to him. He thought of this something as a species ofcontact that would suddenly overtake him. He would step into the streetand find himself a citizen absorbed by responsibilities, ideas, sympathies, prejudices. But the thing had never happened. At thirty hehad explained to himself, "I am complete. This business of being emptyis all there is to life. Intelligence is a faculty which enables man topeer through the muddle of ideas and arrive at a nowhere. "

Private introspection had become a bore to him. What was the use ofthinking if there was nothing to think about? And there was nothing. Hisviolences of temper, his emotions, definite and at times compelling, hadalways seemed to him as words--pretences to which he loaned himself fordiversion. He was aware that neither ideas nor prejudices--the residuesof emotion--existed in his mind. His thinking, he knew, had been ashuffle of words which he followed to fantastic and inconsistentconclusions that left him always without convictions for the morrow. 

There was a picture in the street for him on this summer morning. He wasa part of it. Yet between himself and the rest of the picture he felt nocontact. 

Into this emptiness of spirit, life had poured its excitements as into athing bottomless as a mirror. He gave it back an image of words. He wasproud of his words. They were his experiences and sophistications. Outof them he achieved his keenest diversion. They were the excuse for hiswalking, his wearing a hat and embarking daily for his work, returningdaily to his home. They enabled him to amuse himself with complexitiesof thought as one improvising difficult finger exercises on the piano. 

At times it seemed to Dorn that he was even incapable of thinking, thathe possessed a plastic vocabulary endowed with a life of its own. Heoften contemplated with astonishment his own verbal brilliancies, whichhis friends appeared to accept as irrefutable truths of the moment. Carried away in the heat of some intricate debate he would pauseinternally, as his voice continued without interruption, and exclaim tohimself, "What in hell am I talking about?" And a momentary awe wouldovercome him--the awe of listening to himself give utterance tofantastic ideas that he knew had no existence in him--a cynical magicianwatching a white rabbit he had never seen before crawl naïvely out ofhis own sleeve. Thus his phrases assembled themselves on his tongue andpirouetted of their own energy about his listeners. 

Smiling, garrulous, and impenetrable--garrulous even in his silences, hedaily entered his office and proceeded skillfully about his work. Hewas, as always, delighted with himself. He felt himself a man ideallyfitted to enjoy the little spectacle of life his day offered. Emotion inothers invariably roused in him a sense of the ludicrous. His eyesseemed to travel through the griefs and torments of his fellows and tofasten helplessly upon their causes. And here lay the ludicrous--theclownish little mainspring of tragedy and drama. He moved through hisday with a vivid understanding of its excitements. There was no mystery. One had only to look and see and words fitted themselves. A patterntwisted itself into precisions--precisions of men loving, hating, questing. The understanding swayed him between pity and contempt andleft the balance of an amused smile in his eyes. 

Intimacy with Erik Dorn had meant different things to different people, but all had derived from his friendship a fascinated feeling of loss. His wife, closest to him, had after seven years found herself drained, hollowed out as by some tenaciously devouring insect. Her mind hademptied itself of its normal furniture. Erik had eaten the ideas out ofit. Under the continual impact of his irony her faiths andunderstandings had slowly deserted her. Her thought had become a shadowcast by his emptiness. Things were no longer good, no longer bad. Peoplehad become somehow non-existent for her since she could no longer thinkof them as symbols incarnate of ideas that she liked or ideas that shedisliked. Thus emptied of its natural furniture, her mind had borrowedfrom her heart and become filled, wholly occupied with the emotion ofher love for Erik Dorn. More than lover and husband, he was anobsession. He had replaced a world for her. 

It was of his wife that Dorn was thinking when he arrived this summermorning at his desk in the editorial room. He had remembered suddenlythat the day was the anniversary of their marriage. Time had passedrapidly. Seven years! Like seven yesterdays. He seemed able to rememberthem in their entirety with a single thought, as one can remember acolumn of figures without recalling either their meaning or their sum. 

CHAPTER III

The employees of the editorial room--a loft-like chamber crazily crowdedwith desks, tables, cabinets, benches, files, typewriters; lighted by asmoke-darkened sun and the dim glow of electric bulbs--were alreadylaunched upon the nervous routine of their day. An excited jargon filledthe place which, with the air of physical disorder as if the workerswere haphazardly improvising their activities, --gave the room a vividthough seemingly impermanent life. 

On the benches against a peeling wall sleepy-faced boys with precociouseyes kept up a lazy hair-pulling, surreptitious wrestling bout. Theyrose indifferently in response to furiously repeated bellows for theirassistance--a business of carrying typewritten bits of paper betweendesks a few feet apart; or of sauntering with eleventh-hour orders tothe perspiring men in the composing room. 

In the forward part of the shop a cluster of men stood about the desk ofan editor who in a disinterested voice sat issuing assignments for theday, forecasting to his innumerable assistants the amount of spaceneeded for succeeding editions, the possible development in the localscandals. His eye unconsciously watched the clock over his head, hisear divided itself between a half-dozen conversations and a tirelesstelephone. With his hands he kept fumbling an assortment of clippings, memoranda, and copy. 

Oldish young men and youngish old men gravitated about him, their facescuriously identical. These were the irresponsible-eyed, casual-manneredindividuals, seemingly neither at work nor at play, who were to visitthe courts, the police, the wrecks, the criminals, conventions, politicians, reformers, lovers, and haters, and bring back the news ofthe city's day. A common almost racial sophistication stamped theirexpression. They pawed over telephone books, argued with indifferent, emotionless profanity among themselves on items of amazing import;pounded nonchalantly upon typewriters, lolled with their feet upondesks, their noses buried in the humorous columns of the morningnewspapers. 

"Make-up" men and their assistants, everlastingly irritable as if thevictims of pernicious conspiracies, badgered for information that seemedinevitably non-existent. They desired to know in what mysterious mannerone could get ten columns of type into a page that held only seven andwhether anyone thought the paper could go to press at half-past ten whenthe bulk of the copy for the edition arrived in the composing room attwenty minutes of eleven. 

Proof-readers emerged from the bowels of somewhere waving smeared bitsof printed paper and triumphantly demanded explanation of ambiguouspassages. 

Re-write men "helloed" indignantly into telephones, repeating withsudden listlessness the pregnant details of the news pouring in; andscribbling it down on sheets of paper . .. "dead Grant park bulletunknown 26 yrs silk stockings refinement mystery. "

Idlers lounged and discussed loudly against the dusty windows hung withtorn grimy shades. 

Copy-readers, concentrated under green eye-shades, sat isolated in atiny world of sharpened pencils, paste pots, shears, and emitted suddenembittered oaths. 

Editors from other departments, naïvely excited over items of vastindifference to their nervous listeners, came and went. 

An occasional printer, face and forearms smeared with ink, sauntered inas if on a vacation, uttering some technical announcement andprecipitating a brief panic. 

Toward the center of the room, seated at desks jammed against oneanother in defiance of all convenience, telegraph editors, their handsfumbling cables and despatches from twenty ends of the earth, belloweditems of interest into the air--assassinations in China, probes, quizzes, scandals, accusations in far-away places. They varied theirbellows with occasional shrieks of mysterious significance--usually amisplaced paste pot, a borrowed shears, a vanished copy-boy. 

These folk and a sprinkling of apparently unemployed and undisturbedstrangers spread themselves through the shop. Outside the opened windowsin the rear of the room, the elevated trains stuffed with men and womenroared into a station and squealed out again. In the streets below, thetraffic raised an ear-splitting medley of sound which nobody heard. 

Against this eternal and internal disorder, a strange pottering, apparently formless and without beginning or end, was guiding the latestconfusions and intrigues of the human tangle into perfunctory groups ofwords called stories. A curious ritual--the scene, spreading through thefour floors of the grimy building with a thousand men and womenshrieking, hammering, cursing, writing, squeezing and juggling themonotonous convulsions of life into a scribble of words. Out of thecacophonies of the place issued, sausage fashion, a half-million papersdaily, holding up from hour to hour to the city the blurred mirrors ofthe newspaper columns alive with the almost humorous images of anunending calamity. 

"The press, " Erik Dorn once remarked, "is a blind old cat yowling on atreadmill. "

It was a quarter to nine when Dorn arrived at his desk. He seatedhimself with a complete unconsciousness of the scene. A litter ofcorrespondence, propaganda, telegrams, and contributions from ConstantReader lay stuffed into the corners and pigeonholes of his desk. He satfor a moment thinking of his wife. Call her up . .. Spend the eveningdowntown . .. Some unusual evidence of affection . .. The vaudevillewouldn't be bad. 

The thought left him and his eyes fastened themselves upon a sheaf ofproofs. .. . Watch out for libel . .. Look for hunches . .. Scribblesuggestion for changes . .. Peer for items of information that might beexpanded humorously or pathetically into Human Interest yarns. .. . Thesewere functions he discharged mechanically. A perfect affinity toward hiswork characterized his attitude. Yet behind the automatic efficiency ofhis thought lay an ironical appreciation of his tasks. The sterilelittle chronicles of life still moist from the ink-roller were likesmeared windows upon the grimacings of the world. Through these windowsDorn saw with a clarity that flattered him. 

A tawdry pantomime was life, a pouring of blood, a grappling withshadows, a digging of graves. "Empty, empty, " his intelligence whisperedin its depths, "a make-believe of lusts. What else? Nothing, nothing. Laws, ambitions, conventions--froth in an empty glass. Tragedies, comedies--all a swarm of nothings. Dreams in the hearts of men--thinfever outlines to which they clung in hope. Nothing . .. Nothing. .. . " Hisintelligence continued a murmur as he read--a murmur unconscious ofitself yet coming from the depths of him. Equally unconscious was theamusement he felt, and that flew a fugitive smile in his eyes. 

The perfunctory hysterics of the stories of crime, graft, scandal, withtheir garbled sentences and wooden phrases; the delicious sagacities ofthe editorial pages like the mumbling of some adenoidal moron in a gulfof high winds; headlines saying a pompous "amen" to asininity and ahopeful "My God!" to confusion--these caressed him, and brought thethought to him, "if there is anything worthy the absurdity of life it'sa newspaper--gibbering, whining, strutting, sprawled in attitudes ofworship before the nine-and-ninety lies of the moment--a caricature ofabsurdity itself. "

His efficiency aloof from such moralizing moved like a separateconsciousness through the day, as it had for the sixteen years of hisservice. His rise in his profession had been comparatively rapid. Thirtyhad found him enshrined as an editor. At thirty-four he had acquired thesuccessful air which distinguishes men who have come to the end of theirrope. He had become an editor and a fixture. The office observed anintent, gray-eyed man, straight nosed, firm lipped, correctly shaveddown to the triangular trim of his mustache, his dark hair evenlyparted--a normal-seeming, kindly individual who wore his linen and hisfeatures with a certain politely exotic air--the air of an identity. 

The day's vacuous items in his life passed quickly, its frantic routineebbing into a lull toward mid-afternoon. Returning from a final uproarin the composing room, Dorn looked good-humoredly about him. He wasready to go home. Arguments, reprimands, entreaties were over for aspace. He walked leisurely down the length of the shop, pleased asalways by its atmosphere. It was something like the streets, thisnewspaper shop, broken up, a bit intricate, haphazard. 

A young man named Cross was painstakingly writing poetry on atypewriter. Another named Gardner was busy on a letter. "My dearest. .. . "Dorn read over his shoulder as he passed. Promising young men, both, whose collars would grow slightly soiled as they advanced in theirprofession. He remembered one of his early observations: "There are twokinds of newspapermen--those who try to write poetry and those who tryto drink themselves to death. Fortunately for the world, only one ofthem succeeds. "

In a corner a young woman, dressed with a certain ease, sat partiallyabsorbed in a book and partially in a half-devoured apple. "The BrothersKaramasov, " Dorn read as he sauntered by. He thought "an emancipatedcreature who prides herself on being able to drink cocktails withoutlosing caste. She'll marry the first drunken newspaperman who forgetshimself in her presence and spend the rest of her life trying to inducehim to go into the advertising business. "

Turning down the room he passed the desk of Crowley, the telegrapheditor. A face flabby and red with ancient drinking raised itself from abook and a voice spoke, "Old Egan gets more of a fool every day. " Old Egan was the make-up man. Dorn smiled. "The damned idiot crowded the Nancy story off page one inthe Home. Best story of the day. " Crowley ended with a vaguely conceivedoath. 

Dorn glimpsed the title of the book on his desk, _L'Oblat_. Crowley hadbeen educated for the priesthood but emerged from the seminary with aheightened joy of life in his veins. A riotous twenty years in nightsaloons and bawdy houses had left him a kindly, choleric, and respectednewspaper figure. Dorn caught his eye and wondered over his sensitiveinfatuation of exotic writing. In the pages of Huysmans, De Gourmont, Flaubert, Gautier, Symons, and Pater he seemed to have found a subtleincense for his deadened nerves. Inside the flabby, coarsened body withits red face munching out monosyllables, lived a recluse. "Too muchliving has driven him from life, " Dorn thought, "and killed his lusts. So he sits and reads books--the last debauchery: strange, twistedphrases like idols, like totem poles, like Polynesian masks. He sitscontemplating them as he once sat drunkenly watching the obscenities ofblack, white, and yellow bodied women. Thus, the mania for the rouge oflife, for the grimace that lies beyond satiety, passes in him frombestiality to asceticism and esthetics. Yesterday a bacchanal of flesh, to-day a bacchanal of words . .. The posturings of courtezans and theposturings of ornate phrases become the same. " He heard Crowleyrepeating, "Damned idiot, Egan! No sense of human values. Crowded thebest story of the day off page one. " . .. Some day he'd have a long talkwith Crowley. But the man was so carefully hidden behind perfunctoriesit was hard to get at him. He resented intrusion. 

Dorn passed on and looked around for Warren--a humorous and didacticcreature who had with considerable effort destroyed his Boston accentand escaped the fact that he had once earned his living as professor ofsociology in an eastern university. Dorn caught a memory of him sittingin a congenial saloon before a stein and pouring forth hoarsely oracularcomments upon the activities of men known and unknown. The man had agift for caricature--Rabelaisean exaggerations. Dorn was suddenly gladhe had gone for the day. The office oppressed him and the people in itwere too familiar. He walked to his desk thinking of the South Seas andnew faces. 

"I tell you what, " a voice drawled behind him, "Nietzsche has it on thewhole lot of them. " Cochran, the head of the copy desk, was talking--ashriveled little man with a bald face and shoe-button eyes. "You've gotto admit people are more dishonest in their virtues than in their vices. Of course, there's a lot of stuff he pulls that's impractical. "

Dorn shrugged his shoulders, smiled and lifted his hat out of a locker. He remembered again to telephone his wife, but instead moved out of theoffice. A refreshing warmth in the street pleased his senses and heturned toward the lake. Walk down Michigan avenue, take a taxihome--what else was there to do? Nothing, unless talk. But to whom? Hethought of his father. A tenacious old man. Probably hang on forever. God, the man had been married three times. If it wasn't for his damnedinfirmities he'd probably marry again. Looking for something. What wasit the old man had kept looking for? As if there was in existence aconcrete gift to be drawn from life. A blithering, water-eyed optimistto the end, he'd die with a prayer of thankfulness and gratitude. 

Thus innocuously abstract, moving in the doldrum which sometimessurrounded him after his day's work, he turned into the boulevard alongthe lake. The day grew abruptly fresher here. An arc of blue sky risingfrom the east flung a great curve over the building tops. Dorn pausedbefore the window of a Japanese art shop and stared at a bulbous woodengod stoically contemplating his navel. 

During his walks through the streets he sometimes met people he knew. This time a young woman appeared at the window beside him. He recognizedher with elation. His thought gave him an index of her . .. RachelLaskin, curious girl . .. Makes me talk well . .. Appreciative . .. Unusualeyes. 

CHAPTER IV

They walked together down the avenue. Dorn felt a return of interest inhimself. Introspection bored him. His insincerity made self thoughtmeaningless. Listeners, however, revived him. As they walked he caughtoccasional glimpses of his companion--vivid eyes, dark lips, a cool, shadow-tinted face that belonged under exotic trees; a morose littlegirl insanely sensitive and with a dream inside her. She admired him; orat least she admired his words, which amounted to the same thing. Oncebefore she had said, "You are different. " As usual he held his cynicismin abeyance before flattery. People who thought him different pleasedhim. It gave them a certain intellectual status in his eyes. 

His thought, as he talked, busied itself with images of her. She gavehim a sense of dark waters hidden from the moon--a tenuous fugitivefigure in the pretty clamor of the bright street. 

"You remind me, " he was saying, "of a nymph among dowagers andfrightened to death. There's really nothing to be frightened of, unlessyou prefer fear to other more tangible emotions. "

She nodded her head. He recalled that the gesture had puzzled him atfirst. It gave an eager assent to his words that surprised him. Itpretended that she had understood something he had not said, somethingthat lay beneath his words. Dorn pointed at the women moving by them. 

"Poems in shoe craft, tragedies in ankles and melodramas in legs, " heannounced. "Look at their clothes! Priestly caricatures of their sex. You're still drawing?"

"Yes. But you don't like my drawing. "

"I saw one of your pictures--an abominable thing--in some needleworkmagazine. A woman with a spindly nose, picking flowers. "

He glanced at her and caught an eager smile in her eyes. She was someoneto whom he could talk at random. This pleased him; or perhaps it was thesense of flattery that pleased him. He wondered if she was intelligent. They had met several times, usually by accident. He had found himselfable to talk at length to her and had come away feeling an intimacybetween them. 

"Look at the windows, " he continued. "Corsets, stockings, lingerie. Shopwindows remind me of neighbors' bathrooms before breakfast. There'ssomething odiously impersonal about them. See, all the way down thestreet--silks, garments, ruffles, laces. A saturnalia of masks. It's theonly art we've developed in America--over-dressing. Clothes arepeculiarly American--a sort of underhanded female revenge against thedegenerate puritanism of the nation. I've seen them even at revivalmeetings clothed in the seven tailored sins and denouncing the devilwith their bustles. Only they don't wear bustles any more. But what's ananachronism between friends? Why don't you paint pictures of realAmericans?--men hunting for bargains in chastity and triumphantlymarrying a waistline. If that means anything. "

He paused, and wondered vaguely what he was talking about. Vivid eyesand dark lips, a face that belonged elsewhere. He was feeding itspoignancy words. And she admired him. Why? He was saying nothing. Therewas a sexlessness about her that inspired vulgarity. 

"You remind me of poetry, " she answered without looking at him. "Ialways can listen to you without thinking, but just understanding. I'veremembered nearly everything you've said to me. I don't know why. Butthey always come back when I'm alone, and they always seem unfinished. "

Her words jarred. She was too naïve to coquette. Yet it was difficult tobelieve this. But she was an unusual creature, modestly asleep. Afugitive aloofness. Yes, what she said must be true. There was nothingunreasonable about its being true. She made an impression upon him. Heundoubtedly did upon her. He would have preferred her applause, however, somewhat less blatant. But she was a child--an uncanny child who cooedfrankly when interested. 

"I can imagine the millennium of virtue in America, " he went on. "Acrowd of painted women; faces green and lavender, moving like aprocession of bizarre automatons and chanting in Chinese, 'We are pure. We are chaste and pure. ' A parade of psychopathic barbarians dressed inbells, metals, animal skins, astrologer hats and Scandinavian ornaments. A combination of Burmese dancer and Babylonian priest. I ask for nothingmore. "

He laughed. He had half consciously tried to give words to an image thegirl had stirred in him. She interrupted, "That's me. "

He looked at her face in a momentary surprise. 

"I hate people, too, " she said. "I would like to be like one of thosewomen. "

"Or else a huntress riding on a black river in the moon. I was trying todraw a picture of you. And perhaps of myself. You have a faculty of . .. Of . .. Funny, things I say are usually only reflections of the people Italk to. You don't mind being a psychopathic barbarian?"

"No, " she laughed quietly, "because I understand what you mean. "

"I don't mean anything. "

"I know. You talk because you have nothing to say. And I like to listento you because I understand. "

This was somewhat less jarring, though still a bit crude. Her admirationwould be more pleasant were it more difficult to discover. He becamesilent and aware of the street. There had been no street for severalminutes--merely vivid eyes and dark lips. Now there werepeople--familiar unknowns to be found always in streets, their faceswithholding something, like unfinished sentences. He had lost interestand felt piqued. His loss of interest in his talk was perhaps merely areflection of her own. 

"I remember hearing you were a socialist. That's hard to believe. "

There was no relation between them now. He would have to work it upagain. 

"No, my parents are. I'm not. "

"Russians?"

"Yes. Jews. "

"I'm curious about your ideals. "

"I haven't any. "

"Not even art?"

"No. "

"A wingless little eagle on a barren tree, " he smiled. "I advise you tocomplicate life with ideals. The more the better. They are moreserviceable than a conscience, in which I presume you're likewiselacking, because you don't have to use them. A conscience is animmediate annoyance, whereas ideals are charming procrastinations. Theyexcuse the inanity of the present. Good Lord, what do you think aboutall day without ideals to guide you?"

Dorn looked at her and felt again delight with himself. It was becauseher interest had returned. Her eyes were flatteries. He desired to beamusing, to cover the eager child face beside him with a caress ofwords. 

"I don't think, " she answered. "Do people ever think? I always imaginethat people have ideas that they look at and that the ideas never movearound. "

"Yes, " he agreed, "moving ideas around is what you might call thinking. And people don't do that. They think only of destinations and forpurposes of forgetting something--drugging themselves to uncomfortablefacts. I fancy, however, I'm wrong. It's only after telling a number oflies that one gets an idea of what might be true. Thus it occurs to menow that I can't conceive of an intelligent person thinking in silence. Intelligence is a faculty which enables people to boast. And it'sdifficult boasting in silence. And inasmuch as it's necessary to beintelligent to think, why, that sort of settles it. Ergo, people neverthink. Do you mind my chatter?"

"Please . .. "

A perfect applause this time. Her sincerity appealed to him as anexquisite mannerism. She said "Please" as if she were breathless. 

"You're an entertaining listener, " he smiled. "And very clever. Becauseit's ordinarily rather difficult to flatter me. I'm immensely delightedwith your silence, whereas . .. " Dorn stumbled. He felt his speech wasdegenerating into a compliment. 

"Because you tell me things I've known, " the girl spoke. 

"Yet I tell you nothing. "

He stared for an instant at the people in the street. "Nothing" was aword his thought tripped on. He was used to mumbling it to himself as hewalked alone in streets. And at his desk it often came to him andrepeated itself. Now his thought murmured, "Nothing, nothing, " and asadness drew itself into his heart. He laughed with a sense of treatinghimself to a theatricalism. 

"We haven't talked about God, " he announced. 

"God is one of my beliefs. "

She was an idiot for frowning. 

"I dislike to think of man as the product of evolution. It throws anonus on the whole of nature. Whereas with a God to blame the thing issimple. "

She nodded, which was doubly idiotic, inasmuch as there was nothing tonod to. He went on:

"Life is too short for brevities--for details. I save time by thinking, if you can call it thinking, _en masse_--in generalities. For instance, I think of people frequently but always as a species. I wonder aboutthem. My wonder is concerned chiefly with the manner in which theyadjust themselves to the vision of their futility. Do they shriek aloudwith horror in lonely bedrooms? There's a question there. How do peoplewho are important to themselves reconcile themselves to theirunimportance to others? And how are they able to forget theirimbecility?"

They were walking idly as if dreamily intent upon the spectacle of theavenue. The nervous unrest that came to Dorn in streets and fermentedwords in his thought seemed to have deserted him. Assured of theadmiration of his companion, he felt a quiet as if his energies had beenturned off and he were coasting. He recognized several faces and salutedthem as if overcome with a desire to relate a jest. 

"Notice the men and women together, " he resumed easily, almostunconscious of talking. "Observing married couples is a post-graduatecourse in pessimism. There's a pair arm in arm. Corpses grown together. There's no intimacy like that of cadavers. Yet at this and all othermoments they're unaware of death. They move by us without thought, emotion, or words in them. "

"They look very proud, " she interrupted. 

"It's the set expression of vacuity. Just as skeletons always seemmysteriously elate. Their pride is an absence of everything else--a sortof rigid finery they put on in lieu of a shroud. Never mind staringafter them, please. They are Mr. And Mrs. Jalonick who live across thestreet from my home. I dislike staring even after truths. Listen, I havesomething more to say about them if you'll not look so serious. Youremotions are obviously infantile. I can give you a picture of marriage:two little husks bowing metronomically in a vacuum and anointing eachother with pompous adjectives. Draw them a little flattened in the rearfrom sitting down too much and you'll have a masterpiece. It's amusingto remember that Mr. And Mrs. Jalonick were once in love with eachother!" Dorn laughed good-naturedly. "Fancy them on a June night tenyears ago before their eyes had become cotton, holding hands and tryingto give a meaning to the moon. Are you tired?"

"No, please. Let's walk, if you haven't anything else to do. "

"Nothing. " It was the seventh anniversary of his marriage. An annoyingthought. "You're an antidote for inertia. I marvel, as always, at mygarrulity. Women usually inspire me with a desire to talk. I supposeit's a defensive instinct. Talk confuses women and renders themhelpless. But that isn't it. I talk to women because they make the bestsounding-boards. Do you object to being reduced to an acoustic? Yes, sexis a sort of irritant to the vocabulary. It's amusing to converseprofoundly with a pretty woman whose sole contributions to any dialogueare a bit of silk hose and an oscillation of the breasts. "

"You make me forget I'm a woman and agree with you. "

"Because you're another kind of woman. The reflector. Or acoustic. Iprefer them. I sometimes feel that I live only in mirrors and that mythoughts exist only as they enter the heads of others. As now, I speakout of a most complete emptiness of emotion or idea; and my words seemto take body in your silence--and actually give me a character. "

"I always think of you as someone hiding from himself, " she answered. Dorn smiled. They were old friends--a union between them. 

"There's no place of concealment in me, " he said after a pause. He hadbeen thinking of something else. "But perhaps I hide in others. Aftertalking like this I come away with a sort of echo of what I've said. Asif someone had told me things that almost impressed me. I talk so damnedmuch I'm unaware of ever having heard anybody else but myself express anopinion. And I swear I've never had an opinion in my life. " He becamesilent and resumed, in a lighter voice, "Look at that man with whiskers. He's a notorious Don Juan. Whiskers undoubtedly lend mystery to a man. It's a marvel women haven't cultivated them--instead of corsets. Buttell me why you've disdained art as an ideal. You're curious. It's aconfessional I should think would appeal to you. I'm almost interestedin you, you see. Another hour with you and you would flatter me into astate of silence. "

Dorn paused, somewhat startled. Her dark lips parted, her eyes glowingtoward the end of the street, the girl was walking in a radiantabstraction. She appeared to be listening to him without hearing what hesaid. Dorn contemplated her confusedly. He frowned at the thought ofhaving bored her, and an impulse to step abruptly from her side andleave became a part of his anger. He hesitated in his walking and herfingers, timorous and unconscious of themselves, reached for his arm. Hewondered with a deeper confusion what she was dreaming about. Her handas it lay on his forearm gave him a sense of companionship which hiswords sought clumsily to understand. 

"I was saying something about art when you fell asleep, " he smiled. 

Rachel threw back her head as if she were shaking a dream out of hereyes. 

"I wasn't asleep, " she denied. They moved on in the increasing crowd. 

"Men and women, " Dorn muttered. "The street's full of men and womengoing somewhere. "

"Except us, " the girl cried. Her eyes, alight, were thrusting againstthe cold, amused smile of his face. He would be late. Anna would bewaiting. An anniversary. Anniversaries were somehow important. Theyrevived interest in events which had died. But it was nice to drift in acrowd beside a girl who admired him. What did he think of her? Nothing. .. Nothing. She seemed to warm him into a deeper sleep. It was a reliefto be admired for one's silence. Admired, not loved. Love was a bore. Anna loved him, bored him. Her love was an applause that did not waitfor him to perform--an unreasonable ovation. 

He looked at the girl again. She was walking beside him, vivid eyes, dark lips--almost unaware of him, as if he had become a part of thedream that lived within her. 

CHAPTER V

When she was a child she used to see a face in the dark as she wasfalling asleep. It was crude and misshapen, and leered at her, fillingher heart with fear. Later, people had become like that to her. 

When she was eighteen Rachel came to Chicago and studied art at an artschool. She learned nothing and forgot nothing. She read books inEnglish and in Russian--James, Conrad, Brusov, Tolstoi. Her readingfailed to remove her repugnance to the touch of life. Instead, it luredher further from realities. She did not like to meet people or to hearthem talk. At twenty she was able to earn her living by drawing postersfor a commercial art firm and making occasional illustrations formagazines designed for female consumption. 

As she matured, the repugnance to life that lay like a disease in hernerves, developed dangerously. She would sit in her room in the eveningstaring out of the window at the darkened city and thinking of people. There was an endless swathing of people, buildings, faces, words, thatwound itself tightly about her. She would cover her face suddenly andwhisper, "Oh, I must go away. I must. "

She hurried through dragging days as if she were running away. But therewere things she could not escape. Men smiled at her and establishedthemselves as friends. Women were easy to get rid of. One had only to befrank and women vanished. But this same frankness, she found, had anopposite effect upon men. Insults likewise served only to interest men. They would become gradually more and more acquainted with her until itbecame impossible to talk to them. Then she would have to ignore them, turning quickly away when they addressed her and saying, "Good-bye, Imust go. "

At times she grew ashamed of her sensitiveness. She would sit alone inher room surrounded by a whimpering little silence. A melancholy woulddarken her heart. It wasn't because she was afraid of people. It wassomething else. She would try to think of it and would find herselfwhispering suddenly, "Oh, I must go away. I must. "

To men, Rachel's beauty seemed always a doubtful quality. Her appealitself was doubtful. The Indian symmetry of her face lay as behind aluminous shadow--an ill-mannered, nervous face that was likely to lurestrangers and irritate familiars. In the streets and restaurants peoplelooked at her with interest. But people who spoke to her often losttheir interest. There was a silence about her like a night mist. Sheseemed in this silence preoccupied with something that did not concernthem. Men found the recollection of her more pleasing than her presence. Something they remembered of her seemed always to be missing when theyencountered her again. Lonely evening fields and weary peasants movingtoward the distant lights of their homes spoke from her eyes. An exoticmemory of simple things--of earth, sky, and sea--lay in her suddengestures. A sense of these things men carried away with them. But whenthey came to talk to her they grew conscious only of the fact that sheirritated them. These who persisted in their friendship grew to regardher solicitously and misunderstand their emotions toward her. 

It was evening when Rachel came to her room after her walk with ErikDorn. The long stroll had given her an aversion toward work. She glancedat several unfinished posters and moved to a chair near a window. 

A glow of excitement brightened the dusk of her face. Her eyes, usuallyasleep in distances, had become alive. They gave themselves to thenight. 

Beyond the scratch of houses and the slant of home lights she watchedthe darkness lift against the sky. The city had dwindled into a huddleof streets. Noise had become silence. The great crowds were packed awayin little rooms. Sitting before the window, unconscious of herself, shelaughed softly. Her black hair felt tight and heavy. She shook her headtill its loose coils dropped across her cheeks. She had felt confusedwhen she entered the room, as if she had grown strange to herself. 

"Who am I?" she whispered suddenly. She raised her hand and stared atit. Something intimate had left her. She remembered herself as in adream. There had been another Rachel who used to sit in this chairlooking out of the window. A memory came of people and days. But it wasnot her memory, because her mind felt free of the nausea it used tobring. 

She stood up quickly and turned on a light. Her dexterous hands twistedher hair back into loose coils on her head. Strange, she did not knowherself. That was because things seemed different. Here was her room, littered with books and canvasses and clothes, and the bed in which sheslept, half hidden by the alcove curtains. But they were different. Shebegan to hum a song. A tune had come back to her that men sang in LittleRussia trudging home from the wheat fields. That was long ago when theworld was a bad dream that frightened her at night. Now there was noworld outside, but a darkness without faces or streets--a darkness witha deep meaning. It was something to be breathed in and felt. 

She opened the window and stood wondering. She was lonely. Lonelinesscaressed her heart and drew dim fingers across her thought. She couldnever remember having been lonely before. But now there was adifference. She smiled. Of course, it was Erik Dorn. He had pleasedher. The things he had said returned to her mind. They seemed veryimportant, as if she had said them herself. She would go out and walkagain--fast. It was pleasant to be lonely. Her throat shivered as shebreathed. Bewildered in the lighted room she laughed and her lips saidaloud, "I don't know. I don't know!"

 * * * * * *

Among the men who had established themselves as friends of Rachel was ayoung attorney named George Hazlitt. He had gone to school with her in asmall Wisconsin town. A year ago he had discovered her again in Chicago. The discovery had excited him. He was a young man with proprietaryinstincts. He had at once devoted them to Rachel. After several monthshe had begun to dream about her. They were correct and estimable dreamsreflecting credit upon the correct and estimable stock from which hecame. 

He fell to courting Rachel tenaciously, torn between a certainty thatshe was insane and a conviction that a home, a husband's love, and theparaphernalia of what he termed clean, healthy living would restore herto sanity. Their meetings had been affairs of violence. In her presencehe always felt a rage against what he called her neurasthenia--a word hefrequently used in drawing up bills for divorce. He regardedneurasthenia not as a disease to be condoned like the mumps, but as adeliberate failing--particularly in Rachel. The neurasthenia of thedefendants he pursued in courts annoyed him only slightly. In Rachel itoutraged him. It was his habit to inform her that her sufferings werenothing more than affectations and that her moods were shams and thatthe whole was a part and parcel of neurasthenia. 

This unhappy desire of his to browbeat her into a state which he definedas normal, Rachel had accepted in numb helplessness. She had given upcommanding him to leave her alone. His presence frequently became anausea. Her enfevered senses had come to perceive in the conventionallyclothed and spoken figure of the young attorney, a concentration of therepugnant things before which she cowered. During his courtship he hadgrown familiar to her as a penalty and his visits had become climaxes ofloathsomeness. 

But a stability of purpose peculiar to unsensitive and egoistic youngmen kept Hazlitt to his quest. His steady rise in his profession, thegrowing respect of his fellows for his name, fired him with a sense ofsuccess. Rachel had become the victim of this sense. Of all the men sheknew Hazlitt grew to be the most unnecessary. But his persistence seemedto increase with her aversion for him. In a sort of mental self-defenseagainst the nervous disgust he brought her, she forced herself to thinkof him and even to argue with him. By thinking of him she was able tokeep the memory of him an impersonal one, and to convert him from anemotionally unbearable influence into an intellectually insufferabletype. A conversion by which Hazlitt profited, for she tolerated him moreeasily as a result of her ruse. She thought of him. His youth was fastentrenching itself in platitudes and acquiring the vigor and directnessthat come as a reward of conformity. Life was nothing to wonder at orfeel. Life shaped itself into definite images and inelastic valuesbefore him. To these images and values he conformed, not submissively, but with a militant enthusiasm. On summer mornings he saw himself as aknight of virtue advancing clear-eyed upon a bedeviled world. When hewas among his own kind he summed up the bedevilments in the word "bunk. "The politer word, to be used chivalrously, was "neurasthenia. " Thevictims of these bedevilments were "nuts. " A dreadful species likeherself, given to wrong hair cuts, insanities, outrages upon decency andabove all, common sense. 

Hazlitt's attraction to Rachel in the face of her neurasthenia did notconfuse him. Confusion was a quality foreign to Hazlitt. He courted heras a lover and proselyter. His proselyting consisted of vigorousdenunciations of the things which contributed to the neurasthenia of hisbeloved. He declaimed his notions in round, rosy-cheeked sentences. There was about Hazlitt's wooing of Rachel the pathos which mightdistinguish the love affair of a Baptist angel and the hamadryaddaughter of a Babayaga. 

Yet, though in her presence he denounced her art, taste, sufferings, books, friends, affectations, away from her she came to him--beautifuleyed and fragile--bringing a fear and a longing into his heart. Dreamingof her over a pipe in his home at night, he saw her as somethingbewilderingly clean, different--vividly different from other women, witha difference that choked and saddened him. There was a virginity abouther that extended beyond her body. This and her fragility haunted him. His youth had caught the vision of the night mist of her, the lonelyfields of her eyes, the shadow dreams toward whose solitudes she seemedto be flying. Beside Rachel all other women were to him somehow coarseand ungainly fibered, and somehow unvirginal. 

Out of his dream of her arose his desire to have her as his own, to come home and find her waiting, to have her known as Mrs. George Hazlitt. The thought of the Rachel he knew--mysterious, fugitive, neurasthenic--established normally across a breakfast table, smiling anormal good-bye at him with her arms normally about his neck, was acontrast that sharpened his desire. It offered a transformation thatwould be a victory not only for his love but for the shining, militantplatitudes behind which Rachel had correctly pointed out to herself, helived. 

 * * * * * *

Bewildered in the lighted room, Rachel turned suddenly to the door. Someone was knocking--loud. She hurried eagerly forward, wondering atan unfinished thought . .. "perhaps it is. .. . " Hazlitt, smiling withsteady, solicitous eyes confronted her. 

"I've been knocking for five minutes, " he announced. "I heard you or I'dhave gone away. "

Rachel nodded. Of course, it would be Hazlitt. He was always appearingwhen least expected. But it would be nice to talk to someone. Shesmiled. This was surprising and she shook her head as if she werecarrying on a conversation with herself. George Hazlitt was alwaysunbearable. But that was a memory. It no longer applied. 

"I'm glad you came, " she greeted him. "I was lonely. "

Hazlitt looked at her in surprise. Visiting Rachel was a matter thatrequired an extreme of determination. He had come prepared as usual forthe sullen, uncomfortable hour she offered. 

"I was going out, " she continued, "but I won't now. If you'll sit downI'll do some work. You won't mind. "

She looked at him eagerly as if to tell him he must forget she hadalways hated him and that she was different now. At least for themoment. He understood nothing and remained staring at her. His mannerproclaimed frankly that he was bewildered. 

"Yes, certainly, " he answered at length, and sat down. She hurriedabout, securing her paints and setting up one of the unfinishedposters. Drawing a deep breath Hazlitt lighted a pipe and watched her. She was beautiful. He admitted it with less belligerency than usual. Hesat thinking, "what the deuce has happened to her. She said she was gladto see me. " He was afraid to start an inquiry. She had never beforesmiled at him, let alone voiced pleasure over his presence. It was amistake of some sort but he would enjoy it for awhile. But perhaps itwas the beginning of something. 

Hazlitt sighed. He smoked, waited, and struggled to avoid the thoughtsthat crowded upon him. 

"That's rather nice, " he said. He would follow her mood, whatever itwas. Rachel's eyes laughed toward him. 

"I hope it doesn't bore you. If you hadn't come I would never havethought of working. "

The thing was unbelievable. Yet he contemplated it serenely. He wouldtalk to her soon and find out what was the matter. There was undoubtedlysomething the matter. His eyes stared at her furtively as she returnedto her work. "There's something the matter, " his thought cautioned him. Rachel resumed her talking. A naïveté and freshness were in her voice. She was letting her tongue speak for her and laughing at the sound ofthe curious remarks it made. 

"Do you think that women are becoming barbarians? The way they mess uptheir hair and go in for savage colors! Sometimes I get to feeling thatthey will end up as--as psychopathic barbarians. With astrologer hats. "

She regarded Hazlitt carelessly. Hazlitt, with fidgets in his thought, smiled. His eyes lost their solicitous air. They began to searchshrewdly for some reason. The spectacle of a coquettish Rachel wasbeyond him, even as the sound of her laugh was an amazing music to hissenses. But his shrewdness evaporated. It occurred to him that womenwere peculiar. Particularly Rachel. A direct and vigorous Hazlittconcluded that Rachel had succumbed to his superior guidance. There wasnothing else to explain her tolerance. He called it tolerance, for hewas still wary and her eyes shining eagerly, hungrily at him might be nomore than a new kind of neurasthenia. He let her talk on withoutinterruption. She would like to paint streets, houses, lights in thedark, city things. Blowing puffs of smoke carelessly toward the ceilinghe answered finally, "If you didn't have to support yourself, perhapsyou could. " A fear whirled in his heart with the sentence. He had neverasked her outright to marry him. The thought that he had almost askedher, now made him feel dizzy. 

"There! I guess that can rest now. "

Rachel put aside her painting. She sat down near him. Her eyes narrowedand she listened with a sleepy smile as he began carefully to recite toher incidents that had happened during his day. But he became silent. She didn't mind that. She desired to sit as she was, her emotion adream that escaped her thought. Hazlitt fumbled with his pipe. It wasout. He dropped it into a pocket. His shrewdness and his weariness hadleft him. He felt almost that he was alone. 

"You're wonderful, " he whispered; and he grew frightened of his voice. Rachel saw his face light with an unusual expression. He would be kindnow and let her smile. 

"I'm glad you came, " she sighed. "I don't know why. I feel differentto-night. "

She had a habit of short, begrudging sentences delivered in a quickmonotone--a habit of speech against which Hazlitt had often raged. Butnow her words--flurried, breathless, begrudging as always--stirred him. They could be believed. She was a child that way. She spoke quicklythoughts that were uppermost in her mind. 

"I never thought I could be glad to see you. But I am. "

Hazlitt felt suddenly weak. Her face before him was something in adream. It was turned away and he could watch her breathing. Bewilderedlyhe remembered a thousand Rachels, different from this one, who was gladhe had come. But the beauty of her burned away uncomfortable memories. She was the Rachel of his loneliness. Out of George Hazlitt vanished thevigor and directness of a young man who knows his own soul. There came avision--a thing uncertain and awesome, and he sat humbled before it. 

He reached her hand and closed his fingers over it. An awe squeezed athis throat. Her hand lay without protest within his. He had nevertouched her before. She had been a symbol and a dream. Now he felt themarvel of the fact that she was a woman. Her hand, warm and alive, astonished him with the news. 

Rachel, during his speechlessness, looked at him unbelievingly. The gripof his fingers was bringing an ache into her heart. It was sad. Thenight and the room were sad. She could feel sadness opening littlewounds in her breasts. And before she had been happy. She heard himwhispering, "I can't talk to you. I can't. Oh, you are beautiful!"

His eyes made her think he was suffering. Then he was sad, too. Shestood up because his hand drew her. Why did he want her to stand up? Hisbody touched her and she heard him gasp. Her heart seemed adrift. Shewas unreal. There was another Rachel somewhere else. He was saying, buthe was not talking to her, "Oh, Rachel, I love you. I love you, Rachel!"

Still she waited unbelievingly, the ache in her dragging at her senses. She had fallen asleep and was dreaming something that was sad. But hisface was suddenly too close. His eyes were too near and bright. Theyawakened her. 

"Let me go, quick. "

His hands clung. For an instant she failed to understand his resistance. He was saying jerkily, "No . .. No!"

She twisted out of his arms and stood breathless, as if she werechoking. Hazlitt looked at her, a bit pensively. His heart lost in adream and a rapture could only grimace a child's protest out of hisstare. He hadn't kissed her. But that would come soon. Not everything atonce. He must not be a brute. He smiled. His good-natured face glowed asif in a light. Then he heard her talking, "Go away. At once. I never want to see you again. I'll die if I see youagain. "

Her hands were in her hair. 

"Go away. Please. .. . Oh, God, I can't stand you. You--horrify me!"

The panic in Rachel's voice seemed to dull his ears to her words. He sawher for a vivid moment against the opened window and then he foundhimself alone, looking into a night that was haunted with an image ofher. He remembered her going, but it seemed to him he still saw heragainst the window, his eyes bringing to him a vision of her face as shehad looked. 

He had grown white. In the memory of her face, as in an impossiblemirror, he saw a loathsome image of himself. Her eyes had blazed withit. He sickened and his thought grew faint. Then the night came beforehim and the echo of the words Rachel had spoken beat in his head. Hewalked with his hat politely in his hand out of the door. 

On the stairs his eyes grew weak and warm. Tears rushed from them. Hestumbled and clutched at the banister. She had led him on. She hadlooked at him with love. Love . .. But he had dreamed that. What was it, then? Her eyes burning toward him had told him he was loathsome. Therewas something wrong with him. He wept. He put his hat on mechanically. He dried his eyes. There was something wrong. 

On her bed Rachel lay mumbling to herself, mumbling as if the words werea pain to her ears. "Erik Dorn . .. Erik Dorn. "

CHAPTER VI

The world in which Erik Dorn lived was compounded of many surfaces. Ofthem Anna, his wife, was the most familiar. It was a familiarity ofabsorption. Weeks of intimacy passed between them, of lover-likeattentiveness during which Dorn remained unconscious of her existence. Her unending talk of her love for him--words and murmurs that seemed aninexhaustible overflow of her heart--passed through his mind as a partof his own thought. Hers was a more definite contribution to theemptiness of the life through which he moved. 

Yet in his unconsciousness of her there lived a shadowy affection. Onoccasions in which they had been separated there had always awakened inhim an uneasiness. In his nights alone he lay sleepless, oppressed, anostalgia for her presence growing in him. With his eyes opened at thedarkness of a strange room he experienced then an incompleteness as ifhe himself were not enough. The emptiness in which he was living becamesuddenly real. He would feel a despair. Words unlike the sophisticatedpatter of his usual thought would come to him. .. . "What is there . .. Iwould like something . .. What?. .. " A sense of life as an unpeopledvastness would frighten him vaguely. Night sounds . .. Strange, shadow-hidden walls. They made him uneasy. Memories then; puzzling, mixed-up pictures that had lost their outlines. Things that had left noimpression on his thought--sterile little incidents through which he hadmoved with automatic gestures--returned like sad little outcastspleading with him. Faces he could not remember and that were yetfamiliar peered at him in his sleeplessness with poignant eyes thatfrightened. 

There would come to him the memory of the time he had been a boy and hadlain like this in his mother's home, startled with fears that sat likeinsanities in his throat. The memory of his being a boy seemed torestore him to the fears long forgotten. Words would come . .. "I was aboy . .. " and he would lie thinking of how people grew old; of how he hadgrown old without seeming to change, and yet changing--as if he had beengently vanishing from himself and even now was moving slowly away. Hewas like a house from which issued a dim procession of guests neverpausing for farewells. He had been a boy, a youth, a man . .. Eachcontaining days and thoughts. And they moved slowly away fromhim--completed figures fully dressed. Slowly, without farewells, withfaces intensely familiar yet no longer known. Thus he would continue tovanish from himself, remaining unchanged but diminishing, until therewere no more guests to forsake and he stood alone waiting a lastfarewell--a curious, unimaginable good-bye to himself. Nothing . .. Nothing. A long wait for a good-bye. And then nothing again. Already hewas half shadow--half a procession of Erik Dorns walking away from himand growing dimmer. 

In the dark of the strange room, his eyes staring and fearful, he wouldreach suddenly for Anna, embracing her almost as if she were beside him. Her smile that forever shone upon him like the light of lilies andcandles from a sad, quiet altar; her words that forever flowed like adream from her heart, the warmth of her body that she offered him as ifit no longer existed for herself--to these his loneliness sought vainlyto carry him. And he would find himself tormented by a desire for her, lying with her name on his lips and her image alone alive in the emptydread of his thought. 

United again in their home, he lapsed into the unconsciousness of her, sometimes vaguely startled by the tears he felt on her cheeks as theylay together at night. Out of this unconsciousness he made continuallove to her, giving her back her endearments and caresses. Of this henever tired. His kisses unaware of her, his tendernesses without meaningto him, he yet felt in her presence the shadow of a desire. The lovethat filled his wife seemed to animate his phrases with an amorousdiction that echoed her own. He would hold her in his arms, bestowingkisses upon her, and watch as in wonder of some mysterious make-believe, the radiance that his meaningless gestures brought to her. 

There were times, however, when Dorn became aware of his wife, when shethrust herself before him as a far-away-eyed and beautiful-facedstranger. He had frequently followed her in the street, watching herbody sway as she walked, observing with quickening surprise her trim, lyre-like shoes, her silken ankles, the agile sensualism of herlitheness under a stranger's dress. He had noticed that she had coils ofred hair with bronze and gold lights slipping over it, that her facetilted itself with a hint of determination and her eyes walked proudlyover the heads of the crowd. He watched other men glimpse her and turnfor an instant to follow with their stares the promise of her body andlighted face. Dorn, walking out of her sight, got a confused sense ofher as if she were speaking to the street, "I am a beautiful woman. Inmy head are thoughts. I am a stranger to you. You do not know what mybody looks like or what dreams live in me. I have destinations andemotions that are mysterious to you. I am somebody different fromyourselves. "

On top of this sense of her had come each time a sudden vividpicture--Anna in their bedroom attaching her garters to the tops of herstockings; Anna tautening her body as she slipped out of her nightgown. .. Or a picture of her pressing his head against her breasts andwhispering passionately, "Erik, I adore you. " The strangeness then wouldleave her and again she was something he had absorbed. When he lookedfor her she had vanished in the scribble of the crowd and he walked withthe same curious unconsciousness of her existence as of his own. 

There were times too in their home when Anna became a reality before hiseyes--an external that startled him. This was such a time now. Rachelhad come to visit them. She sat silent, fugitive-bodied amid overfed, perspiring-eyed guests. And he stood looking at Anna and listening toher. 

He wondered why he looked at Anna and not at Rachel. But his wife inblack velvet and silken pumps, like a well-limned character out of somework of stately fiction, held his attention. He desired to talk to heras if she were a stranger. She sat without surprise at his unusualverbal animation in her behalf, listening to his banter with an intent, almost preoccupied smile in her eyes. While he talked, asking herquestions and pressing for answers, he thought. "She's not paying anyattention to my words, but to me. Her love is like a robe about her, covering her completely. " Yet she seemed strange. Behind this love liveda person capable of thinking and reasoning. Dorn, as sometimes happened, grew curious about her thoughts. He increased his efforts to rivet herattention, as if he were trying to coax a secret out of her. Theeasiest way to arouse her was to say things that frightened her, to makeremarks that might give her the feeling he had some underlying idea inhis head hostile to their happiness. 

The company of faces in the room emitted laughter, uttered words ofshocked contradiction, pressed themselves eagerly forward upon hisphrases. A red-faced man whose vacuity startled from behind a pair ofowlish glasses exclaimed, "That's all wrong, Dorn. Women don't want war. Your wife would rather cut off her arm than see you go to war. And mine, too. "

The wife of the red-faced man giggled. A younger, unmarried woman posedcarelessly on the black piano bench in an effort to exaggerate thecharms of her body, spoke with a deliberate sigh. 

"No, I don't agree with you, Mr. Harlan. Women are capable ofsacrifice. "

She thrust forward a lavender-stockinged leg and contemplated it with afar-away sacrificial light in her eyes. The red-faced one observed herwith sudden owlish seriousness. His argument seemed routed. 

"Of course that's true, " he agreed. Mr. Harlan came of a race whoserevolutionary notions expired apologetically before the first platitudeto cross their path. "We must always bear in mind that women are capableof sacrifice; that women . .. " The lavender stocking was withdrawingitself and Mr. Harlan stammered like an orator witnessing a suddenexodus of his audience, "that women are really capable of remarkablethings, " he concluded. 

Dorn was an uncommonly clever fellow, but a bit radical. He'd like tothink of something to say to him just to show him there was another sideto it. Not that he gave a damn. Some other time would do. The red faceturned with a great attentiveness toward the hoarsely oracular Mr. Warren, his eyes dropping a furtive curtsy in the direction of thevanished stocking. 

"I never agree with Dorn, " Warren was remarking, "for fear ofdispleasing him. "

He gazed belligerently at Anna whose eyes were attracting attention. Shewas watching her husband in a manner unbecoming a hostess. A middle-agedyouth toying politely with the blue sash of a girl in a white dress--hehad recently concluded a tense examination of the two antique rings onher fingers--saw an occasion for laughter and embraced it. The girlglanced somewhat timidly toward Anna and addressed her softly, as ifdesiring to engage in some conversation beyond the superficialexcitement of the moment. 

"I'm just mad about blue sashes, " she whispered. "I think the sash iscoming back, don't you?"

Anna nodded her head. Erik had resumed his talk, his eyes still on her. 

"Women are two things--theory and fact, " he was saying. "The theory ofthem demands war. If we get into this squabble you'll find themcheering the loudest and waving the most flags. War is something thatkills men; therefore, it is piquantly desirable to their subconscioushate of our sex. " He smiled openly at Anna. "It's also something thatplays up the valor and superiority of man and therefore offers avindication for her submission to him. "

"Oh, " the lavender stocking was indignantly in evidence, "how awful!"

Dorn waited until the young woman had shifted her hips into a moreprotesting outline. 

"I agree, " the red face chimed in. "It's nonsense. Dorn's full of clevernonsense. I quite agree with you, Miss Dillingham. " Miss Dillingham wasthe lavender stocking. The wife of the red face fidgeted, politelyominous. She announced pertly:

"I agree with what Mr. Dorn says. " Which announcement her husbandproperly translated into a warning and a threat of future conversationon the theme, "You never pay any attention to me when there's anybodyelse around. "

Dorn continued, "And it gives them a sense of generalities. Women livecrowded between the narrow horizons of sex. They don't share in life. It's very sad, isn't it, Miss Williams?" Miss Williams removed her sashgently from the hands of the elderly youth and pouted. She was alwaysindignant when men addressed her seriously. It gave her anuncomfortable feeling that they were making fun of her. 

"Oh, I don't know, " she answered. The elderly youth nodded his headenthusiastically and whispered close to her ear, "Exactly. "

"The things that are an entirety to women, " pursued Dorn, "milk bottles, butcher bills, babies, cleaning days, hello and good-bye kisses, aremerely gestures to their husbands. So in a war they find themselves ableto share what is known as the larger horizon of the male. One way isthrough sacrifice. They sacrifice their sons, lovers, husbands, uncles, and fathers with a high, firm spirit, announcing to the press that theyare only sorry their supply of relatives is limited. The sacrificingbrings them in contact with the world in which their males live. That'sthe theory of it. "

Anna's smile continued to deny itself to his words. It said to him, "What does it matter what you say? I love you. " And yet there was athought behind it holding itself aloof. 

"But the fact of woman is always denying her theory, " he added. "That'swhat makes her confusing. The fact of her weeps at departures, shellshocks, amputations; grows timid and organizes pacifist societies. It'sa case of sex instinct versus the personal complex. "

The elderly young man straightened in his chair, removing his eyes fromMiss Williams with the air of one returning to masculine worldliness. 

"I don't know about that, " he said. "It's all very well to talk aboutsuch things flippantly. But when the time comes, we must admit . .. "

"That talk is foolish, " interrupted Warren. He looked at Rachel andlaughed. "As a matter of fact, if anybody else but Dorn said it, I'dbelieve it. But I never believe Dorn. Do you, Miss Laskin?"

Rachel answered, "Yes. "

Dorn, piqued by the continual silence of his wife, felt a suddendiscomfiture at the sound of Rachel's voice. Was Anna aware he wastalking to her so as to avoid talking to Rachel? Perhaps. But Rachel'spresence was diluted by the company. He caught a glimpse of her darkeyes opened towards him, and for a moment felt his words disintegrate. He continued hurriedly:

"War, in a way, is a noble business, in that it reduces us to abiological sanity--much the same as does Miss Dillingham's lavenderstocking!"

The company swallowed this with an abrupt stiffening of necks. IsaacDorn, who had been airing himself on the veranda, relieved a tension byappearing in the doorway and moving quietly toward an unoccupied chair. Anna reached her hand to the old man's and held it kindly. MissDillingham, surveying the stretch of hose which had been honored in herhost's conversation, raised her eyes and replied quietly:

"Mr. Dorn is too clever to be really insulting. "

The red-faced one clung to a sense of outrage. His cheeks had grownslightly distended, and with the grimace of indignant virtue bristlingon his face, he turned the expression toward his wife for approval. Shenodded her head and tightened the thin line of her lips. 

"I only meant, " laughed Dorn, "that it reduces us to the sort of sanitythat wipes out the absurd, artificial notions of morality that keepcluttering up the thought of the race. War reminds us that civilizationand murder are compatible. Lavender stockings, speaking in generalities, are reminders that good and evil walk on equally comely legs. "

Mr. Harlan, having registered indignation, now struggled vainly againstthe preenings of his wit, and finally succumbed. 

"In these days you can't tell Judy O'Grady and the Colonel's lady apartby their stockings, eh?" He hammered his point home with a laugh. Warrenwinked at Rachel as if to inform her of the mixed company they were in, and Mrs. Harlan endeavored to put an end to the isolated merriment ofher husband with a "John, you're impossible!" The elderly youth, conscious of himself as the escort of a young virgin, lowered his eyesmodestly to her ankles. Dorn, watching his wife's smile deepen, noddedhis head at her. He knew her momentary thought. She labored under thepleasing conviction that his risqué remarks were invariably inspired bymemories of her. 

"Barring, of course, the unembattled stay-at-homes, " he continued. "Thesanity of battlefields is in direct ratio to the insanity of thenon-combatants. You can see it already in the press. We who stay athome endeavor to excuse the crime of war by attaching ludicrous idealsand purposes to its result. Thus every war is to its non-combatants aholy war. And we get a swivel-chair collection of nincompoops ravingweirdly, as the casualty lists pour in, of humanity and democracy. Ithasn't come yet, but it will. "

"Then you don't believe in war?" said the red face, emergingtriumphantly upon respectable ground. 

"As a phenomenon inspired by ideals or resulting in anything moresatisfactory than a wholesale loss of life, war is always a joke, " Dornanswered. He wondered whether Rachel was considering him a pompous ass. "I have a whole-hearted respect for it, however, as a biologicalexcitement. "

The blue sash winced primly at the word biological, and appealed to herescort to protect her somehow from the indecencies of life. The elderlyyouth answered her appeal with a tightening of his features. 

"War isn't biological, " he retorted in her behalf. 

Dorn, wearying of his talk, waited for some one of the company torelieve him of the burden. But the elderly youth had subsided, andfulfilling his functions as host--a business of diverting visitors fromthe fact that there was no reason for their presence in his home--Dornwas forced to continue:

"I can conceive of no better or saner way to die than crawling aroundin the mud, shrieking like a savage, and assisting blindly in thedepopulation of an enemy. But unless a man is forced to fight, I canconceive of nothing more horrible than war. Don't you think that, Anna?"

"You know what I think, Erik, " she answered. "I hate it. "

He was startled by a sudden similarity between Rachel and Anna. She toowas looking at him with the indignant aloofness of his wife--with a raptattention seemingly beyond the sound of his words. He caught the twowomen turn and smile to each other with an understanding that left him astranger to both. He thought quickly, "Anna is the only one in the roomintelligent enough for Rachel to understand. " He felt a momentary pridein his wife, and wondered. 

As the conversation, playing with the theme of war, spread itself inspasmodic blurs about the room, bursting in little crescendoes ofconviction, pronouncements, suddenly serious and inviolable truths, Dornfound himself listening excitedly. An unusual energy pumped notions intohis thought. But it was impossible to give vent to ideas before thiscollection of comedians. He desired to look at Rachel, but kept his eyesaway. If they were alone, he could talk. He permitted himself the luxuryof an explosive silence. 

He sat for a time thinking. "Curious! She knows I have things to say toher. They are unimportant but I can say them to no one else. She knowsI avoid looking at her. There must be something--an attraction. She's afool. I don't know. I should have put an end to our walks long ago. "

His vocabulary, marshaling itself under a surprising force, charged witha rush through his thought. Sentences unrelated, bizarre combinations ofwords--a kaleidoscopic procession of astounding ideas--art, life, war, streets, people--he knew what they were all about. An illumination likea verbal ecstacy spread itself through him. Under it he continued tothink as if with a separate set of words, "I don't know. She isn'tbeautiful. A stupid, nervous little girl. But it hasn't anything to dowith her. It's something in me. "

He stood up, his eyes unsmiling, and surveyed the animated faces as froma distance. Paper faces and paper eyes--fluttering masks suspendedpolitely above fabrics that lounged in chairs. They were unreal--toounreal even to talk to. Beyond these figures in the room and the noisesthey made, lay something that was not unreal. It pulled at the sleep inhim. He stood as if arrested by his own silence. The night outside thewindow came into his eyes, covering the words in his brain and leavinghim alone. 

He heard Anna speaking. 

"What are you thinking about, Erik?"

Her eyes seemed to him laden with forebodings. Yet she was smiling. There was something that made her afraid. He turned toward Rachel andfound her standing as if in imitation of himself, her face lifted towardthe window, the taut line of her neck an attitude that brought him theimage of a white bird's wing soaring. He felt himself unable to speak, as if a hand had been laid threateningly on his throat. Rachel wasindiscreet to stand that way, to look that way. There was no mistaking. His thought, shaking itself free of words . .. "In love with me. In lovewith me!" He paused. A bewildering sense of infidelity. But he had donenothing--only walk with her a few afternoons. And talk. "A stupid, nervous little girl. " It was some sort of game, not serious necessarily. He stepped abstractedly toward his wife, aware that the conversation hadflattened. 

"I wasn't thinking, " he answered, searching guiltily for an epigram. "Won't you play?"

Anna stood up and brought her eyes to a level with his own. Again thelight of foreboding, of unrevealed shadows flashed at him out of hersmile. She understood something not clear in his own head; nor in hers. He grasped her hand as she passed and with a dolorous grimace of hisheart felt it unresponsive in his fingers. 

Anna was playing from a piano score of _Parsifal_. The music dropped acurtain. Dorn became conscious of himself in an overheated roomsurrounded by a group of awed and saccharine faces. Rachel was smilingat him with a meaning that he seemed to have forgotten. He stared back, pleasantly aware that a familiar sneer had returned to his eyes. In acorner his father sat watching Anna and he noticed that the old man'swatery eyes turned in, as if gazing at images in his own thought. Hisfather's smile, as always, touched Dorn with an irritation, and hehurried from it. 

The others were more amusing. The spectacle of the faces wilting intomaudlin abstractions under the caress of the music brought a grin tohim. The sounds had drugged the polite little masks and left them poisedmorosely in a sleepy dream. The lavender stocking crept tenderly intoevidence. The owlish glasses focused with noncommittal stoicism in itsdirection. The blue sash looked worried and the raised eyebrows of theelderly youth asked unhappy questions. Music made people sad and causedsighs to trickle from their ludicrously inanimate features. Meltinghearts under lacquered skins, dissolving little whimpers underperfunctory attitudes. 

He remembered his own mood of a few moments ago, and explained tohimself. Something had given him a dream. The night shining through thewindow, the curve of Rachel's neck. Rachel . .. Rachel . .. He grewsuddenly sick with the refrain of her name. It said itself longingly inhis thought as if there was a meaning beyond it. 

The playing had stopped. The listeners appeared to be lingeringdejectedly among its echoes. Rachel slipped quickly to her feet, herarms thrust back as if she were poised for running. She passed abruptlyacross the room. Her behavior startled him. The faces looked at hercuriously. She was running away. 

Anna followed her quietly into the vestibule and the company burst intoan incongruous babble. Dorn listened to their voices, again firm andself-sufficient, chattering formalities. He watched Rachel adjusting herhat with over-eager gestures. Her eyes were avoiding him. She seemedbreathless, her head squirming under the necessity of having to remainfor another moment before the eyes of the people in the room. 

"I must go, " she said suddenly. Her hand extended itself to Anna. Afrightened smile widened her mouth. Dorn felt her eyes center excitedlyon him. A confused desire to speak kept him silent. He stood up andentered the hall to play his little part as host. But Rachel was gone. The door had closed behind her and he stared at the panels, feeling thatthe house had emptied itself. Things were normal again. Anna wasspeaking to her guests, smoothly garrulous. They were putting on hatsand saying good-bye. They would have to hurry to escape the rain. Heassisted with wraps, his eyes furtively watching the door as if heexpected to see it open again, with Rachel returning. 

"I've really had a wonderful time, " the lavender stocking was shrilling. He became solicitous and followed her to the door, walking with herdown the housesteps. A moist summer night, promising rain. 

But the street was empty of Rachel, and he returned. 

CHAPTER VII

They were in their bedroom undressing. Outside, the night rustled withan approaching storm. On the closed windows the rain began a rattle ofwater. A wind filled the darkness. 

"What makes you act so strangely to-night, Erik?"

She looked at him as she stood uncovering herself. She desired to speakwith a disarming casualness. Instead, her words came with a sound oftears in them. He was always strange--always going away from her untilshe had to close her eyes and love in the dark without trying to seehim. Now he might go to war and be killed. Something would happen. "Something . .. Something . .. " kept murmuring itself in her thought. 

"I love to hear you play to a crowd, " he answered good-humoredly. 

"Why?" She could not get the languor out of her voice. 

"When people listen to music it always reminds me we are descended fromfish. God, what dolts! Minds like soft-bodied sea growths. I canactually see them sometimes. "

"You always dislike my friends. "

She would argue with him, and in his anger his strangeness would goaway. 

"Your friends?" He seemed pleased at the chance of growing angry. "Allowme to point out to you that the assemblage to-night had the distinctionof being my friends. I discovered the collection. I brought them to thehouse first. "

"They think you're wonderful. " She would get him angry that way. 

"A virtue, I admit. But it doesn't excuse their other stupidities. "

They seemed to have nothing to argue about. Anna loosened her hair. Thesight of it rolling in glistening bronzes and reds from her headinvariably gave her a desire to cover Erik's face in it. With his faceburied in the disordered masses of her hair she would feel an exquisitefullness of love. 

"You don't think Rachel stupid, do you?"

Dorn felt a relief at the sound of her name. His thought was full ofher, but he had been afraid to talk. 

"Miss Laskin, " he replied, concealing his eagerness for the topic with adrawl, "is partially insane. "

"Yes, you like insane people, though. I can always tell when you likepeople. You never pay any attention to them then, but sort of comehanging around me--as if you were apologizing to yourself for likingthem, and doing penance. Or you call them names. "

"Miss Laskin, " Dorn answered, delighted to protract the conversation, "is a vivid sort of imbecile suffering from vacuous complexities. Anhour alone in a room with her would drive even a philosopher to madness. She's one of the kind of people given to inappropriate silences. Shereminds me of an emotion undergoing a major operation. Good Lord, Anna, don't tell me you're jealous of her?"

It was immaterial whether he denounced or upheld Rachel. To talk of hereven with indignation was a delight. 

Thunder rolled, and he became silent. Anna turned her nakedness to him. Her eyes, grown dark, beheld a yearning and a sorrow. 

"Don't talk about people, " she whispered. "I'm glad you hate them--allof them. "

Her nudity always surprised Dorn. Her body seemed always to have grownmore beautiful and impersonal. A shout of rain sounded in the night anda chill wind burst with a clatter in the darkness. He thought of Rachelas he darkened the room. There came to him a picture of her walking inthe rain with her head raised and laughing. 

Anna lay for a moment, awed by the suddenness of the storm. She turnedquickly, her arms reaching hungrily about her husband. 

"I love you, " she whispered. "Oh, I love you so much. My own, mydearest!"

She felt his lips touch hers, and closed her eyes. 

"Tell me. .. . "

Dorn murmured back to her, "I adore you. "

A little laugh came, and tears reached her cheeks. 

"You're so wonderful, " she whispered. "Think of it! It's been the samesince the first night. You love me--just as you did. "

She paused questioningly--an old question to which he gave an oldanswer. 

"I love you more. "

"I know it. I can feel it. You won't ever get tired of loving me?"

"Never--never as long as I live. "

"Oh, you make me so happy!"

A sigh almost like a moan came from her heart. 

"Oh, I'm a fool. I get frightened sometimes--when I hear you talk. Something takes you away. You mustn't ever go away. Promise me. Listen, Erik. " She dropped into a panic. "Promise me you won't go to war. "

He laughed. 

"That was only talk, " he whispered. "You should know my talk by thistime. "

"I'll never know you. "

"Please, Anna, don't. You hurt me when you say that. "

"And when you were silent, " she went on softly, "I felt--I feltsomething had happened. Erik, darling Erik. Oh, you're my whole life!"

"I adore you, sweetest, " he murmured. 

"I don't live except in you, Erik. And, oh, I'm a fool. Such a fool!"

"You're wonderful, " he interrupted. He was making responses in an oldritual. 

"No, I'm not. I'll make you tired of me. Tell me, please. Tell me youlove me. I feel you've never told me it. "

"I love you more than everything else in life. More than everything. "

"Oh, do you, Erik?"

She pressed herself closer to him, and he felt her body like the heat ofa flame avidly caress him. 

"I don't want you any different, though, " she whispered. "When I seeother men I get horrified to think that you might become like them--ifyou didn't love me. Dead, creepy things. Oh, men are horrible. Talk tome, Erik. "

"I can't. I love you. What else is there to say?" His voice trembled andher mouth pressed upon his. 

"I don't deserve such happiness, " she said. Tears from her eyes felllike warm wax on his shoulder. Her hands were fumbling distractedly overhim. 

"Erik, " she gasped, "my Erik! I worship you. "

The storm pounded through the night, leaping and bellowing in a hallooof sounds. Dorn tightened his arms mechanically about her warm flesh. His lips were murmuring tensely, dramatically, "I love you. I love you. "And a sadness made a little warmth in his heart. He was alone in thenight. His arms and words were engaged in an old make-believe. But thistime he felt himself further away. There was no meaning. .. . 

He tried vainly to think of Anna, but an emptiness crowded even her nameout of his mind. His hands were returning her caresses, mimicking theeager distraction of her own. His mind, removed as if belongingelsewhere, was thinking aimless little words. 

There was a storm outside. Lightning. .. . The war was taking up too muchspace in the paper. Crowding out important local news. The Germans wouldprobably get to Paris soon and put an end to it. .. . Why did Rachel runaway? Should he ask her? Sometime. When he saw her. Ask her. Ask her. .. . His thought drifted into a blank. Then it said . .. "The thing ismeaningless. Meaningless. Houses, faces, streets. Nothing, nothing. There's nothing. .. . "

His wife lay silent, quivering with an ecstasy. Her arms were hungrilychoking him. Dorn closed his eyes as if to hide himself. His lips stillmurmured in a monotone, vague as the voice of a stranger in hisears--responses in an old ritual--"I love you, I love you! Oh, I loveyou so much!. .. "

PART II

DREAM

CHAPTER I

In the evening when women stand washing dishes in the kitchens of thecity, men light their tobacco and open newspapers. Later, the womengather up the crumpled sheets and read. 

The streets of the city spell easy words--poor, rich--neither. 

Here in one part live the grimy-faced workers, their sagging, shapelesswomen and their litters of children. Their windows open upon brokenlittle streets and bubbling alleys. Idiot-faced wooden houses sprawlover one another with their rumps in the mud. The years hammeraway--digesting the paint from houses. The years grind away, yet lifepersists. Beneath the grinding of the years, life gropes, shrieks, sweats. And in the evening men light their tobacco and open newspapers. 

Around a corner the boxes commence. One, two, three, four, and on intothousands stand houses made of stone, and their regimental masonry islike the ticking of a clock. Unvarying windows, doors identical--astereotype of roofs and chimneys--these hold the homes of the crowds. Here the vague faces of the streets, the hurrying, enigmatic figurespumping in and out of offices and stores gather to sleep and breed. Inthe evening the crowds drift into boxes. The multiple destinationsdwindle suddenly into a monotone. The confusions of the city's traffic;the winding and unwinding herds that made a picture for the eyes of ErikDorn, individualize into little human solitudes. The stone houses standticking away the years, and within them men and women tick. Doors openand shut, lights go on and off, day and night drop a tick-tock acrossmiles of roofs. And in the hour of the washing of dishes men kindletheir tobacco and read the newspapers. 

Slowly, timidly, the city moves away from the little stone boxes. Automobiles and trees appear. Here begin the ornaments. Marble, bronze, carved and painted brick--a filigree and a scrollwork--put forth claims. The lords of the city stand girthed in ornaments. Knight and satrap havechanged somewhat. Moat and battlement grimace but faintly from behindtheir ornaments. The tick-tock sounds through the carouse. Sleek, suavemen and languorous, desirable women sit amid elaborations, sleep andbreed in ornamental beds. Power wears new masks. Leadership has improvedits table manners, its plumbing, and its God. 

Beautiful clocks, massive with griffiens and gargoyles, nymphs andscrollwork--they shelter heroes. But heroes have changed. Destiny nolonger passes in the night--a masked horseman riding a lonely road. Instead, an old watchmaker winds up clocks, sleek men and desirablewomen. In the inner offices of the city the new heroes sit through theday, watchmakers themselves, winding and unwinding the immemorial crowdswith new devices. But in the evening they too return to their ornamentalboxes, and under Pompeian lamps, amid Renaissance tapestries, opennewspapers. 

Alley box and manor, the tick-tock of the city has them all. Pavedstreets and window-pitted walls beat out a monotone. Lust and dream turnsterile eyes to the night. The great multiple tick-tock of the citywaits another hour to pass. 

Wait, it reads a newspaper. On the west side of the city a man namedJoseph Pryzalski has murdered a woman he loved, beating her head in withan ax, and subsequently cut his own throat with a razor. At the inquestthere will be exhibited a note scribbled on a piece of wrapping-paperstill redolent with herring . .. "God in heaven, forgive me! She is dead. It is better. Oh, God, now my turn!" Deplorable incident. 

In the next column the exploits of three young men armed with guns. Entering a bank, the three young men shot and killed Henry J. Sloane, cashier; held half a dozen other names at bay, loaded their pockets withmoney, and escaped in a black automobile. The police are, fortunately, combing the city for the three young men and the black automobile. ThankGod for the police moving cautiously through the streets with a large, a magnificent comb that will soon pick the three young men, their threeguns, and their symbolical black automobile out of the city. 

Next, the daily report of excitements in Europe. The Austrian army hasbeen annihilated. A part of the German army, seemingly the mostimportant part, has also been annihilated. Day by day the armies of theAllies continue to devour, obliterate, grind into dust the armies of theKaiser. Bulletin--black type demanding quick eye--twenty thousandunsuspecting Prussians walking across a bridge on the Meuse were blownup and completely annihilated. This occurred on a Monday. In the teethof these persistent and vigorous annihilations, the Huns still continuetheir atrocities. Shame! In Liége, on a Tuesday, the blood-dripping Hunsadded another horror to their list of revolting crimes. Three citizensof Liége were executed. They died like heroes. There are other items onthis general subject, including a message from the Pope. 

Alongside the war, as if in a next room, a woman has shot her lover onlearning he was a married man. "Beauty Slays Soul-Mate; Shoots Self. ". .. Annihilation on a smaller but more interesting scale, this. 

A street-car has crashed into a brewery wagon and at the bottom of thecolumn a taxi has run over a golden-haired little girl at play. 

But why has Raymond S. Cotton, wealthy clubman and financier andprominent in north-shore society circles, disappeared? Society circlesare agog. Sometimes society circles are merely disturbed. But they arealways active. Society circles are always running around wavinglorgnettes and exclaiming, "Dear me, and what do you think of this? I amall agog. " The police are combing the city for a woman in black lastseen with the prominent Mr. Cotton in a notorious café. But a man is tobe hanged in the County Jail. "The doomed man ate a hearty breakfast ofham and eggs and seemed in good spirits. " Fancy that!

"Flames Destroy Warehouse, Two Firemen Hurt. " This, in small apologetictype like a footnote on a timetable. Inconsiderate firemen who take upimportant space on a crowded day!

Apology ceases. Here is something that requires no apology. It isextremely important. Wilbur Jennings, prominent architect, has defiedthe world and departed for a Love Bungalow in Minnesota with anotherman's wife. A picture of Wilbur in flowing bow tie and set jaws defyingthe world. Also of his inamorata in a ball gown, eyes lowered to a rosedrooping from her hand. Various wives and chubby-faced children, and theinamorata's Siberian hound, "Jasper. " What he said. What she said. Whatthey said. Opinions of three ministers, roused on the telephone byinquiring reporters. The three divines are unanimous. But Wilbur's tieremains defiant. 

Arm in arm with Wilbur, his tie and his troubles, his epigrams and hisLove Bungalow, sits an epidemic of clairvoyants. There is an epidemicof clairvoyants in the city. Five widows have been swindled. The policeare combing the city for . .. A prominent professor of sociology on thefaculty of the local university interrupts. The prominent professor hasbeen captured in a leading Loop hotel whither he had gone to diverthimself with a suitcase, a handbook on sex hygiene, and an admiringco-ed. 

This, waiting for an hour to pass, the city reads. Crimes, scandals, horrors, holocausts, burglaries, arsons, murders, deceptions. The cityreads with a vague, dull skepticism. Who are these people of thenewspaper columns? Lusting scoundrels, bandits, heroes, wild lovers, madmen? Not in the streets or the houses that tick-tock through thenight. .. . Somewhere else. A troupe of mummers wandering unseen behindthe great clock face of the city--an always unknown troupe of rascallymummers for whom the police are continually combing and setting largedragnets. 

In the evening men light their tobacco and read the little woodenphrases of the press that squeal and mumble the sagas of thelawbreakers. Women come from the washing of dishes and eating of foodand pick up the crumpled pages. .. . A scavenger digging for the disgustsand abnormalities of life, is the press. A yellow journal of lies, idiocies, filth. Ignoring the wholesome, splendid things of life--thefine, edifying beat of the tick-tock. Yet they read, glancing dully atheadlines, devouring monotonously the luridness beneath headlines. Theyread with an irritation and a vague wonder. Tick, say the streets, andtock, say the houses; and within them men and women tick. To work andhome again. Home again and to work. New shoes grow old. New seasonsvanish. Years grind. Life sinks slowly away with a tick-tock on itslips. 

Yet each evening comes the ragged twopenny minstrel--a blear-eyed, croaking minstrel, and the good folk give him ear. No pretty words inrhythms from his tongue. No mystic cadences quaver in his voice. Yet hecomes squealing out his song of an endless "Extra! All about themysteries and the torments of life. All about the raptures, lusts, andadventures that the day has spilled. Read 'em and weep! Read 'em andlaugh! Here's the latest, hot off the presses, from dreamers andlawbreakers. Extra!"

Thus the city sits, baffled by itself, looking out upon a tick-tock ofwindows and reading with a wonder in its thought, "Who are thesepeople?. .. "

CHAPTER II

At ten o'clock the courts of the city crowd up. The important gentlemenwho devote themselves to sending people to jail and to preventing themfrom being sent to jail, appear with fat books under their arms andbrief-cases in their hands. They have slept well and eaten well and havearrived at their tasks with clear heads containing arguments. These arearguments vastly more important than poems that writers make orhistories that dreamers invent. For they are arrangements of words whichfunction in the absence of God. God is not exactly absent, to be sure, since the memory of Him lingers in the hearts of men. But it is a vaguememory and at times unreliable. It would appear that He was on earthonly for a short interval and failed to make any decided impression. 

Therefore, at ten o'clock, the courts crowd up and the importantgentlemen bristling with substitute arrangements of words, addressthemselves to the daily business of demonstrating whether people havedone right or wrong, and proving, or disproving also, how extensive arethe sins which have been committed. Arrangements of words palaver witharrangements of words. There ensues a vast shuffling of words, a droneand a gurgle of syllables. The Case of the State of Illinois Versus Man. Order in the Court Room. "No talking, please. .. . " "If it Please YourHonor, the Issue involved in this case is identical with the Issue asexplicitly set forth in the Case of Matthews Versus Matthews, IllinoisSixth, Chapter Eight, Page ninety two, in which in the Third Paragraphthe Supreme Court decided. " The Court Instructs the Jury, "You are to beGuided by the Law as given You in these instructions and by the Facts asadmitted in Evidence of the Case; the court Instructs the jury they arethe judges of the law as well as of the fact but the Court furtherinstructs the Jury before You decide for Yourselves that the Law isOtherwise than as given you by the Court, you are to exercise great Careand Caution in arriving at your decision. .. . " "Gentlemen, have youarrived at your verdict?" "We have. " "Let the clerk be handed theverdict. " "We the Jury find the Defendant. .. . "

Thus the tick-tock of the great city grown stern and audible, grownverbose and insistent, speaks aloud in the courts. And here huddled onbenches are the little troupes of mummers who have committed crimes. Themysterious sprinkling of marionettes not wound up by the watchmaker. Names that solidify for a moment into the ink headlines. Lusts, dreams, greeds, and manias sitting sad-faced and dolorous-eyed listening to adrone and a gurgle of words. Alas! The evil-doers and the doers of goodbear a fatuous resemblance to each other. God Himself might well beconfused by this curious fact. But fortunately there are arrangements ofwords capable of adjusting themselves to confusion, capable oftick-tocking in the midst of disorder. Tick, say the words and tock saythe juries. Tick-tock, the cell door and the scaffold drop. Streets andwindows, paintings of the Virgin Mary, beds of the fifty-centprostitutes, cannon at Verdun and police whistles on crossings; the Popein Rome, the President in Washington, the man hunting the alleys for ahandout, the languorous women breeding in ornamental beds--all say atick-tock. Behind the arrangements of words, confusion strikes a postureof guilt, strikes a posture of innocence. God Himself were a dolt tointerfere. For if the song of the angels is somehow other than thetick-tock of men, the song of the angels is a music for heaven and thetick-tock of men is a restful drone in which the city hides themysteries non-essential to the progress and pattern of its streets. 

CHAPTER III

In and out of the crowded courtrooms of the city George Hazlitt pursuedhis career. Buried in the babble of words, his voice sounded from day today with a firm, self-conscious vigor. To the thousand and one dronersabout him, the law was a remunerative game in which one matchedplatitude with bromide, legal precedent of the State of Illinois withlegal precedent of the State of Indiana; in which right and wrong were ashuffle of words and the wages of sin dependent upon the depth of acounselor's wits. 

There was in Hazlitt, however, a puritanical fervor which withstood thelure of expediency. He entered the courts not to juggle with words, fence for loopholes out of which to drag dubious acquittals for hisclients. His profession was a part of his nature. He saw it as a battleground on which, under the babbling and droning, good and evil stood atunending grips. Good always triumphing. Evil always going to jaildespite habeas corpuses, writs, and duces tecums. 

To question the nobility of the Hazlitt soul would be a sidestepping. There were among his friends, men of dubious integrity with elasticscruples and pliable consciences. But skepticism thrust in vain at theHazlitt armor. In him had been authentically born the mania forconformity. He was a prosecutor by birth. Against that which did notconform, against all that squirmed for some expression beyond thetick-tock of life, he was a force--an apostle with a sword. Menpretending virtues as relentless as his own were often inclined to eyehim askance. Virtue breeds skepticism among the virtuous. But there wasa difference about Hazlitt. 

The basis of his philosophy was twofold. It embraced a rage againstdreamers and a rage against lawbreakers. Lawbreakers were men and womenwho sacrificed the welfare and safety of the many for the sating oftheir individual greeds and lusts. He viewed the activities oflawbreakers with a sense of personal outrage. He, Hazlitt, was a part ofsociety--a conscious unit of a state of mind, which state of mind wascarefully written out in text-book editorials, and on tablets handeddown by God from a mountaintop. Men who robbed, cheated, beat theirwives, deserted their families, seduced women, shirked responsibilities, were enemies on his own threshold. They must be punished, mentally, byhim; physically by the society to which he belonged. 

The punishing of evil-doers did more than eliminate them from histhreshold. It vindicated his own virtue. Virtue increases in directproportion with its ability to distinguish evil. The denunciation ofevil-doers was the boasting of George Hazlitt, "I am not one of them. "The more vigorous the denunciation, the more vigorous the boast. Thehanging of a man for the crime of murder was a reward paid to GeorgeHazlitt for his abstinence from bloodshed. The jailing of a seduceroffered a tangible recompense for the self-denial which he, as anon-seducer, practiced. 

Apart from the satisfactions his virtue derived in establishing itssuperiority by assisting spiritually in the punishment of theunvirtuous, his rage against lawbreakers found itself equally on hisdevotion to law. He perceived in the orderly streets, in the miles ofhouses, in the smoothly functioning commerce and government of his day, a triumph of man over his baser selves. The baser selves of man wereinstincts that yearned for disorder. Of this triumph Hazlitt felthimself a part. 

Disorder he thought not only illegal, but debasing. The same virtuewhich prevented him from promenading in his pajamas in the boulevardstirred with a feeling of outrage against the confusion attending astreet-car strike. His intelligence, clinging like some militantparasite to the stability of life, resented all agitations, material orspiritual, all violators who violated the equilibrium to which he wasfastened. 

Against dreamers his rage was even deeper and more a part of his fiber. In the tick-tock of life Hazlitt saw a perfection--an evolution out ofcenturies of mania and disorder. The tick-tock was a perfection whosebasic principle was a respect for others. This respect evolved out ofman's fear of man and insuring a mutual protection against his predatoryhabits, was to Hazlitt a religion. He denied himself pleasures andconvenient expressions for his impulses in order to spare othersdispleasure and inconvenience. And his nature demanded a similarsacrifice of his fellows--as a reward and a symbol of his owncorrectness. Such explanation of his conduct as, it is easier to followthe desires of others than to give expression to the desires of one'sself, would have been, to Hazlitt, spiritual and legal sacrilege. 

In dreamers, the rising young attorney sensed a poorly concealed effortto evade this primal responsibility toward him and the society of whichhe was an inseparable part. Men who walked with their heads in theclouds were certain to step on one's feet. Dreamers were scoundrels orlunatics who sought to justify their unfitness for society by ridiculingit as unworthy and by phantasizing over new values and standards whichwould be more amiable to their weaknesses. There were political dreamersand dreamers in morals and art. Hazlitt bunched them together, brandedthem with an identical rage, and spat them out in one word, "nuts. "

Dreamers challenged his sense of superiority by hinting at soul statesand social states superior to those he already occupied. Dreamersdisturbed him. For this he perhaps hated them most. Their phantasiessometimes lifted him into moments of disorder, moments of doubt asrevolting to his spirit as were sores revolting to his skin. Then also, dreamers had their champions--men and women who applauded their lunaticwritings and cheered their lunatic theories. 

The punishment of lawbreakers vindicated his own virtue. But his rageagainst dreamers was such that their punishing offered him no sense ofsatisfactory vindication. His railing and ridicule against creatures whoyearned, grimaced--neurasthenics, in short--left him with no finefeeling of the victorious sufficiency of himself. Thus to concealhimself from doubts always threatening an appearance, it was necessaryfor him to assume a viciousness of attitude not entirely sincere. So heread with unction political speeches and art reviews denouncing thephantasts of his day, and from them he borrowed elaborate invective. Yethis invective seemed like a vague defense of himself who should need nodefense and thus again doubt raised a dim triumph in his heart. 

"Yes, I'm a reactionary, " he would say. "I'm for the good old things oflife. Things that mean something. " And even this definition of faithwould leave him unsatisfied. 

The paradox of George Hazlitt lay in the fact that he was himself adreamer. Champions of order and champions of disorder share somewhat ina similarity of imaginative impulses. 

Six months had passed since Hazlitt had wept on the stairs as he leftRachel's room. Dry-eyed now and clear-headed, he sat one winterafternoon against his chosen background--the swarm and clutter of a lawcourt. His brief-cases were packed. His law books had been bundled backto his office. 

He was waiting beside a vivid-faced young woman who sat twisting atear-damp handkerchief in her hands. The jury that had listened forthree weeks to the tale of the young woman's murder of a hospitalinterne who had seduced and subsequently refused to marry her, hadsauntered out of the jury-box to determine now whether the young womanshould be hanged, imprisoned, or liberated. The excitements attendingthe trial had brought a reaction to Hazlitt. He seemed suddenly to havelost interest in the business of his defense of the wronged young woman. This despite that he had for three weeks maintained a high pitch of rageagainst the scoundrel who had violated his client and subsequentlydriven her insane by even more abominable cruelties. 

Hazlitt's concluding remarks to the jury on the subject of dishonoredwomanhood and the merciless bestiality of certain male types had beenmore than a legal oration. He had expressed himself in it and had spenttwo full days lost in admiration of the echoes of his bombast. .. . "Menwho follow the vile dictates of their lower natures, who sow thewhirlwind and expect to reap the roses thereby; cynical, soulless menwho take a woman as one takes a glove, to wear, admire, and discard;depraved men who prowl like demons at the heels of virtue, fawning theirways into the pure heart of innocence and glutting their beastly hungersupon the finest fruits of life--the beauty and sacrifice of a maiden'sfirst love--are such creatures men or fiends, gentlemen of the jury?"And then . .. "spurned, taunted by the sneers of one of these vipers, herpleadings answered with laughter and blows of a fist, the soul ofPauline Pollard grew suddenly dark. Where had been sanity, innocence, and love, now came insanity. Her girl's mind--like sweet bells jangledout of tune--brought no longer the high message of reason into herheart. We sitting here in this sunny courtroom, gentlemen, can think andreason. But Pauline Pollard, struggling in the embrace of a leeringsavage, listening to his fiendish mockeries of her virtue--the virtue hehad stolen from her--ah! the soul and brain of Pauline Pollard vanishedin a darkness. The law is the law, gentlemen. There is no one respectsit more than I. If this girl killed a man coldly and with reasonfunctioning in her mind, she is guilty. Hang her, gentlemen of the jury!But, gentlemen, the law under which we live, you and I and all of us, also says, and says wisely, that a mind not responsible for its acts, asoul whose balance has been destroyed by the shrieking voices of mania, shall not be held guilty. .. . "

The jury that had listened with ill-concealed envy to the recital of theamorous interne's promiscuous exploits, listened to Hazlitt andexperienced suddenly a fine rage against the deceased. Out of the youngattorney's florid utterings a question fired itself into the minds ofthe jurors. The deceased had done what they all desired to do, but darednot. This grinning, unscrupulous fiend of a hospital interne hadblithely taken what he desired and blithely discarded what he did notdesire. The twelve good men and true bethought them of their wives whomthey did not desire and yet kept. And of the young women and the thingsof flesh and spirit they desired with every life-beat in them and yetdid not take. Was this terrible denial which, for reasons beyond theirincomplete brains, they imposed upon themselves, a meaningless, profitless business? The bland interne was dead and unfortunately beyondtheir punishment. Yet the fact that he had lived at all called for aprotest--some definitely framed expression which would throw a haloabout their own submission to women they did not desire, and their owndenial to women they did desire. The law, whose arrangements of wordsare omniscient, provided such a halo. 

Dr. Hamel, the interne under discussion, was dead and buried, andtherefore, properly speaking, not on trial. Nor yet was Pauline Pollardon trial. The persons on trial were twelve good men and true who werebeing called upon to decide, somewhat dramatically, whether they wereright in living in a manner persistently repugnant to them; whethersomebody else could get away with something which they themselves, notdaring to attempt, bitterly identified as sin. 

In thirty minutes the still outraged jury was to file in and utter itsdignified protest. Pauline Pollard would again be free. And twelve menwould return to their homes with a high sense of having meted outjustice, not to Pauline or her amorous interne, but to themselves. 

Enticing speculation, the yes or no of these twelve men, three days ago. But now Hazlitt sat with an odd indifference in his thought. The crowdwaiting avidly for the dramatic moment of the verdict; livingvicariously the suspense of the defendant--depressed him. The newspaperreporters buzzing around, forming themselves into relays between thepress table and the door, further depressed him. He felt himselfsomewhere else, and the scene was a reality which intruded. 

There was a dream in Hazlitt which sometimes turned itself on like alight and revealed the emptiness of life without Rachel, the emptinessof courtrooms, verdicts, crowds. Yes, even the emptiness of the strugglebetween good and evil. He sat thinking of her now, contrasting thevirginal figure of her with the coarseness of the thing in which he hadbeen engaged. There was something about her . .. Something . .. Something. And the old refrain of his dream like a haunting popular ballad, startedagain here in the crowded courtroom. 

He remembered the eyes of Rachel, the quick gestures of her full-grownhands that moved always as in sudden afterthoughts. Virginal was theword that came most often to his thought. Not the virginity that spellsa piquant preface to sensualism. She would always be virginal, evenafter they were married. In his arms she would remain virginal, becausethere was something in her, something beyond flesh. His heart choked atthe memory of it, and his face saddened. Something he could not see orplace in a circle of words, that did not exist for his eyes or histhought, and yet that he must follow. Even after he had won her therewould be this thing he could not see; that trailed a dream song in hisheart and kept him groping toward the far lips of the singer. Yes, theywould marry. She had refused to see him twice since the night he hadwept on the stair, leaving her. But the memories of that night hadadjusted themselves. He had seen love in the eyes of Rachel as he heldher hand. She had laughed love to him, given him for an instant thevision of beauty-lighted places waiting for him. The rest had been . .. Neurasthenia. Thus he had forgotten her words and his tears and thevivid moment when he had seen himself reflected in her eyes as a horror. He had tried twice to see her. He would continue trying, and some dayshe would again open the door to him, laughing, whispering . .. "I'm solonely. I'm glad you've come. " In the meantime he would continue sendingher letters. Once each week he had been writing her, saying he lovedher. No answers had come. But this, curiously, did not anger him. Hewrote not so much to Rachel as to a dream of her. She remained intact inher silence . .. As he knew her . .. An aloof, virginal being whosepresence in the world was its own song. 

There was a commotion. Hazlitt looked about him and saw strange faceslight up, strange eyes gleam out of the electric-glowing dusk. Snow wasfalling outside. Pauline's hand gripped his forearm. Her fingers burned. Raps of a gavel for silence. The judge spoke. A sad-faced man, with aheavy mustache combating his words, stood up in the jury-box and spoke. In a vast silence a clerk beside the judge's bench cleared his voice, moistened his lips, and spoke. 

So he had won another case. Pauline was free. Snow outside and rows oflighted windows. She was overwrought. Let her weep for a spell. Snowoutside. Three weeks and one day. Everybody seemed happy with theverdict. People were good at heart. A triumph for decency cheered them. People were not revengeful at heart, only decent. Congratulations . .. "Thank you, thank you! No, Miss Pollard has nothing to say now. She istoo overcome. To-morrow. .. . " The persistent press! What did they expecther to say? Absurd the way they kept interviewing her. The snow wouldprobably tie up traffic. Eat downtown. .. . 

"If you're ready, Miss Pollard. "

"Oh, I must thank the jurors. "

Handshakes. Twelve good men with relaxed faces. "There, there, littlewoman. Start over. We only did our duty and what was right by you. "

Everybody stretched his legs. Mrs. Hamel was sobbing. Well, she was hismother. It would only have satisfied her lower instincts of vengeance tohave jailed Pauline. 

"All right, Miss Pollard. " He took her arm. Curious, what a differencethe verdict had made in her. She was a woman like any other womannow. .. . His overcoat might do for another season. .. . Pretty girl. Hardto get used to the idea she wasn't a defendant. 

"This way, Miss Pollard". .. . Take her to a cab and send her home. Ifshe'd ever get started. What satisfaction did women find in kissing andhugging each other? "Thank God, Pauline. Oh, I'm so glad". .. . Girlfriends. Well, she'd be back among them in a few days, and in a month orso the thing would be over. 

At last! Hazlitt blinked. The whirl of snow and crowds emptying out ofbuildings gave him a sense for an instant of having stepped into astrange world. The sharp cold restored his wandering energies and arealization of his victory in the courtroom brought him a belated glow. He was young, on an upgrade, able to command success. 

Hazlitt felt a sudden lusty kinship toward the swarm of bodiesunwinding itself through the snowfall. A contact with other . .. Apleasant, comforting contact. What more was life, anyway? A warmth inthe heart that came from the knowledge of work well and honestly done. Look the world squarely in the eyes and say, "You have no secrets and Ihave no secrets. We're friends. "

"Shall we go to your office, Mr. Hazlitt?"

Why there? Hazlitt smiled at the young woman. She was free. He pattedthe gloved hand on his arm and was surprised to see her eyes grow alivewith tears. 

"I would like to talk to you--now that it's over. I feel lost. Really. "She returned his smile as one determined to be brave, though lost. 

The snow hid the buildings and left their window lights drifting. Facespassing smiled as if saying, "Hello, we're all together in the same snowwith no secrets from each other. .. . All friends". .. . Hazlitt walked withthe girl through the streets. The traffic and the crowds were intimatefriends and he spoke to them by patting Pauline's hand. Anall's-well-with-the-world pat. 

"Eighth floor, please. .. . "

The elevator jiggled to a stop and they stepped into the corridor. Scrawny-faced women were crawling patiently down the floor. They sloppedwet brushes before them, wrung mops out over pails, and crawled an inchfarther down the floor. Hazlitt smiled. This, too, was a part oflife--keeping the floors of the building scrubbed. He won law cases. Old women scrubbed floors. It fitted into an orderly pattern with agreat meaning to its order. He paused for a moment to admire thecleanliness of the washed surface. Homage to the work of others--of oldwomen on their knees scrubbing floors. 

"Well, it's all over, Miss Pollard. "

She was sitting beside the desk where she had sat the first time theyhad discussed her defense. Hazlitt, unloading his brief-case, looked ather. Uncommonly pretty. Trusting eyes. What a rotten fellow, theinterne!

"I don't know why I wanted to come here. " Pauline's eyes stared sadlyabout the room. "I'm free, but . .. " She covered her face and wept. 

"Now, now, Miss Pollard!"

"Oh, it's still awful. "

"You'll forget soon. "

"I'll go away. Somewhere. Alone. " A louder sob. 

"Please don't cry. "

Hazlitt watched her tenderly. The weeping increased. A lonesomeness anda vagueness were in the girl's heart. The tick-tock of the city had aforeign sound. She was a stranger in its streets. There had beensomething else, and now it was gone. A wilderness, a tension, thefamiliar face of Frankie Hamel telling her to go to hell one night andstop bothering him with her damned wailing . .. And Frankie dying at herfeet whispering, "What the devil, Pauline?" Then the trial. Hot andcold hours. A roomful of silent, open-mouthed faces listening to herweep, watching her squirm with proper shame and anguish as she told herstory to the jurors . .. The details of the abortion. "And then Icouldn't stand it. I don't remember what happened. Oh, I loved him! Idon't remember. He cursed me. He called me a . .. Oh, God, names. Awfulnames! I told him I was going to kill myself. I couldn't live, disgraced. .. Without his love. I'd bought a gun to kill myself. And he laughed. Idon't remember after that; except that somehow he was . .. He was dead. And I wasn't. .. . "

These things were gone. The trial was over and done. Now there wasnothing left but the city with its street-cars and offices. 

"Oh, everything's so changed, " she murmured. Hazlitt stood behind herchair, hand on her shoulder. Poor child! The law could not free her fromthe remorse for her crime and mistake. Lawlessness carried its ownpunishment. Virtue its own rewards, sin its own torments. 

"You'll forget, " he answered softly. The law sometimes punished. Butafter all this was the real punishment . .. Beyond the power of the lawto mete out. Punishment of sin. Conscience. Poor child! Inexorable fruitof evil. Despair, remorse. .. . 

"You must forget. You're young. You can begin over. Please don't cry. "

Thus Hazlitt comforted her who was weeping not with remorse for what hadbeen, but that it had gone. No word consciousness stirred her grief. Anunintelligible sorrow, it swelled in her heart and filled her withhelplessness. Life had gone from her. She was mourning for it. Mourningfor a murderess and a sinner who had gone, abandoned her and left her anaked, uninteresting Pauline Pollard again--a nobody surrounded bynobodies. And once it had been different. Lighted faces listening to herin a room. Frankie whispering, "What the devil, Pauline?"

A fresh burst of tears brought Hazlitt in front of her. Gently he movedher hands from her face. 

"You mustn't, " he began over again. 

"Oh, I won't ever be able to. .. . "

"Yes you will, little girl. "

"No, no!"

She was standing. Snow outside. Rows of lighted windows drifting. Thoughts slipped out of his head. Traffic probably tied up. 

"Please don't cry. "

She dropped her head against his shoulder and wept anew. It was nice tohave somebody asking her not to cry. It made it easier and morepurposeful to weep. 

Hazlitt sighed. Tears . .. Tears . .. The live odor of hair. Arms thatfelt soft. She was mumbling close to him, "I can't help it. Pleaseforgive me. "

"Yes, yes! There, there!" Of course he would forgive her. Forgivenessmade him glow. But as he spoke his voice depressed him. What should hedo? Could he help her? What was life, anyway? Snow outside and rows oflighted windows drifting. Her body close, warm, and saddening. Thefirmness of his nerves dissolved. He had his sorrow too . .. Rachel. Faraway. Drifting like the snow outside. Rachel . .. The odor of hairbrought her back. Should he cry? Her knees had touched him once likethis. She had held her arm about his shoulder once, like this. But, oh, so different!. .. The girl seemed to come closer to him. 

He had been holding a stranger politely. Now the stranger relaxed. Soft, warm, familiar body. He grew frightened. Somehow the clinging of thegirl's body, the murmur of her tears, brought a sorrow into his heart. Iam not Rachel, but I am like her. .. . What made him think that? Yes, shewas like her, warm, soft, and woman. Like her--like her. Why had theykissed? And her hands clasping nervously at his shoulders? She was notin love? Not Rachel. But she wanted something. And he too. Somethingthat was a dream song. Here were the lips of the singer, eager, reachingto his own. Pressing, asking more. How had this happened? Should hespeak? But what? Nothing to say. Had he forgotten Rachel? RememberingRachel? Who was this? The questions blurred. Rachel, sang his heart. Fora moment he embraced the warm shadow of a dream. And then a woman wasoffering herself to him. No dream now. Her thighs riveted themselvesagainst him. Under her clothes her body seemed to be moving, coming tohim. 

Hazlitt grew dizzy. He had been consoling her. No more. Now what? Hethrew his strength into his embrace. Their bodies moved together. 

"Oh . .. " A moan as if she were still weeping. Her lips parted indesperate surrender. Her kiss took the breath out of him. 

"Dearest!" His voice carried him out of her arms. He knew suddenly thatbut for the word and the familiar sound of his voice he would havepossessed her. But the word rang an alarm in his ears. Fright, nausea, relaxed muscles. A wiliness in his thought. .. . "Do you feel better now?"

She failed to hear. Her fingers still clutched. 

"There . .. There, don't cry!" He felt cold. His hands on her armspressed them gently away, his fingers patting them with a fatherlydiapason. George Hazlitt, attorney-at-law. 

"Better now, Pauline?" An error to have called her Pauline. Look bad inthe record. Committed him to "Pauline. "

"Oh, George!"

The thought of Rachel listened in amazement . .. George . .. Pauline. Dearest! He must be careful. She had grown numb against him. A numbwoman sewed to his lapels. He lowered her as if she were lifeless and hefearful of disturbing her. She looked harmless in a chair. Was itpossible to talk now? Not yet. Take her hand; careful not to squeeze it. Pat it as he'd done in the street. An all's-well-with-the-world pat. 

Somebody rattled the doorknob. Hazlitt started eagerly. Relief. But, good God, no lights in the office. The cleaners would come in and thinkthings. Her hair in disorder and her face smeared with weeping wouldmake them think things. An oath disentangled itself from his confusion. The door opened. Two scrawny-faced women with mops and brooms. .. . 

"It's all right. Go ahead. We're just leaving. Are you ready, MissPollard?"

The Miss Pollard was a masterpiece. But did it deceive the mops andbrooms? Damn them! They walked arm in arm down the corridor. 

"I think the elevators have stopped. Wouldn't it be a joke if we had towalk down?"

She refused to answer. Witness remains silent. Why couldn't she beinterested in jokes?. .. The woman of it. Nothing had happened. She hadnothing to think about. Why not jokes? He frowned at the grilling of theelevator door. An elevator bobbed up. 

In the street, "I'll get a cab, Miss Pollard. " Take a firm stand and notcall her Pauline again. But she was silent. Nothing had happened. Hegrew frightened. She was trying to bulldoze him by pretending. Bundleher into a cab and get rid of her. 

Suddenly, as if he'd been thinking it out when he hadn't, "You mustforgive me for--that. I didn't mean to, please. "

Anything rather than her silence. Even an apology. Nothing had happened, but he would apologize anyway to be on the safe side. She looked at himand said, "Oh!"

"Please, Miss Pollard, you make me feel like a cur. "

A chauffeur leaned forward from his seat and thrust open the cab door. Pauline entered without hesitation. She might have the decency tohesitate when he was apologizing for nothing. Hazlitt stuck his head inafter her. The thing was ludicrously unfinished and he was making an assof himself. She should have hesitated. 

"Tell your mother I hope she'll be better soon. "

"Where to, mister?"

He gave an address and added, "Just a minute, please. "

Hazlitt reëntered the cab with his head. The thing was still unfinished. Wishing good health to her mother made it worse--as if he were trying tocover up something. He must be frank. Drag everything into the open andshow he wasn't afraid. But she was weeping again. He paused inconsternation. Her hand reached toward him. A voice, vibrant and softwith tears, whispered in the gloom of the cab. A love voice. "Good-by, George!"

He watched the tail light dart through the traffic and then began hisdefense. Gentleman of the jury . .. Jury . .. He had done nothing. It wasshe who had suggested the office. A low, vulgar ruse to trap him. Theevidence was plain on that point. Overruled. But he had attempted onlyto console her. Irrelevant and immaterial to the facts at issue in thecase. But she had flung her arms around him. Not he! Never he! The womanwas mad. Yes, a mad woman. Dangerous. She had done the same to theinterne. Overruled. Overruled. What? Frank Hamel, gentleman of the jury, glutting his beastly hungers on the finest fruit of life--the innocenceand sacrifice of a maiden's first love. No, not Hamel. Hazlitt. Are suchcreatures men or fiends? What was he thinking about Oh, yes, theinterne. Dead, buried . .. We, the jury, find the defendant notguilty. .. . But the dead interne was saying something. 

For moments George Hazlitt looked out upon a new world--a miserableworld--vast, blurred, upside down. People were moving in it. Deadinternes. They passed with faces intent upon their own solitudes. Buildings were in it. They burst a skyrocket of windows into the night. There was snow. It fell twisting itself out of the darkness. Familiarfaces, buildings, snow. Theater façades making a jangle of light throughthe storm. Entrances, exits, cars clanging, figures hurrying, signssputtering confusion in the snow. All familiar, all a part of the greattick-tock of the city. 

Hazlitt stopped and stared at the familiar night of the streets. A gleamand a flurry were sweeping his eyes. Snow. But faces and buildings andlights were a part of it. They swarmed and danced about him, sending ashout to his heart. "We're upside down . .. We're upside down . .. Heelsin air. .. . She made love to the interne as she did to you . .. And thefiend is dead. Lies . .. Lies . .. But who gives a damn?"

The horn of a motor screeched. A woman and a man pattered by on a run, leaving a trail of laughter. From afar came the sound of voices--ofstreet evangels singing hymns on a corner. The soul of George Hazlittgrew sick. Night hands fastened themselves about his throat. Upside down. .. Heels in air. The things he had said to the jury were lies. Lies anddisorder. Right and wrong. God in heaven, what were they, if not rightand wrong?

The thing came to Hazlitt without words, with a gleam and a flurry as ofsnow. He stood blind--a little snow-covered figure shivering and lost ina lighted, crowded street. All because a woman, warm and clinging, hadkissed him on the mouth and moved her body. But once she had kissedanother man thus--on the mouth, with her body moving, and therein lay anew world--a world of flying-haired Mænads and growling satyrs thatlived behind the tick-tock of windows. Standing in the snowstorm aninsane notion took possession of Hazlitt. It had to do with Evil. Orderwas an accident. Men and women were evil. The tick-tock was a pretense. 

The notion passed. Doubt needs thought to feed upon, and Hazlitt gave itnone. Or he would have ended as Hazlitt and become someone else. Hewalked again with a silence in his head. Another block, and life hadagain focused itself into tableaux. The moment of doubt had shaken himas if rough hands had reached from an alley and clutched wildly at histhroat. But it had gone, and the memory of it too was gone. Hands thathad nobody behind them; emotion that came without the stabilizingoutline of words. So the world stood again on its feet. Tick-tock, saidthe world to George Hazlitt; and his brain gave an answer, "Tick-tock!"

For the paradox of Hazlitt was not that he was a thinker, but a dreamer. His puritanism had put an end to his brain. Like his fellows for whoserespect and admiration he worked, he had bartered his intelligence for athing he proudly called Americanism, and thought for him had become aplacid agitation of platitudes. But he could still dream. His emotionsavenged his stupidity. Walking in the street--he felt a desire towalk--he shut himself in. It seemed to him now that his love had becomea part of the snow and the far-away dark of the sky. Rachel . .. Rachel, his thought called as if summoning something back. 

It came to him slowly--the image of the virginal one--doubly sweet andbeautiful now that he was unclean. How had it happened? She had beenweeping; he comforting her. Two strangers, they had sat in his office. One a murderess weeping for her sins; the other a kindly hearted, clean-minded attorney consoling her, pointing to her the way of hope. And then like two animals they had stood sucking at each other's breath. God, what could he do? Nothing. He was unclean. He recalled with a dreadthe thought that had come to him in the embrace . .. Was she Rachel? Yes, she had been Rachel and he had lowered his dream to her lips, as if inthe lust of a strange woman's kiss there lay the image of Rachel, thevirginal mystery of Rachel. If he had been man enough not to drag thememory of Rachel into it, it would be easy now. But he would looksquarely at the facts, anyway. That must be his punishment and hispenance. Yes, say it . .. It was with his love for Rachel he had embracedand almost possessed the body of a stranger. 

Hazlitt quickened his walking. He was confronted with the intricatebusiness of forgiving himself. He felt shame, but shame was somethingthat could be walked off. Faster . .. With an amorous mumble soothing himand the hurt. After all, was it so important? Yes . .. No. Forgivehimself, but not too quickly. He walked. .. . Words made circles in hishead--abject and sorrowful circles about the dream of the virginal one. 

A man with a curious smile stopped in front of him to light a pipe. Hazlitt paused and looked at the street. He would take a car. His legswere tired. The wind and snow put out the match of the man who waslighting a pipe. Hazlitt looked at him. What was he smiling about? We'reall in the snow . .. All without secrets in the snow. Hail fellows of thestreet . .. Curious, he should feel sad for a man who was smiling on astreet corner. Tiredness. The man was cursing the snow good-humoredly. Suddenly the pipe was lighted and the man seemed to have forgotten it. His eyes gleamed for an instant across Hazlitt's face, and with anabrupt nod of recognition the man passed on. Walking swiftly, bentforward, vanishing behind a flurry of snow. 

Hazlitt peered down the track for his car. He wondered how the man knewhim. It pleased his vanity to be recognized by people he couldn't place. It showed he was somebody. Yes, George Hazlitt, attorney-at-law. Herecalled . .. They had met once in an office. A newspaperman--editor orsomething. Probably looking for news. Hazlitt was glad he had beenrecognized. The man would think of him as he walked on in the snow--ofhis victory in the courtroom and his future. That was part of life, tobe thought of and envied by others. 

Beside him a newsboy raised a shout . .. "Extra! Pauline Pollardacquitted!. .. " People would read about it in their homes. His name. Wonder who he was. A voice across the street answered, "Extra! Germansbombard Paris!. .. " The damned Huns! Why didn't America put an end totheir dirty business by rushing in?

He stepped into the warm street-car and sat staring moodily outof the window. He was a part of life, but there was somethingbeyond--a--mystery. "Extra!. .. " He should have bought a paper. There wasthe newspaper fellow again, still walking swiftly, bent forward, staringinto the snow. .. . Oh, yes, Erik Dorn. He had met him once. .. . The carpassed on. 

CHAPTER IV

Erik Dorn laughed as he walked swiftly through the snow in the street. It seemed to him he had been laughing incessantly for a week, and thathe would continue to laugh forever. His thought played delightedly withhis emotions . .. A precocious child with new fantastic toys. He was inlove. A laughable business!

Five months of uncertainty had preceded the laugh. An irritated, inexplicable moodiness as if the shadow of a disease had come into hisblood. On top of this moodiness a violence of temper, a stewing, cursing, fuming about. A five months' quarrel with his wife. .. . 

His love-making had been somewhat curious. Walks with Rachel--awhirligig of streets, faces, words. A dance and a flash of words, as ifhe were exploding into phrases. As if his vocabulary desired to emptyitself before Rachel. His garrulity amazed him. Everything had to betalked about. There was a desperate need for talk. And when there wasnothing to talk about for the moment, his words abhorring idleness, fellto inventing emotions--a complete set of emotions for himself and forRachel. These were discussed, explained, and forgotten. 

Finally the strange talk that had ended a week ago--a last desperateconcealment of emotion and desire in a burst of glittering phrases. Phrases that whirled like the exotic decorations about the wild body ofa dancer, becoming a dance in themselves, deriving a movement and ameaning beyond themselves. Then the end of concealment. An exhaustedvocabulary sighed, collapsed. A frantic discarding of ornaments and thenude body of the dancer stood posturing naïvely, timidly. Therewith anend to mystery. The thing was known. 

It had happened during one of their walks. Leaden clouds over day-darkpavements. Warehouses, railroad tracks, factories--a street toilingthrough a dismantled world. Their hands together, they paused andremained staring as if at a third person. He had reached out ratherimpersonally and taken her hand. The contact had shocked him intosilence. It was difficult to breathe. 

"Rachel, do you love me?"

She nodded her head and pressed his hand against her cheek. They walkedon in silence. This brought an end to talk. Talk concealed. There wasnothing more to conceal. His vocabulary sighed as if admitting defeatand uselessness. At a corner grown noisy with wagons and trucks Rachelstopped. Her eyes opened to him. He looked at her and said, as if he hadfallen asleep "I too am in love. " He laughed dreamily. "Yes, I've beensince the beginning. Curious!"

She might laugh at him. It was evident he had avoided making love to herduring the five months in fear of that. The only reason he hadn'tembraced, kissed, and protested affection five months ago was thepossibility that she would laugh--and perhaps go away. 

Even now, despite the absence of laughter, a part of the fear he hadstill lingered. He was no longer Erik Dorn, man of words and mirror ofnothings. He had said he loved her. Avoiding, of course, the directremark. But he had indicated it rather definitely. It would undoubtedlylessen him to her, make him human. She had admired him because he wasdifferent. Now he was like everybody else saying an "I love you" to awoman. Perhaps he should unsay it. Again, a dreamy laugh. But it madehim happy. A drifting, childish happiness. He looked at her. Her eyesstruck him as marvelously large and bright. Yet in a curious way heseemed unaware of her. No excitement came to him. Decidedly there wassomething unsensual about his love--if it was love. It might besomething else. It is difficult for an extremely married man todistinguish offhand. He desired nothing more than to stand still andclose his eyes and permit himself to shine. Vague words traced hisemotions. A fullness. A completion. An end of nothing. Thrills in hisfingers. Remarkable disturbance of the diaphragm. To be likened to thelanguorous effects of some almost stimulating drug. 

In a great calm he slowly forgot himself, his words, and Rachel. Standing thus he heard her murmur something and felt his hand once moreagainst her cheek. A pretty gesture. Then she was walking down the darkstreet, running from him. She had said good-bye. He awoke and cursed. Abewildering sensation of being still at her side as if he had gone outof himself and were following her. He remained thus watching the figureof Rachel until it disappeared and the street grew suddenly cold andempty. A strange scene mocked him. Strange smoke, strange warehouses, strange railroad tracks. Cupid awaking in a cinder patch. 

He walked on, still bewildered. Nothing had happened to him. Instead, something had happened to the streets. The city had suffered anamputation. There was something incomplete about its streets and crowds. His eye felt annoyed by it. He was not thinking of Rachel. He felt as ifshe had suddenly ceased to exist and left behind her an unexistence. Itwas this emptiness outside that for the moment annoyed and thenfrightened him. An emptiness that had something to give him now. Hissenses reached eagerly toward the figures of people and buildings andreceived nothing. What did he want of them? They were a pattern, intricate and precise, with nothing to give. Yet he wanted. Good God, hewanted something out of the streets of the city. Then he remembered, asif recalling some algebraic formula, "I'm in love. " His laughter hadstarted at that moment. 

At home it continued in him. Anna had gone to visit relatives inWisconsin. He spent an hour writing her a long amorous letter. He was inlove with Rachel, but a new notion had planted itself in him. Whateverhappened, Anna must not be made unhappy. Love was not a reality. Annaand her happiness were the realities that must be carefully considered. This thing that had popped into life in the cinder patch was amood--comparable to the mood of a thirsty man taking his first sip ofwater. 

" . .. The memory of you comes before me, " he scribbled to his wife, "andI feel sad. I am incomplete without you. Dear one, I love you. Thestreets seem empty and the hours drag. .. . "

In writing to his wife he seemed to recover a sense of virtue. He smiledas he sealed the envelope. "It must be an old instinct, " he thought. "People are kindest to those they deceive. Thus good and evil balance. "

His father, sitting before a grate fire, desired to talk. He would talkto him in circles that would irritate the old man and make his eyeswater more. 

"People don't live, " he began. "To live is to have a dream behind thehours. To have the world offering something. "

"Yes, my son. Something . .. "

"Then the people outside one take on meaningful outlines. There comes acontact. One is a part of something--of a force that moves the stars, eh?"

The old man nodded, and mumbled in his beard. Dorn felt a warmth towardhis father. His stupidity delighted him. He would be able henceforth totalk to the old man and say, "I love Rachel, " and the old man wouldthink he was coining phrases for a profitless amusement. It would be thesame with Anna. He would be able to make love to Anna differentlyhereafter. A rather cynical idea. He laughed and beamed at Isaac Dorn. Did it matter much whom one kissed as long as one had a desire forkissing? In fact, his desire for Rachel seemed at an end, now that hehad mentioned it to her. A handclasp, a silence trembling with emotion, a sudden light in the heart--properly speaking, this was all there wasto love. The rest was undoubtedly a make-believe. As he walked out topost the letter he tried to recall the emotions or ideas that hadinspired him to marry Anna. There had undoubtedly been something of thesort then. But it had left no memory. Their honeymoon, of which she wasalways speaking, even after seven years, with a mist in her eyes--goodLord, had there been a honeymoon?

He spent the next afternoon with Rachel. A silence of familiarity hadfallen upon them. There was a totality in silence. Walking through thestreets beside her, Dorn mused, "Undoubtedly the thing is over. Itbegins even to bore a bit. " He noted curiously that he was unconsciousof the streets. No tracing their pictures with phrases. They werestreets, and that was an end of it. They belonged where they were. 

His eyes dropped to his companion. A face with moonlight grown upon it. Beautiful, yes. Sometime he would tell her. Pour it out in words. Therewas a paradox about the situation. He was obviously somewhat bored. Yetto leave her, to put an end to their strolling through the strangemoments, would hurt. Had he ever lived before? Banal question. "No, I'venever lived before. Living is somewhat of a bore, a beautiful bore. "

When they parted she stood looking at him as one transfixed. 

"Erik!"

She made his name mean something--a world, a heaven. For an instant hislaughter ended and a sadness engulfed him. Then once more he was aloneand laughing. Rachel was walking away, something rather ridiculouslynormal about her step. Yes, he would laugh forever. Lord, what a jest!Like water coming out of a stone. Laugh at the crowds and buildings thatdesired to annoy him by sweeping toward him the memory of Rachel saying"Erik!" He diverted himself, as he hurried to his home, by staring intopeople's eyes and saying, "This one has a dream. That one hasn't. Thisone loves. The streets hurt him. That one is dead. The streets buryhim. "

On the third day the bombardment of Paris interfered with his plans. Heremained too late in the office to walk with Rachel. As he saunteredabout the shop, assisting and directing at the extras and replates, hevaguely forgot her. Word had come from the chief to hold the paper openuntil nine o'clock. If Paris failed to fall by nine everybody could gohome and spend the rest of the night wrangling with his wife or lookingat a movie. If it fell by nine there would be a final extra. 

"I hope the damned town falls five minutes after nine, " growled Warren, "if it's got to fall. Let it fall for the morning papers. What the hellare they for, anyway? I've got a rotten headache. "

Dorn told him to run along. "I'll handle the copy, if there is any. Ahistory of Paris out of the almanac will answer the purpose, I guess. "

Warren folded his newspapers and left. Dorn sat scribbling possibleheadlines for the next re-plate: "Germans Bombard Paris . .. " and then abank in smaller type: "French Capital Silent. Communication Cut Off. " Hepaused and added with a sudden elation, "Civilization on Its Knees. "

The hum and suspense of the night-watch pleased him. He liked the ideaof sitting in a noisy place waiting to flash the news of the fall ofParis to the city. And the next day the four afternoon papers wouldcarry a small box on the front page announcing to the public that, asusual, each of them had been first on the street with the importantannouncement. The fall of Paris! His thought mused. Babylon Falls. .. . Civilization on Its Knees. The City Wall of Jericho Collapses. CarthageReduced to Ashes. Rome Sacked by Huns. Yes, there had been magnificentheadlines in the past. Now a new headline--Paris. There would be asudden flurry; boys running between desks; Crowley trying to shout andachieving a frightful whisper; a smeared printer announcing some ghastlymistake in the composing room; and Paris would be down--fallen. Nothingleft to do except grin at the idea of the morning papers cursing theirluck. He sat, vaguely hoping there might be tidal waves, earthquakes, cataclysms. On this night his energies seemed to demand more work thanthe mere fall of Paris would occasion. "Might as well do the thing upbrown and put an end to the world--all in one extra, " he smiled. 

A messenger boy brought a telegram. He opened it and read, "I am going away. RACHEL. "

All a part of the night's work. Killing off Paris. Answering telegramsto vanishing sweethearts. He stuffed the message into his pocket. Onsecond thought he tore it up. Anna was coming home the next day. "WifeFinds Tell-tale Telegram. .. . " Another headline. 

"Wait a minute, boy. "

The messenger lounged into an editor's chair. Dorn scribbled on atelegraph blank:

"Wait till Friday. I must see you once more. I will call for you atseven o'clock Thursday. We have never been together in the night. ERIK. "

The messenger boy and the telegram disappeared. Still the laughterpersisted. There was a jest in the world. Paris seemed a part of it. Everything belonged to it. 

"I wonder what the writers of Paris are saying, " Crowley inquired. 

"Enjoying themselves, as usual, " Dorn answered. "I'll tell you a secret. We live in a mad and inspiring world. "

There was no final headline that night. Wednesday brought problems ofconduct. It was obvious that Rachel was going away because of Anna. Herdeparture was a fact which presented itself with no finality. Itresembled an insincere thought of suicide. Rachel, having gone, wouldstill remain. The emotional prospects of the farewell closed his thoughtto the future. He spent Wednesday waiting for a seven o'clock onThursday. An hour had detached itself from hours that went before andthat followed. At home in the evening he endeavored to avoid his wife. His letters to her during her visit in Wisconsin had brought her backviolently joyous. She desired love-making. He listened to her pour outardent phrases and wondered why he felt no sense of betrayal toward her. "Conscience, " he thought, "seems to be a vastly over-advertisedcommodity. " He sat beside Anna, caressing her hand, smiling back intoher passion-filled eyes, and gently checking an impulse in him toconfide to her that he was in love with Rachel. It would be pleasant totell her that, provided she would nod her head understandingly, smile, and stroke his hair; and answer something like, "You mean Rachel is inlove with you. Well, I can't blame her. I'm horribly jealous, but itdoesn't matter. " An incongruous sanity warned him to avoid confessions, so he contented himself by rolling the situation over on his tongue, tasting the jealousy of his wife, the drama of the dénouement, andremaining peacefully smiling in his leather chair. 

Thursday arrived. The afternoon dragged. He sat at his desk wonderingwhether he was sorrowful or not. The thought of meeting Rachel elatedhim. The thought that she was leaving and that he would not see heragain seemed a vague thing. He put it out of his mind with ease anddevoted himself to dreaming what he would say, the manner in which hewould bid farewell. 

Walking now swiftly in the street toward Rachel's home his thought stillplayed with his emotions. It was this that partially caused hislaughter. Also, now that he was going to see her, there was again thesense of fullness. An unthinking calm, complete and vibrant, wrapped himin an embrace. The fullness and the calm brought laughter. His thoughtamused him with the words, "There's a flaming absurdity abouteverything. "

He delighted in dressing his emotions in absurd phrases, in words thatgrimaced behind the rouge of tawdry ballads. Thinking of Rachel andfeeling the sudden lift of sadness and bewilderment in his blood, hemurmured aloud: "You never know you have a heart till it begins tobreak. " The words amused him. There were other song titles that seemedto fit. He tried them all. "I don't know why I love you, but I do-o-o. "Delightful diversion--airing the mystic desires of his soul in thetattered words of the cabaret yodelers. "Just a smile, a sigh, akiss. .. . " A sort of revenge, as if his vocabulary with its intricateverbal sophistications were avenging itself upon interloping emotions. And, too, because of a vague shame which inspired him to taunt hissurrender; to combat it with an irony such as lay in the ridiculousphrases. This irony gave him a sense of being still outside his emotionsand not a submissive part of them. "I am still Erik Dorn, master of myfate and captain of my soul, " he smiled. But perhaps it was most of allthe reaction of a verbal vanity. His love was not yet pumping rhapsodiesinto his thought. Instead, the words that came seemed to him somehowbanal and commonplace. "I love you. I want to be with you all the time. When we are together things grow strange and desirable. " Amorousmediocrities! So he edited them into a further banality and thusconcealed his inability to give lofty utterance to his emotions byamusing himself with deliberately cheapened insincerities. "Saving mylinguistic face, " he thought suddenly, and laughed again. 

Rachel was sad. They left her home in silence. 

"We'll go toward the park, " he announced. It irritated him to uttermatter-of-fact directions. Why when he had had nothing to talk about hadhe been able to talk? And now when there was something, there seemedlittle to say? Words were obviously the delicate fruit of insincerity. Silence, the dark flower of emotion. 

"I must go away. " Rachel slipped her arm into his. He stared at her. Sheseemed more sorrowful than tears. This annoyed. It was ungrateful forher to look like weeping. But she was going from him. He tried to thinkof her and himself after they had parted, and succeeded only inremembering she was at his side. So he laughed quietly. 

"Yes, to-morrow the guillotine falls, " he answered. "To-night we dancein each other's arms. Immemorial tableau. Laughter, love, and songagainst the perfect background--death. Let's not cheat ourselves bybeing sad. To-morrow will be time enough. "

He realized he was collapsing into a pluck-ye-the-roses-while-ye-maystrain, and stopped, irritated. There was something he should talk toher about--the causes of her departure. Plans. Their future. Was there afuture? Undoubtedly something would have to be arranged. But his mindeluded responsibilities. 

"I'm happy, " he whispered. "I talk like a fool because I feel like one. Heedless. Irresponsible. You've given me something and I can only lookat it almost without thought. "

"It seems so strange that you should love me, " she answered. "BecauseI've loved you always and never dreamed of you loving. " She had becomemelting, as if her sadness were dissolving into caresses. "Let's justwalk and I'll remember we're together and be happy, too. "

Thoughts vanished from him. He released her hand and they walked insilence with their arms together. A sleep descended. Their faces, tranquil and lighted by the snow, offered solitudes to each other. 

It was now snowing heavily. A thick white lattice raised itself from thestreets against the darkness. The little black hectagonals of nightdanced between its spaces. Long white curtains painted themselves on theshadows of the city. The lovers walked unaware of the street. The snowcrowded gently about them, moving patiently like a white and silentdream over their heads. Phantom houses stared after them. Slantingrooftops spread wings of silver in the night and drifted toward themoon. The half-closed leaden eyes of windows watched from another world. 

The snow grew heavier, winding itself about the yellow lights of streetlamps and crawling with sudden life through the blur of window rays. Beneath, the pavements opened like white and narrow fans in a far-awayhand. Black figures leaning forward emerged for an instant from behindthe falling snow and disappeared again. 

Still the lovers moved without words--two black figures themselves, armstogether, leaning forward, staring with burning hearts and tranquilfaces out of a dream, as if they did not exist, had never existed; as ifin the snow and night they had become an unreality, walking deeper intomists--yet never quite vanishing but growing only more unreal. Snow andtwo lovers walking together with the world like a dream over theirheads, with life lingering in their eyes like a delicately absent-mindedguest--the thought drifted like a memory through their hearts. 

Then slowly consciousness of themselves returned, bringing with it norelief of words. Their hearts seemed to have grown weak with tears, andin their minds existed nothing but the dark vagueness of despair--thedespair of things that die with their eyes open and questing. Facesdrifting like circles of light in the storm. At the end of the street apark. Here they would vanish from each other. The snow would continuefalling gently, patiently, upon an empty world. 

The cold of Rachel's fingers pressed upon his hand. Her face turneditself to him. A moment of happiness halted them both as if they hadbeen embraced. A wonder--the why and where of her leaving. But anindifference deprived him of words. 

"This is all of life, " he muttered. Rachel staring at him nodded herhead in echo. They were standing motionless as if they had forgotten howto live. Beyond this there were no gestures to make, nowhere to go. Theyhad come to a horizon--an end. Here was ecstasy. What else? Nothing. Everything, here. Sky and night and snow had fallen about their heads inan ending. They stood as if clinging to themselves. Dorn heard a softlaugh from her. 

"I thought I had died, " Rachel was murmuring. He nodded his head inecho. 

A lighted window lost in the snow drew their eyes. People sat in aroom--warm, stiff figures. The lovers stood smiling toward it. Words, soft and mocking, formed themselves in Dorn. A pain was pulling hisheart away. The ecstasy that had raised him beyond his emotions seemedsuddenly to have cast him into the fury of them. He would say mockingthings--absurd phrases to which he might cling. Or else he must weepbecause of the pain in him. "Two waifs adrift in a storm, peering into abakery window at the cookies. " That was the key. A laugh at the dolorousasininity of life. "Face to face with the Roman Pop U Lace. We who areabout to die salute you. " Laugh, a phrase of laughter or he would standblubbering like an imbecile. 

He struggled for the theatric gesture and found himself shivering atRachel's side, his arm clinging about her shoulders. Lord, what a jest!After the moment they had lived through, to stand round-eyed andblubbering before the gingerbread vision of joys behind a lightedwindow. The whine of a barrel-organ. The sentimental whimpering of astreet-corner _Miserere_. And he must weep because of it--he who hadstood with his head thrust through the sky. His thought, like anindignant monitor, collapsed with scoldings. Let it come, then! With asigh he gave himself to tears, and they stood together weeping. 

The little lighted room seemed an enchantment floating in the scurry ofthe storm. It reached with warm fingers into their hearts, whispering abroken barrel-organ lullaby to them. Life shone upon them out of thelighted window and behind it the world of rocking-chairs and fireplaces, wall pictures and table lamps, lay like a haven smiling a good-by tothem. Their hearts become tombs, closed slowly and forever upon avision. 

"The world will be a black sky and the memory of you like a shining starthat I watch endlessly. " He listened to his words. They brought a dimgladness. His phrases had finally capitulated to his love. He could talknow without the artifice of banality to hide behind. Talk, say theunsayable, bring his love in misty word lines before his eyes; look andforget a moment. 

Rachel's voice at his side said, "I love you so. Oh, I love you so!"

Yes, he could talk now. His heart wagged a tongue. The pain in him hadfound words. The mystic desires and torments--words, words. 

"We'll remember, years later, and be grateful we didn't bury our lovebehind lighted windows, but left it to wander forever and remain foreveralive. Rachel, my dear one. "

"I love you so!" she wept. 

More words . .. "it would have been always the same. We've lived onemoment and in all of life there's nothing more than what we've had. Lovers who grow old together live only in their yesterdays. And theiryesterdays are only a moment--till the time comes when their yesterdaysdie. Then they become little, half-dead people, who wait in lightedrooms, empty handed, fumbling greedily with trifles. .. . "

"I love you!" She made a refrain for him. "I don't know the things youdo. I only love you. "

"Rachel . .. " He had no belief in what he was saying. The things he knew?What? Nothing but pain and torment. Yet his heart went on wagging outwords: "All life is a parting--a continual and monotonous parting. Andmost hideous of all, a parting with dead things. A saying good-by tothings that no longer exist. We part with living things, and so keepthem, somehow. Your face makes life for the moment familiar. Visionsbloom like sad flowers in my heart. Your body against mine brings atorment even into my words. Oh, your weeping's the sound of my ownheart dying. Rachel, you are more wonderful than life. I love you! Ifeel as if I must die when you go away. Crowds, streets, buildings--allempty outlines. Empty before you came, emptier when you have gone. "

He paused. His thought whispered: "I'll remember things I say. I mustn'tsay too much. I'm sad. Oh, God, what a mess!"

They walked into the park. A sudden matter-of-factness came into Dorn'smind. He had sung something from his heart. Yet he remembered withastonishment it had been a wary song. He had not asked her to stay. Hadhe asked her she would have remained. Curious, how he acquiesced in hergoing. A sense of drama seemed to demand it. When he had received hermessage the night in the office he had agreed at once. Why? Because hewas not in love? This too, a make-believe, more colored, more persuasivethan the others? Wrong. Something else. Anna. Anna was sending her away. The figure of Anna loomed behind their ecstasies. It stood nodding itshead sorrowfully at a good-by in the snow. 

They were deep in the park. Trees made still gestures about them. Theivory silhouettes of trees haunted the distance. A spectral summerpainted itself upon the barren lilac bushes. Beneath, the lawn slopesraised moon faces to the night. Deep in the storm the ghost of a bronzefountain emerged and remained staring at the scene. 

It was cold. The wind had died and the snow hung without motion, like acloud of ribbons in the air. The white park gleamed as if under theswinging light of blue and silver lanterns. The night, lost in a dreamwandered away among strange sculptures. In the distance a curtain ofporphyry and bisque drew its shadow across the moon. 

Rachel pointed suddenly with her finger. 

"Look!" she whispered. She remained as if in terror, pointing. 

Three figures were converging toward them--black figures out of thedistant snow. Figures of men, without faces, like three bundles ofclothes, they came toiling across the unbroken white of the park, an airof intense destinations about them. Above the desolate field of whitethe three figures seemed suddenly to loom into heroic sizes. They rearedto a height and zigzagged across a nowhere. 

"See, see!" Rachel cried. She was still pointing. Her voice rangbrokenly. "They're coming for me, Erik. Erik, don't you see? Peoplewandering toward me. Horrible strangers. Oh, I know, I know!" Shelaughed. "My grandmother was a gypsy and she's telling my fortune in thesnow. Things that will jump out of space and come at me, after you'regone. "

The three men, puffing with exertion, converged upon the walk and passedon with a morose stare at the lovers. Dorn sighed, relieved. He hadcaught a strange foreboding sense out of the tableau of the white fieldand the three converging black figures. .. . If he loved her why was heletting her go? If he loved her. .. . 

He walked on suddenly wearied, saddened, uncertain. It was no more thana dream that had touched his senses, a breath of a dream that lingeredfor a moment upon his mirror. It would pass, as all things pass. And hewould fall back into the pattern of streets and faces, watching asbefore the emptiness of life make geometrical figures of itself. Yes, itwas better to have her go--simpler. Perhaps a desire would remain, abreath, a moonlit memory of her loveliness to mumble over now and then, like a line of poetry always unwritten. Let her go. Beautiful . .. Wonderful. .. . These were words. Was he even sad? She was--what? Anotherwoman. 

In the shadow of a snow-covered wall he paused. The snow had ended. 

"Come closer, " he whispered. She remained silent as he removed herovercoat. He dropped it in the snow and threw his own beside it. 

"We'll be warm for a minute against each other. "

She was a flower in his arms. She seemed to vanish and become mist. Slowly he became aware of her touch, of her arms holding him and herlips. She was saying:

"I am yours--always--everywhere. I will be a shrine to you. And wheneveryou want me I will come crawling on my knees to you. "

Dying, dying! She was dying. Another moment and the mist of her would begone. "Rachel. .. . Rachel. I love you. I send you away. Oh, God, why do Isend you away?"

She was out of his arms. Undressed, naked, emptied, he stood unknown tohimself. No words. Her kiss alone lived on his lips. She was looking athim with burning wild eyes. Expression seemed to have left her. Therewas something else in her face. 

"I must look at you. To remember, to remember!" she gasped. "Oh, toremember you! I have never looked at you. I have never seen you. It's adream. Who is Erik Dorn? Who am I? Oh, let me look at you. .. . "

The eyes of Rachel grew marvelously bright. Burned . .. Burned. 

Dorn stared into an empty park. Gone! Her coat still in the snow. Hisown beside it. He stood smiling, confused. His lips made an apology. Hewalked off. Oh, yes, their coats together in the snow. A symbol. Hestumbled and a sudden terror engulfed him. "Her face, " he mumbled, "likea mirror of stars. " He felt himself sicken. What had her eyes said? Eyesthat burned and devoured him and vanished. "Rachel, " he wept, "forever!"He wondered why he spoke. 

The park, white, gleaming, desolate, gave him back her face. Out of theempty night, her face. In the trees it drifted, haunting him. The printof a face was upon the world. He went stumbling toward it in the snow. He covered his eyes with his hands as he walked. 

"Her face, " he mumbled, "her face was beautiful. .. . "

CHAPTER V

In a dining-room of the city known as the Blue Inn, Anna Dorn satwaiting for her husband. Opposite her a laughing-eyed man was talking. She listened without intelligence. He was part of old memories--crowdedrooms in which lights had been turned off. They had danced together intheir youth. She had worn his fraternity pin and walked with him onenight under a moon and kissed him, saying: "I will always love you. Theother boys are different. You are so nice and kind, Eddie. " And Eddiehad gone away east to continue a complacent quest for erudition in auniversity. Almost forgotten days and places when there had been no ErikDorn, and when one debated which pumps to wear to the dance. Erik hadblotted them out. A whimsical, moody young Mr. Dorn, laughing andcarousing about the city and singling her out one night at a party. .. . "We must get out of here or we'll choke to death. Come, we'll go down tothe lake and laugh at the stars. They're the only laughable things inthe world. "

She looked sadly at the man whose kindly voice sought to rally her outof a gloom. Before the laughing stars there had been another day--otherstars, another Anna. All part of another world. Eddie Meredith andanother world sat dimly apparent across the white linen of the table. Anecdotes of old friends they had shared, forgotten names and incidentsreached through the shadows of her thought and stirred an alien memory. He hadn't changed. Ten years--and he was still Eddie Meredith, with eyesthat looked for simple pleasures and seemed to find them. He had alwaysfound something to laugh about. Not the way Erik laughed. Erik's laughwas something that had never ceased to hurt. Strange that Eddie's voicehad never grown tired of laughing during the ten years. 

The ache in her heart lightened and she listened with almost asmile--the ghost of another Anna smiling. It was the other Anna who hadwalked through youth with a joyous indifference to life, to everythingbut youth. Buried now deep under years, Eddie warmed it back. Eddie sattalking to the ghost that had been Anna Winthrop and that could notanswer him. 

He was a poor talker. She was too used to Erik. Simple, threadbarephrases, yet she had once thought him brilliant. Perhaps he was--adifferent kind of brilliance. She noted how his words seemed stimulatedwith an enthusiasm beyond their sense. Trifles assumed an importance. For moments she felt herself looking at the joyousness of an old friendand forgetting. Then as always through the day and night. .. . "Erik, Erik, " murmured itself in her mind . .. "he doesn't love me. Erik, dearErik!" Over and over, weaving itself into all she said and saw. Sometimes it started a panic in her. She would feel herself grow dark, wild. Often it seemed to bring death. Things would become vague and shewould move through the hours unaware of them. 

The joyousness of Eddie drifted away. She remained smilingblankly at him. His words slipped past her ear. Inside, she waswandering--disheveled thoughts were wandering through a darkness. Atnight she lay beside him as he slept, with her eyes wide open and herlips praying, "Dear Jesus, sweet brother Jesus, give Erik back to me!". .. Or she would crawl out of bed and walk into a deserted room to weep. Here she could mumble his name till the anguish of her tears choked her. As the cold streets grew gray she would hurry to bathe her face, evenrouging her cheeks, and return to their bed to wait for Erik to awake, that she might caress him, warm something back in him with her kisses, and perhaps hear him whisper her name as he used to do. But he drewhimself away, his eyes sometimes filling with tears. "It's nothing, Anna, nothing. Please don't ask. I don't know what it is. My head orsomething. I feel black inside. .. . " And he would hurry to work, notwaiting for her to join him at breakfast. 

Then there had been nights when he held her in his arms thinking she wasasleep, and she felt his tears dropping over her face--tears ofsilence. She would lie trembling with a wild joy, yet not daring to openher eyes or speak, knowing he would move away. These moments, feigningsleep and listening to Erik weeping softly against her cheek, had beenher only happiness in the four black months since the change had come tohim. He still loved her. Yes. .. . Oh, God, it was something else. Perhapsmadness. She would drift to sleep as his weeping ceased, long after itceased, and half dreams would come to her of nursing him throughterrible darknesses, of warming him with her life, of magically drivingaway the things that were tormenting him out of his mind--great blackthings. Through the day she hungered for his return from work, that shemight look at him again, even though the sight of him, dark and aloof, tore at her heart till she grew faint. 

She had never thought of questioning him calmly. There had been nosuspicion of "someone else. " That was a thing beyond even the wildestdisorder of her imaginings. It was only that Erik was restless, perhapstired of his home, of her too much loving and longing to gosomewhere--away. Her awe of his brain, of his strange, alwaysimpenetrable character, adjusted itself to the change in him. There weremysterious things in Erik--things she couldn't hope to understand. Nowthese unknown things had grown too big in him. He was different fromother men, not to be questioned as one might question other men. So shemust wander about blindly, carefully, and drive things away. 

She came out of her sorrow reveries and smiled. Eddie was still talking. The music of a violin, harp, and piano was playing with a rollickingwistfulness through the clatter and laughter of the café. Eddie wassaying, "There, that's better. That makes you look like Anna. You werelooking like somebody else. "

His jolly eyes had a keenness. She must dissemble better. Erik wouldcome in a moment and Eddie must never think. .. . 

"I've heard about your husband, the lucky dog!" Eddie beamed at herimpudently. "Think, " he exploded, "of meeting you accidentally after tenyears. Wow! Ten years! They say themselves quickly, don't they? By theway, there's a curious fellow coming to meet me here. I'll drag him in. If your Erik don't like it I'll sit on him till he does. His name'sTesla--Emil Tesla. Bomb-thrower or something. I don't know exactly. He'shelped me with my collection. Oh, I forgot. You don't know about that. Ikeep thinking that you know me. You see nothing has changed in me. I'mstill the same Eddie--richer, balder, foolisher, perhaps. It seems youought to know all about the ten years without being told. But I'll tellyou. I'm an art collector on the sly. Pictures--horrible things thatdon't look like anything. I don't know why I collect them, honestly. Pictures mean nothing to me. Never did. Particularly the kind I pickup. But it's a habit that keeps me cheerful. Better than collectingstamps. Cubist, futurist, expressionist. Ever see the damn things? Igobble them up. I guess because they're cheap. Here he is--the youngfellow with the soft face. "

Meredith rose and jubilantly waved a napkin. A stocky man in looseclothes nodded at him and approached. 

"Not Mrs. Erik Dorn, " he repeated. Anna nodded. The sound of herhusband's name on others' lips always elated her, even now. She lost fora moment the aversion she felt at the touch of Tesla's hand. It seemedboneless. .. . They would all eat together. Anna was an old school friend. Years ago, ah! many years. 

Tesla fastened a repugnantly appreciative eye upon her, as if he werebecoming privy to an exclusive secret. She frowned inwardly. An ugly manwith something bubbly about him. 

"I was telling Mrs. Dorn you were a bomb-thrower or something, " Meredithannounced. His good spirits frisked about the table like a troupe offrolicsome puppies. 

"Only an apprentice, " Tesla's soft voice--a voice like hishands--answered. "But why talk of such things in the presence of abeautiful lady. " He bowed his head at her. She thought, "An unbearableman, completely out of place. How in the world could Eddie. .. . "

The music had changed. Muted cornets, banjos and saxophones werewailing out a tom-tom adagio. People were rising from tables and movingtoward a dancing space. Eddie stood beside her bowing with elaboratestiffness. 

"My next dance, Miss Winthrop. "

Anna looked up blankly. 

"Good Lord, have you forgotten your own name? Come on. You know Dorn, don't you, Emil? Well, throw a fork at him when he shows up. Come, wehaven't danced together for ten years. The last time was. .. . "

"The last time was the senior prom, " Anna interrupted quickly. "You seeI haven't forgotten. " She stood mechanically. 

As they walked between tables and diners, he said, "I sure feel like aboy again seeing you. "

"I'm afraid I've almost forgotten how to dance, Eddie. My husbanddoesn't dance much. "

"Here we are! Like old days, eh? Remember Jimmie Goodland, my deadlyrival for your hand?"

They were dancing. 

"Well, he's married. Three kids. "

"And how many children have you, Eddie?"

"Me?" He laughed. "Have I forgotten to tell you that? Well, I'm still atlarge, untrammeled, free. There've been women, but not _the_ woman. "

His voice put on a pleasing facetiousness. 

"Mustn't mind an old friend getting sentimental. But after you they hadto measure up to something--and didn't. "

Since the night Erik had singled her out at the party no man had spokento her that way. She listened slightly amazed. It confused her. Hiseyes, as they danced, were jolly and polite. But they watched her tookeenly. Erik might misunderstand. Her love somehow resented being lookedat and spoken to like that. She hurried back to their first topic. 

"What became of Millie Pugh, Eddie?"

"Married. A Spaniard or something. Two kids and an automobile. Saw themin Brazil somewhere. "

"And Arthur Stearns?"

"Fatter than an alderman. Runs a gas works or something in Detroit. Married. One kid. "

Anna laughed. "You sound like an almanac of dooms. "

"Well, all married but me--little Eddie, the boy bachelor, faithful untodeath to the memories of his childhood. Do you remember the night we ranMazurine's out of ice-cream?"

This was another world, another Anna. She closed her eyes dreamily tothe movement of the dance and music--delicious drugs. 

"Faster, " she whispered. 

They broke into quicker steps. "Erik. .. . Erik. .. . My own. Love me again. Come back to me. .. . " Still in her thought, but fainter, deeper down. Not words but a sigh that moved to the rhythm of the music. 

"And how may children have you?"

She answered without emotion, as if she were talking with a distant partof herself. "There was a little boy. He died as a baby. We haven't any. "

Deep, kindly eyes looking at her as they danced. "I'm so sorry, Anna. "

She whispered again, "Faster!" A shadow over his face. She must becareful of his eyes--eyes that laughed, but keen, almost as keen asErik's. "My Erik . .. My own. .. . " It was all a dream, a nightmare of herown inventing. Nothing had happened. Imaginings. Erik loved her. Whyelse should he weep and kiss her when he thought her asleep? He lovedher, he loved her!

Her face grew bright. Faster. Always to dance and dream of Erik. Shemust tell Eddie. .. . 

"Erik is wonderful. I'm dying to have you meet him. Oh, Eddie, he'swonderful!"

Now she could laugh and enjoy herself. Something had emptied out of herbreasts--cold iron, warm lead. She was lighter, easy to bend and glideto the music. Everything was easy. Her face lighted by something deeperthan a smile, she danced in silence. Eddie was far away--ten years away. His eyes that were smiling at her were no eyes at all. They were part ofthe music and movement that caressed her with the sweetness of life, ofbeing loved by Erik. .. . 

Tesla watched his friend lead the red-haired lady away to dance. For awhile there lingered about him the air of unctious submission that hadrevolted Anna. Then it vanished. His face as he sat alone seemed totighten. The flabbiness of his eyes became something else. Diners atother tables caught glimpses of him while they ate. A commanding figure, rugged, youthful-faced. Features that made definite lines, compellinglines, in the blur of other features. A man of certainties, yet withsomething weak about him. His eyes were like a child's. They did notquite belong in his face. There, eyes should have gleamed, stared withintensities. Instead, eyes purred--abstract, tender eyes; the kind thatattracted women sometimes because they were almost like a women's eyesdreaming of lovers. 

"Hello, Tesla!"

Again the fawning lights, smiles, bowings. This was Dorn--a Somebody. Somebodies always changed Tesla. There was a thing in him that smirkedbefore Somebodies, as if he were a timorous puppy wagging its tail andleaping about on flabby legs. 

"Mrs. Dorn is sitting here with a friend. They're dancing. We're all atthis table, Mr. Dorn. "

Dorn caught the eager innuendo of his voice. He knew Tesla vaguely as aradical, an author of pamphlets. Tesla continued to talk, a sycophanticpurr in his words. .. . The war was financed by international bankers. Didn't he think so? America was being drawn in by Wall Street--to makethe loans to the Allies stand up. But something was going to happen. Theeyes of the workers were opening slowly all over the world. In Russiaalready a beginning of realities. Ah, think of the millions dying fornothing, advancing or improving nothing by their death. Soldiers, heroes, workingmen, all blind acrobats in another man's circus. Butsomething was happening. Revolution. This grewsome horseplay in Europe'sfront yard would start it. And then--watch out!

The voice of Emil Tesla, eager, fawning, had yet another quality in it. It promised, as if it could not do justice to the things it was sayingand must be careful, soft, polite. Dorn felt the man and his power. Nota puppy on flabby legs but a brute mastiff with a wild bay that mustcome out in little whines, because the music was playing, because he wastalking to Somebody. A man physically beaten by life, his body scraping, bowing; his words mumbling confusedly in the presence of other words. Yet a powerful man with a tremendous urge that might some day hurl himagainst the stars. He had something. .. . 

To Tesla's sentences Dorn dropped a yes or no. Tesla needed no replies. He purred on eagerly before his listener, seeming to whine for hisappreciation and good will, yet unconscious of him. A waiter broughtwine. Dorn stared at the topaz tint in his glass. His eyes had changed. They no longer smiled. A heaviness gleamed from them. The thing in hisheart would not go. Heavy hands turning him over and over, as if lifewere tearing him, crowds and streets pulling at him. There had been norest since Rachel had gone. 

He sat almost oblivious of Tesla. In the back of his brain the citytumbled--an elephantine grimace, a wilderness of angles, a swarm ofgestures that beat at his thought. But before his eyes there were nolonger the precise patterns of another day. He was no longer outside. Hehad been sucked into something, the something that he had been used torefer to condescendingly as life. People sitting in a room like this hadbeen furniture that amused him. Now they were alive, repulsive, with ameaning to them that sickened him. Streets had once been stone andgesture. Now they, too, were meanings that sickened. A sanity in whichhe alone was insane, surrounded him; a completion in which he aloneseemed incomplete. Men and women together--tired faces, lightedfaces--all with destinations that satisfied them. And he wandering, knocked from place to place by heavy hands, pushed through crowds, dropped into chairs. Time itself a torment into which he kept thrustinghimself deeper. 

The change in Erik Dorn had come to him with a cynicism of its own. Itlaughed with its own laughter. A mind foreign to him spoke to himthrough the day. .. . "You would smile at life, Erik; well, here it is. Easy for a sleeper to smile. But smile now. Life is a surface, eh?shifting about into designs for the delectation of your eyes. Watch itshifting then. Darkness and emptiness in a can-can. Watch the tumblingstreets that have no meanings. No meanings? Yet there's a torment inthem that can hoist you up by your placid little heels and swing youround . .. Round, and send you flying. A witch's flight with the screamof stars whistling through it. Flight that has no ending and nodirection . .. No face of Rachel at its ending. Burning eyes, devouringeyes . .. Face like a mirror of stars. There's a face in the world andyou go after it, heels in air, tongue frozen, breathing always anemptiness that chokes. Easy for sleepers to dawdle with words and saycarelessly life is this, life is that. What the hell's the differencewhat life is? It means nothing to me. People and their posturings meannothing. But what about now? A contact, a tying up with posturings, andthe streets and crowds tearing you into gestures not your own. .. . "

Aloud he would say, "My love for her has given me a soul and I've becomea fool along with other fools. "

He did not think of Rachel in words. There were moments of dream when hemade plans--a fantastic amorous rigmarole of Rachel and himself walkingtogether over the heads of the world; child dreams that substitutedthemselves for the realities he demanded. But these were infrequent. Hewas learning to avoid them as one avoids a drug that soothes and thendoubles the hunger of the nerves. 

As now in the café, listening to Tesla, watching with dark eyes thescene, there was a turning of heavy hands in him to which he must notgive thought. Watch the café, listen to Tesla, talk, eat and spit out adisgust for the things of which he was a part--things from which hedemanded Rachel and a surcease to the pain in him. And that only stifledwith the emptiness of her. 

Out of the wretchedness of garbled emotions that had become the whole ofErik Dorn, his vocabulary arose with a facile paint brush and paintedupon his thought. His phrases wandered about looking for subjects as ifhe must taunt himself with details that forever brought him loathing. 

Before he had seen pictures complete, rhythmic pictures of streets andcrowds, pleasantly blurred and in motion. Now he saw them as if life wasin a state of continual pause--an arrested cinematograph; grotesquelydetailed and with the meaning of motion out of it. A picture waitingsomething to set it moving. This something he could not give it. Helplessly his words continued to trace themselves over the outlines ofscenes about him, as if trying to stir them into a life. 

This scene consciousness had become almost a mania in the four months. But in the mechanical, phraseological movement of his thought he wasable to hide himself. Thus he listened to Tesla and looked at the café. The inn was filled with people--elaborately dressed women and shininglygroomed men--grouped about white-linened, silver-laden tables; anornamental grimacing little multitude come to the café as to some graverite, moving to the tables with an unctious nonchalance. Women dressedin effulgent silks, their flesh gleaming among the spaces of exoticplumage, gleaming through the flares of luxurious satin distortions. Acompany that gestured, grimaced with the charm of lustful marionettes. Flesh reduced to secrecy. Lust, dream in hiding. From the secret worldthey inhabited, moist bodies beckoned with a luscious, perverse denialof artifice. 

The picture of it shot into his eyes, arousing a hate in his thought. Heheard Tesla . .. "life has changed with the industrialization of society. It is no longer a question of who shall run the court. The court is anatrophied institution, a circus surviving in the backyard of history. It's a question of who shall run the factory. Democracy is a thing thattouches only politicians. The factory touches people. Democracy clearedthe way but it's not a way in itself. It's still the court idea ofgovernment. Steam, gas, and electricity made the French revolutionobsolete even before it was ended. This war . .. Good God, Dorn, bloodpouring over toys we've outgrown!. .. "

Still fawning voiced, but with a bay underneath. Dorn listened andremained elsewhere--among a turning of heavy hands. Yet he thought ofTesla, "He makes an impression on me. I'll remember his words. A man ofpower, rooted in visions. " He replied suddenly, "I'm convinced the weakwill rule some day, if that's what you're driving at. The race cansurvive only as long as its weakest survive. Christianity started it. Socialism will carry it a step further. The fight against theindividual. What else is any institutionalism? A struggle to circumventthe biological destiny of man, which is the same as the biologicaldestiny of fish--extinction. That's what we're primarily engaged in. Therace must protect its weak, so it invents laws to curb the instincts andpower of its strong. And we obey the laws--a matter of adjustingourselves ludicrously to our weaknesses and endowing these adjustmentswith high names. Bolshevism will be the law of to-morrow and wear even ahigher name than Christianity. Yesterday it was, 'only the poor shallinherit heaven, only crippled brains and weaker visions shall see God. 'To-morrow the slogan will have been brought down to earth. Yes, they'llrun the factories--your masses. There's the strength in them oflogic--a logic opposed to evolution. They'll run the factories as theynow run heaven--an Institution nicely accommodated to their fears andweaknesses. "

Dorn paused. He was not thinking. People said things. An automatic boxof phrases in him released answers. Tesla was replying, not sofawningly, the bay beneath his soft words mastering his sycophantictones. Let him talk. He had something to talk about. He saw something. There was a new tableau in Tesla's brain. Let him keep murmuring thingsabout it--suavely, unctuously letting off steam. 

Like a man returning drearily to his game of solitaire, Dorn fastenedhis eyes again upon the scene. Looking at things would keep him fromthinking. To think was to cry out. He had learned this. His eyes, darkand heavy, fastened themselves upon the walls of the inn lost inshadows, painted with nymphs and satyrs sprawling over tapestriedlandscapes. He devoured their details, his heart searching in them forthe mystery of Rachel and finding only a deeper emptiness--insistentlynaked bodies of nymphs lying like newly bathed housemaids amid stiffpark sceneries. Miracles of photographic lechery. Would people about himlook like that naked? Thank God they were dressed! An ankle in silk wasbetter than a thigh in sunlight. An old saw . .. Beauty lay in theimagination. Women removed their beauty with their clothes. The nymphson the wall reminded one chiefly that they were careful to scrub theirlegs all the way up. 

He sighed and watched the eyes of diners look at the walls. Her face--amirror of stars. What else was there but her face? Other faces, ofcourse. A revulsion of other strange faces. Men studying the nakedfigures on the walls with profound but aloof interest, eyeing the womennear them shrewdly as they turned away. Women with serious, unconcentrated eyes upon the paintings, turning tenderly towards theirescorts. He would die of looking at faces that were not hers. Alove-sick schoolboy. God, what an ass! Tesla was becoming aninsufferable bore. What in God's name did he have to do with massesraising their skinny arms from a smoking field and crying aloud, "Bread!" Tesla had a lot to do with it. The skinny arms, the smokingfield, and the balloon with the word "bread" in it were Tesla's soul. But his soul was different--heavy hands turning. 

Dorn drank wine from his glass. Anna, dancing with a plump, laughingstranger, flitted through the distance. A deeper turning over of iron inhis heart at the glimpse of her. The scene no longer could divert him. The thought of Anna dropped like a curtain upon a picture. What could hedo? What? At night he grew sick lying beside her. It wasn't conscience. There was nothing wrong about loving someone else. But there was anuncanniness about it. Lying beside a woman who didn't know what was inhis mind. He would lie thinking, "Oh, Rachel, I love Rachel, " repeatingalmost idiotic love words for Rachel in his mind. And Anna would smilepatiently at him, unaware. That was the most intolerable thing. The factshe didn't know. And also the fact that he must remain inarticulate. Hemust sit with his heart choking him and his head in a blaze, and keepstuffing words back down his throat. Through the day he tormentedhimself with the thought, "I must tell her. I can't keep this thing upany longer. " But when he saw her it was impossible to tell her. A singlephrase would end it. He held the phrase on his lips--as if it were aknife balanced over Anna's heart. "I love Rachel. " That would end it. But it was impossible. He couldn't say it. Why? He sat, trying to get aglimpse of her dancing again and tried to avoid answering himself. Itwas something he mustn't answer. He must get away from his damnedthought. His eyes fastened themselves upon the fountain in the center ofthe room. It was Anna that tormented him, not Rachel. Anna . .. Anna. .. . The tension broke. He was looking at the fountain surmounted by a marblenude crouched in a posture of surprise; probably disturbed by hernudity. It was necessary for nudity to be disturbed by itself. Didvirgins eyeing themselves in mirrors blush with shame? Unquestionably. The nude peered into the water of a large tiled basin. A gush of waterover her managed to veil her unsuccessfully in an endless spray. Waterfilled the air with an odorless spice. 

" . .. The first blow will come out of Russia, Dorn. The Russians havenot been side-tracked into the phantasms of democracy. They still thinkstraight. Civilization hasn't crippled them with phrases. They are stillwhat you would call biological. And dreams live in them. Yes, I knowwhat you'll say . .. Heavy dreams. But here in America there are nodreams--yet. Nothing but paper. Paper thoughts. Paper morals. Everythingpaper. Russia will send out fire to burn up this paper. Destroy it. Leave nothing behind--not even ashes. "

True enough. Why answer it? But what difference did it make if paperburned? Was man after all a creature consecrated to institutions, doomedto expend himself upon institutions? A hundred million nervous systems, each capable of ecstasies and torments, devoting themselves to thebusiness of political brick-laying. Always yowling about new bricks. Politics--a deformity of the imagination; a game of tiddledy-winksplayed with guns and souls. 

He breathed with relief. Abstractions were a drug. But his thinkingended. Blue electric lights cast an amorous glow--an artificialmoonlight--upon tables surrounding the fountain. Beneath the cobaltwater of the basin, colored fish gliding like a weaving procession oflittle fat Mandarins. The remainder of the room also blue from shadedlights. That was why they dubbed it the Blue Inn. Blue lights made theBlue Inn. The air was heavy with the uncoiling lavender tinsel oftobacco smoke. A luxurious suppression as about some priapic altar . .. Artificial shadows, painted lights, forlorn fountain ripplings. 

"Oh, Erik, I've been dancing. This is Mr. Meredith. I once told youabout him. The music is simply wonderful here. "

Tesla, flabby-eyed and almost maliciously polite, as if he would exposethe innate absurdity of politeness, tipped over a water glass in hisfloppings. Anna, still alive with the joyousness that had come to her, seated herself beside her husband. Her hand rested eagerly on his arm. He must love her . .. Must. Must. It had been only a nightmare she'dinvented. Oh, God, did anything matter as long as they loved each other?

"Tired, dearest?"

He looked at her and tried to lighten his eyes. 

"Yes, a little. The damned war. "

"I'm so sorry. "

She mustn't ask him to dance. He was tired. She would coddle him. He wasonly a baby--tired, sleepy, sad. She must ask no questions. Only love. Before her love the darkness of his face would clear away as beforesunshine. 

"I'm so happy, Erik darling!"

Her fingers quivered on his arm. He looked at her and smiled out ofmisty eyes. Of all the unbearable things in an unbearable world herhappiness was the most unbearable. She nodded, as if she understood. Herpretense of understanding was a ghastly business. But Anna smiled. PoorErik, he was only a boy. If only they were alone! If Eddie and Tesla andthe whole world would go away and leave her with him, to kiss his eyesand stroke his hair. Sleep, baby, sleep. .. . What a crazy, wild thing, thinking that Erik no longer loved her. No longer loved her! Dear God, she was only a part of him. He must love her. .. . Must!

The talk kept on--words bubbling from Tesla, Eddie frisking withlaughter. 

"You must dance with me, Erik. It's been so long since we danced. "There--she shouldn't have asked. She didn't mean to. Her eyesapologized. When he answered, "No, I'm tired, " there was wine from aglass that warmed the little coldness his words dropped into her. 

Listening to her, answering with words he tried to soften and makealive, Dorn tried to occupy himself with the details of the scene again. Could he keep on living as two persons--one of them turning over andover in a fire that consumed him--and the other making phrases, gestures, as if there were no fire consuming him? If he kept his eyesworking, perhaps. He hated Anna. But that was because he couldn't bearthe thought of her suffering. He hated her because he must be kind toher. 

Meredith was ordering the dinner. Dorn stared out over the room. 

Anna was watching him with her senses. Why didn't he speak to her asEddie did? Perhaps he was going mad. His eyes suffered. He looked atthings and seemed to hurt himself with looking. She kept her voicevibrant with a hope of joyousness. "I mustn't give in to the nightmare. It's only imagining. .. . "

"Erik, dearest, do eat something. Let me order for you. "

Talk, talk! Dorn listened. Anna was saying, "Eddie thinks as you doabout the war, Erik. Isn't that odd?" Yes, that anybody should be ableto think as he did. He was a God. A super-God. If only she hated him. Amoment of hate in her eyes would be heaven. 

"A plain case of accepting an evil and making the best of it, " laughedMeredith. "If we go in all I ask is for God's sake let's keep our eyesopen and not slobber around. "

Soft remonstrances from Tesla with polite references to Wall Street. Food on platters. An air of slight excitement with Anna directing thetalk and serving. What made her so vivacious? The sight of an oldfriend, Meredith? Meredith . .. Oh, yes, school days, long ago. A wildhope unfolded itself in Dorn. He looked at the man anew. Fantasticnotion. But throw them together, day and night. Cafés, dancing, music, propinquity. He was her type--kindly, unselfish, prosperously elateover life. He'd help her on with her wraps and be polite over doorways. Perhaps. He turned to his wife and laughed softly. A way out. Give herto the man. Give her away. End her love for him--her damned, torturinglove that made him turn over inside and weep at night when she wasasleep; that hounded him like an unclean memory. It was only her lovethat made him unclean. He looked at her with his eyes lighted. 

"Dancing makes a difference, doesn't it, dear? I'd dance myself, only mylegs are tired. "

He smiled as he spoke with the unctuousness of a villain administeringpoison in a bouquet of roses. But a way to get rid of her love. Hedidn't mind her, but the thing in her. That was the whole of it. Whyhide from it? God, if he could only kill it he'd be free. Otherwise he'dnever be free. Even if he went away there'd be the thought of herlove. .. . Anna's face bloomed with joy at his words. 

"We'll come here another night when you're not tired, honey. "

"Yes, " he answered, "make a party of it. How about that, Mr. Meredith?"

"Surest thing. "

They forgot Tesla. 

"Oh, Erik!" She embraced his arm with both her hands. Under the tableshe pressed her thigh trembling against him. 

The music from the platform had changed. Cornets, banjos, saxophones, again. The boom and jerk of voices arose as if in greeting. Foreheadsof diners glistening with a fine sweat. Sweat on the backs of women'snecks, on their chins, under their raised arms; gleaming on the coolintervals of breasts, white and bulbous breasts peeping out of a secretworld. 

"If I may, Anna. .. . "

Eddie was taking her away. The plot was working. Dorn's heart warmedtoward the man. A rescuer, a savior. He nodded his head at his wife. Hemust make it look as if he were sorry it wasn't he going to dance withher; smile with proper wistfulness; shake his head sadly. 

Anna, suddenly beside herself, laughed, and, leaning over touched hishair quickly with her lips. Damned idiot, he'd overdone it! No. Perhapsshe was guilty. Apologizing for impulses away from him toward Meredith?He sat hoping feverishly, caressing a diagnosis as if he could establishit by repeating it over and over. 

Tesla again, this time on art. Art of the proletaire. Damn theproletaire and Tesla both! He had a plot working out. Would their handstouch, linger, sigh against each other? Of course. They were human--atleast their hands were. And then, dances every night. What a miserablebanal plot! Another day-dream. Forget. Beyond Tesla's soft voice . .. Anopening and shutting of mouths swollen in delicious discomforts. Look atthem. Identify mouths. Tell himself the angles they made. People . .. People . .. A wriggling of bodies in a growing satiety of tepid lusts. 

"True art, Dorn, is something beyond decoration. Dreams made real. Butthe right kind of dreams--things that touch people. The other art wasfor sick men. That is--men sickened of life. The new art will be forhealthy men, men reaching out of everything about them. And we must givethem bread, soup, and art. "

Yes, that might as well be true as anything else. Anything was truth. Anything and everything. Here he was in a scene that had no relation tohim. Yet he wasn't detached. 

"Speaking of art, Dorn, we've found a new artist, a wonder. She's goingto do some things for _The Cry_. I got her interested. I must tellMeredith about her. Maybe you know her--Rachel Laskin. One of her thingsis coming out in the next issue. I'll send you a copy. "

Coolly, amazedly, Dorn thought, "What preposterous thing makes itpossible for this man to talk of Rachel as if she were a reality . .. Like the people in the café? To him she's like the people in the café. He knows her like the people in the café. "

He answered carelessly, "Oh, yes; Miss Laskin. I remember her well. Thatreminds me: you don't happen to have her address? I've got some thingsshe left at the office we can't use. "

Tesla dug an address out of a soiled stack of papers. His pockets seemedalive with soiled papers. Rachel's address was a piece of soiled paperlike any other piece of soiled paper. Mumbling silently, Dorn sighed. Just in time. Anna again, and Meredith. He looked at them, recalling hisplot. Were they in love? Tesla--the blundering idiot--"I was tellingDorn of a new artist I've found, Eddie. Rachel Laskin, a sort of Blakeand Beardsley and something else. Thin lines, screechy things. You'lllike them. "

"Oh, yes, I always like them, " Meredith smiled. 

And Anna, "Oh, I know Rachel Laskin well. We're old friends. She's acharming, wonderful girl. I liked her so much. Where is she?"

"In New York. "

"I'll have to look at her work, " Meredith added. "That's me. Alwayslooking at other people's work and saying, fine, great, and neverknowing a thing about it. Ye true art collector, eh, Emil?"

Anna went on, "Erik was amused with her. She is rather odd, you know, and sort of wearing on the nerves. But you can't help liking her. "

An amazing description of a face of stars. Dorn smiled. 

Tesla said, "I only saw her once. A nervous girl, and she seemed upset. "

More from Anna: "I hope she'll come back to Chicago. She was such fun. Ireally miss her. .. . "

All mad. Babbling of Rachel. Dorn stared cautiously about him. Thetorment in him became a secret swollen beyond its proper dimensions. They would look at him now and understand that he was not Erik Dorn, butsomebody else huddled up, burning and flopping around inside. Love was avirulent form of idiocy. It meant nothing to people outside. Everythinginside. Anna talking about Rachel started a panic in him. She wasplaying with memories of Rachel. Do you remember this? and that? As ifhe, of course, had forgotten her. Yes, there was an "of course" aboutit. A gruesome "of course. " Gruesome--an excellent word. It meant Annapetting and laughing over a knife that was to plunge itself into herheart. When? Soon . .. Soon. He had an address copied from a soiled pieceof paper. 

They bundled out of the café. Waiters, wraps. Eddie helped with thewraps. Alien streets, dark waiting buildings, lights, and thengood-nights. The moments whirled mysteriously away. What did the momentsmatter? He was going to Rachel. Ah! When had he decided that? He didn'tremember reaching any decision in the matter. 

They entered a cab alone. The cab rolled away over snow-packed streets. But he couldn't leave Anna. Yes he could. Why not? No. Impossible. Afaint thought like a storm packed into a nutshell. .. . "I will. "

"You were wonderful to-night, Erik. When I see you with other men I justthank God for you. "

That was the intolerable thing--his wonderfulness, his damnedwonderfulness. It existed in her. He couldn't leave it behind. 

Her hand lay warm in his. 

"Kiss me, dearest!"

He kissed her and laughed. He was happy, then? Oh, yes, he was going toRachel. Simple. Four months of misery, making a weeping idiot out ofhimself. And now, a decision had been reached. His head on her shoulder, she wanted it so, she was whispering caresses to him. This was Anna. Butit would soon be Rachel. What difference did such things make? Onewoman, another woman. .. . 

"You're like Jimmie was. "

Happy tears filled her eyes, to be noted and remembered now that he wasgoing to Rachel. Jimmie was a baby who had died--his baby. Offspring wasa more humorous word. To be noted and remembered. What a dream!

"I'm so happy, Erik. Everything seems wonderful again when you smile andlaugh like this. Your cheeks make such a nice little curve and your headon my shoulder, where it belongs . .. For always and ever. .. . "

Let her sing. He could stand it. What did it matter? But would she diewhen he left. He would have to say something outright. God, what a thingto say outright. Kill not only her but the wonderful selves of him thatlived in her. That didn't mean anything. Anyway, it was rather silly towaste time thinking. .. . To-night, after the ride . .. Going to Rachel. He had her address. He would walk up, ring the bell. She would answerand her face would look in surprise at him. 

"My Erik, my own sweet little one!"

Dreaming of Jimmie, of him and Jimmie together. .. . "I don't ever want tomove. I want us to keep on riding like this forever and ever. .. . "

Quite exquisite tragedy. A bit crude. But reality was always rathercrude. Crude or not, what was more exquisite than happiness laughingwith an unseen knife moving toward its heart? At least he was anappreciative audience. With his head on her shoulder. Why not? Lifedemanded that one be an audience sometimes . .. Sit back and listen tothe fates whispering. What a ride! Dark waiting houses moving by. Sevenyears together, growing closer and more subtly together--yet nottogether at all. Anyway, he was sick of living that way. Even withoutRachel . .. A mess. Night lies. Passion lies. A dirty business. No, notthat. She was beautiful. Anna, not Rachel. He was the unclean one. 

"Are you happy, beloved?"

"Yes. "

Lord, what an answer to give her. A prayer! Insufferably exquisite godsof drama--she was praying. Tears rushing from her eyes. 

"Sweet Jesus . .. Sweet brother Jesus . .. Thanks for everything. Oh, I'vebeen so unfaithful. Not to believe. Thanks for my wonderful Erik. "

He must kill her, swiftly, before she could know that prayers were vain. Easier to kill her body than to listen to this. How, though? With hishands about her throat. Murder was an old business. It would be mercy toher. But he was too much a coward. A cowardly audience listening towords . .. Far away from him. 

"Beloved . .. Darling. Oh, it's so good to have you back again. "

"Don't talk. " He put his arm tightly around her, his fingers fumbling ather bare neck. But that was only a pretense, a bit of insipidmelodrama--his fingers. He was an actor frightened by his part. 

The taxi driver was demanding $4. 50--an outrage. 

"That's too much, Erik. "

But he paid. Should he tell him to wait? He would need him in a fewminutes. No, too cold-blooded to tell him to wait. And anyway, Anna waslistening. He was still an audience. He would jump on the stage andbegin acting later. Soon. 

"Keep the change. "

"Thanks, sir. "

An insane world . .. A polite and jovial taxi-cab driver carryinglunatics about the streets. 

"Oh, dear, look! Father's sitting up. " She was disappointed. "And Iwanted to kiss and hug you before we went upstairs. "

Dorn unlocked the door of his house. He still had a house and couldunlock its door without its meaning anything. To-morrow he would have nohouse. That was the difference between to-day and to-morrow. The old manwould be there. That would make it easier. He shivered. "I'm going to dosomething then". .. . This was alarming. 

Anna's arms were around him before he could remove his coat. She clung, laughing, kissing. Let her. .. . "The doomed man ate a hearty breakfast ofham and eggs and seemed in good spirits. " Reporters, with a sense of thedramatic, usually wrote it that way. Ham and eggs were a symbol. Shouldhe mull around for extenuating epigrams--a fervid rigmarole on themysteries and ethics of life? Or strike swift, short?. .. "Death wasinstantaneous. The drop fell at 10:08 A. M. Sharp. " Always sharp. Damnhis reporters!

"Anna . .. "

She bloomed at the sound of her name. 

"I want to talk, Anna. "

"No, let's not talk. I'm so happy. .. . Aren't you up rather late, father?"

Thank God she was getting nervous. One can't kill a smile. 

"Anna, come to me. "

An old phrase of their love-making. He hadn't meant to use it. Butphrases that have been used for seven years get so they say themselves. She moved quickly toward him. His father--smiling beyond her shoulder. Now for the slaughter. .. . 

"Do you love me enough to make me happy, Anna?"

"I would give my life for you. "

He was deplorably calm--too calm. His eyes were looking at books onshelves, at chairs, at pictures on the walls, as if everything was of anidentical importance. 

"I know, but that isn't it. "

"What then, Erik?"

He couldn't say it. Particularly with his father smiling--an irritatingold man who would never die. Should he fall at her feet and whimper? Hecouldn't. Her face was his, her eyes his. It wasn't leaving Anna. Himself, though. Yes, he was confronting himself. Seven years of selves. All wonderful. Everything he had said and done for seven years lived inAnna. So he must kill seven years of himself with a phrase. No. Yet hewas talking on. It soothed him, untightened the agony in him. 

"Listen, Anna. I can't tell you, but I must. My words circle away fromme. They run away from what I want to tell you. Anna . .. I must goaway--leave you. "

Tears in his eyes, over his face. His voice, warm, blurring with tears. He choked, paused. 

"Erik. .. . "

A white sound. Something bursting. 

"If I stay, I'll go mad. "

"No . .. No . .. Erik . .. "

Still white sounds, only whiter. Blank sounds, caused by speechlessness. Sounds of speechlessness. 

"I may come back, if you'll take me back sometime. .. . "

A man was always an imbecile. Imbecility is a trademark. But there wereno sounds now. His eyes tried to turn away from her. A face had ceasedto live and give forth sounds. He remained looking at it. A cold, emptied face, like a picture frame with a picture recently torn out ofit. 

"Anna, for God's sake, hate me. Hate me. Loathe me the rest ofyour life. I've lied and lied to you--nothing but lies. .. . No, that's not true. But now it is. Think of me as vile when I goaway. .. . Otherwise. .. "

Tears blubbered out of him. 

. .. "otherwise I'll die thinking of you. Don't look at me that way. Yellat me. .. . You've known it. I can't help it. .. . It's something. I can'thelp it. "

Behind this voice he thought: "It's not me alone. Nights of love . .. Kisses . .. Jimmie . .. Seven years. .. . Little things. Oh, God, littlethings. We're all leaving her--pulling ourselves out of her. "

"Where are you going, my son?"

Could he lie now? Yes, anything that made it easier. 

"Nowhere. Anywhere. I must go. Otherwise I'll choke to death. Take careof her. There's money. All hers. I'll write later about it. Anna . .. Don't please. "

The thing was a botch. Wrong, all wrong. But that didn't matter. Hiscoat and hat mattered more than phrases. Looking for a coat and hat whenhe should be winding up the scene properly. These were preposterousbanalities that distinguished life, unedited, from melodrama. Where washis hat? His hat . .. Hat . .. Life, Fate, Tragedy had mislaid hisinsufferable hat. Ah . .. On the floor. 

She was standing staring at him. Would she die on her feet? Quick, before the shriek. It was coming . .. A madness that would frighten himforever if he heard it. What a scoundrel he was! Why deny it? But in afew years he would be dead and no longer a scoundrel, and all this somuch forgotten dust. 

"Write to us, my son. And come back soon. "

He closed the door softly behind him and started to walk. But his legsran. It had been easy . .. Easy. He stumbled, sprawled upon the icedpavement, bruising his face. He picked himself up unaware that he hadstopped running. Night, houses, streets, what matter? In a fewyears--dust. But he had left in time. That was the important thing. Another minute and he would have heard her. A terrible unheard sound. He had left it behind. He had left her unfinished. Why was he running?Oh, yes--Anna. 

He paused and held his eyes from staring back at his house. His eyeswould pull him back to the door. Little things--oh, the little thingsmade hurts. He must turn a corner. Light does not travel around corners. 

Gone. The house was gone with all its little things. One jerk and he hadripped away. .. . 

He walked slowly. A coldness suddenly fell into him. Rachel. He hadforgotten about Rachel. Never a thought for Rachel. Disloyal. Wherewas she--the mirror of stars? Nowhere. He didn't love her. Was heinsane? He loved Anna, not Rachel. He must go back. The thing waslopsided--pretense. He'd been pretending he was in love with Rachel. Love . .. Schoolboy business. Mirror of stars! Something scribbled on avalentine. That was love. Rachel. No. .. . There was another face. Cold, emptied--a circle of deaths. Anna's face. But he must remember Rachelbecause he was going to Rachel--remember something about her. Say hername over and over. But that wasn't Rachel. That was a word like . .. Like pocketbook. Something about her. .. . 

Ah! yes. Her coat lying in the snow. He sighed with a determined effortat sadness . .. Her little coat in the snow!

PART III

WINGS

CHAPTER I

"Boom, boom, " said the city of New York, "we have gone to war!"

And all the other cities, big and little, said a boom-boom of their own. A mighty nation had gone to war. 

A time of singing. Songs on the lips of crowds. Lights in their eyes. High-pitched, garbled words, brass bands, flags, speeches. .. . Mine eyeshave seen the coming of the glory of the Lord but we don't want theBacon, All we Want is a Piece of the Rhine(d). .. . A brass monkey playing"Nearer, My God, to Thee" on a red banjo. .. . _Allons, les enfants_ . .. _le jour de gloire est arrivé!_ You tell 'em, kid! Store fronts, cabarets, hotel lobbies, sign-boards, office buildings all becomeshining citadels of righteousness beleaguered by the powers of darkness. Newspaper headlines exploding like firecrackers on the corners. Abonfire of faces in the streets. A bonfire of flags above the streets. 

Boom, boom!. .. Societies for the relief of martyred Belgium. Societiesfor Rolling Cigarettes, Bandages, Exterminating Hun Spies, ExterminatingYellow Dogs and Slackers. .. . Wah, don't let anybody be a slacker! Aslacker is a dirty dog who does what I wanna do but am afraid to do. Who lies down. Who won't stand up on his hind legs and cheer when he'ssupposed to. .. . Societies for Knitting Sweaters, Giving Bazaars, Spotting Hun Propaganda. A bonfire of committees, communes, Jabberwocks, clubs, Green Walruses, False Whiskers, Snickersnees, War Boards, andEagles Shrieking from their Mountain Heights with an obligato by theAvon Comedy Four--I'm a Jazz Baby. .. . 

A mighty nation had gone to war. Humpty Dumpty and the March Harewheeled out the Home Guards. Said the Débutante to her Soldier Boy inthe moonlight, "To Hell with the chaperone, War is War. .. . " Somebodylost Eighty Hundred Billion Dollars trying to build aeroplanes out ofFlypaper and a new kind of Cement. And the Press, slapping Fright WigNo. 7 on its bald head, announced to the Four Winds, " . .. Once moreglory, common cause, sacrifice, welded peoples of America, invinciblehost, lay common blood, altar liberty, sacred principle, government ofthe people by the people for the people perish earth" . .. And thePulpits obliged with an "O God who art in Heaven girthed in shiningarmor before Thee Thy cause Liberty Humanity Democracy Thy blessinginspire light of sacrifice brave women and hero men give us strength OLord not falter see way of Righteousness stern hearts bear great burdenThou has given us carry on till powers of darkness routed virtue againtriumphant. Thy will done on earth as it is in Heaven. .. . "

And the soldiers entraining for the cantonments--clerks and salesmen, rail-splitters and window-washers with the curve of youth on theirfaces--the soldiers said, "Whasamatter with Uncle Sam? Rah . .. Wow . .. Good-bye . .. We'll treat 'em rough . .. Ashes to ashes and dust to dustif the Camels don't get you the Fatimas must. .. . " And in the cantonmentsthe soldiers said, " . .. This lousy son of a badwoman of a shavetailcan't put nothin' over on me . .. Say . .. Oh, I hate to get up in themorning, oh, how I long to remain in bed. .. . " And in France the soldierssang " . .. There are smiles that make you happy there are smiles thatmake you sad. .. . The Knights of Columbus are all right but the Y. M. C. A. Is a son of a badwoman of a grafting mess. .. . "

"Yanks Land in France . .. Yanks in Big Battle . .. Yanks Sink Submarines". .. Bang banged the headlines. Don't eat meat on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Help the Red Cross buy Doughnuts for the Salvation Army and keep an eyeon Your Austrian Janitor. .. . Elephants, tom-cats, and chorus-girls; ahallelujah with a red putty nose, Seventy-six Thousand Press AgentsWalking on their Hands, Jabberwocks, Horned Toads, and Prima Donnas . .. Here comes the Liberty Loan Drive . .. 

A mighty nation had gone to war. Boom! Boom!

And in a moon-lighted room overlooking a fanfare of roofs, Erik Dornwhispered one night to Rachel, "You have given me wings!"

CHAPTER II

Time to get up. An oblong of sunlight squeezing through beneath thedrawn blind and slapping itself boldly on the gloomy carpet . .. "shameon all sleepy heads. Here's another day. .. . "

Rachel smiled as she opened her eyes. She lay quietly, smiling. It wasas it was yesterday--as the day before. One opened one's eyes and lifecame quickly back with a "Hello, here I am--where you left me. " So onelay, fearful to move, like a cup of wine that is too full and mustn't bejoggled with even a kick at the bed sheets. 

One lay and smiled. Thoughts and stockings side by side somewhere on thefloor. Put on stockings in a minute. Put on thoughts in a minute. Dressoneself up in phrases, hats, skyscrapers, and become somebody. 

Rachel's eyes livened slowly. Pleasant to be nobody--a bodyless, meaningless smile awake in the morning. Opened eyes on a pillow. A deep, deep sigh on a pillow. An oblong of sunshine on the floor. A happy bed. A happy ceiling. A happy door. Nothing else. Nobody else. 

But a hat, a blue straw hat with a jauntily curved brim, sat on acandlestick and winked. Which reminded one that one was alive. Afterall, one was somebody. Time to get up. All the king's horses and all theking's men demanded of one to arise and get dressed and go out and besomebody. Rachel kicked at the sheets. Protest against the Decrees ofDestiny. " . .. Those are my feet kicking. Hello, here I am. "

There was a note on the pillow adjacent. It read: "At eight o'clockto-night I'll return. Please don't get run over in the streets. ERIK. "

Well, why not kiss the note, embrace the pillow and sigh? Why try to beanything but an idiot?. .. "Yes, Mr. Erik Dorn, I will be very carefuland not let myself get run over in the streets. "

Rachel's head fell on the adjacent pillow and she lay whispering, "Ilove you, " until the sound of her voice caused her to laugh. .. . Time toget up. Dear me! She closed her eyes and rolled herself out of bed. .. . "Ouch!. .. " She sat up on the floor, legs extended, and stared at a shoe. Alas! a shoe is a crestfallen memory. A crestfallen yesterday lurks inold shoes. Shoes are always crestfallen. Even the shoes of loverswaiting under the bed weep and snivel all night. But why sit naked onthe floor, stark, idiotically naked on the floor with legs thrust outlike a surprised illustration in _La Vie Parisienne_ and toes curlingphilosophically toward a shoe?. .. "I'll do as I please. Very well. "

Sanity demanded clothes. But a sudden memory started her to her feet. She stood up lightly and hurried toward the large oval mirror. .. . "Yourbreasts are white birds dreaming under the stars. Your body is like theQueens of China parading through the moon. .. . "

She looked at herself in the mirror. Yes. But why not the Emperors ofAfghanistan Walking on Their Hands? Thus . .. "my Body is like thePresidents of the United States Riding Horseback. .. . "

She placed her hands on her slim hips and tautened her figure. When Erikwas away all one could do was play with the things he had said. Was sheas beautiful as he thought? A joyousness flowed through her. The mirrorgave her back a memory of Erik. She was a memory of Erik. 

When she looked at herself in the mirror she saw only something thatlived in the admiring eyes of Erik. Beautiful legs, beautiful body and"eyes like the courts of Solomon at night, like circles of incense. " . .. All were memories of Erik. 

She whispered softly to the figure in the mirror, "Erik knows your eyes. They are the beckoning hands of dreams. " Thus Erik spoke of them. "Imustn't laugh at myself. I am more beautiful than anything or anybody inthe whole world. There is nobody as beautiful as the woman Erik Dornloves. "

If she were only in a forest now where she could run, jump in the air, scream at birds, and end by hurling herself into dim, cool water. Instead, an absurd business of fastening her silk slip. 

She seated herself on the bed, her stockings hanging from her hand, andfell again to listening to Erik. His word made an endless echo in herhead. .. . "Perins a droll species. A sort of indomitable ass. Refuses tosuccumb to his intelligence. If you think he's in love with your Maryyou're a downright imbecile. The man adjusts his passions to his phrasesas neatly as a pretty woman pulling on her stockings. .. . " She didn'tlike Erik to refer to pretty women pulling on their stockings. What anidiot! If Erik wanted to he could go out and help all the pretty womenin New York pull on their stockings. As if that had anything to do withtheir love. Somebody else's stockings! A scornful exclamation point. Nowher skirt, waist, shoes, and hat, and she was somebody. 

Somebody walking out of a house, in a street, looking, smiling, swingingalong. The beautiful one, the desired one out for a promenade, embarrassed somehow by the fact that she was alive, that people lookedat her and street-cars made frowning overtures to her. This was not herworld. Yet she must move around in it as if she were a fatuous part ofits grimacings and artifices. Shop windows that snickered into her eyes. .. "shoes $8 to-day. Hats, $10. 50. .. . Traveling-cases only $19. .. . " Shemust be polite and recognize its existence by composing her features, wearing a hat, saying "pardon me" when she trod on anyone's feet orbumped an elbow into a stomach. A stranger's world--gentlemen in strawhats; gentlemen in proud uniforms marching off to war; a fretwork ofgentlemen, signs, windows, hats, and automobiles and a lot of otherthings, all continually tangling themselves up in front of her nose. Acity pouring itself out of the morning sky and landing with a splash anda leap of windows around her feet. Thus the beautiful one, out for apromenade and moving excitedly through a superfluous world. 

She plunged into a perilous traffic knot and emerged unscathed. But thatwas wasting time. Time--another superfluous element, a tick-tock for thelittle wingless ones to crawl by. Then she remembered--a moon-lightedroom . .. "you have given me wings!" Her thought traced itself excitedlyabout the memory. This had happened. That had been said. Yesterday, to-day and to-morrow--all the same. Memories mixing with dreams. Wings!Yes, wings that beat, beat on the air and left one moving behind a bluedress, under a jaunty hat like all other jaunty hats. But something elsemoved elsewhere. There were two worlds for her. But not for Erik. Oneworld for Erik. Where would his wings take him? Beyond life there wasstill life. A wall of life that never came to an end or a top. That wasthe one world for Erik. Hurl himself against it, higher, higher. Soartill the superfluous ones became little dots on a ribbon of streets. 

Tears came into her eyes. The strange world drifted away--a flutter offaces. A silence seemed to descend upon the streets as if their roaringwere not a noise but the opened mouth of a dumb man. Erik had come toher. Arm in arm, smiling tears at him she walked through the spinningcrowd in a path hidden from all snickering windows and revolving faces. A dream walk. These were her wings. 

Consciousness returned. She rubbed her eyes with the knuckles of herhands and laughed softly. She must not excite herself with hystericalworries. Wondering about Erik. There had been days when she had movedlike a corpse through the streets, a corpse always finding new andfurther deaths. Death days with her heart tearing at empty hours, withtime like a disease in her veins. Days before he had come. Now all lifewas in her. Why invent new causes of grief? She must talk sane words toherself. But the sane words bowed a polite adieu and putting on theirhats walked away and sat down behind the snickering windows. .. . Otherwords arrived quickly, breathlessly. .. . There was something in his eyesthat frightened, something that did not rest with her but seemed toreach on further. In the midst of their ecstasies his eyes, burning, unsatisfied, making her suddenly chill with fear, would whisper to her, "There is something more. " In each other's arms it was she who came toan ending, not he. His kisses, his "I love you, " were the clawing offingers high up on the wall. For her they were the obliteration, theending beyond life. 

The street unraveled itself about her with a bang of crowds and a whirlof flags, a zigzag of eyes like innumerable little tongues licking atthe air. The tension of her thought relaxed. She remembered that when hewalked in streets he was always making pictures. She thought of hiswords. .. . "It's a part of me that love hasn't changed, except toincrease. A pestiferous sanity keeps demanding of me that I translateincoherent things into words. The city keeps handing itself to me like ablank piece of paper to write on. And I scribble away. "

She would do as he did, scribble words over faces and buildings as shewalked. The city was a . .. A swarm of humanity. Swarm of humanity. MyGod, had she lost the power of thought? Imagine telling Erik, "A crowdof people I saw to-day reminded me of a swarm of humanity. " There was nosanity in her demanding words. Because there was no incoherence outside. Things weren't incoherent but non-existent. The city was no mystery. There was nothing to translate. It was an alien, superfluous world. Thatwas the difference between them. To Erik it was not alien orsuperfluous. Even in their ecstasies there was still a world for him, like some mocking rival laughing at him, saying, "You can embraceRachel. But what can you do to me? See if you can embrace me and swallowme with a kiss. .. . "

That's why he stayed away till eight o'clock, moving among men, writing, talking, doing work on the magazine. But there was nothing for her todo. She inhabited a world named Erik Dorn, a perfect world in whichthere was no room even for thought. 

Erik had written her a note from the office once . .. "my heart is adancing star above the graves of your absence. .. . " But that was almost alie because it was true only for one moment. Things occupied him thatcould not occupy her. 

Another block. Four more blocks. Noisy aliveness of streets that meantnothing. She thought, "People look at me and envy me because I'm in ahurry as if I had somewhere important to go. People envy everybody whois in a hurry to get somewhere. Because for them there are nodestinations--only halting places for their drifting. Perhaps I shouldgo home and paint something so as to have it to show him when he comes;or sit down somewhere and think up words to give him. I won't be able totalk to-night. I must just be . .. Without thinking . .. Of anything buthim. Why doesn't he sometimes mention Anna? Is he afraid it might offendme to remind me of Anna? Would it? No. Many people live in the world. Another woman lived in Erik Dorn and he was unaware of her as the skyis unaware of me. And she died. But she isn't dead. Only her world died. Her sky fell down. .. . "

Tears came to Rachel's eyes. Her hands clenched. .. . "Anna, Anna, forgiveme! I'm so happy. You must understand. .. . "

She felt a revulsion. She had thought something weak, silly. "Who isAnna that I must apologize to her? A woman. A woman Erik never loved. DoI ask apologies of her for having lived with him--kissed him?"

There was a luncheon appointment with Mary James. Mary would bring aman. Perrin, maybe. Mary always brought a man. Without a man, Mary wasincomplete. With a man she was even more incomplete. Mary insisted onlunching. Rachel hurried toward the rendezvous. She thought, "People canmake me do anything now. Mary or anybody else. I was able once to walkover them. Now they lead me around. Because nothing matters. And peopledon't sicken me with their faces and talk. They're like noises inanother room that one hears, sometimes sees, but never listens to orlooks at. They ask questions. And you sit in a secret world beyond themwith your hat and dress, properly attentive. "

Here was the hotel for the rendezvous. Mary out of breath, "Rachel! Hello! Wait a minute. Whee! What do you think you're doing?Pulling off a track meet or something? Been tryin' to catch up to youfor an hour. "

Rachel looked at her. She was a golden-haired monkey full of words. 

"Charlie's at the Red Cat. " A man. "We're going to lunch there. What inGod's name's the matter with you?" A pause in the thick of the crowd. "Heavens, Rachel, are you well? I mean. .. . "

Rachel laughed. If you laughed people thought you were making answers. 

They arrived at the Red Cat. Small red circular tables. Black walls. Apainstaking non-conformity about the decoration. A sprinkling of dinerssaying, "We eat, but not amid normal surroundings. We are emancipatedfrom normal surroundings. It is extremely important that we eat offlittle red circular tables instead of big brown square tables in orderto conform with our mission, which is that of non-conformity. "

Mary led the way to a table occupied by a tall, broad-shouldered youthwith a crooked nose and humorously indignant eyes. He resembled afootball player who has gone into the advertising business and remaineda football player. Mary referred to him with a possessive "Charlie. "

Charlie said, "Why do you always pick out these joints to eat in, Mary?Been sittin' here for ten minutes scared to death one of these femaleswould begin crawlin' around on the walls. There's a waiter here withlong hair and two teeth missin' that I'm goin' to bust in the nose ifhe doesn't stop. "

"Stop what, Charlie?'

"Oh, lookin' at me. .. . "

The luncheon progressed. Olives, watery soup, delicate sandwiches. .. . 

An air of breathlessness about Rachel seemed to discommode her friends. Charlie, piqued at her inattentiveness, essayed a volubility foreign tohis words. He was not so "nice a young man" as Hazlitt. But he boastedamong friends that girls had had a chance with him. They could staydecent if they insisted but he let them understand it wouldn't do themany good so far as marrying them was concerned because he wasn't out formatrimony. There was too much to see. 

Mary interspersed her eating with quotations from advanced literature, omitting the quotation marks. A slim, shining-haired girl--men adoredher hair--pretty-faced, silken-ankled, Mary had a mission in life. Itwas the utilizing of vivacious arguments on art, God, morals, economics, as exciting preliminaries for hand-holding and kissing with eyes closed, lips murmuring, "Ah, what is life?" Technically a virgin, but devotedexclusively to the satisfying of her sex--a satisfying that did notdemand the completion of intercourse but the stimulus of its suggestion, Mary utilized the arts among which she dabbled as a bed for artificialimmoralities. In this bed she had managed for several years to remain anadroitly chaste courtesan. Her pride was almost concentrated in herchastity. She guarded it with a precocious skill, parading it throughconversation, hinting slyly of it when its existence seemed for themoment to have become unimportant. Her chastity, in fact, had becomeunder skillful management the most immoral thing about her. She hadlearned the trick of exciting men with her virginity. 

The thing had become for her an unconscious business. After severalyears of it she evolved into a flushed, nervous victim of her owntechnique. She managed, however, to preserve her self-esteem by lookingupon the perversion of her normal sexual instincts into a species ofverbal nymphomania as an indication of a superior soul state. Radicalbooks excited her mind as ordinarily her body might have been excited byradical caresses. Amateur theatricals, publicity work for charitableorganizations, an allowance from her home in Des Moines, provided herwith a practical background. 

Charlie was her latest catch. Later he would hold her hand, slip an armaround her, press her breasts gently and with a proper unconsciousnessof what he was doing, and she would let him kiss her . .. While musicplayed somewhere . .. Preferably on a pier. Then she would murmur as hepaused, out of breath, "Ah, what is life, Charlie?" And if instead ofplaying the game decently Charlie abandoned pretense and made anadventurous sortie, there would ensue the usual dénouement . .. "Charlie. .. Oh, how could you? I'm . .. I'm so disappointed. I thought you weredifferent and that love to you meant something deeper and finerthan--just that. " And she would stand before him, her body alive with asexual ardor that seemed to find its satisfaction in the discomfiture ofthe man, in his apologetic stammers, in her own virtuous words; andreach its climax in the contrite embrace which usually followed and thewords, "Forgive me, dearest. I didn't mean. .. . Oh, will you marry me?"

These were things in store for Charlie. But he must listen first. Therewere essential preliminaries--a routine of the chase. Her trimly shodfoot crawled carefully against his ankle. There were really two types ofmen. Men who blushed when you touched their ankle under the table, andmen who pretended not to blush. Charlie blushed with a soup-spoon at hislips. He glanced nervously at Rachel but she seemed breathlessly asleepwith her eyes open--a paradoxical condition which baffled Charlie andcaused him to withdraw disdainfully from further consideration of her. 

Rachel, eating without hunger, was remembering an actress in vaudevillemaking a preliminary curtain announcement to her "Moments from GreatPlays" . .. "Lady Godiva accordingly rode na-aked through the streets ofCoventry, but, howevah, retained her vuhtue. .. . "

"Oh, but Charlie, you're not listening, " explained Mary. "I was sayingthat chastity in woman is something man has insisted upon in order toshow his capacity for waste. He likes the world to know that all hispossessions are new and that he can command the purchase of new thingsbecause it shows his capacity for waste by which his standard ofrespectability is gauged in the eyes of his fellows. .. . "

Charlie lent an ear to the garbled veblenisms and gave it up. Themutterings and verbal excitements of women in general were mysteriesbeyond Charlie's desire to comprehend. They had, for Charlie, nothing todo with the case. It was pleasing, though, to have her talk of chastity. Chastity had a connection with the case. It was closely related tounchastity. He nodded his head vaguely and focused his attention onquesting for the foot under the table that had withdrawn itself. Thelong-haired waiter with the missing teeth was an annoyance. He turnedand glowered at him. 

"Don't you think so, Rachel?" Mary pursued. 

A monkey chattering. Another monkey kicking at her toes under the table. A room full of monkeys and all the monkeys looking at her, talking toher, kicking her foot, inspired by the curious hallucination that shewas a part of their monkey world. Rachel laughed and eyes turned to her. People were always startled by laughter that sounded so sudden. Theremust be preliminaries to laughter so as to get the atmosphere preparedfor it. 

"Rachel, I'm talking to you, if you please. "

Mary, puckering her forehead very importantly, was informing her thatMary existed and was demanding proof of the fact. That was the secret ofpeople. They didn't really exist to themselves until somebody recognizedthem and proved they were alive--by answering their questions. Peoplelived only when somebody talked to them--anybody. The rest of the timethey went along with nothing inside them except stomachs that grewhungry. 

She answered Mary, "Oh, there are lots of things you don't know. " Andlaughed, this time careful of not sounding too sudden. She meant therewas something that lived behind hours, there was a dream world in whichthe words and faces of people were ridiculously non-existent. But Marywas a literal-minded monkey and thought she was referring to quotationsfrom books superior to the ones she used. 

"Oh, is that so?" said Mary. 

Charlie, also literal-minded and still after the foot, echoed Rachel, "You bet your life it is. "

"And I suppose you know all about them, Miss Laskin. " Very sarcastic. Aninflection that had made her a conversational terror in the Des MoinesHigh School. 

Mary was always conscious of not having read enough and of thereforebeing secretly inferior to more omnivorous readers. She did not thinkRachel read much, but Rachel was different. Rachel was an artist andhad ideas. Mary respected artists and was always sarcastic toward them. It usually made them talk a lot--particularly male artists--and thusenabled her to find out what their ideas were and use them as her own. Nevertheless, despite her most careful parrotings the artists alwaysmanaged to have other ideas always different from the ones she stolefrom them. Fearing some devastating rejoinder from Rachel--Rachel wasthe kind of person who could blurt out things that landed on you like aton of bricks--she sought to fortify Charlie's opinion of her byreplacing her foot against his ankle. 

"Well, what are they, Rachel?"

What were the things Mary knew nothing about? A large order. Rachel'stongue began to wag in her mind. Stand up and make a speech. Fling herarms about. High-sailing words. Absurd! A laugh would answer. Laughsalways answered. Rachel laughed. She would suffocate among such people, exasperating strangers with inquisitive faces and nervous feet. 

At the conclusion of the luncheon Charlie had reached a new stage in hisamorous maneuverings. He had paid no further attention to Rachel, although vividly conscious of her. But Mary offered definite horizons. Abird in the hand. There was something exciting about Mary not to beencountered in the Junos and Aphrodites of his cabaret quests. Maryappeared virtuous--and yet promised otherwise. She used frankwords--lust, chastity, virginity, sexuality. Charlie quivered. Thewords sticking out of long, twisted sentences, detached themselves andcame to him like furtively indecent caresses. Mary promised. So heagreed to go with her to the Players' Studio where she was rehearsing insome kind of nut show. 

"You must come too, Rachel. Frank Brander has done some gorgeoussettings for the next bill. "

Long hours before eight o'clock. 

"I've got some important things on at the office, " Charlie hesitated. 

"Yes, I'll go, " Rachel answered. This, mysteriously, seemed to decideCharlie. He would go too. 

In the buzzing little auditorium of the Players' Studio, Charlieendeavored to further his quest. But the atmosphere seemed, paradoxically enough, a handicap. A free-and-easy atmosphere with menand women in odd-looking rigs sauntering about. The place was as immoralas a honky-tonk. Charlie stared at the young women in smocks and bobbedhair, smoking cigarettes, sitting with their legs showing. They shouldhave been prostitutes but they weren't. Or maybe they were, only hewasn't used to that kind. Too damn gabby. Mary had jumped up on thesmall stage and was talking with a group of young men and women. Hemoved to follow, but hesitated. He didn't have the hang of this kind ofthing. The sick-looking youths loitering around, casually embracing thegals and rubbing their arms, seemed to know the lingo. Charlie sat downin disgust and yielded himself to a feeling of stiffly superior virtue. 

In a corner Rachel listened to Frank Brander. 

"We've got quite a promising outfit here, Miss Laskin. Why don't youcome around and help with the drops or something? The more the merrier. We're putting on a thing by Chekov next week and a strong thing byElvenah Jack. Lives down the street. Know her? Oh, it isn't much. " Hesmiled good-naturedly at the miniature theater. "But it's fun. I'll showyou around. "

Rachel submitted. Brander was a friend of Emil Tesla. He drew things for_The Cry_. He had a wide mouth and ugly eyes that took things forgranted--that took her for granted. She was a woman and thereforeinterested in talking to a man. He held her arm too much and kept sayingin her thought, "We've got to pretend we're decent, but we're not. We'rea man and woman. " But what did that matter? Long hours before eighto'clock. 

On the stage Brander became a personality. A group of nondescript facesdeferred to him. A woman with stringy hair and an elocutionist's mouth, grew dramatic as he passed. They paused before Mary. Brander had stoppedabruptly in his talk. He turned toward Mary and stared at her until shebegan to grow pink. Rachel wondered. Mary wanted to run away, butcouldn't. Brander finally said shortly, "Hello, you!" His eyes blazedfor an instant and then grew angry. 

"Come on, Miss Laskin. " He jerked her and she followed. In the wingshalf hidden from the group that crowded the tiny stage Brander said, "Doyou know that girl?"

Rachel nodded. 

"She's no good, " he grinned. "I like women one thing or the other. She'sboth. And no good. I got her number. "

Rachel noticed that he had moved his hand up on her arm and was gentlypressing the flesh under her shoulder. He kept saying to her now in herthought, "I've got a man's body and you've got a woman's body. There'sthat difference between us. Why hide it?" His voice became soft and hesaid aloud, "Don't you like men to be one kind or the other? And notboth?"

Rachel looked at him blankly. She must pretend she didn't know what hewas talking about. Otherwise she would begin to talk. He was a man towhom one talked because he demanded it. His face, ugly and boyish, seemed to have rid itself of many expressions and retained a certainty. The certainty said, "I'm a man looking for women. "

Brander laughed. 

"Oh, you're one of the other kind, " he said. "Beg pardon. No harm done. Let's go out front. "

Out front in the half-lighted auditorium Brander suddenly left her. Shesaw him a few minutes later standing close to a nervous-voiced woman whowas saying, "Oh, dear! Dear me! I'll never get this part. I won't! Ijust know it!"

Brander was toying idly with a chain that hung about the woman's neck. He was looking at her intently. Mary approached, bearing Charlie along. She began whispering to Rachel, "That man's a beast. I hate him. Hethinks he's an artist, but he's a beast. You'll find out if you're notcareful. "

Rachel asked, "Who?"

"Brander, " Mary answered. 

Charlie interrupted, indignation rumbling in his voice, "A bunch of freaks, all of them. I don't see why a decent girl wants tohang around in a dump like this. "

He was more grieved than indignant. A woman with dark hair and longgypsy earrings had suddenly laughed at him when he sat down beside her. Mary patted his arm. 

"I know, Charlie. But you don't understand. My turn in a few minutes, Rachel. We'll wait here till the Chekov thing comes on. Do you knowFelixson? He's got a wonderful thing for the bill after this. Areligious play. Awfully strong. That's him with the bushy hair. You mustknow him. "

Charlie grunted. 

"You don't mean you act in this damn joint?"

"Oh, I'm just helping out for next week. It's lots of fun, Charlie. "

Rachel stood up suddenly from the uncomfortable bench seat. 

"I must go, " she murmured. "I'm sorry. "

Turning quickly she walked out of the place. Behind her Charlie laughed. "A wild little thing. "

Mary with her body pressed closely against him combated an influencethat seemed at work upon Charlie. 

"She's changed a great deal, poor girl, " said Mary. 

"What is she?"

"An artist. She says wonderful things sometimes. Awfully strong thingsand just hates people. "

"A nut, " agreed Charlie. 

"Oh, she's sort of strange. Puts on a lot, of course. " Mary feltuncomfortable. Rachel had managed to leave behind a feeling of theunimportance of everybody but Rachel. She was leaning against Charliefor vindication. His body, trembling at the contact, provided it; buthis words annoyed her. 

"Well, she's different from the gang in here--I'll say that for her. "

"Oh, let's forget her, " Mary whispered. "I don't like this place. Really, I . .. " She hesitated and thought, "Rachel thinks she'smysterious and enigmatic and everything, but she's an awful fool. Shecan't put it over on me. " Yet she sat, despite the vindication ofCharlie's amorous embarrassment, and wondered, parrot fashion, "Ah, whatis life?"

Outside Rachel was walking again. The memory of her meeting with Mary, of Brander's ugly appealing face that whispered frankly of his sex, wasdead in her. Little toy people playing at games. Erik hated them. Eriksaid . .. Well, it was something too indecent to repeat. She couldn't getused to Erik's indecent comparisons. But they were like that--the toypeople in the little toy village. She didn't hate them the way Erik did. Some of them were just playing. But there were others. Why think ofthem? Walk, walk. Just be. A perfect circle. .. . "There's nothing to do. I don't want anything. To-night he'll talk to me. And I'll make realanswers. " Why did she want to be kissed? Kisses were for people likeMary. "Oh, he'll kiss me and I'll become alive. "

It was late afternoon. Still, long hours before eight o'clock. Itpleased Erik when she told him how empty the day had been. But shemustn't harp too much on that. It would sound as if she were makingdemands on him. No demands. He was free. They weren't married. A crowdwas solidifying in 10th Street. She walked slowly, watching the peoplegathering at the corner. The office of _The Cry_ was there. Sheremembered this and hurried forward. 

Something was happening. An excitement was jerking people out of theirsilences. Blank, silent faces around her suddenly opened and droppedmasks. Bodies drifting carelessly up and down the street broke intorunnings. 

Around the corner people were shouting, pressed into a ball of wildfaces and waving arms. It was in front of the office of _The Cry_ thatsomething was happening. 

"Kill the dirty rascal! Make the son-of-a----kiss the flag!"

Words screeched out of a bay of sound. 

"Kill him! Kill the son-of-a---- String him up!"

On the edge of the ball that was growing larger and seeming about toburst into some wild activity, Rachel stood tip-toed. She could see twoburly-looking men dragging a bloody figure out of a doorway. Blooddropped from him, leaving stains on the top step. The two men weretwisting his wrists as if they wanted them to come off. Yet they didn'tact as if they were twisting anybody's wrists off. They seemed to bejust waiting. 

It was Tesla between them. His face was cut. One of his arms hung limp. Blood began to spurt from his wrists and drop from his fingers as if hewere writing something on the top step in a foolish way. At the sight ofhim the noises increased. The ball of faces grew angrier. Policemenswung sticks. They yelled, "Back, there! Everybody back!" Runners werecoming from all directions as if the city had suddenly found a place togo and was pouring itself into 10th Street. 

"Hey . .. Hey . .. They've got him!"

Nobody asked who, but came running with a shout. 

The street broke over Rachel. Tesla vanished. Roaring in her ears, facestumbling, lifting in a wildness about her. A make-believe of horror. Herthought gasped, "Where am I? What is this?" Her feet were carrying herinto the boiling center of a vat of bodies. Then she saw Tesla again, standing above them. A blood-smeared man with a broken arm, his headraised. But he was somebody else. 

Caught in the pack she became far away, seeing things move as with analmost lifeless deliberateness. Tesla's face was the center. His swolleneyes were trying to open. His paralyzed mouth was trying to form itselfback into a mouth. A mist covered him as if the raging street and themany voices focused into a film and hid him. Behind this film he wasdoing something slowly. Then he became vivid. He was shouting, "Comrades . .. Workers . .. "

A roar from the street concealed him and his voice. But the vividness ofhim lingered and emerged again. 

"Comrades!"

A fist struck against his mouth. His head wabbled. Another fist struckagainst his eye. The two men holding his wrists were striking into hisuncovered face with their fists. A gleeful, joyous sound went up. Rachelstared at the wabbling head of Tesla. The street laughed. Fists hammeredat an uncovered face. People were coming on a run to see. A bellclanged. Beside her a man shrieked, "Make him kiss the flag, the dirtyanarchist!"

Things slowed again. A film was over the scene. Tesla was being draggeddown the steps. His head kept falling back as if he wanted to go tosleep. Then something happened. A laugh, high like a scream, lit theair. It made her cold. The men dragging Tesla down the steps paused, andtheir fists moving with a leisureliness struck into his face, making nosound and not doing anything. It was Tesla who had laughed. The fistskept moving through a film. But he laughed again--a high laugh like ascream that lit the air with mystery. 

When the pack began to sift and sweep her into strange directions shefelt that Tesla was still laughing, though she could no longer hear him. The street became shapeless. Something had ended. A bell clanged away. People were again walking. They had dull faces and were quiet. Shecaught a glimpse of the step on which Tesla had stood behind a mist andcried, "Comrades!" She remembered often having stood on the step herselfin coming to the office of _The Cry_. This made her sicken. It was herwrists that had been twisted, her uncovered face that had been struckby fists. 

The emotion left her as a hand tugged eagerly at her arm. It pulled herup on the crowded curbing. 

"Good God, Rachel, what are you doing here?"

She looked up and saw Hazlitt in uniform. He kept pulling her. Whyshould Hazlitt be pulling her out of a crowd in 10th Street? She triedto jerk away. She must run from Hazlitt before he began talking. Hewould make her scream. 

Turning to him with a quiet in her voice she said carefully:

"Please let me go. You hurt my arm. "

But his hand remained. His eyes, shining and indignant, prodded ather. .. . The street was quiet. Nothing had happened. Unconsciousbuildings, unconscious traffic, faces wrapped in solitudes--these werein the streets again. She turned and looked with amazement at hercompanion. People do not fall out of the sky and seize you by the arm. There was something stark about Hazlitt pulling her out of the streetmob and holding her arm. He was an amputation. You pulled yourself outof a filth of faces and sprawled suddenly into a quiet, cheerful streetholding an arm in your hand, as if it had come loose from the pack. Itseemed part of some arrangement--Tesla, the pack, Hazlitt's arm. Heramazement died. Hazlitt was saying:

"I knew you'd be in that mob. I thought when I saw them haul that dirtybeggar out . .. "

He halted, pained by a memory. Rachel nodded. The curious sense ofhaving been Tesla came again to her. He had laughed in a way thatreminded her of herself. She would laugh like that if they struck at herface. Her eyes turned frightenedly toward Hazlitt. What was he going todo? Arrest her? He was in uniform. But why should he arrest her? Hiseyes had the fixed light of somebody performing a duty. He was arrestingher, and Erik would come home and not find her. Her lithe body becamepossessed of an astounding strength. With a vicious grimace she toreherself from his grip and confronted him, her eyes on fire. 

"Please, Rachel. Come with me till I can talk. You must . .. "

A white-faced Hazlitt, with suffering eyes. Then he was not arrestingher. The street bobbed along indifferently. 

"I'm going away in an hour. You'll maybe never see me again. But I can'tgo away till I've talked to you. Please. "

It didn't matter then. She would be home in time. And it was easier toobey the desperate whine of his voice then run into the crowd. He wouldchase after her, whining louder and louder. They entered a hotel lobby. Hazlitt picked out a secluded corner as if arranging for some rite. Hewas going to do something. Rachel walked after him, annoyed, indifferent. What did it matter? This was George Hazlitt--a name thatmeant nothing and yet could talk to her. 

Sitting opposite her the name began, "Now you must promise me you won'tget up and run away till I'm through--no matter what I say. "

She promised with a nod. She must be polite. Being polite was part ofthe idiotic penalties attached to adventuring outside her real world, inunreal superfluous streets. What had made Tesla laugh? His laugh had notbeen unreal. Almost as if it were a part of her. Blood dropping from hisfingers. A bleeding man. 

"I'm leaving for France, Rachel. I couldn't go away without seeing you. I've spent a week trying to find you and this morning they told me toinquire at _The Cry_. "

Was he apologizing for Tesla? She remembered the faces that had swept byin 10th Street. His had been one of them. Hazlitt had twisted Tesla'swrists and struck into his uncovered face. 

Rachel slipped to her feet and stared about her. A hand caught at herarm and pulled her into the chair. 

"You promised. You can't leave till you hear me. "

She sank back. 

"Give me five minutes. I'm unworthy of them. But I've found you and musttalk now. I can't go across without telling you. "

She looked up. Tears almost in his eyes. His voice grown low. He seemedto be whispering something that didn't belong to the sanity of the hotellobby and the two large potted palms in the corner. 

"I'm unclean. I've been looking for you to ask you to forgive me. "

Hazlitt's hands crept over his knees. 

"Oh, God, you must listen and forgive me. "

This was a mad monkey uttering noises too unintelligible for even anattentive hat, dress, and pair of shoes to make anything of. 

"Rachel, I love you. I don't know how to say it. There's something I'vegot to say. Because . .. Otherwise I can't love you. I can't love youwith the thing unsaid. "

He looked bewilderedly about him and gulped, his face red, his eyestortured. 

"It's about a woman. "

"Perhaps, " she thought, "he's going to boast. No, he's going to cry. What does he want?"

The sound of his voice made her ill. If he were going to make love whydidn't he start instead of gulping and covering his face and chokingwith tears in a hotel lobby as if he were an actor?

"I was drawn into it. I couldn't help it. One afternoon in my officeafter the trial. Then she kept after me. The thought of you has beenlike knives in me. I've loved you all through it and hated myself forthinking of you, dragging you into it. I dragged the thought of you downwith me. But she wouldn't let me go. God, I could kill her now. I brokeaway after weeks. She got somebody else. I've been living in hell eversince--on account of you. I'm unclean and can't love you any more. If ithadn't been for my going across I'd not have come to you. But the war'sgiven me my chance. I can't explain it. I went in to--to wipe it out. But I had to find you and tell you. I didn't want to think of dying andhaving insulted you and not . .. "

He stopped, overcome. Rachel was nodding her head. She must make ananswer to this. It was a riddle asking an answer. 

"For God's sake, Rachel, don't look like that. Oh, you're so clean andpure. I can't tell you. You're like a star shining and me in the mud. You've always hated me. But it's different now. I'm going to France todie. I don't want to live. If you forgive me it'll be easier. That's whyI had to talk, Rachel, forgive me. And then it won't matter whathappens. "

She let him take her hand. It was an easy way to make an answer. Adesire to giggle had to be overruled. The words he had spoken becameabsurd little manikins of words, bowing at each other, striking idioticpostures before her. But he had done something and for some astoundingreason wanted her to forgive him for what he had done. He was a fool. Animpossible fool. He sat and looked like a fool. Not even a man. 

Hazlitt raised her hand to his face. Tears fell on it. Rachel felt themcrawling warmly over her fingers. They were too intimate. 

"You make me feel almost clean again. Your hand's like something cleanand pure. If I come back. .. . "

He stared at her in desperation. He seemed suddenly to have forgottenhis intention to die in France. He recalled Pauline. Was he sorry? No. It was over. Not his fault. All this to Rachel was a ruse. Clever way toget her sympathy. Not quite. But he felt better. 

He became incomprehensible to Rachel. The things he had said--hisweeping, gulping--all part of an incomprehensible business. She noddedher head and looked serious. It was something that had to do with afar-away world. 

"Good-bye. Remember, I love you. And I'll come through clean because ofyou. .. . "

She held out her hand and said, "Good-bye. "

But he didn't go. Now he was completely a fool. Now there was somethingso completely foolish about him that she must laugh. The light in hisface detained her laughter. 

"You forgive me . .. For . .. "

She nodded her head again. It seemed to produce a magical effect--thisnodding of her head up and down. His eyes brightened and he appeared togrow taller. 

"Then if I die, I'll go to heaven. "

She winced at this. An unbearable stupidity. But Hazlitt stood lookingat her for an instant quite serious, as if he had said something noble. He saluted her, his hand to his cap, his heels together, and went away. 

The memory lingered. Hazlitt had always been incomprehensible. Hisstupidity was easy enough to understand. But something under it was amess. Now he was a fool. Stiff and idiotic and making her feel ashamedas if she were sorry for him. .. . Tesla came back and stood on a stepdropping blood from his fingers. Brander came back and whispered withhis ugly face. Hazlitt, Tesla, Brander--three men that jumped out at herfrom the superfluous streets. Like the three men in the park walkinghorribly across the white park in the night. .. . An idiot, a bleedingman, and an ugly face. But they had passed her and gone. They werethings seen outside a window. 

Her eyes looking at a clock said to her, "Two hours more. Oh, in twohours, in two hours!"

She sat motionless until the clock said, "One hour more, one more hour!"

Then she stood up and walked slowly out of the hotel. Things had changedsince she had left the streets. The strange world full of Marys, Hazlitts, and Teslas had added further superfluities. A band of music. Soldiers marching. Buildings waving flags and crying, "Boom, boom! wehave gone to war!. .. "

She came to her home. A red-brick house like other red-brick houses. Buther home. What a fool she had been to leave it. It would have beeneasier waiting here. She walked into the two familiar rooms filled withthe memory of Erik--two rooms that embraced her. Her hat fell on thebed. She would have to eat. Downstairs in the dining-room. Otherboarders to look at. But Erik would have eaten when he came. Hepreferred eating alone. 

Rachel took her place at one of the smaller tables and dabbled through aseries of uninteresting dishes. An admiring waitress rebuked her . .. "Dearie, you ain't eating hardly anything. "

She smiled at the waitress and watched her later bringing dishes to apurple-faced fat man at an adjoining table. The fat man was futilelyendeavoring to tell secrets to the waitress by contorting his featuresand screwing up his eyes. He reminded Rachel of Brander, only Brandertold secrets without trying. She finished and hurried out. She would behungry later, but it didn't matter. Erik would be there then. 

In the hallway Mrs. McGuire called, "Oh, Mrs. Dorn!"

Being called Mrs. Dorn always frightened her and made her dizzy. Shepaused. Some day Mrs. McGuire would look at her shrewdly and say, "You're not Mrs. Dorn. I called you Mrs. Dorn but I know better. Don'tthink you're fooling anybody. Mrs. Dorn, indeed!"

But Mrs. McGuire held out her hand. 

"A letter for your husband. Do you want to sit in the parlor, Mrs. Dorn?You know I want all my boarders to make themselves entirely at home. "

"Thank you, " said Rachel. "You're so nice. But I have some work to doupstairs. "

Escaping Mrs. McGuire was one of the difficult things of the day. Abuxom, round-faced woman in black with friendly eyes, Mrs. McGuire had ason in the army and a sainted husband dead and buried, and a childishfaith in the friendliness and interest of people. Rachel hurried up thestairs. In her room she looked at the letter. For Erik. Readdressedtwice. From Chicago. She stood holding it. It said to her, "I am fromAnna. I am from Anna. Words of Anna. I am the wife of Erik Dorn. "

Anna was a reality. Long ago Anna had been a reality. A backgroundagainst which the dream of Erik Dorn raised itself. She rememberedsitting close to Anna and smiling at her the first time she had visitedErik's home. Why had she gone? If only she had never seen Anna! Hertired, sad eyes that smiled at Erik. Rachel's fingers tightened over theenvelope. She laughed nervously and tore the letter. He was hers. Annacouldn't write to him. 

A pain came into her heart as the paper separated itself into bits inher fingers. She felt herself tearing something that was alive. It wascruel to tear the letter. But it would save Erik pain. . .. To readAnna's words, to hear her cries, see her sad tired eyes staring inanguish out of the writing--that would hurt Erik. 

She dropped the bits into the waste-paper basket and stood wide-eyedover them. She had dared. As if he had belonged to her. What would hesay? But he wouldn't know. Unless Mrs. McGuire said, "There was a letterfor you, Mr. Dorn. " Why hadn't she read the letter before tearing it up?Perhaps it was important, saying Anna had died. When Anna died Erikwould marry her. She would have children and live in a house of her own. Mrs. Rachel Dorn, people would call her. This was a dream. .. . Mrs. Rachel Dorn. He would laugh if he knew; or worse, be angry. But . .. "Oh, God, I want him. Like that. Complete. " Anna had had him like that. Theother thing. Not respectability. But the possession of little things. 

She would have to tell him about the letter. She couldn't lie to him, even silently. The clock on the dresser, ticking as it had alwaysticked, said, "In a half-hour . .. A half-hour more. "

She sprang from the bed and stood listening. 

Someone was coming down the hall. Strange hours fell from her. Now Erikwas coming. Now life commenced. The empty circle of the day was over. 

Her body grew wild as if she must leap out of herself. Her eyes hungdevouringly upon the blank door--a door opening and Erik standing, smiling at her. It was still a dream. It would never become real. Shewould always feel frightened. Though he came home a hundred thousandtimes she would always wait like now for the door to open with a fearand a dream in her heart. But why did he knock?

She opened the door with a feverish jerk. Not Erik. A messenger-boyblinking surprised eyes. 

"Mrs. Dorn?"

"Yes. "

"Sign here, second line. "

A blank door again. The message read:

"I'll be home late. Don't worry. ERIK. "

CHAPTER III

Warren Lockwood was a man who wrote novels. He had lived in the MiddleWest until he was thirty-five and begun his writing at his desk in areal-estate office of which he had been until then a somewhat bored halfowner. 

During the months Erik Dorn had been working on the staff of "the _NewOpinion_--an Organ of Liberal Thought, " he had encountered Lockwoodfrequently--a dark-haired, rugged-faced man with a drawling, high-pitched masculine voice. Dorn liked him. He talked in the manner ofa man carefully focusing objects into range. Lockwood was aware he hadgotten under the skin of things. He talked that way. 

The change from the newspaper to the magazine continued, after severalmonths, to irritate Dorn. The leisureliness of his new work aggravated. There was an intruding sterility about it. The _New Opinion_ was aweekly. From week to week it offered a growing clientèle finalities. There were finalities on the war, finalities on the social unrest;finalities on art, life, religion, the past, present, and future. Acock-sure magazine, gently, tolerantly elbowing aside the mysteries ofexistence and holding up between carefully manicured thumb andforefinger the Gist of the Thing. The Irrefutable Truth. The PerfectDeduction. 

There were a number of intelligent men engaged in the work of writingand editing the periodical. They seemed all to have graduated from anidentical strata. Dorn, becoming acquainted with them, found themintolerable. They appealed to him as a group of carefully tailoredAbstractions bombinating mellifluously in a void. The precision of logicwas in them. The precision of even tempers. The precision of aloof eyesfastened upon finalities. Theoretical radicals. Theoreticalconservatives. Theoretical philosophers. Any appellation preceded by theadjective theoretical fitted them snugly. Of contact with thehurdy-gurdy of existence which he as a journalist felt under the ideasof the day, there was none. Life in the minds of the intellectual staffof the _New Opinion_ smoothed itself out into intellectual paragraphs. And from week to week these paragraphs made their bow to the public. Mannerly admonitions, courteous disapprovals. A style borrowed from thememory of the professor informing a backward class in economics what theexact date of the signing of the Magna Charta really was. 

Lockwood was the exception. He wrote occasional fictional sketches forthe magazine. Dorn had been attracted to him at first because of thecurious intonations of his voice. He had not read the man'snovels--there were four of them dealing with the Middle West--but in therepressed sing-song of his voice Dorn had sensed an unusual character. 

"He's a good writer, an artist, " he thought, hearing him talking toEdwards, one of the editors. "He talks like a lover arguing patientlyand gently with his own thoughts. "

After that they had walked and eaten together. The idea of WarrenLockwood being a lover grew upon Dorn. Of little things, of thingsseemingly unimportant and impersonal, the novelist talked as he wouldhave liked to talk to Rachel--with a slow simplicity that caressed hissubjects and said, "These are little things but we must be careful inhandling them, for they're a part of life. " And life was important. People were tremendously existent. Dorn, listening to the novelist, would watch his eyes that seemed to be always adventuring among secrets. 

Once he thought, "A sort of mother love is in him. He keeps trying tosay something that's never in his words. His thoughts are like a lover'sfingers stroking a girl's hair. That's because he's found himself. Hefeels strong and lets his strength come out in gentleness. He's foundhimself and is trying to shape secrets into words. "

In comparing Lockwood with the others on the staff of the magazine heexplained, "There's the difference between a man and an intellect. Warren's a man. The others are a group of schoolboys reducing life tolessons. "

There grew up in Dorn a curious envy of the novelist. He would think ofhim frequently when alone, "The fellow's content to write. I'm not. He'sfound his way of saying what's in him, getting rid of his energies andlove. I haven't. He feels toward the world as I do toward Rachel. Anoverpowering reality and mystery are always before him; but it gives hima mental perspective. What does Rachel give me? Desires, ambitions--asort of laughing madness that I can't translate into anything butkisses. I'm cleverer than I was before. I talk and write better. There'sa certain wildness about things as if I were living in a storm. Yes, Ihave wings, but there's no place to fly with them. Except into her arms. There must be something else. "

And he would rush through the day, outwardly a man of inexhaustibleenergies, stamping himself upon the consciousness of people as abrilliant, dominating personality. Edwards, with whom he discussedmatter for editorials and articles, had grown to regard him with awe. 

"I've never felt genius so keenly before, " Edwards explained him toLockwood. "The man seems burning up. Did you read his thing on Russiaand Kerensky? Lord, it was absolutely prophetic. "

Lockwood shook his head. 

"Dorn's too damn clever, " he drawled. "Things come too easily to him. He's got an eye but--I can't put my finger on it. You see a fella's gotto have something inside him. The things Erik says cleverly andprophetically don't mean anything much, because they don't mean anythingto him. He makes 'em up as he goes along. "

Edwards disagreed. He was a younger man than Lockwood, with animpressionable erudition. Like his co-workers he had been somewhatstampeded by Dorn's imitative faculties, faculties which enabled theformer journalist to bombinate twice as loud in a void three times asgreat as any of his colleagues. 

"Well, I've met a lot of writing men since I came East, " he said. "AndDorn's the best of them. He's more than a man of promise. He's openedup. Look what he's done in the new number. Absolutely revolutionized theliberal thought of the country. You've got to admit that. He's a manincapable of fanaticism. "

"That's just it, " smiled Lockwood. "You've hit it. You've put yourfinger on it. He's the kind of man who knows too damn much and don'tbelieve anything. "

The friendship between Lockwood and Dorn matured quickly. The two men, profoundly dissimilar in their natures, found themselves launched upon agrowing intimacy. To Lockwood, heavy spoken, delicate sensed, naïvedespite the shrewdness of his forty-five years, Erik Dorn appealed assome exotic mechanical contrivance might for a day fascinate andbewilder the intelligence of a rustic. And the other, in the midst ofmagnificent bombinations that amazed his friend, thought, "If I onlyhad this man's simplicity. If on top of my ability to unravel mysteriesinto words I could feel these mysteries as he does, I might dosomething. "

At other times, carried away by the strength of his own nature, he wouldfind himself looking down upon Lockwood. "I'm alive. He's static. I liveabove him. There's nothing beyond me. I can't feel the things out ofwhich he makes his novels, because I'm beyond them. "

He would think then of Lockwood as an eagle of a rustic painstakinglyhoeing a field. On such days the disquiet would vanish from Dorn'sthought. He would feel himself propelled through the hours as if by someirresistible wind of which he had become a part. To live was enough. Tolive was to give expression to the clamoring forces in him. To sweepover Edwards, hurl himself through crowds, pulverize Warren, bang outastounding fictions on the typewriter, watch the faces of acquaintanceslight up with admiration as he spoke--this sufficed. The worldgalvanized itself about him. He could do anything. He could give visionto people, create new life around him. This consciousness sufficed. Thento rush home from a triumphant day, a glorious contempt for his fellowslingering like wine in his head--and find Rachel--an eagle waiting in anest. 

Joy, then, become a mania. Desires feeding upon themselves, devouringhis body and his senses and hurling him into an exhausted sleep as ifdeath alone could climax the madness of his spirit--these Dorn knew inthe days of his strength. 

But the days of disquiet came, confronting him like skeletons in themidst of his feastings upon life. The ecstasy he felt seemed suddenly toturn itself inward and demand of him new destinations. On such days hehad fallen into the habit of going upon swift walks through the lesscrowded streets of the city. During his walking he would mutter, "Whatcan I do? What? Nothing. Not a thing. " As if secret voices were debatinghis destiny. 

Restless, vicious spoken, venting his strainings in a skyrocket burst ofphrases upon the inanity and stupidity of his fellow creatures for whichhe seemed to possess an almost uncanny vision, he fled through thesedays like the victim of some spiritual satyriasis. No longer a wind athis heels riding him into easy heights, he found himself weighted downwith his love, and strangely inanimate. 

The direction in which he was moving loomed sterilely before him. Hislove itself seemed a feverishly sterile thing. His work upon themagazine, his incessant exchange of intolerant adjectives with admiringstrangers--these became absurdly petty gestures, absurdly insufficient. There was something else to do. As he had longed for Rachel in the blackdays before their coming together, he longed now for this somethingelse. Without name or outline, it haunted him. Another face of stars, but this time beyond his power to understand. Yet it demanded him, asRachel had demanded him, and towards it he turned in his days ofdisquiet, inanimate and bewildered. 

"I must find something to do, " he explained to himself, "that will giveme direction. People must have a monomania as a track for their living, or else there is no living. "

Then, as was his custom, he would begin an unraveling of the notion. 

"Men with energies in them wed themselves quickly to some consumingproject, even if it's nothing more than the developing of a fish market. Rachel isn't a destination. She's a force that fills me with violenceand I have no direction in which to live to use this violence. I don'tknow what to do with myself. So I'm compelled to live in the violenceitself. In a storm. A kind of Walkyrie on a broomstick. But, good God, what else is there? Sit and scribble words about fictitious characters. Bleat out rhapsodies. Art is something I can spit out in conversation. If I do anything it's got to be something too difficult for me to do. Mydamned cleverness puts me beyond artists who find a destination fortheir energies in the struggle to achieve the thing with which I begin. If not art, then what? War, politics, finance. All surfaces meaningnothing. If I did them all there'd still be something I hadn't done. Iwant something that's not in life. Life's too damned insufficient. Iwant something out of it. "

Rachel had thought at first that his fits of brooding restlessness camefrom a memory of Anna. But phrases he had blurted cut half-consciouslyhad given her a sense of their causes. The thought of Anna had died inhim. Neither consciousness of her suffering nor memory of the years theyhad lived together had yet awakened in him. He had been moving since thenight he had walked out of his home and there had been no looking back. 

Undergoing a seeming expansion of his powers, Erik Dorn had become astartling, fascinating figure in the new world he had entered. Theflattery of men almost as clever as himself, the respect, appreciationof political, literary, and vaguely social circles, of stolid men andeccentric acquaintances, were continually visited upon him. He was apersonality, a figure to enliven dinner parties, throw a glamour and afever into the enervated routine of sets, cliques, and circles. 

He had made occasional journeyings alone and sometimes with Rachel intothe homes of chance acquaintances, and had put in fitful appearances atthe various excitements pursued by the city's more radicalintelligentsia--little-theater premiers, private assemblings of shrewd, bored men and women, precious concerts, electric discussions ofpolitical unrest. From all such adventurings he came away with a senseof distaste. Friendships, always foreign to his nature, had become nowalmost an impossibility. He felt himself a procession of adjectivesexploding in the ears of strangers. 

With Warren Lockwood alone he had been able to achieve a contact. Inthe presence of the novelist there was a complement of himself both inthe days of his disquiet and strength. Together they took to frequentingodd parts of the city, visiting lonely cafés and calling upon strangersknown to the novelist. The man's virile gentleness soothed him. He wasnever tired of watching the turns of his naïveté, delighting as much inhis friend's unsophisticated appreciation of the arts as in the vividsimplicity of his understanding of people and events. 

He had finished a stormy conference with the directors of the magazineon the subject of a new editorial policy toward Russia--new editorialpolicies toward Russia had become almost the sole preoccupation of the_New Opinion_--when Lockwood arrived at the office, resplendent in theatrocities of a new green hat and lavender necktie. 

"There's a fella over on the east side you ought to meet, " Lockwoodexplained. "I was going over there and thought you'd like to comealong. "

He leaned over, seriously confidential. 

"If you can lay off a while in this business of revolutionizing theliberal thought of the whole country, Erik, I'll tell you something. Between you and me, this man we're going to see is the greatest artistin America. I know. "

Lockwood waved his hand casually as if dismissing once and for all anavalanche of contradictions. Dorn hesitated. It was one of his days ofdisquiet; and he had left a note with Rachel saying he would be home ateight. It was now six. 

"If you've got a date, " went on Lockwood, "call it off. Lord, man, youcan't afford missing the greatest artist in the world. "

Dorn frowned. He might telephone. But that would mean explanations andthe pleading sound of a voice saying, "Of course, Erik. " He would send amessage, and scribbled it on a telegraph blank:

"I'll be home late. Don't worry. 

"ERIK. "

"We'll make a night of it, " he laughed. 

Lockwood looked at him, shrewdly affectionate. 

"What you need, " he spoke, "is a good drink and some fat street woman toshake you out of it. You look kind of tied up. "

"I am, " grinned Dorn. "Wound up and ready to bust. "

Lockwood nodded his head slowly. 

"Uh-huh, " he said, as if turning the matter over carefully in histhought. "Why don't you buy a new hat like I do when I get feeling sortof upside down? Buying a new hat or tie straightens a man out. Come on!"He laughed suddenly. "This artist's name is Tony. He's an oldman--seventy years old. "

They entered the street, Lockwood watching his companion with dark, fixed eyes as if he were slowly arriving at some impersonal diagnosis. 

"A lot of fools, " he announced abruptly, waving his hand at the crowds. "They don't know that something important's happening in Russia. " Hepronounced it Rooshia. Dorn saw his eyes kindle with a kindliness as hedenounced the rabble about them. 

"What do you figure is happening in Rooshia?" he inquired of thenovelist. 

"I don't figure, " smiled Lockwood. "I feel it. Something important thatthese newspaper Neds around this town haven't got any conception of. It's what old Carl calls the rising of the proletaire. " He chuckled. "Old Carl's sure gone daft on this proletaire thing. " His face abruptlyhardened, the rugged features becoming set, the swart eyes paying afar-away homage. "But old Carl's a great poet--the greatest in America. God, but that old boy can write!"

Dorn nodded. In the presence of the novelist the unrest that had heldhim by the throat through the day seemed to ebb. There was companionshipin the figure beside him. They walked in silence for several blocks. Theday was growing dark quickly and despite the crowds in the streets, there seemed an inactivity in the air--the wait of a storm. 

Into a ramshackle building on the corner of a vivaciously ugly streetLockwood led his friend in quest of the greatest artist. An old man in askull cap, woolen shirt, baggy trousers and carpet slippers appeared ina darkened doorway. With his long white beard he stood bent andrheumatic before them, making a question mark in the gloom of the hall. 

"Hello, Tony, " Lockwood greeted him. "I've brought a friend of minealong to look at your works. "

The old man extended thin fingers and nodded his head. Dorn entered alarge room that reminded him of a tombstone factory. Figures in clay, some broken and cracked, cluttered up its floor and walls. In a cornerpartly hidden behind topsy-turvy busts and more figures was a cot with ablanket over it. Dorn after several minutes of silence, lookedinquiringly at his friend. The works of art, despite an obvious vigor ofexecution, were openly banal. 

"He's got some more in the basement, " announced Lockwood with an air oftriumph. "And there's some stuck away with the family upstairs. Thewhole street here's full of his works. "

The old man nodded. 

"He doesn't talk much English, " went on Lockwood. "But I'll tell youabout him. I got the story from him. He's the greatest artist in theworld. "

As Dorn moved politely from figure to figure, the old man like a museummonitor at his heels, Lockwood went on explaining in a caressingsing-song:

"This old boy came to New York when he was in his twenties. And he'sbeen living here ever since and making statues. He's working right nowon a statue of some general. Been working for fifty years withoutstopping, and there's nobody in this town ever heard of him or come nearhim. Get this picture of this old boy, Erik, buried in this hole forfifty years making statues. Working away day after day without anybodycoming near him. I brought a sculptor friend of mine who kept squintingat some of the things the old boy did when he first came over andsaying, 'By God, this fella was an artist at one time. ' Get the pictureof this smart-aleck sculptor friend of mine saying this old boy was anartist. "

The eyes of Warren Lockwood grew hard and seemed to challenge. Heextended his arm and waved his hand gently in a further challenge. 

"The fools in this town let this old boy stay buried, " he whispered, "but he fooled them. He kept right on making statues and giving themaway to the folks that live around here and hiding them in the basementwhen there wasn't anybody to take them. "

Lockwood grasped the arm of his friend excitedly and his voice becamehigh-pitched. 

"Don't you get this old man?" he argued. "Don't you get the figure ofhim as an artist? Lord, man, he's the greatest artist in the world, Itell you!"

Dorn nodded his head, amused and disturbed by the novelist's excitement. The old sculptor was standing in the shadow of the figures piled on topof each other against the wall. He wore the air of a man just awakenedand struggling politely to grasp his surroundings. 

"A sort of altruistic carpenter, " thought Dorn. "That's what Warrencalls an artist. Works diligently for nothing. "

The respect and awe in the eyes of his friend halted him. 

"Yes, I get him, " he added aloud. "Living with a dream for fifty years. "

Lockwood snorted and then with a quiet laugh answered: "No, that isn'tit. You're not an artist yourself so you can't quite get the sense ofit. " He seemed petulent and defeated. 

They left the old man's studio without further talk. It had started torain. Large spaced drops plumbed a gleaming hypotenuse between therooftops and the streets. They paused before a basement restaurant. 

"It looks dirty, " said Lockwood, "but let's go in. "

Here they ordered dinner. During their eating the noise of thundersounded and the splash of the storm drifted in through the dustybasement windows. A thick-wristed, red-fingered waitress slopped backand forth between their table and an odorous kitchen door. Lockwood kepthis eyes fastened steadily upon the nervous features of his friend. Hethought as the silence increased between them: "This man's got somethingthe matter with him. "

Gradually an uneasiness came over the novelist, his sensitive nervesresponding to the disquiet in the smiling eyes opposite. 

"You're kind of crazy, " he leaned forward and whispered as if confidingan ominous, impersonal secret. "You've got the eyes of a man kind ofcrazy, Erik. "

He sat back in his chair, his hands holding the edge of the table, hischin tucked down, as if he were ruminating, narrow-eyed, upon someinvolved business proposition. 

"I get you now, " he added slowly. "I'll put you in a book--a crazy manwho kept fooling himself by imitating sane people. "

Dorn nodded. 

"Insanity would be a relief, " he answered. "Come on. "

He stood up quickly and looked down at his friend. 

"Let's keep going. I've got something in me I want to get rid of. "

In the doorway the friends halted. The grave, melodious shout of therain filled the night. The streets had become dark, attenuated pools. The rain falling illuminated the hidden faces of the buildings andsilvered the air with whirling lines. 

As they stood facing the downpour Dorn thought, "Rachel's waiting forme. Why don't I go to her? But I'd only make her sad. Better let it getout of me in the rain. "

Holding his friend's arm he stood staring at the storm over the city. Through the sparkle and fume of the rain-colored night the lights ofcafé signs burned like golden-lettered banners flung stiffly into thedownpour. About the lights floated patches of yellow mist through whichthe rain swarmed in flurries of gleaming moths. There were lights ofdoors and windows beneath the burning signs. The remainder of the streetwas lost in a wilderness of rain that bubbled and raced over thepavements in an endless detonation. 

He spoke with a sudden softness: "I didn't get your artist, Warren, butyou don't get this storm. It's noise and water to you. "

The novelist answered with a sagacious nod. 

"There's something alive in a night like this, " Dorn went on, "somethingthat isn't a part of life. "

He pulled his friend out of the doorway. They walked swiftly, theirshoes spurting water and the rain dripping from their clothes. Dorn feltan untightening. His eyes hailed the scene as if in greeting of afriend. He became aware of its detail. He smiled, remembering the way inwhich he had been used to hide his longing for Rachel in the desperateconsciousness of scenes about him. Now it was something else he washiding. Beneath his feet he watched the silver-tipped pool of thepavement. Gleaming in its depths swam reflections of burning lamps, likethe yellow script of another and wraith-like world staring up at him outof a nowhere. The rest was darkness and billowy stripes of water. Peoplehad vanished. Later a sound of thunder crawled out of the sky. A veinof lightning opened the night. Against its blue pallor the street andits buildings etched themselves. 

"Stiff, unreal, like a stage scene, " murmured Dorn. "Another world. "

The rain flung itself for an instant in great ghostly sheets out of thelighted spaces. He caught a glimpse in the distance of a hunched, movingfigure like some tiny wanderer through tortuous fields. Then darknessresumed, seizing the street. A wind entered the night outlining itselfin the wild undulations of the rain reaching for the pavements. 

Dorn forgot his companion, as they pressed on. Disheveled rain ghostscrowded around him. The fever that had burned in him during the dayseemed to have become a part of the storm. The leap and hollow blaze ofthe lightnings gave him a companionship. His eyes stared into theinanimate bursts of pale violet outlines in the dark. His breath drankin the spice of water-laden winds. The stumble of thunder, the lash andchurn of rain were companions. The something else that haunted him wasin the storm. He turned to Lockwood, who seemed to be lagging, andshouted in his ear:

"Great, eh? Altar fires and the racket of unknown gods. "

Lockwood, his face filmed with water, grunted indignantly:

"Let's get out of this. "

The night was growing wilder. Dorn's eyes bored into the vapors andsteam of the rain. 

"We're in a good street, " he cried again. "A nigger street. "

A blinding gust of light brought them to a halt. Thunder burst a horrorof sound through its dead glare. Dorn stiffened and stared as in a dreamat a face floating behind the glass of a door. A woman's face contortedinto a stark grimace of rapture. Its teeth stood out white andskull-like against the red of an open mouth. 

Silence and darkness seized the street. Rain poured. The sound of alaugh like some miniature echo of the tumult that had torn the nightdrifted to them. Lockwood had started for the door. 

"Come on, " he called, "this is crazy. "

Dorn followed him. The streaming door opened as they approached and twofigures darted out. They were gone in an instant and in pursuit of themrushed a rollicking lurch of sound. Dorn caught again the shrillstaccato of the laugh, and the door closed behind them. 

Dancing bodies were spinning among the tables. Shouting, swinging noisesand a bray of music spurted unintelligibly against the ears of thenewcomers. A chlorinated mist, acrid to the eye, and burning to thenose, crawled about the room. Dorn, followed by Lockwood, groped his waythrough the confusion toward a small vacant table against a wall. Fromhere they watched in silence. 

A can-can was in progress. The dancers, black and white faces gluedtogether, arms twined about each other's bodies, tumbled through thesmoke. Waiters balancing black trays laden with colored glasses siftedthrough the scene. At the tables men and women with faces out of focussat drinking and shouting. Niggers, prostitutes, louts. The slant of redmouths opened laughters. Hands and throats drifted in violent fragmentsthrough the mist. The reek of wine and steaming clothes, the sting ofperspiring perfumes and the odors of women's bodies fumed over thetumble of heads. Against the scene a jazz band flung a whine and astumble of tinny sounds. Nigger musicians with silver instruments gluedto their lips sat on a platform at the far end of the room. They dancedin their chairs as they played, swinging their instruments in crazycircles. A broken, lurching music came from them, a nasal melody thatmoaned among the laughters. 

Dorn's fingers lay gripped about the arm of his friend. His sensescaught the rhythm of the scene. His eyes stared at the dancing figures, blond heads riveted against black satin cheeks; bodies gesturing theirlusts to the quick whine and stumble of the music; eyes opening likemouths. 

"God, what an orgie!" he whispered. "Look at the thing. It's insane. Anigger hammering a scarlet phallus against a cymbal moon. "

His words vanished in the din and Lockwood remained with eyes drawn inand hard. When he turned to his friend he found him excitedly poundinghis fist on the table and bawling for a waiter. A man, seemingly asleepamid confusions, appeared and took his order. 

"There's a woman in here I've got to find, " Dorn shouted. 

"You're crazy, man. "

"I saw her, " he persisted, talking close to his friend's ear. "I saw herface in the door. You wait here. "

Lockwood seized his arm and tried to hold him, but he jerked away andwas lost in a pattern of dancing bodies. Lockwood watching himdisappear, frowned. He felt a sudden uncertainty toward his friend, afear as if he had launched himself into a dark night with a murderer fora companion. 

"He's crazy, " he thought. "I ought to get him out of here beforeanything happens. "

He sat fumbling nervously with the stem of a wine-glass. Outside, therain chattered in the darkness and the alto of the wind came in longorgan notes into the din of the café. He caught sight of Dorn pulling anunholy-looking woman through the pack of the room. 

"Here she is--our lady of pain!"

Dorn thrust the creature viciously into a seat beside Lockwood. Shedropped with a scream of laughter. The music of the nigger orchestra hadstopped and an emptiness flooded the place. Dorn bellowed for anotherglass. Lockwood looked slowly at the creature beside him. She waswatching Dorn. In the swarthy depths of her eyes moved threads ofscarlet. Beneath their lashes her skin was darkened as if by bruises. Anodd sultry light glowed over the discolorations. Her mouth had shut andher cheeks were without curves, following the triangular corpse-likelines of her skull. Her lips, like bits of vermilion paper, stared asfrom an idol's face. She was regarding Dorn with a smile. 

He had grown erratic in his gestures. His eyes seemed incapable offocusing themselves. They darted about the room, running away from him. The woman's smile persisted and he turned his glance abruptly at her. The red flesh of her opened mouth and throat confronted him as anotherof her screaming laughs burst. The laugh ended and her gleaming eyesswimming in a gelatinous mist held him. 

"A reptilian sorcery, " he whispered to Lockwood, and smiled. "The faceof a malignant Pierrette. A diabolic clown. Look at it. I saw it in thelightning outside. She wears a mask. Do you get her?" He pausedmockingly. Lockwood shifted away from the woman. Erik was drunk. Orcrazy. But the woman, thank God, had eyes only for him. She remained, ashe talked, with her sulphurous eyes unwaveringly upon his face. 

"She's not a woman, " he went on in a purring voice. "She's a lust. Nobrain. No heart. A stark unhuman piece of flesh with a shark's hungerinside it. "

He leaned forward and took one of her hands as Lockwood whispered, "Christ, man, let's get out of here. "

The woman's fingers, dry and quivering, scratched against Dorn's palm. He felt them as a hot breath in his blood. 

"What's the matter, Warren?" he laughed, emptying a wine-glass. "I likethis gal. She suits me. A devourer of men. Look at her!"

He laughed and glared at his friend. Lockwood closed his eyes nervously. 

"I've got a headache in this damned place, " he muttered. 

"Wait a minute. " Dorn seized his arm. "I want to talk. I feel gabby. Mylady friend doesn't understand words. " The sulphurous eyes glowedcaresses over him. "You remember the thing in Rabelais aboutwomen--insatiable, devouring, hungering in their satieties. The prowlinganimal. Well, here it is. Alive. Not in print. She's alive withsomething deeper than life. Wheels of flesh grinding her blood into ahunger for ecstasies. She's a mate for me. Come on, little one. "

He sprang from the table, pulling the woman after him. 

"Wait here, Warren, " he called, moving toward the door. It opened, letting in a shout and sweep of rain, and they were gone. 

"A crazy man, " muttered the novelist, and remained fumbling with thestem of his glass. 

Outside Dorn held the body of the woman against him as they hurriedthrough the storm. Her flesh, like the touch of a third person, struckthrough his wet clothes. 

"Where we going?" he yelled at her. 

She thrust out an arm. 

"Up here. "

They came breathless up a flight of stairs into a reeking room lightedby a gas jet. 

 * * * * * *

In the café, Lockwood waited till the music started again. Then he roseand, slapping his soggy hat on his head, walked out of the place. Therain, sweeping steadily against the earth, held him prisoner in thedoorway. He stood muttering to himself of his friend and his craziness. Gone wild! Crazy wild with a mad woman in the rain. Long ago he mighthave done it himself. Yes, he knew the why of it. The rain fuming beforehim made him sleepy. He leaned against the place and waited. The stormfaded slowly into a quiet patter. Starting for the pavement, Lockwoodpaused. A hatless figure had jumped out of a doorway across the streetand was running toward him. 

"It's Erik, " he muttered, and hurried to meet him. 

Dorn, laughing, his clothes torn and his face smeared with blood underhis eye, drew near. He took his friend's arm and walked him swiftlyaway. At the corner Dorn stopped and regarded the novelist. 

"I've had a look at hell, " he whispered, and with a laugh hurried offalone. Lockwood watched him moving swiftly down the street, and yawned. 

CHAPTER IV

It was near midnight. Rachel's eyes, brightened with tears, watched herlover bathing his face. 

"It seemed so long, " she murmured, "till you came. "

"That damned Warren Lockwood led me astray, " he smiled. He dried hisface and came toward her. She dropped to the floor beside him as he satdown and pressed her cheeks against his knees. His hands moved tenderlythrough her loosened hair. 

"You told me to be careful about getting run over, " she smiled sadly, "and you go out and get all cut up in a brawl. Oh, Erik, please--something might have happened. "

"Nothing happened, dearest. "

She asked no further questions but remained with her face against hisknees. This was Rachel whose hair he was stroking. Dorn smiled at thethought. After a silence she resumed, her voice softened with emotion:

"Erik, I've been lying to you--about my love. It's different than I saidit was. I've said always what you've wanted me to say. You've alwayswanted me to be something else than a woman--something like a dream. But I can't. I love you as--as Anna loved you. Oh, I want to be with youforever and have children. I'm nothing else. You are. I can't be likeyou. For me there's only love for you and nothing beyond. "

"Dear one, " he answered, "there's nothing else for me. "

"Now you're telling me lies, " she wept. "There is something I can't giveyou; and that you must go looking for somewhere else. "

"No, Rachel. I love you. "

"As you loved Anna--once. "

"Don't! I never loved Anna--or anyone. Or anything. "

"I can't help it, Erik. Forgive me, please. I love you so. Don't you seehow I love you. I keep trying to be something besides myself and to giveother names to the things I feel. But they're only sentimental things. My dreams are only sentimental dreams--of your kissing me, holding me, being my husband. Oh, go way from me, Erik, before I make you hate me!You thought I was different. And I did too. I _was_ different. Butyou've changed me. Women are all the same when they love. Differences goaway. "

She looked up at him with tear-running eyes. 

"Different than other people! But now I'm the same. I love you as anyother woman would. Only perhaps a little more. With my whole soul andlife. "

"Foolish to talk, " he whispered back to her. "Words only scratch atthings. I love you as if I had never seen you or kissed you. "

"But I'm not a dream, Erik. Oh, it sounds silly. But I want you. "

He raised her and held her lithe body close to him. The feeling that hewas unreal, that Rachel was unreal, rested in his thought. There was amist about things that clung to them, that clung about the joyousness inhis heart. 

"There's nothing else, " he whispered. "Love is enough. It burns upeverything else and leaves a mist. "

His arms tightened. 

"Erik dear, I'm afraid. "

His kiss brought a peace over her face. She had waited for it. Shelooked up and laughed. 

"You love me? Yes, Erik loves me. Loves me. I know. "

She watched his eyes as he spoke. The eyes of God. They remained open toher. She began to tremble and her naked arms moved blindly toward hisshoulders. 

"This is my world, " she whispered. "I know, Erik. I know everything. Youare too big for love to hold. The sun doesn't fill the whole world. There are always dark places. I know. Don't hide from me, lover. "

She smiled and closed her eyes as her lips reached toward him. 

The eyes of Erik Dorn remained open and staring out of the window. Therewas still rain in the night. 

CHAPTER V

Erik Dorn to Rachel, September, 1918:

" . .. And to-night I remember you are beautiful, and I desire you. Myarms are empty and there is nothing for my eyes to look at. Are youstill afraid. Look, more than a year has gone and nothing has changed. You are the far-away one, the dream figure, and my heart comes on wingsto you. .. . I write with difficulty. What language is there to talk toyou? How does one converse with a dream? Idiot phrases rant across thepaper like little fat actors flourishing tin swords. I've come todistrust words. There are too many of them. Yet I keep fermenting withwords. Interlopers. Busybody strangers. I can't think . .. Because ofthem. .. . Alas! if I could keep my vocabulary out of our love we wouldboth be better off. Foolish chatter. I thought when I sat down to writeto you that the sadness of your absence would overcome me. Instead, I amamused. Vaguely joyous. And at the thought of you I have an impulse tolaugh. You are like that. A day like a thousand years has passed. Dead-born hours that did not end. Chill, empty streets and the memory ofyou like a solitude in which I sat mumbling to phantoms. And now in thedarkness my heart sickens with desire for you and the night sharpensits claws upon my heart. Yet there is laughter. Words laugh in my head. The torment I feel is somehow a part of joyousness. The claws of thenight bring somehow a caress. Even to weep for you is like some darkhappiness whose lips are too fragile to smile. Dear one, the dream ofyou still lives--an old friend now, a familiar star that I watchendlessly. You see there are even no new words. For once before I toldyou that. It was night--snowing. We walked together. I remember youalways as vanishing and leaving the light of your face burning before myeyes. I shall always love you. Why are you afraid? Why do you writevague doubts into your letters? I will be with you soon. You are aworld, and the rest of life is a mist that surrounds you. .. . I havenothing to write. I discover this as I sit staring at the paper. Iremember that a year has passed, that many years remain to pass. Dearone, I know only that I love you, and words are strangers between us. "

 * * * * * *

Rachel to Erik, September end, 1918:

" . .. When I went away you were unhappy and restless. Now that I havegone you are again happy and calm. Oh, you're so cruel! Your love is socruel to me. I sit here all day, a foolishly humble exile, waiting foryou. I keep watching the sea and sometimes I try to feel pain. When yourletter comes I spend the day reading it. .. . I am beautiful and youdesire me. Oh, to think me beautiful and to desire me, suffices. You donot come where I am. Nothing has changed, you write with a joyouscruelty. In your lonely nights your dream of me still brings youtorments and I am a star that you watch endlessly. I laugh too, but outof bitterness. Because what you write is no longer true and we both haveknown it for long. I am no longer a dream or a star, but a woman wholoves you. Yes, nothing has changed, except me. And you remedy that bysending me away. When you send me away I too become unchanged in yourthought. I am again like I was on the night we parted in the white parkand you can love me--a memory of me--that remains like a star. .. . 

"But here I am in this lonely little sea village. There is no dream forme. I am empty without you and I lie at night and weep till my heartbreaks, wondering when you will come. It were better if I were dead. Iwhisper to myself, 'you must not write him to come to you, because he istoo busy loving you. He weeps before the ghost of you. He sits beside anold dream. You must not interrupt him. Oh, my lover, do you find me somuch less than the dream of me, that you must send me away in order tolove me? My doubts? Are they doubts? We have grown apart in the year. Onthe night it snowed and I went away from you you said, 'people burytheir love behind lighted windows. .. . ' Dearest, dearest, of what do Icomplain? Of your ecstasies and torments of which I am not a part, but acause? Forgive me. I adore you. I am so lonely and such a nobody withoutyou. And I want you to write to me that you long for me, to be with me, to caress me and talk to me. And instead you send phrases analyzing yourjoyousness. Oh, things have changed. I am no longer Rachel, but a woman. I feel so little and helpless when I think of you. Strangers can talk toyou and look at you but I must sit here in exile while you entertainyourself with memories of me. You are cruel, dear one, and I have becometoo cowardly not to mind. This is because I have found happiness--allthe happiness I desire--and hold it tremblingly. And you have not foundhappiness but are still in flight toward your far-away one, your dreamfigure. I cannot write more. I worship you and my heart is full oftears. I will sit humbly and look at the sea until you come. "

 * * * * * *

Rachel to Frank Brander, September:

" . .. I answer your letter only because I am afraid you wouldmisunderstand my silence. I send your letter back because I cannot throwit away. It would make the sea unclean. As you point out, I am themistress of Erik Dorn and he may some day grow tired of me, at whichtime you are prepared to be my friend and protect me from the world. Iwill put your application on file, Mr. Brander, if there is a part of mymind filthy enough to remember it. "

 * * * * * *

Rachel to Emil Tesla:

" . .. I was glad to hear from you. But please do not write any more. Iam too happy to read your letters. I never want to draw pictures for_The Cry_ again. I hope you will be freed soon. I can think of nothingto write to you. "

 * * * * * *

Erik Dorn to Rachel, November, 1918:

"DEAREST ONE!

"Beneath my window the gentle Jabberwock has twined colored tissue-paperabout his ears and gone mad. He shrieks, he whistles, he blows a horn. The war, beloved, appears to have ended this noon and the Jabberwock isendeavoring to disgorge four and a half years in a single shriek. 'Thewar, ' says the Jabberwock, in his own way, 'is over. It was a rottenwar, nasty and hateful, as all wars are rotten and hateful, andeverything I've said and done hinting at the contrary has been a lie andI'm so full of lies I must shriek. '

"Anybody but a Jabberwock, dear one, would have died of apoplexy hoursago. But the Jabberwock is immortal. Alas! there is something of pathosin the spectacle. Our gentle friend with tissue-paper around his earsprostrates himself before another illusion--peace. Says the shriek ofthe Jabberwock beneath my window, 'The Hun is destroyed. The menace tohumanity is laid low. The powers of darkness are dispelled by the breathof God and the machine-guns of our brave soldats. The war that is to endwar is over. Hail, blessed peace!'

"Why do I write such arid absurdities to you? But I feel an impulse toscribble wordly words, to stand in a silk hat beside the statue ofLiberty and gaze out upon the Atlantic with a Carlylian pensiveness. Idle political tears flow from my brain. For it is obvious that the warthe Jabberwock has so nobly waged has been a waste of steel and powder. Standing now on his eight million graves with the tissue-paper ofVictory twined about his ears, the Jabberwock is a somewhat ghastly, humorous figure. He has, alas! shot the wrong man. To-morrow there willbe an inquest in Paris and the Jabberwock will rub his eyes and discoverthat the corpse, God forgive him, is that of a brother and friend andthat the Powers of Darkness threatening humanity are advancing upon him. .. Out of Moscow. I muse . .. Yes, it was a good war. War is neverpathetic, never wholly a waste. Maturity no less than childhood musthave its circuses. But the Jabberwock . .. Ah! the Jabberwock . .. Thesoul of man celebrating the immortal triumph of righteousness . .. Thegood Don Quixote has valiantly slain another windmill and your SanchoPanza shakes his head in wistful amusement. 

"I did not send you this letter yesterday and many things have happenedsince I wrote it. I will see you in a few days. It has been decided thatI go to Germany for the magazine. Edwards insists. So do the directors, trusting gentlemen. I will stop at Washington and try to get twopassports and then come on to you, and we will wait together until thepassports are issued. Another week of imbecile political maneuverings inbehalf of the passports and I will again be your lover, "ERIK. "

CHAPTER VI

"We've been separated almost three months, " he thought, looking out ofthe train window. "I'll see her soon. "

There were four men in the smoking-compartment. They were discussing theend of the war. Dorn listened inattentively. He was remembering anotherride to Rachel. Looking out of a train window as now. Whirling throughspace. A locomotive whistle wailing in the prairies at night like thesound of winds against his heart. 

The memories of the ride drifted through his mind. He saw himself againwith the tumult of another day sweeping toward Rachel. What had he feltthen? Whatever it was, it was gone. For he felt nothing now but asadness. He had telegraphed. She would be waiting, her face alight, herhands trembling. He had started from Washington elatedly enough. But nowin the smoking-compartment where the men were discussing the end of thewar he felt no elation. He was thinking, "It'll be difficult when we seeeach other. " He became aware that he was actually shrinking from themeeting. The voices of the men about him began to annoy and he returnedto his seat in the train. 

Early evening. Another two hours and the train would stop to let himoff. Dear, dear Rachel! He had wept tormented by a loneliness for her. Now he was coming to her with sadness. There had been another ride whenhe had come to her in a halloo of storms. Things change. 

The porter brushed him and removed his grips to the platform. The farlights of a village sprinkled themselves feebly in the darkness. Thiswas where Rachel was waiting. 

Dorn stepped from the train. It became another world, lighted and human. He looked about the dingy little station. Rachel was walking toward him. 

"She looks strange and out of place, " he thought. 

They embraced. Her kisses covering his lips delighted him unexpectedly. He found himself walking close to her in the night and feeling happy. They entered a darkened wooden house and Rachel led the way upstairs. 

"I can't talk, Erik. "

She held his hand against her cheek. 

"No, don't kiss me. Let me look at you. Sit over here. I must look atyou. "

She laughed softly, but her eyes, unsmiling, stared at him. He remainedsilent. The sadness that had fallen upon him in the train returned nowlike a hurt in his heart. He had expected it to vanish at the sight ofher. But her kisses had only hidden it. She came to his side after apause and whispered gently, "Perhaps it would have been better if you hadn't come, dearest. I'vebecome almost used to being alone. "

He embraced her and for the moment the sadness was hidden again. Rachel's hands crept avidly to his face, holding his cheeks with hotfingers. 

"Erik, oh, Erik, do you love me? I'm not afraid to hear. Tell me. "

"Yes, dear one. You are everything. "

"What makes you cry?"

He kissed her lips. 

"I don't know, " he whispered. "Only it's been so long. "

"Oh, you are so sad. "

Her voice had grown thin. Her eyes, dry, burning, haunted the dark room. She removed herself from his arms and stood with her hand in her hair. She looked at the dark sea that mirrored the night outside the window. Turning to him after a pause she murmured:

"I had forgotten Erik Dorn was here. "

A sudden stride, the gesture of another Rachel, and she had thrownherself on the bed. 

"Oh, God!" she sobbed. "I knew, I knew!"

Dorn, kneeling on the floor, pulled her head toward him. He whisperedher name. Why was he sad, frightened? A thought was murmuring in him, "You must love her. "

"Rachel, I love you. Please. Your tears. Dearest, what has happened?Tell me. "

"Don't ask that. " Her tears came anew. "But you come to me sad, as if Iwere no longer Rachel to you. "

The thought kept murmuring, "You must love her. .. . "

"Beautiful one, " he said softly, "you're weeping because something hashappened to you. "

The thought murmured, "because something has happened to you, not her. "

"No, no, Erik!"

"Then why? If you loved me you would be happy. "

Absurd sentences. They would deceive no one. 

A belated emotion overcame him. Now he was happy. His arms grew strongabout her. He would say nothing, but lie beside her kissing her untilthe tears ended. This was happiness. He watched her lips begin to smilefaintly. Her face touched him as if she had sighed. She whispered aftera long silence, "Oh, I thought you had changed. "

He laughed and pulled her to her feet. His head thrown back, his eyesamused and warm, he asked, "Do I seem changed now?"

He waited while she regarded him. Why was he nervous? Must he answer thequestion too?

"No, " she said, "you are the same. "

Her face shining before him. Her head quickly lifted. 

"I was a fool. Look, Erik, I am happy--happier than anybody on earth. "

She dropped to her knees, kissing his hand. 

"I am so happy, I kneel. .. . "

They stood together in the window and laughed. 

"There's a wonderful old woman here. We've talked a great deal, abouteverything, and you. You don't mind? To-morrow we'll lie all day on theshore. Oh, Erik. Erik!"

"We'll never be alone again, Rachel. "

"Never!" she echoed. 

CHAPTER VII

A calm had fallen upon Erik Dorn, an unconsciousness of self. Hesprawled through the sunny days, staring at the sea with Rachel orwalking alone to the fishing-boats at the other end of the village, orsitting with Mama Turpin, the old woman in whose cottage they lived. With Mama Turpin he held interminable talks that rambled on through thenight at times. Religion was Mama Turpin's favored topic. Her round bodyin a rocking-chair, her seamed, vigorous face raised toward the sky, theold woman would fall into a dream and talk quietly of her God. She wouldbegin, her voice coming out of the dark reminding Dorn of a girl. 

"Yes, I have always known this here one thing. Everybody must have areligion. Because there's something in everybody that's way beyond theirselves to understand. And there's nobody to give it to excepting God. Some God, anyways. .. . "

Rachel, sitting in the shadows, would listen with her eyes upon Erik. The fear that he had brought her was growing in her heart, making herthought heavy and her gestures slow. She would listen, almost asleep, tohis words. 

" . .. Yes, Mama Turpin, religion comes to all people. But not for long. We all get a flame in us at some time and it burns until it burns itselfout, and then we sit and forget to wonder about things. .. . "

Talk perhaps for her to understand. But why should he hint when wordsoutright were easier? Rachel carried questions in her heart. 

Among the fishermen Dorn listened sometimes to stories of great catchesand storms. He was usually silent watching them empty their nets on theshore and remove the catch into basins and pails. The men accepted hisinterest in their work with a pleased indifference. 

Rachel sometimes walked with him or stretched beside him on the sand. But he felt an uneasiness in her presence. Her eyes questioned himsilently and seemed to answer their own questions. 

Since the evening of his coming there had been no scenes. He wasgrateful for this. But the eyes of Rachel sometimes haunted him at nightas she lay asleep beside him. What spoke in her eyes? He felt calm whenalone, at peace with himself. But at night while she slept he wouldbecome sleepless and a sadness would enter him. Thoughts he did not seemto be thinking would move through his head. "Things pass. Years pass. The sea and the stars remain the same. But men and women change. Lifeeats into men and women--eats things away from them. .. . "

In his sadness there would come to him a memory of Anna. Thoughts ofAnna and Rachel would mingle themselves. .. . Anna had once lain besidehim like this. He remembered now. Her body was different fromRachel's--softer, warmer . .. A woman named Anna had lived with him. Nowa woman named Rachel. And to-morrow, what? There were yesterdays. Thesewere not sad. Things already dead were not so sad. But things that areto die. .. . 

His heart would grow weak, seeming to dissolve. Something unspoken inthe night. Tears in his heart. Calm in his thought. He would figure itout sometime. His words were alert little busy-bodies. They could followthings into difficult crevices. But was there anything to figure out? Hewas growing old and a to-morrow was haunting him. Some day he wouldclose his eyes slowly and in the slow closing of his eyes the worldwould end. Erik Dorn would have ended. Was there such a thing as ending?Yes, things were always ending. Now he was different than the night hehad lain beside Rachel and whispered, "You have given me wings. " Buthow? He felt the same. Change came like that. Leaving one the same. Hewould write things from Europe that would startle. He could write. .. . But, something unspoken in the night. He must say it to himself. .. . "Youmust love her. .. . " Then that was it. He no longer loved her. 

He lay listening to her breathing. An end to his love. Preposterousnotion! How, since the thought of parting from her wrenched at hisheart? "If I went away from Rachel I would die. " Unquestionablysincere. .. . "I'd die. " Not, of course, die. But feel death. Yet, therewas something changed. But a man doesn't remain an ecstatic lover. Therecomes a time. Well, he loved her like this--quietly, happily, and if hewent away from her he would feel an end had come to his life. The otherlove had been words flying in his head. Nice to have felt as he had. Butlife--practical, material rush of hours. Words had flown in his headonce. He smiled. "Wings, what are they?" He remembered having spoken andthought a great deal about wings. Now the idea seemed somewhat absurd. They were not a part of life. Inventions. An invention. A phrase toexplain an unusual state of physical and mental excitement. .. . Sleepintruded and the sadness melted out of him. As he closed his eyes hishand reached dreamily for Rachel and lay upon her shoulder. 

A week of silence followed. Dorn talked. Politics, economics, the comingpeace treaty. Rachel listened and made replies. Yet their words seemedonly the part of a silence between them. A letter from Washingtoninterrupted them. A passport was being issued for Erik Dorn, but thebureau was not issuing passports for women and would have to deny Mrs. Rachel Dorn . .. "enclosed please find $1 deposit made for Mrs. Dorn atthis office. "

"Well, that ends it, " he laughed. "Perhaps I shouldn't have lied aboutyour being Mrs. Dorn. God is a jealous God and punishes liars. "

"You must go on, " Rachel said. "Perhaps I'll get one later. "

"No, we'll both wait. I couldn't go without you. "

Rachel regarded him tenderly. They were sitting on Mama Turpin's porch. 

"Yes, you will, " she said. 

He shook his head, pleased at the opportunity for sacrifice. He hoped ashe smiled that Rachel would plead with him to go alone. In her pleadingshe would point out all the things he was giving up by not going. Shemight even say, "You must go, Erik. You can't sacrifice your career. "

Then he could shrug his shoulders, remain silent for a moment as ifweighing his career beside his love for her, and smile suddenly and say, gently, "No. It's ended. Please, it's ended and forgotten. " A laugh, abit too casual, would leave the thing on the proper plane. Later therewould be times when he could grow thoughtful and abstract and Rachel, looking at him, would know that he had sacrificed--his career. 

On Mama Turpin's porch Dorn's thoughts rambled in silence. Rachel hadsaid nothing. He looked at her and grew confused before the straightnessof her eyes, as if she knew the tawdry little plot moving through hismind. Then an irritation . .. Why didn't she plead? Did she think it wasnothing to give up his plans? Was it anything? No. He endeavored toevade his own questioning, but his thoughts mocked him with answers. .. . "I'm playing a game with her. I want her to feel sorry and grateful formy not going and to feel that I've made a sacrifice for her. Because Icould cherish it against her . .. Later. Have something I could pretendto be sad about. It would give me an excuse to scold her. .. . Merely bylooking at her I could remind her that she is indebted to me for asacrifice. Make-believe sacrifice gives one the unconsciousness ofvirtue without any of its discomforts. I'm irritated because she refusesto play her part in the farce and so makes me seem cheap. She knows I'mlying but she can't figure out how or what about. So she looks at me andsays to herself, 'Erik has changed. He's different. ' She means that I'vebecome an actor and able to offer her cheap things. But she doesn't knowthat in words. "

As he sat thinking, an understanding of himself played beneath histhoughts. He was irritated with her. The passport business was somethinghe could hang his irritation on. It offered an opportunity to make thepetulant, indefinable aversion he sometimes felt toward her into anoble, self-laudatory emotion. 

He stood up abruptly. Make amends by being truthful and putting an endto the theatrics. .. . "Listen, Rachel, it's foolish for us to take thisseriously. I don't give a damn about going, and I never did. It wouldbore me. It means nothing to me, and it's no sacrifice or eveninconvenience. Please, I mean it. Put it out of your head. "

He leaned over and took her hands. 

"I love you. .. . "

Despite himself there was a note of sacrifice. He frowned. His "I loveyou" had startled him. He had said it as one pats a woman reassuringlyon the shoulder. More, as one turns the other cheek in a forgivingChristian spirit. He was not an actor. He had become naturally cheap. 

Rachel smiled wanly at him and kissed his hands. He noticed that shelooked thin about the face and that her eyes seemed ill with too muchweeping. He wondered when it was she wept. When she was alone, ofcourse. For a moment the thought of her flung across the bed and weepingstirred him sensually. Then . .. What made her cry so much? Good God, what did she want of him? He was giving up. .. . Again he frowned. "I'vebecome a cad, " he thought. "I can't think honestly any more. Thoughtsact themselves in my head. I've gotten to thinking lies and thinkingthem naturally without trying to lie. .. . "

"I'm going for a walk, " he announced, and went off toward the shorewhere the fishing-boats were drifting in becalmed. 

Mama Turpin came out on the porch. Rachel smiled at the old woman. 

"It's peaceful here, Mama Turpin. "

"Yes, honey. My work's all done for the day now. "

"Nothing ever changes here, " Rachel murmured. "The sea is just the sameas when I came. I think I'll be leaving soon, Mama Turpin. Mr. Dorn willstay on for a little while. I have some work I must get back to. "

She paused and shaded her eyes from the setting sun. 

"It's been wonderful down here. I'll never forget it. Perhaps some dayI'll come back to visit again. "

She arose and sighed. 

"What's the matter, honey?" the old woman asked, watching her. 

Rachel waited till her lips could smile again. Then she said:

"Oh, I hate to leave it here. But I have so much work to do. "

She entered the house swiftly. In her room she lay on the bed, her facein the pillow as if she were waiting for tears. But none came. She layin silence until it grew dark and she heard Erik outside asking MamaTurpin where she was. 

CHAPTER VIII

It was dawn when they awoke. Rachel opened her eyes first. A lassitudefilled her. She remained quiet for moments and then sat up and stared atErik. His face was flushed and he was sleeping lightly, his eyes almostopen. 

"Erik, " she whispered. When he looked at her she leaned over and kissedhim. 

"Last night was wonderful, " she murmured. 

He smiled sleepily. 

"I want to lie in your arms for just a minute. And then we'll get up, Erik. "

Her head sank against his shoulder and she remained with her eyesclosed. He murmured her name. Over Rachel's face a curious light spreaditself. She sat up and turned her eyes to him. 

"My dear one, my lover!"

Dorn regarded her with a sudden confusion. Her eyes and voice wereconfusing. Women were strange. Her eyes were large, burning, devouring. .. "I will be a shrine to you always. Let me look at you. I have neverlooked at you. .. . " Why was he remembering that? He felt himself growfrightened. Her eyes were saying something that must not be said. Hisarms reached out. Crush her to him. Hold her tightly. Sing his love toher. .. . 

She had slipped from the bed and was standing on the floor, shaking herhead at him. Her face seemed blank. Dorn sat up and blinked ludicrously. She had jumped out of his arms. He laughed. Coquetting. But her eyes hadbeen strange. .. . 

"Listen, Erik, do you mind if I spend the morning alone? I have someletters to write and things. Then I'll meet you on the beach and we'llgo swimming and lie on the sand together. Will you?"

He nodded cheerfully and swung himself out of bed. His calm hadreturned. The memories of the curiously abandoned, shameless Rachel ofthe night lingered for a moment questioningly and then left him. 

They ate breakfast together and Dorn strode off alone. He felt surprisedat himself. He had forgotten all about his trip to Europe. 

"The sun and the rest here are doing me good, " he thought. "I'm gettingnormal. But a little stupidity won't hurt. "

The morning slipped away and he returned to the beach from a walkthrough the village. It was early afternoon and the sands were deserted. The sea lay like a great Easter egg under the hot sun, a vast andinanimate daub of glittering blue, green, and gold. He seated himself onthe burning sand and stared at it. Years could pass this way and hecould sit dreaming lifeless words, the sea like a painted beetle's back, the sea like a shell of water resting on a stenciled horizon. A wind wasdying among the clouds. It had blown them into large shapeless virgins. Puffy white solitudes over his head. He looked down and saw Rachelcoming toward him. She was carrying a woolen blanket over her arms. 

She approached and appeared excited. Her face flushed. 

"Shall we go in?"

He nodded. Her voice disturbed him. He would have preferred her calm, gentle. Particularly after last night. She unloosened her clothesquickly and hurried nude toward the water. Dorn, after an uneasy surveyof the empty beach, watched her. In the glare of the sun and sand herbody seemed insistently unfamiliar. He would have preferred herfamiliar. He joined her and they pushed into the water together. Herexcited manner depressed him. 

"Let's swim, " he called. 

A blue, singing moment under the water and they were up, swimming slowlyinto the unbroken sheet of the sea. Rachel came nearer to him, the watersparkling from her moving arms. 

"Do you like it, Erik?"

He laughed in answer. Her head was turned toward him and he could seeher dark eyes smiling against the water. 

"Wouldn't it be nice, " she said softly, "to swim out together likelovers in a poem? Out and out! And never come back!"

Her voice, slipping across the water, became unfamiliar. They continuedmoving. 

"Yes, " he answered at length, smiling back at her. "It would be easy. And I'm willing. "

They swam in silence. He began to wonder. Were they going out and outand never coming back? Perhaps they were doing that. One might becomeinvolved in a suicide like that. He closed his eyes and his head movedthrough the coldness of the water. What matter? What was there to comeback to? All hours were the same. He might wait until a thousand morehad dragged themselves to an ending. Or swim out and out. When he grewtired he would kiss her and say, "It is easier to make our own endingsthan to wait for them. " The sun would be shining and her eyes would singto him for an instant over the water. 

"We'd better turn now, Erik. "

"No, " he smiled. "We're lovers in a poem. "

She came nearer. 

"Come, we must go back, Erik. "

"No. "

He answered firmly. It pleased him to say "no. " He felt a superiority. He could say "no" and then she would plead with him and perhaps finallypersuade him. 

"Not now, Erik. Some other time, maybe. .. . "

"But it would be a proper ending, " he argued. "What else is there? Youare unhappy. And perhaps I am too. Come, it will be easy. "

For a moment a fright came into him. She was not pleading. She wassilent and looking at him as they drifted. What if she should remainsilent? "I don't want to die, " he thought, "but does it matter?" Hewondered at himself. He had spoken of dying. Sincerely? No. But if sheremained silent they would keep swimming until there was nothing left todo but die. Then he was sincere? No. He would drown as a sort of casualargument. Good God! Her silence was asking his life. What matter? Hecared neither to live nor to die. He looked at her with an amused smilein his eyes. His heart had begun to beat violently. 

A sudden relief. She had turned and was swimming toward the shore. Hehesitated. Absurd to turn back too hurriedly. He waited till she lookedbehind her to see if he were coming. Her looking back was a vindication. She had believed then that he might go on, out and out. .. . He couldfollow her to the shore now. .. . 

The swim had exhausted them. Rachel threw herself on the sand, Dorncovering her with the blanket. They lay together, the whiteness and theblaze of the sky tearing at their eyes. Her hair had spread itself likea black fan under her head. 

The oven heat of the day dried the burn of the sun into a chalked andhammering glare--an unremitting roar of light that seemed to beat theworld into a metallic sleep. The sea had stiffened itself into a deadflame. Molten, staring sweeps of color burst upon their eyes with amassive intimacy. The etched horizon, the stagnant gleaming arch of thewater, and the acetylene burn of the sand gave the scene the appearanceof a monstrous lithograph. 

The figures of the lovers lay without life. Rachel had turned her headfrom the glare. Through veiling fingers Dorn remained staring at theveneer of isolation about them. Waves of heat crept like ghost firesacross the nakedness of the scene. He thought of the sun as a pilgrimwalking over the barren floor of an empty cathedral. Over him themotionless smoke-bellied clouds hung gleaming in the dead fanfare of thesky. He thought of them as swollen white blooms stamped upon a board. Asthe moments slipped, he became conscious that Rachel was talking. Hervoice made a tiny noise in the grave torpitude of the day. 

"It's like listening to singing, Erik. What are you thinking of?"

"Nothing. I like the way the heat tightens my skin and pinches. "

"Do you remember, " she asked softly, "once you said beauty is anexternal emotion?"

He answered drowsily, "Did I? I'm tired, dearest. Let's nap awhile. "

"No. I want to hear you talk just a little. "

He pressed his face into his arm, drawing his clothes carelessly overhim for protection. 

"I can't think of anything to say, Rachel, except that I'm content. Thesun brings a luxurious pain into one's blood. .. . "

"Yes, a luxurious pain, " she repeated quietly. "Please let's talk. "

"Too damn hot. "

"I always expect you to say things. As if you knew things I didn't, Erik. I've always thought of you as knowing everything. "

"Ordinarily I do, " he mumbled. 

"Wonderful Erik. .. . "

Flattery was annoying. There were times for being wonderful and timesfor grunting at the sand. 

"My vocabulary, " he mumbled again, "has curled up its toes and gone tosleep. "

His eyes grew heavy. 

Drowsily, "I'm an old man and need my sleep. "

He felt Rachel's hand reaching gently for his head. 

A cool gloom squatted on the sand about him when he opened his eyes. Thescene was a stranger. The sea and sand, dark strangers. His body feltstiffened and his skin hurt. He sat up and stared about with parchedeyes. 

The sun had gone down. A hollow light lingered in the sky, an echo oflight. He turned toward the blanket beside him. Rachel was gone. She hadleft the blanket in a little heap, unfolded. Why hadn't she wakened him?She must be on the beach somewhere, waiting. 

In the distance he saw the shapeless figures of the fishermen movingfrom their grounded boats. Staring about at the deserted scene he feltunaccountably sad. It would have been pleasant to have wakened and foundRachel sitting beside him. 

A sheet of paper was pinned on the blanket. He noticed it as he slippedpainfully into his shirt. He continued to dress himself, his eyesregarding the bit of paper. His heart had grown heavy at the sight ofit. 

When he was dressed he folded the blanket carefully and removed thenote. A pallor in his thought. Something had happened. He had fallenasleep under a glaring sun. Rachel stretched beside him. Now the glareof the sun was gone and the sea and the sand were vaguely unreal, dark, and unfriendly. The little blanket was empty. 

He sat wondering why he didn't read the note. But he was reading it. Heknew what it said. It said Rachel had gone and would never come back. Avery tragic business. .. . "You do not love me any more as you did. Youhave changed. And if I stayed it would mean that in a little whilelonger you would forget all about me. Now perhaps you will remember. "

Quite true. He had taught her such paradoxes. He would remember. Thatwas logical . .. "to remember how you loved me makes it impossible toremain with you. Oh, I die when I look at you and see nothing in youreyes. It is too much pain. I am going away. .. . Dearest, I have known fora long time. "

His eyes skipped part of the words. Unimportant words. Why read anyfurther? The thing was over, ended. Rachel gone. More words on the otherside of the paper. His eyes skimmed . .. "you have been God to me. I amnot afraid. Oh, I am strong. Good-bye. "

Still more words. A postscript. Women always wrote postscripts--thegesture of femininity immortalized by Lot's wife. Never mind thepostscript. Tear the paper into bits. It offended his fingers. Walk overto the water's edge and scatter it on the sea. 

He had lain too long in the sun. Probably burn like hell to-night. "Heregoes Rachel into the sea. " Soft music and a falling curtain. 

He read from one of the scraps. .. . "Erik, you will be gratefullater. .. . " Let the sea take that. And the "good-bye, my dear one. .. . " Apatch of white on the darkened water, too tiny to follow. Would she bewaiting when he came back to the room? No, the room would be empty. Acomb and brush and tray of hairpins would be missing from thedressing-table. 

A smile played over Dorn's face. His movements had grown abstract as ifhe were intensely preoccupied with his thoughts. Yet there were nothoughts. He walked for moments lazily along the water's edge kicking atthe sand, his eyes following the last of the paper bits still afloat. They vanished and he sighed with relief. .. . "It's all a make-believe. The sea, Rachel, the war. Things don't mean anything. Last night therewas someone to kiss. To-night, no one. But where's the difference. Nothing . .. Nothing. .. . Will I cave in or keep on smiling? Probably cavein. One must be polite to one's emotions. The sea says she's gone, " histhought rambled, "dark empty waters say she's gone. Rachel's gone. Well, what of it? Like losing a hat. Does anything matter much? An ending. Leave the theater. Draw a new breath. Remember vaguely what the actorssaid or what they should have said. All the same. What was in thepostscript? Not fair to throw it away without reading it. Should haveread carefully. Took her hours to pick the right words. Night . .. Night. It'll be night soon. "

His words left him and he walked faster. He began to run. She would bewaiting in their room. On the bed . .. Crying . .. "I couldn't leave you, Erik. Oh, I couldn't. " And later they would laugh about it. 

Mama Turpin was on the porch. He slowed his run. To rush breathless pastthe old woman would make a bad impression, if nothing had happened. 

"Good evening, Mr. Dorn. "

Of course she was upstairs. Or would Mama Turpin say good-evening?

"Hello, " he called back casually, and walked on, his legs jumping aheadof him. 

The room was empty. More than empty, for the comb and brush and tray ofhairpins were missing. His eyes had swept the dressing-table as he camein. They were gone. 

There would be another note. Why didn't she leave it some place where hecould find it at a glance, instead of making him hunt around? Huntaround. Under the bed. On the chairs. No note. Good God, she was insane!Going away--why should she go away?. .. "we'll have a long talk about itand straighten it out, of course, but . .. " The insanity of the thingremained. Gone!

He stopped and felt his head aching. The sun . .. "you won't find me ifyou look for me. Please don't try. One good-bye is easier and betterthan two. Erik, Erik, something has died for always. .. . "

Then he had read it. That had been in the postscript. He had given it aglance, not intending to follow the words. Unimportant words. 

"Died for always, " he mumbled suddenly. 

. .. His head pressed against the pillow in the dark room, he began toweep. The odor of her hair was still in the pillow. Yes, the dream haddied. And she had run from its corpse, leaving behind the faint odor ofher hair on a pillow. How, died? Better to have her gone. .. . Tearsburned in his eyes. He repeated aloud, "better. .. . "

An agony was twisting itself about his heart. His face moved as if hewere in pain. With his fists he began to beat the bed. It had gone away. It had come and smiled at him for a moment, lifted him for a moment, andthen gone away as if it had never been. But it would come back. Hewould weep and pound on the bed with his fists and bring it back. Theface of stars, eyes burning, devouring, eyes kindling his soul intoecstasies. 

"Rachel!" he cried aloud. 

Silence. His tears had ended. He lay motionless on the bed, his bodysuddenly weak, his thought tired. Someone had shouted a name in hisears. A dead man had shouted the name of Rachel. It was the cry of anErik Dorn who was dead. He'd heard it in the dark room. An old, alreadyforgotten Erik Dorn who had laughed in a halloo of storms, heels up, head down. Madness and a dream. Wings and a face of stars. They hadvanished with an old and almost forgotten Erik Dorn who had called theirname out of a grave. So things whirled away. 

He arose and stood looking out of the window. Night had come . .. "darkrendezvous of sorrows. Silent Madonna of the spaces. .. . " He whispered tosee if there were still phrases in him. His lips smiled against thewindow. Phrases . .. Words . .. And the rest was a make-believe once more. A pattern precise and meaningless. His little flight over. Now it wastime to walk again. 

Anna had stood one night staring at him. He remembered. Oh, yes, he'drun away quickly for fear he might hear her shriek. And then, Rachel. But these things were passed. It was time to walk. Did he still loveher? Yes. It would have been easier to walk with her--calmly, placidly, their hands sometimes touching. Forgetting other days and other kissestogether. But he would not lie to himself. An end to that now. Love madea liar of a man. At the beginning and at the end--lies. The ache now wasone of memory, not of loss. The pain was one of death. Dead things hurtinside him. Afterward his heart would carry them about unknowingly. Thedead things would end their hurt. But now, leaden heavy, they keptslipping deeper into him as if seeking graves that did not yet exist. 

Standing before the window, Dorn's smile grew cold. 

"A make-believe, " he whispered, "but not quite the same as it wasbefore. A loneliness and an emptiness. Ruins in which once there wasfeasting. And now, nothing . .. Nothing. .. . "

PART IV

ADVENTURE

CHAPTER I

Long days. Short days. Outside the window was an ant-hill street. And anant-hill of days. In the stores they were already selling calendars forthe next year. Outside the window was a flat roof. By looking at theflat roof you remembered that Mary James was married. Unexpectedly. Youcame out of the ant-hill street, climbed the stairs, and sat down andlooked at the flat roof. Long days, short days turned themselves over onthe flat roof, and turned themselves over in your heart. 

Occasionally an event. Events were things that differed from putting onyour shoes or buying butter in the grocery store. There was an eventnow. It challenged the importance of the flat roof. Hazlitt was sittingin the room and talking. Rachel listened. 

An eloquent event. But words jumbled into sound. Loud sounds. Softsounds. They made her sleepy, as rain pattering on a window made hersleepy, or snow sinking out of the sky. There were sleepy words in hermind that had nothing to do with the event. Then the event came andmingled itself, mixed itself into the words . .. "no sorrow. No remorse. The dead are dead. Oh, most extremely dead! So I'll sit by my sadlittle window and listen to this unbearable creature make love. Theidiot'll go 'way in an hour and I'll be able to draw. Funny, my thoughtskeep moving on, despite everything. Like John Brown's soul, orsomething. Words get to be separate, like the snickers of dead people. You think as one adds figures. Thoughts add, and draw pictures the sameway. A line here. A line there. And you have a face. Curve a line up andthe face laughs. Curve it down and the face weeps. You lie dead. Alwaysdead. You lie dead in the street. The day tears your heart out. Thenight tears your eyes out. And when somebody passes, even a bananapeddler, your eyes jump back, your heart jumps back, and you look up andsnicker and say, 'It's all right. I'm just lying here for fun. I'm deadfor fun. .. . He still loves me. I must answer him. '"

She spoke aloud:

"No, George, I hear you. But I don't love you. I can't say it moreplainly, can I?"

Her thoughts resumed. "Dear me. He talks almost as well as Erik. Lord, he thinks I'm a virgin. His pure and unfaltering star. Well, well! Whyam I amused? Is life amusing, after all? Am I really happy? Alas! myheart is broken. I must not forget my heart is broken. You forgetsometimes and begin snickering and somebody rings the bell and hands youa telegram reading, 'Your heart is broken. ' Rachel of the broken heart!It was all very beautiful. This talk of his somehow brings it back . .. Oh, God. That was a line curved down. What eloquence! There, now, I mustspeak. I'll have to tell him again. "

Aloud she went on, "You're mistaken in me, George. "

A flurry of silent words halted her. .. . "Ye gods, what a speech; she isnot all his fancy painted him. Indeed! Not mistaken. His heart tellshim. Poor boy! Poor little clowns who pay attention to what their heartssay! I mustn't be rude. "

She interrupted him, "If you'll listen to me, George . .. "

Then, "What'll I say? If only he inspired something by his eloquence--aphrase, at least. But my heart snickers at him. Ah! the dead arewonderfully dead. I'll tell him I'm not a virgin. That'll be surprisingnews. But how? Like a medical report? The woman was found not to be avirgin. The thing seems to hinge on that. Why in God's name does he keepvirgining?"

"No, George, " she answered aloud, "I'm sorry. I don't believe inlove. .. . " Listen to her! "You see, I've been in love myself. Indeed Ihave. That's why you find me changed. "

He protested and her words followed silently. "My laughing makes himangry. But I must laugh. Love is something to laugh over, isn't it? Oh, God, why doesn't he go 'way?" The flat roof vanished. There was a risingevent in the room and the flat roof bowed good-bye and walked away. 

"Yes, I was in love for quite a while with a man, " she answered him. "And I'm in love with him yet--in a way. But we've parted. He had to goto Europe. " Nevertheless he still thought she was a virgin. He'd startedanother virgining speech. There would have to be a medical report. "Welived together for over a year. We weren't married, of course, becausehe had a wife. You see, you're terribly mistaken. " He must be impressedby her calm. "Because what I really am is a vampire. I lured a man fromhis wife, lived with him, and cast him aside. "

The event jumped to its feet. No room to talk for a moment, so herthought resumed, "I'm lying. He thinks I'm lying. I should haveconfessed in tears. With a few 'Oh, Gods. ' Amusing! Amusing! That wasErik's favorite word. I'm beginning to understand it now. But there'snothing to be amused about . .. In itself an amusing circumstance . .. Butyou look at the banana peddler and snicker. Will he hit me? Oh, veryred-faced. Speechless. I'd better talk. If he hit me. .. . He'll start ina minute. .. . "

"Yes, you know him, George, " she cried suddenly. "And if you doubt meyou can ask a lot of people. Ask Tesla or Mary James or Brander or NewYork. " She'd make him believe. God, what an idiot! She'd claw his eyesout with words. Throw roofs on him. But it was a good thing Erik was inEurope, or he'd be killed. 

"Yes. I've told you in order to get rid of you. I'd rather be rid ofyou than keep my good name in your estimation. So now, run along and doyour yelling outside. I'm sick of you. "

She paused on a high gesture. .. . "He's going to hit me. Strike a woman. War has brutalized him. Dear me!" But he asked a question ominously andshe answered, "Erik Dorn. Yes. Erik Dorn. "

This made it worse. It was bad enough without a name. But a name made itrealler. And very ominous. She moved toward a chair. 

"I'll sit still and then he won't hit me. If I'm calm, serene like a nunfacing the wrath of God. This is melodrama. He can squeeze my shouldersall he wants. What good will it do him? If I giggled now he'd kill me. Sorry? Oh, so I must be sorry. Because I've offended him. Dear God, whata mess!"

She twisted out of his grasp and cried. 

"No, I'm not sorry. You fool! I'm glad I was his woman. I'll always beglad, as long as I live. Leave me alone. You're a fool. I've alwaysthought of you as a fool. You make me want to laugh now. You're a clown. I'll give myself to men. But not to you. I gave myself to Erik Dornbecause I love him. If he wants me again I'll come to him not as alover, because he doesn't love me any more--but as a prostitute. Now doyou know me? Well, I want you to. So you'll go way and never bother meagain. .. . "

That was a good speech. She stood dramatically silent as hands seizedher shoulder again. "He hurts me. Why this? Oh, my shoulder! Does hewant to? Oh, God, this is me! He'll let me go in a minute if I don'tmove. Very still. Silent . .. I don't want him to cry. Can't he see it'samusing? If he'd only look at me and wink, I'd kiss him. No, he's afool. I'll not say anything more. Let him cry! His life is ruined. Dearme, I have ruined his life. His love. I was his dream. Through the war. .. Rose of no-man's land. Amusing, amusing! He looks different. Contempt. He has contempt for me. And horror. Oh, get out, get out, youfool! You sniveling nincompoop, get out! I want to draw pictures, andforget. Console him . .. For what? I don't know, I don't know. He'sgoing. Thank God! Oh, I don't know anything. Poor man, he should knowbetter than to have dreams. Dreams are for devils, not for men or women. Dreams . .. Dreams . .. I don't know . .. I'll draw a picture. But I don'twant to. He'll never come back. I'm sad again. The flat roof sayssomething. Is it Erik? Dear Erik! Poor Erik! I love you. But I'll begincrying. Pretty tears, amusing tears. Erik mine, dead for always. Butit's not as bad as it was. Another month, year, ten years. Oh, it chokesme. I can't help it. Your eyes are the beckoning hands of dream. Whoseeyes? Mine . .. Mine. .. . Mine . .. I know. I know. I must keep on dying, keep on dying. But I'm not afraid. Look, I can laugh! Amusing that Ican laugh . .. Oh, God . .. God. .. . "

Beside her window looking out on the ant-hill street Rachel covered herface with her hands. When she removed them she caught a glimpse of thefigure of Hazlitt walking as if it were a blind man in zig-zags down thepavement. 

CHAPTER II

The thing that had been buried in Emil Tesla and that used to rumbleunder his fawning words, had come to life one day with two men twistinghis wrists and hammering at his uncovered face. He had laughed. 

The two men came into his office to seize him. When he started toprotest they walked up to him slowly as if to shake hands. Instead, theybegan beating him. For a moment he wondered why the two men hated him soviolently. He stood looking into their faces and thinking, "They're likeme. "

The visitors, however, saw no resemblance. They twisted his arm till itbroke. Then they kept on battering at him with their fists till he fellto the floor. While he lay on the floor they kicked him, and his musclesgrew paralyzed. 

He never remembered the walk downstairs. But in the open he saw a crowdof faces drifting excitedly beneath him. This was a scene he rememberedlater. 

It was while looking at the faces that he had grown strong. He laughedbecause it occurred to him at the moment he was unconquerable. Later, inprison, he often thought, "I have only my life to lose. I'm not afraidof that. When they hit me they were hitting at an idea. But they couldonly hit me. They couldn't touch the idea. I'll remember when I comeout--they can only hit me. If they end by shooting me they'll not touchthe idea even then. That's something beyond their fists and guns. I'llremember I'm only a shadow. "

A year passed and Tesla came out. He returned to the office of _TheCry_. His friends noticed a change. He had grown quiet. He no longerbubbled with words. His eyes looked straight at people who spoke to him. His manner whispered, "I'm nothing--a shadow thrown by an idea. I don'targue, and I'm not afraid. I'm part of masses of people all over theworld and cannot be destroyed. "

The new Tesla became a leader. Among the radicals whose intellects weregroping noisily with the idea of a new justice he often inspired a fear. His smile disquieted them and their arguments. His smile said, "Here, what's the use of arguing? There is no argument. It isn't words we mustgive the revolution, but lives. I'm ready. Here's mine. "

When he looked at men and women who vociferated in the councils ofradical pamphleteers, workers, organizers, theorists, new partypoliticians, Tesla thought, "That one's afraid. He's only a logician. His mind has led him into revolution. If he changed his mind he wouldbecome a conservative. .. . There's one that isn't afraid. He's like me. His mind helps him. But no matter what his mind told him he wouldalways be in the revolution. Something in him drives him. .. . "

For the rabble of artists and near-artists drifting by the scores intoradical centers, Tesla held a respectful dislike. 

"He's in revolt because he must find something different than otherpeople, " he thought of most of them. "The revolution to him means onlyhimself. It's something he can use to make himself felt more by people. And also he's a revolutionist because of the contrariness in him thatartists usually have. Especially artists who, when they can't create newthings, make themselves think they're creating new things by destroyingold things. "

Of himself Tesla thought, "I'll fight and not mind if I'm killed. Because people will still be left alive, and so the idea of which I'm apart will continue to live. "

In the days before his going to prison Tesla had felt the need ofwriting and talking his revolution. This was because of an impatienceand intolerance toward the enemy. Now that was gone. The enemy hadbecome a blatant, trivial thing. The things it said and did wereunimportant. He read with amusement the rabid denunciations of theradicals in the press of the day. The grotesque hate hymns against thenew Russia, the garbled shriekings and pompous anathemas that fellhourly upon the heads of all suspects, inspired no argument in him. 

Tesla's days were busy with organization. He had almost ceased hisactivities as pamphleteer, although still editor of _The Cry_. With agroup of men, silent as himself, he worked at the radicalization of thefactories and labor unions. Each day men left Tesla to seek employmentin shops throughout the country, in mines and mills. Their duties weresimple. Tesla measured them carefully before sending them on. .. . Thisone could be relied upon to work intelligently, to talk to workingmen attheir benches and during noon hours without antagonizing, or, worse, frightening them. Another was dubious. His eyes were too bright. Hewould be discovered and arrested by the company. But he might do somegood. The arrest of a radical always did some good to the cause. Wherewould Christianity have been without the incompetent agitators whoblundered into the clutches of the Roman law and the amphitheater?

Aloud he would say, "Work carefully. Remember that the revolution is forall; that the workers, no matter what they say to you, are comrades. Remember that strikes are better than fights. The time hasn't come yetfor fighting. What we must do is put into the hearts of the workers theknowledge that there is nothing in common between them and their bosses. The workers are the producers. They work and make no money. The bossesare the exploiters. They don't work and make all the money. If you getthe workers to thinking this they'll want more money themselves anddeclare strikes. By strikes we can paralyze industry and give theworkers consciousness of their power. This is only a step; but the firstand most important step. Make strikes. Make dissatisfaction. But don'targue about fighting and revolution. "

Over and over Tesla repeated his instructions through the days. He spokesimply. Men listened to him and nodded without questioning. They sawthat his eyes were unafraid and that if he was sending them upondangerous missions, he would some day reserve a greater mission forhimself. Tesla had become a leader since he had laughed on the stepoverlooking the pack of faces. 

CHAPTER III

At his desk in _The Cry_ office Tesla was preparing the April issue ofthe magazine for the printer. It was night. A garrulous political poetnamed Myers was revising proofs at a smaller desk. Brander and a tall, thin woman stood talking quietly to each other in a gloomy corner of theoffice. Rachel, who had returned to the place after a hurried supperwith Tesla, waited listlessly. He had promised to finish up in ahalf-hour, but there was more work than he had figured. 

"We're reprinting a part of the article on the White Terror in Germanythat Erik Dorn has in the _New Opinion_, " Tesla said. Rachel nodded herhead. Later Tesla asked her, "This Dorn, what is he? His writing isamusing, sometimes violent, but always empty. He doesn't like life much, eh?"

"I don't know, " said Rachel. 

"Yes, " Tesla smiled. "He hates us all--reds and whites, radicals andbourgeoisie. Yet he can write in a big way. But he isn't a big man. Hehas no faith. I remember him once in Chicago. He hasn't changed. "

Rachel's eyes remained steadily upon the socialist as he cleared hisdesk. He stood up finally and came to where she was sitting. 

"It's necessary to have something besides self, " he said softly. "I wasborn in a room that smelled bad. Perhaps that's why the world smells badto me now. I still live there. It's good to live where there are smells. Our radicals sit too much in hotel lobbies that other people keep cleanfor them. "

Brander thrust his large figure between them, the tall, thin womanmoving vaguely about the room. 

"Sometimes I think you're a fake, Emil, " he said. "You're too good to betrue. "

He grinned at Rachel. 

"By the way, " he went on, looking at her, "I brought something to showyou. " His hands dug a paper out of his coat pocket. "You see, I'vepreserved our correspondence. "

He held out a letter. Rachel's eyes darkened. 

"Oh, there's no hurry, " Brander laughed. "So long as you keep theapplication on file, you know. "

Tesla, listening blankly, interrupted:

"It's late. We should go home. I'll go home with you, Rachel, and talk. "

The thin woman, watching Brander anxiously, approached and seized hisarm. 

"All right, " the artist whispered. "We'll go now. "

Rachel felt a relief as Brander passed out of the door with the woman. 

"He disturbs you, " Tesla commented. She nodded her head. Words seemedto have abandoned her. There was almost a necessity for silence. Theywalked out, leaving Myers still at his desk. 

In the deserted streets Rachel walked beside Tesla. She felt tired. "He's never tired, " she thought, her eyes glancing at the stocky figure. He wasn't talking as he said he would. 

The night felt sad and cold. A dead March night. If not for Emil, what?"Perhaps I'll kill myself. There's nothing now. I'm always alone. Noto-morrows. "

In the evenings she came to the office to meet Emil for supper becausethere was nothing else to do. Emil seemed like an old man, alwayspreoccupied, his eyes always burning with preoccupations. After supperhe usually walked home with her, talking to her of poor people. Thereseemed no hatred in him, no argument. Poor people in broken houses. Christ came and gave them a God. Now the revolution would come withflaming embittered eyes but wearing a gentle smile for the poor peoplein broken houses, and give them rest and happiness. 

But to-night he was silent. When they had walked several blocks he beganto talk without looking at her. 

"Come with me, " he asked. "I live alone in a little house. We can behappy there. You have nobody. "

Rachel repeated "Nobody. "

She looked at him but his eyes avoided her. 

"My mother died long ago, " he went on. "She was an old woman. She usedto live in this house where I live. We were always poor. I had brothersand sisters. They've all gone somewhere. Things happened to them. I haveonly my work now. Nobody else. But I'm alone too much. Since we haveseen each other I have been thinking of you. Brander has told mesomething but that doesn't matter. I would like to marry you. "

He paused and seemed to grow bewildered. 

"Excuse me, " he mumbled. Rachel took his hand and held it as theywalked. Tears in her whispered "Nobody . .. Nobody. " The homely face ofTesla was looking at her and saying something with its silence: "I amnot for you as Erik was. But that is gone. Dead for always. .. . "

He was kind. It would be easy to live with him. But not married. A chilldrifted through her. It didn't matter what she did. Life had ended oneafternoon months ago. She remembered the sun shining on the sand, theburning sea, and Erik asleep. The memory said "I am the last picture oflife. "

It would be easy with Tesla. He loved elsewhere . .. A wild gentlething--people. Poor people in broken houses. He would give her onlykindness and companionship. And if he would let her cry to-night andmake believe she was a child crying. .. . 

They had taken a different direction. This was the neighborhood whereTesla lived. Rachel looked about her in fear. She remembered thedistrict. Now she was coming to live here in these streets where peoplebegin to give forth an odor. 

As she walked beside Tesla his silence became dark like the sceneitself. She had always thought of him as somewhat strange. Now sheunderstood why he had seemed strange to her. Because he carried anunderworld in his heart. In his nose there was always the odor of thestreets from which he had sprung, and in his mind there was always thepicture of them. Other things did not fool him. 

"Is it far?" she asked. 

He looked at her, smiling. 

"No, " he said. "Do you want to go?"

She pressed his hand. It would be better. But her heart hurt. That wasfoolish. Emil was somebody different. Not like a man, but an old man--oran old background. There would be things to think about--Revolution. Before, revolution was people arguing and being dragged to jail. Sometimes people fighting. But it was something else--a thing hidden andspreading--and here in the dark street about them where Emil lived. 

Emil seemed to vanish into a background. She walked and thought of thestreets in which Emil lived. Here in the daytime the rows of sagginglittle houses were like teeth in an old man's mouth. From them aroseexhalations of stagnant wood, decaying stairways; of bodies from whichthe sweats of lust and work were never washed. Soft bubbling alleysunder a stiff sun. The stench like a grime leadened the air. Somethingto think about in places like this. Revolution crawling up and down softalleys . .. Something in the mud waiting to be hatched. 

In this street lived men and women whose hungers were not complicated bytrifles. In this way they were, as they moved thick-faced and unsmiling, different from the people who lived in other streets and who hadcivilized their odors and made ethics of their hungers. The people wholived here walked as if they were being pushed in and out of the sagginghouses. Shrieking children appeared during the daytime and sprawledabout. They rolled over one another, their faces contorted with aminiature senility. They urinated in gutters, threw stones at oneanother in the soft alleys, ran after each other, cursing and gesturingwith idiot violence. They brought an awkward fever into the street. Oblivious of them and the débris about them, barrel-shaped womenstrutted behind their protuberant bellies, great flapping shoes over thepavements. They moved as if unaccustomed to walking in streets. 

When it grew dark the men coming home from the factories began to crowdthe street. They walked in silence, a broken string of shuffling figureslike letters against the red of the sky. Their knees bent, their jawsshoved forward, their heads wagged from side to side. They vanishedinto the sagging houses, and the night came . .. An unwavering gloompicked with little yellow glows from windows. The houses lay likebundles of carefully piled rags in the darkness. The shrieking of thechildren died, and with it the pale fever of the day passed out of theair. There were left only the odors. 

There were odors now, coming to them as they walked. Invisible bannersof decay floating upon the night. Stench of fat kitchens, of softbubbling alleys, of gleaming refuse. Indefinable evaporations from thedark bundles of houses wherein people had packed themselves away. Theycame like a rust into her nose. 

She was moving into a new world. Drunken men appeared and lurched intothe darkness with cursings and mutterings. Sometimes they sang. Thesmoke of the factory chimneys was now invisible, but the chimneys, likerows of minarets, made darker streaks in the gloom. And in the distanceblast furnaces gutted the night with pink and orange flares. Figures ofgirls not yet shaped like barrels came into the street and stood forlong moments in the shadows. Rachel watched them as she passed. Theymoved away into the depths of the soft alleys and vanished. It was latenight. The exhalations of alleys and houses increased as if some greatdisintegration was stewing in the night. A new world. .. . 

Rachel's fingers reached for Tesla's hand. She felt surprised. There wasno thought of Erik. This about her was a world untouched by the shadowErik had left behind. So she could live here easily. And Emil was not aman like Erik. Erik, who stood alone, stark, untouched by life. Emil wasa background. It would be easy. Her fingers, tightly laced in his, grewcold. Erik would come back. "Come back, " murmured her thought. "Oh, ifhe should come back! No, I mustn't fool myself. It's over. And I caneither live or die. I'll live a little while. Why? Because I still lovehim. Erik mine!"

But it didn't sadden her to walk up the dark steps of Tesla's house. "Erik, good-bye!" Not even that mattered. Erik was gone. That was allsomething else. Not gone. Oh, God, no! Only Erik had died. She stilllived with a dead name in her heart. But here were odors--strangepeople. 

 * * * * * *

It was barely furnished but clean inside. Later Rachel sat, her head inTesla's arms, and wept. She was not sad. Her thought faltered, reachingfor words, but drifting away. This is what had become of her--nothingelse but this. 

Tesla looked quietly at her and kept murmuring, "Little girl, the worldis big. There are other things than self. Must you cry? Cry, then. Iknow what sadness is. "

His hands moved gently through her loosened hair and he smiledsorrowfully. 

"Dear child, " he whispered, "you can always cry in my arms and I willunderstand. It is the way the world sometimes cries in my heart. Iunderstand. .. . Yes . .. Yes. .. . "

CHAPTER IV

A kaleidoscope of cities. A new garrulity. Words like busy little broomssweeping up after a war. A world of foreigners. Europe was running aboutwith empty pockets and a cracked head. England had had a nose-bleed, France a temporary castration, and the president of the United Stateswas walking around in Paris in an immaculate frock-coat and a high silkhat. The President was closeted in a peace conference mumblingvalorously amid lifted eyebrows, amused shoulder shruggings, ironicsighings. A long-faced virgin trapped in a bawdy house and calling invaliant tones for a glass of lemonade. 

Erik Dorn drifted through a haze of weeks. This was London. This, Paris. This, Rotterdam. And this, after a long, cold ride standing up in awindowless coach, Berlin. But all curiously alike. People in all of themwho said, "We are strangers to you. "

There was nothing to see. No impressions to receive. More cities, morepeople, more words and a detachment. The detachment was Europe. In hisown country there was no detachment. He was a part of crowds, newspapers, buildings. Here he was outside. Familiar things lookedstrange. The eyes busied themselves trying to forget things beforethem, scurrying after details and worried by an unrelation inarchitecture, faces, gestures. 

It was mid-December when he sat in a hotel room in Berlin one night andate blue-colored fish, boiled potatoes, and black, soggy bread. He hadbeen wandering for days through snow-covered streets. Now there wasshooting in the streets. 

"Germany is starving, " said an acquaintance. "Our children are dying offby the thousands, thanks to the inhuman blockade. "

But despite even the shooting in the streets Dorn noticed the Germanshad lost interest in the war. The idea of the war had collapsed. InEngland and France the idea was still vaguely alive. People kept italive by discussing it. But even there it had become somethingunnatural. 

One thing there was in common. Only a few people seemed to have beenkilled. London was jammed. Even though the newspapers summed it up nowand then with "a generation has been killed. " Paris, too, was jammed. And Berlin now, jammed also. The war had been fought by people who weredead. And the people who were alive were living away its memory. 

In Berlin a week, and he thought, "A circus has pulled down its tent, carted off its gaudy wagons, its naphtha lights, and its boxes ofsawdust. And a new show is staking out the lot. "

The new show was coming to Berlin. Fences and building walls wereplastered with its lithographs . .. "The Spirit of Bolshevism Marches. .. Beware the Wrecker of Mankind. .. . " Posters of gorillas chewing onbloody knives, of fiends with stringy hair setting the torch toorphanages and other nobly drawn edifices labeled "Kultur, Civilization, Humanitat. .. . " The spielers were already on the job. Machine-guns barkedin the snow-covered streets. A man named Noske was a _Bluthund_. A mannamed Liebknecht was a _Schweinhund_. 

In his hotel room Dorn, eating blue-colored fish, spoke to anacquaintance--an erudite young German who wore a monocle, whose eyestwinkled with an odd humor, and who under the influence of a bottle ofSekt was vociferating passionately in behalf of a thing he called _Welt_Revolution. 

"I don't understand it yet, von Stinnes, " Dorn smiled. "I will later. Sofar I've managed to do nothing more than enjoy myself. Profundity isdiverting in New York, but a bore in Berlin. There's too much of it. Good God, man, there are times when I feel that even the buildings ofthe city are wrapped in thought. "

Von Stinnes gestured with an almost English awkwardness. His Englishcontained a slight French accent. His words, amused, careless, carrieddecision. He spoke knowingly, notwithstanding the Sekt and the smilewith which he seemed to be belying his remarks. Thus, the MajoritySocialists were traitors. Scheidemann had sold the revolution for a kissfrom Graf Rantzau. The masses. .. . "Ah, m'sieur, they are arming. Therewill be an overthrow. " And then, Ludendorff had framed therevolution--actually manufactured it. All the old officers were back. Noske was allowing them to reorganize the military. The thing was afarce. Social Democracy had failed. The country was already in flames. There would be things happening. "You wait and see. Yes, theSpartikusten will do something . .. "

Dorn nodded appreciatively. He felt instinctively that he had stumbledupon a man of value and service. But he listened carelessly. As yet thescene was more absorbing than its details. The local politik boilingbeneath the collapse of the empire had not yet struck his imagination. There were large lines to look at first, and absorb. 

Snow in unfamiliar streets, night soldier patrols firing at shadows, eager-eyed women in the hotel lobbies, marines carousing in the Kaiser'sSchloss--a nation in collapse. Teutonia on her rump, helmet tilted overan eye, hair down, comely and unmilitary legs thrust out, showing herdrawers and laughing. Yes, the Germans were laughing. Where was theregayety like the Palais de Danse, the Fox Trot Klubs, Pauligs; gayetylike the drunken soldiers patrolling Wilhelmstrasse where a paunchyharness-maker sat in Bismarck's chair?

Gayety with a rumble and a darkness underneath. But such things wereonly wilder accents to laughter. If the detachment would leave him, ifhe could familiarize himself, he could lay hands on something; danceaway in a macabré mardi-gras. 

Two bottles of Sekt had been emptied. A polite Ober responded with athird. Von Stinnes grew eloquent. 

"Not before March, Mr. Dorn. It will come only then. This that you hearnow, pouf! Hungry men looking for crumbs with hand-grenades. Therevolution is only picking its teeth. But wait. It will overturn, whenit comes. And even if it does not overturn, if it fails, it will notend, but pause. You hear it whispering now in the streets. Hungry menwith hand-grenades. Ah, m'sieur, if you wish we will work together. I ama man of many acquaintances. I am von Stinnes, Baron von Stinnes of avery old, a very dissolute, a very worthless family. I am the last vonStinnes. The dear God Himself glows at the thought. I will work for youas secretary. How much do you offer for a scion of the nobility?"

"Three hundred marks. "

"A month?"

"No, weekly, " laughed Dorn, "and you buy half the liquor. "

Von Stinnes bowed. 

"An insult, Mr. Dorn. But I overlook it. One becomes adept in the matterof overlooking insults. You will need me. I am known everywhere. I waswith Liebknecht in the Schloss when he slept in the Kaiser's bed. Ho! itwas a symbol for you to see him crawl between the sheets. Alas! heslept but poorly, with the marines standing guard and frowning at thebed as if it were capable of something. For me, I would have preferredbeds with more pleasant associations. And when Bode tried to be dictatorin his father's chamber in the Reichstag--yes, " von Stinnes closed hiseyes and laughed softly, "he seized the Reichstag with a company ofmarines. And he sat for two days and two nights signing warrants, confiscation orders. Until a soldier brought him a document issued byEichorn the mysterious policeman who was dictating from the Stadt House. And poor Bode signed it. He was sleepy. He could not read with sleep. Itwas his own death warrant. It was I who saved him by taking him to thehouse of Milly. He slept four days with Milly, in itself a feat. "

Von Stinnes swallowed another glass of wine. His eyes seemed to beliehis unsteady, careless voice. His eyes remained intent and mocking uponDorn. 

"You have come a few weeks too late. There were scenes, dear God, tomake one laugh. In the Schloss. Yes, we bombarded the Schloss--but afterwe had captured it. The Liebknecht ordered. Everything was done insymbols. Therefore the symbol of the bombardment of the Schloss. So werushed out one night and opened fire, and when we had knocked off thebalcony and peeled the plaster from the walls, we rushed in again andsang the _Marseillaise_. What wine, m'sieur! Ho, you have come a fewweeks too late. But there will be other comedies. And I will be ofservice. I belong to three officers' clubs. One of them is respectable. Women are admitted. The other two . .. Women are barred. And look. .. . " Heslapped a wallet on the table and extracted a red card, "'member of theCommunist Partei--Karl Stinnes, '" he read. "Listen, there are 75, 000rifles in Alexander Platz, waiting for the day. "

"Where did you learn your English, von Stinnes?"

"Oxford. Italian in Padua. French, m'sieur, in Paris. During the war. "The baron laughed. "Ah, _pendant la guerre, m'sieur, en Paris_. "

"And now, " Dorn mused, "you are a Spartikust. "

The baron was on his feet, a wine glass raised in his hand. 

"_Es lebe die Welt Revolution_, " he cried, "_es lebe das RateRepublik!_"

"What did you do in Paris, von Stinnes?"

"Pigeons, my friend. I played with pigeons and with vital statistics andmade love to little French girls whose sweethearts were dying in thetrenches. And in London. But I talk too much. Yes, my tongue slips, yousay. But I am lonely and talk is easy. .. . I drink your health . .. _hein!_ it was a day when we met. .. . "

Dorn raised his glass. 

"To the confusion of the seven deadly virtues!" he laughed. 

"I drink, " the baron cried. "We will make a tour. We will amuseourselves. I see that you understand Germany. Because you understandthere is something bigger than Germany; that the world is the head of apin spinning round in a glass of wine. I have been with the othercorrespondents. Pigs and donkeys. The souls of shopkeepers under thevests. "

The baron seated himself carefully and pretended an abrupt seriousness. 

"I have made up my mind to die behind the red barricades. Perhaps inMarch. Perhaps later. Another glass, m'sieur. Thanks. I shall diefighting for the overthrow of the tyranny of the bourgeoisie . .. Noskeand his _parvenu_ Huns. Ho! Dorn, we will amuse ourselves in a crazyworld, eh, what? The tyranny of the bourgeoisie!"

The baron laughed as he rolled over the phrase. 

"There will be great deal to enjoy, " Dorn smiled. The wine was makinghim silent. 

"Yes, to enjoy. To laugh, " the baron interrupted. "I cannot explain now. But you seem to understand. Or am I drunk? _Ein galgen gelachter, nichtwahr?_ I will take quarters at the hotel. I know the management well. Isaved the place from being looted in the November excitement. Have youseen the Kaiser Salle? His Majesty dined there once. A witless popinjay. Liebknecht is a man. Flames in his heart. But a poor orator. He will bekilled. They must kill him. A little Jew, Haase, has brains. You willmeet him. And the Dadaists--they know how to laugh. The cult of theabsurd. Perhaps the next emperor of Germany will be a Dada. An OberDada--who knows? Once the world learns to laugh we may expect radicalchanges. And in München I know a dancer, Mizzi. Dear God, what legs! Youmust come there to see legs. Faces in the Rhineland. Ankles in Vienna. But legs, dear God, in München! It is the Spanish influence. Let usdrink to Mizzi. .. . "

The wine was vanishing. The baron paused out of breath and sighed. Hisface that seemed to grow firmer and more ascetic as he drank, took on afar-away shrewdness as if new ideas had surprised it. 

"I've felt many things, " Dorn spoke, "but thought nothing yet. So farEurope has remained strange. I am in a theater watching a pantomime. Ihave entered in the middle of the second act and the plot is a bithidden. But we will have to find some serious work to do. I must meetpoliticians, leaders; listen to laments and prophecies. .. . "

"All in time, all in time, " the baron interrupted. "Am I not yoursecretary? Well, then, trust me. You will talk to-morrow with Ebert. Webegin thus at the bottom. Of all men in Germany who know nothing, heknows least. Thursday, Scheidemann. Treachery requires some shrewdness. The man is not quite an imbecile. If your Roosevelt were a Socialist hewould be a Scheidemann. Daumig, Pasadowsky, Erzburger--rely upon me, m'sieur. And Ludendorff. Ah, there we have real work. If Ludendorff willtalk now. He is supposed to be in Berlin. I will find him and arrangefor you. And so on. You will meet all the great minds, all the bigstomachs. I will take you to Radek who is hiding with a price on hishead. And Dr. Talheimer on the Rote Fahne, if they do not arrest him toosoon. Bernstorff is in the hotel. A man with too much brains. Yes, anintelligent bungler. He will die some day with a sad smile, forgivinghis enemies. And if we need women, mention your choice. Mine runs to themarried woman of title. A small title is to be preferred. It is a slightinsurance against disease. Others prefer the gamins. There is not enoughdifference to quarrel about. Or do you want a little red in your amours?A _sans culotte_ from Ehrfurst or Spandau? In Essen you will findBelgian women. They will love for nothing. For that matter, a bottle ofwine and a bar of chocolate and you can have anyone. There is no virtueleft, thank God. And yet, for variety, I sometimes think there should bea little. Ah, yes, yes! I miss the virgins of my youth. Another bottle, eh? Where's the button? What do you think of German plumbing? It is ourKultur. We are proud of our plumbing. It was the ideal for which wefought. To introduce our plumbing throughout Europe--make a Germanbathroom of the world. "

A sound of heavier firing in the streets interrupted. The two satlistening, the baron's face alive with an odd humor. 

"_Es lebe die Welt Revolution_, " he whispered. "Do you hear it? Only amurmur. But it starts all over Germany again. Workingmen with guns. Youwill see them later. I among them. Stay in Europe, my friend, and seethe ghost of Marat rising from a German bathtub. "

"Who are shooting?" Dorn asked. 

"Shadows, " the baron laughed. "The government wishes to impress the goodburgher that there is danger. So the government orders the soldiers toshoot at midnight. The good burgher wakes and trembles. _Mein Gott, dasBolshevismus treibt! Gott sei dank für den Regierung. _ . .. So the goodburgher gives enthusiastic assent to the increase in the militarybudget. Dear God, did he not hear shooting at midnight? But they playwith more than ghosts. Noske's politik will end in another color. To-night there are only shadows to shoot at. To-morrow . .. Remember whatI tell you. .. . "

The telephone rang and Dorn answered. A voice in English:

"The gentlemen will have to put out the lights. The Spartikusten arecoming. "

"Thank you. .. . "

"What did he say?"

"We must put out the lights. "

The baron laughed. 

"It is nonsense. Come, your hat. We will go have a look. "

They hurried down to the lobby. An iron door had been drawn across theentrance of the hotel. In the lobby the shooting seemed a bombardment ofthe building. A group of American and English correspondents werelounging in the heavy divans, drinking gin and talking to a trio ofelaborately gowned women. The talk was in French. 

"Hello, Dorn, " one of the Englishmen called. Dorn approached the table, von Stinnes following, and whispering, "I will request the porter toopen the gate. "

"Baron von Stinnes, Mr. Reading. "

The Englishman shook hands and smiled. 

"I know the baron, Dorn. Rather old friends, what? Have a drink, damnit!"

"Later, if you please, " von Stinnes bowed stiffly. Reading beckoned Dornaside with an air of secrecy. Walking him to another part of the lobbyhe began whispering:

"I'd let that blighter alone if I were you, Dorn. I'm just telling youbecause you're rather new to these bloody swine. "

Dorn nodded. 

"I see, " he said, and walked back to von Stinnes. Reading resumed hisplace with the party. 

"Perhaps it was a timely warning, " the baron murmured as Dorn drew nearhim. The gate had been opened and the two emerged. "I make a guess atwhat Reading told you, " the baron pursued. 

"It is immaterial, " Dorn answered. "I engage you not for your honestyand many virtues, but because you're amusing. .. . "

"Thus you relieve my conscience, " von Stinnes sighed. 

The wide avenue was deserted. Moonlight lay on the new-fallen snow. Aline of soldiers wheeled suddenly out of the Brandenburger Tor and camemarching quickly toward the walkers. 

"_Weiter gehen, weiter gehen_, " a voice from the troop called. Twodetached themselves from the ranks and approached rapidly. 

"_Ausweise. .. . _"

Von Stinnes glared through his monocle and answered in German, "What isthe matter with you? Are you crazy? I am Baron von Stinnes. My friend isa member of the American Commission. "

Dorn extracted a bit of stamped paper--his special credentials from theGerman Foreign Office. The soldier glanced at it without troubling toread. .. . 

"_Sehr gut, mein Herrschaften_, " he mumbled. Dorn caught a glimpse ofhis face. Its importance had vanished. The line of soldiers marched on. When they had turned a corner the sound of firing suddenly resumed. 

"Shadows again, " chuckled von Stinnes. 

Snow-covered streets, moonlight, waiting buildings, cold andshadows--here was reality. The thing under the gay tumult of the cafés. Under the baron's laughter. They were passing a stretch of empty shopwindows. 

"It's cold, " Dorn muttered. The baron looked at him with a smile. 

"It is cold everywhere in Germany, " he said quietly. "Men's hearts arecold with hunger and fear. Brains are confused. Stomachs empty. The tophas been knocked off. The soldiers in the streets are the sad littleremains of a dead Germany. The new Germany lies cold and hungry in aworkingman's bed. Life will come out of the masses. And I am always onthe side of life. Not so? The old is dead. We drink wine to the new. "

The sound of dance music drifted out of a café. 

"Shall we stop?" the baron hesitated. 

Dorn shook his head. 

"Enough cafés. The streets are better. Dark windows. "

They walked in silence through the snow, the baron humming a Viennawaltz as the blurred echoes of machine-gun fire rose in the night aroundthem. 

. .. Hours later Dorn lay sleepless in his bed. The smoke of wine wasslipping out of his thought. 

"I'm alone, " he murmured to himself. An emotionless regret came to him. 

"There are still years to live. " He wrapped himself closer in thesilk-covered quilts. "But how? Does it matter? I have loved, and thatis over. Rachel is ended. Haven't thought of her for weeks. And now, Iam like I was, only older and alone; yet not sad. So people adjustthemselves to decay. Senses that could have understood and wept atsorrow die, along with the things whose death causes sorrow. Ergo, thereis no sorrow. Wings gone, tears gone, everything gone. Empty again, yetcontent. I want nothing. .. . No desires. .. . "

His brain was mumbling sleepily as the cold wind from the opened windowswept pleasantly through the room. 

"Women to divert me. Wine to make me glad. And a companion--the baron. Droll tragedian! And scenes for my eyes. Yes, yes. .. . They keep shootingoutside. Still shooting after five years. Shooting each other. The worldspeaks a strange language. What imbecility! Yet life is in the masses. It'll come out, perhaps. From Russia. Russians--a pack of idealists . .. A pack of illiterate Wilsons with whiskers. I'm like the baron. I admirerevolution. Why? Because it diverts. "

He closed his eyes for moments. Still no sleep, and his thought resumed, "Rachel, I once loved you. I can say it now without hurt. Empty memoriesnow--like drawings in outline. And some day even the outlines will leaveme. "

A curious ache came into his heart. "Ah, she still touches me--still alittle. Poor dear one! What a farce! A glorious farce! The nights whenshe whispered. Her face, I remember, yes, a little. Ghosts! Your eyesare the beckoning hands of dream. That was the best sentence. .. . Therest were good too--sometimes. "

He smiled sleepily on his pillow . .. "still shooting. It will be amusinghere. Some day when we're old, Rachel and I will see each other again. Old eyes questioning old eyes. Old eyes saying, 'So much has died. Onlya little more remains to die. ' Sleep . .. I must sleep now. To-morrow, work, work! And forget. But nothing to forget. It forgets itself. Itsays good-bye. A sun gone down. What is it old Carl wrote?. .. 'The pastis a bucket of ashes, a sun gone down . .. To-morrow is anotherday. .. . '"

CHAPTER V

The detachment vanished. Streets familiarized themselves. 

"_Ich steh auf den Standpunkt_, " said the politicians; and the racket ofmachine-guns offered an obligato. 

The new garrulity that had seemed strange to Dorn lost its strangeness. It became the victrola phrases of a bewildered diplomacy. But thediplomacy was not confined to frock-coats. It buzzed, snarled up anddown the factory districts, in and out of the boulevard cafés and thesquat resident sectors. 

The German waiting for the knife of Versailles to fall was vomiting avocabulary of fear, hope, threat, despair. Under cover of a confusedSocial Democracy the German army was slowly reorganizing itself. 

It was three months after his arrival in Berlin that Dorn wrote hiscurious sketch of the German situation. The three months had witnessed achange in him. He had become a workman--industrious, inquisitive, determined. Under the guidance of von Stinnes he had managed topenetrate the heart of German _politik_. Tours through the provinces, daily interviews with celebrities, statesmen, leaders of the scores ofpolitical factions; adventures under the surface of the victrola phrasespouring from the government buildings and the anti-government buildings, had occupied even his introspections. Seemingly the empire had turneditself into a debating society. Life had become a class in economics. 

Three months of work. Unfocused talents drawn into simultaneousactivity. And Dorn arose one morning to find himself an outstandingfigure in the turmoil of comment and commentators about him. Von Stinneshad wheedled his history out of him for publication in Berlin. Itsappearance was greeted with a journalistic shout in the capitol. Radicals and conservatives alike pounced upon it. Haase, leader of theIndependent Socialists, declaimed it almost in full before the NationalAssembly in Weimar. 

Dorn had put into it a passionate sense of the irony and futility of hisday. Its clarity arrested the obfuscated intellect of a nation groping, whining, and blustering under the shadow of the knife of Versailles. 

The writing of it had rid him for the time of Rachel, of Anna, of theyears of befuddling emptiness that had marked his attitudes toward thesurfaces of thought about him. The emotionless disillusion of his naturehad finally produced an adventure for him--the adventure of mentalfecundity. 

He had gone to Weimar to write. Here the new government of Germany hadassembled. Delegates, celebrities, frock-coats, strange hair formations;messiah and magician had come to extricate the nation from its unhappyplace on the European guillotine. The narrow streets stuttered withargument. .. . Von Stinnes and a girl named Mathilde Dohmann accompaniedhim to the town. The Baron, bored for the moment with his labors, hadimmersed his volatile self in a diligent pursuit of Mathilde. He haddiscovered her among communist councils in Berlin and naïvely attachedher as a part of Dorn's secretarial retinue. 

"She will be of service, " he announced. 

Dorn, preoccupied with the scheme of his history, paid little attentionto her. Arrived in Weimar he became entirely active, viewing withamusement the Baron's sophisticated assault upon the ardent-voiced, red-haired political spitfire whom he called Matty. Alone in an oldtavern room, he gave himself to the arrangements of words clamoring forutterance in his thought. Old words. Old ideas. Notions dormant sinceyears ago. Phrases, ironies remembered out of conversations themselvesforgotten. The book was finished towards the middle of March--a historyof the post-war Germany; with a biography between the lines of ErikDorn. Von Stinnes had forthwith produced two German scholars who, underhis direction, accomplished the translation with astonishing speed. Excerpts from the thin red-and black-covered volume found their wayovernight into the press of the nation. Periodicals seized upon theextended brochure as a _Dokument_. In pamphlet form the gist of itstarted upon the rounds of Europe. The garrulity of the day had beengiven for the moment a new direction. 

 * * * * * *

"We will go to Munich. There will be a revolution in Munich. I have newsfrom secret sources. "

Baron von Stinnes, lounging wearily in front of a chess-board, spoke andraised a cup of mocha to his lips. Dorn, picking his way through aGerman novel, looked up gloomily and nodded. 

"Anywhere, " he agreed. "Munich, Moscow, Peking. "

In a corner of the room Mathilde was curled on the luxurious hotel divanwatching through half-closed eyes the figures of the men. The Baronturned toward her and frowned. In return her face, almost asleep, becamevivid with a sneer. The Baron's love-making had gone astray. 

"Matty is going to try to carry a million marks into Munich for theCommunists, " he announced. 

The girl stared von Stinnes into silence. 

"How do you know that?" she asked slowly. 

He lowered his cup and with a show of polite deliberation removed hismonocle and wiped it with a silk handkerchief. 

"I know many things, " he smiled. "The money comes from Dr. Kasnilov andwill be brought to Dr. Max Levine in Munich, and the good Max will buy agarrison of Landwehr with it and establish the soviet republic ofBavaria. "

"You know Levine?"

"Very well, " smiled the Baron. 

Mathilde sat up. Her voice acquired a vicious dullness. 

"You will not interfere with me, von Stinnes. "

"I, Matty?" The Baron laughed and resumed his mocha. "I am heart andsoul with Levine. If Dorn cannot go I will have to go alone. It isnecessary I be in Munich when the Soviets are called out. "

"You will not interfere with me, von Stinnes, " the girl repeated, "or Iwill kill you. "

"You have my permission, Fräulein. The logical time for my death is longpast. "

Mathilde's sharp young face had grown alive with excitement. She satwith her eyes unwaveringly upon the Baron as if her thought were gropingdesperately beneath the smiling weariness of the man. 

"Mr. Dorn, " she spoke, "von Stinnes is a traitor. "

Dorn smiled. 

"If one million marks will cause a revolution, I'll take them to Munichmyself, " he answered. "I'm sick of Berlin. I need a revolution to divertme. "

"I fear I am in the way, " von Stinnes interrupted. He arose withformality. "Mathilde would like to unburden herself to you, Dorn. I am, she will inform you, a secret agent of Colonel Nickolai, and ColonelNickolai is the head of the anti-bolshevist pro-royalist propaganda inPrussia. " He paused and smiled. "I will meet you in the lobby when youcome down. "

He walked toward the door, halting before the excited face of the girl. 

"Ah, Matty, Matty, " he murmured, "you will not in your zeal forget thatI love you?"

He bowed whimsically and passed out. Dorn laid aside his book andapproached the divan. In the week since their return from Weimar he hadbecome interested in the moody, dynamic young creature. The fact thatshe had resisted the expert persuasions of the Baron--a subject on whichthe nobleman had discoursed piquantly on their ride to Berlin--hadappealed to him. 

"Karl is a good fellow, " he said, seating himself next to her. "And ifit happens he is employed by Noske and Nickolai it doesn't alter myopinion of him. "

"He is a scoundrel, " she answered quietly. 

"That is impossible, " Dorn smiled. "He is merely a man withoutconvictions and therefore free to follow his impulses and his employers. I thank God for von Stinnes. He has made Europe possible. A revolutionalone could rival him in my affections. "

The girl remained silent, and Dorn watched her face. He might embraceher and make love. It would perhaps flatter, please her. She fancied hima man of astounding genius. She had practically memorized his book. Thus, one had only to smile humorlessly, permit one's eyes to growenigmatic, and think of a proper epigram. He recalled for an instant thetwo women who had succumbed to his technique since he had left America. They blurred in his memory and became offensive. Yet Matty had been ofservice and perhaps her moodiness was caused by a suppressed affection. As an amorous prospect she was not without interest. As a reality, however, she would obviously become a bore. In any case there wasnothing to hinder polite investigation, mark time with kisses until vonStinnes brought on his promised revolution. He thought carefully. Pessimism was the proper note. Dramatize with an epigram the emptinessof life. His forte--emptiness. Not love but a hunger to live. 

"Matty, I regret sadly that you are not a prostitute. "

Startling!

"It would save me the trouble of having to fall in love with you, dearchild. "

She smiled, a sudden amusement in her eyes. 

"You too, Mr. Dorn. I had thought different of you. "

"As a creature beyond the petty agitations, eh?"

"As a man. "

"It is possible for a Man, despite a capital M, to love. "

"Yes, love. It is possible for him only to love. And you do not. "

"Much worse. I am sad. "

"Why?"

"Perhaps because it is the only emotion that comes without effort. "

"So you would fall in love with me to forget that I bore you. "

"A broader ambition than that. To forget that living bores me, Mathilde. "

"There is someone else you love, Mr. Dorn. "

"There was. " He smiled humorlessly. "Do you mind if I talk of love? Ineed a conversational antidote. "

"And if you talk of love you may be spared the trouble of having to makelove, " she laughed quietly. "But I would rather talk of von Stinnes. Iam worried. "

"You are young, " Dorn interrupted, "and full of political error. I ambeginning to believe von Stinnes. The most terrible result of the warhas been the political mania it has given to women. "

Mathilde settled back on the divan and stared with mocking pensivenessat her shoes. Dorn, speaking as if he desired to smile, continued:

"Do you know that when one has loved a woman one grows sad after it isended, remembering not the woman, but one's self? The memory of herbecomes a mirror that gives you back the image of something that hasdied--a shadow of youth and joy that still bears your name. It is thesame with old songs, old perfumes. All mirrors. So I walk through lifenow smiling into mirrors that give back not myself, but someoneelse--another Dorn. "

He arose and looked down at her. 

"Does that interest you?"

"I understand you. "

"There are many ways of making love. Sorrowful phrases are the mostentertaining, perhaps. "

"You make me think you have loved too much. "

"Yes, it would be difficult to kiss you. I would become sad with memoryof other kisses. Because you are young--as I was then. "

"Was it long ago?"

"Things that end are always long ago. "

"Then it was only yesterday. "

"Yes, yesterday, " he laughed, pleased with the ironic sound of hisvoice. "And what is longer ago than yesterday?"

She had risen and stood before him, an almost boyish figure with herfists clenched. 

"I have something else I am in love with, " she whispered. "I am in lovewith----"

"The wonderful revolution, I know. "

"Yes. "

"And some day in the future you, too, will look into a mirror and seenot yourself but a glowing-faced girl that was in love with what wasonce called the revolution. "

"But if things end it is only because we are too weak to hold themforever. So while we are strong we must hold them twice as eagerly. "

"Sad. All most deplorably sad, Mathilde. Hands shuffle us into newcombinations, when we would prefer the old. Thus you, too, will some daylisten to the cry that rises from all endings. "

"You are designing. You wish to make me sad, Mr. Dorn. And succeed. "

"Only that I may contemplate the futility of your love and smile. As Icannot quite smile at my own. We do not smile easily at corpses. "

His hands covered her fingers gently. 

"I will give myself to you, if you wish, " she whispered. 

"And I prefer you like this, " he smiled. "If you will come close to meand lay your head against me. " He looked down at her as she obeyed. "There is an odor to your hair. And your cheek is soft. These things aresimilar things. You are almost like a phantom. "

"Of her. "

"No. She is forgotten. It's something else. A phantom of something thatonce lived in me, and died. It comes back and stares at me sometimes outof the eyes of strange women, out of the sounds of music. Now, out ofyour hair. "

"And you do not want me, Erik?"

"I want you. But I prefer to amuse myself by fancying that you areunattainable. "

"I've liked you, Erik. The rest does not matter to me. I grew oldduring the war, and careless. My father and two brothers died. Andanother man. "

"So we both need diversion. "

"Yes. "

"Diversion, " he murmured, "the little drug. But what is there to drugs?No, come; we are lovers now. "

"We will go to Munich together. "

"Yes. "

"And will you carry the money for Levine? They would never search youand they might recognize and search me. And besides, von Stinnes wouldnot dare interfere if it was you, even if he is a spy, because he likesyou too well. "

Her voice had become eager and vibrant. Dorn smiled ruefully, the faintmist of a sigh in his thought. The girl had worked adroitly. Of course, he was someone to carry the money to the Munich radicals. 

"It is just an ordinary-looking package. The station will be under aguard and all the roads coming in, too. They are expecting therevolution and . .. " She paused and grew red. Dorn's eyes were looking ather banteringly. "You are thinking I have tricked you, " she cried, "andthat it was only to use you as a . .. As a carrier that I . .. Well, perhaps it is true. I do not know myself. I told you you could have me. Yes, I give myself to you now . .. Now. .. . Do you hear?"

She laughed with bitterness. 

"I have never given myself before. I would rather you smiled and werekind. But if you wish to laugh . .. And call it a bargain . .. It does notmatter. "

She had stepped away from him and stood with kindled eyes, waiting. 

"One can be chivalrous in the absence of all other impulses, Mathilde. And all other impulses have expired in me. So I will take the package. We will start to-morrow early. And as for the rest . .. I will spare youthe tedium of martyrdom. "

He moved toward the door. "Come, we'll go downstairs. Von Stinnes willbe getting impatient. "

Mathilde came to him swiftly. He caught a glimpse of her face lighted, and her arms circled his neck. She was looking at him without words. Acoldness dropped into his heart. There had been three of thembefore--he, Mathilde, and a phantom. Now there were only Mathilde andhimself. 

"She was not tricking, " he thought, and felt pleased. "At least notconsciously. "

Her arms fell from him and she stared frightenedly. 

"Forgive me, Erik. I thought you loved me. And I would have liked tomake you happy. .. . "

He nodded and opened the door. 

CHAPTER VI

They sat in the compartment of the train crawling into Munich. The Barondrooped with sleep. Dorn stared wearily out of the window. Springtime. Abeginning of green in the fields and over the roll of hills. Formalsunlight upon factories with an empty holiday frown in their windows. 

"I hear shooting, " he smiled at Mathilde. "We're probably in time. "

The girl nodded. Despite the sleepless night sitting upright in thecompartment, her eyes were fresh and alive. The desultory crack of arifle drifting out of the town as if to greet them brought an impatienceinto her manner. The train was moving slowly. 

"Yes, we're in time, " she murmured. "See, the white guards are still inpossession. "

A group of soldiers with white sleeve-bands over the gray-green of theiruniforms passed in an empty street. 

"There will be white guards at the station, too, " she went on. "Theattack will come to-night. It must. "

She looked intently at von Stinnes who, opening his eyes suddenly, whispered, "Ah, Mathilde . .. There was once another München. .. . "

An uproar in the station. A scurry of guards and soldiers. Whitesleeve-bands. Machine-guns behind heaped bags of sand. A halloo oforders across the arc of the spacious shed. Passengers pouring out ofthe newly arrived train, smiling, weeping, staring indifferently. 

The officer desired the passengers to line themselves up against thetrain. A suggestive order, and confusion. Whispers in the crowd. .. . "Personally, I prefer the guillotine. .. . No, no, madame. There is nodanger. These are good boys. Soldiers of the government. You can tell bythe sleeve-bands. White. Merely baggage inspection. "

Dorn waited his turn. A group of soldiers approached slowly, delvinginto pockets for weapons, peering into opened pieces of baggage. Babble, expostulation, eager politeness of innocent travelers, and outside thelong crack of rifles, an occasional rip of a machine-gun. The group ofsoldiers paused before him. 

"I am an American, " he spoke in English, "with the American commission. "

The announcement produced its usual effect. Bows, salutes, smiles. Hepulled out his passport and foreign-office credentials. An officerstepped forward and glanced at them. 

"Very good, " in courteous English, "you will pardon for the delay. Weare having a little trouble here. "

He indicated the city with a nod of his head and smiled wryly. In Germanhe continued sharply, "Gottlieb, Neuman, you will escort this gentlemanand his friends to whatever place they wish to go. Take my car at post10. "

Two soldiers saluted. The officer bowed with a smile. The travelersmoved off with their escort toward the street. Mathilde kept her eyes onvon Stinnes as they entered a gray automobile. 

"Von Stinnes and I will sit in the back, " she whispered to Dorn. 

The Baron nodded. 

"Careful of your Leugger, " he whispered, "the soldiers will see it. Youcan shoot me just as easily if you keep it hidden. I have frequentlyfired through my pocket. "

In a hotel room a half-hour later, Mathilde, grown jubilant as a child, was clapping her hands and laughing. 

"It was too simple!" she cried. 

Dorn drew a small suitcase from under the bed and opened it. 

"Here it is, " he laughed. He removed an oblong package. His eyes soughtvon Stinnes, standing near the window leisurely smoking a cigarette. 

"You will find Levine in the Gambrinus Keller, " von Stinnes spokewithout turning around. "I advise you to go at once, Matty, before thestreets crowd up. "

He wheeled and held an envelope toward the girl. 

"Take this. It will make it easier for you to get in. They are verycareful right now. It's a letter of credentials from Dr. Kasnilov. "

Mathilde opened the envelope mechanically, her eyes seeking the thoughtunder the Baron's smile. 

"Thanks, " she spoke in German. "I will go now. I will see you after. Atdinner to-night. Here. "

She walked quickly from the room, the oblong package under her arm. 

CHAPTER VII

The thing hiding in the alleys and shops of the world--the dark, furtivehungers that Russia was thawing into life, emerged on a bright April dayin the streets of Munich. Working men with guns. A sweep ofspike-haired, deep-eyed troglodytes from the underworld of labor. Factories, shops, and alleys vomited them forth. Farm hovels andstinking bundles of houses sent them singing and roaring down theforbidden avenues, past the forbidden sanctuaries of satrap and burgher. 

From behind curtained windows the upper world looked on with amazementand disgust. A topsy-turvy April morning. A Spring day gone mad. Herewere the masses celebrated in pamphlet and soap-box oration. An ungodlyspectacle, an overturning. Grinning earth faces, roaring earth voicescome swaggering into the hallowed precincts of civilization. Workingmenwith guns marching to take possession of the world. An old tableaudecked with new phrases--the underfed barbarian at the gate of thegrainary. 

The singing and the roaring continued through the morning. 

"_Es lebe die Welt Revolution!_ _Es lebe das Rate Republik!_ _Hoch!__die soviet von Bayern_ . .. _Hoch!_ _Hoch!_"

From the twisting, blackened streets, "_Hoch!_" Men and women squeezingaimlessly around corners. Closely packed drifts of bobbing heads. Acrack of rifles dropping punctuations into the scene. "_Hoch!_ _Hoch!_"from faces clustered darkly about the grimacing, inaudible orators inthe squares. 

Red flags, red placards like a swarm of confetti on the walls and in theair. A holiday war. .. . The morning hours marched away. 

With noon, a silence gradually darkened the scene. A silence ofshuffling feet and murmuring tongues. The revolution had sung its songs. An end of songs and cheerings. Drifting, silent masses. An ominous, enigmatic sweep of faces. Red placards under foot in cubist designs downthe streets. 

The afternoon waned, the hundred thousands closed in. Darkness wascoming and the pack was welding itself together. Rifles were beginning. Machine-guns were beginning. Holiday was over. Quieter streets. Theorators become audible. Still faces, raised and listening. The oratorshad news to give. .. . One of the garrisons had gone over to the soviets. Two garrisons had vanished. Treachery. A long murmur . .. Treachery. Thearmies of General Hoffmann were marching upon Munich . .. Twentykilometers from Munich. They would arrive in the night. . .. "We willshow them, comrades, whether the revolution has teeth to bite as well asa song to sing. "

A growl was running through the twilight. .. . _Es lebe das RateRepublik!_ A fierce whisper of voices. Workingmen looking to their guns, massing about the government buildings. A new war minister in theuniform of a marine, speaking from a balcony. Workingmen with guns, listening. Women drifting back to the hovels and stinking bundles ofhouses. In the cafés, satraps and burghers eating amid a suppressedclamor of whispers, plans. The foolishness was almost over. The armiesof General Hoffmann were coming . .. Twenty kilometers out. .. . Arrive atnight. The corps students themselves would saber the swine out of thecity. .. . 

Night. Darkened streets. Tattered patrols hurrying through mysteriouslyemptied highways, shouting, "Indoors! Inside, everybody!" Suddenly froma distance the bay of artillery. Workingmen with guns were storming thecannon of the artillery regiment outside the city. A haphazardcross-fire of rifles began to spit from darkened windows . .. An upperworld showing its teeth behind parlor barricades. 

In the shadows of the massive government buildings an army was forming. No ranks, no officers. Easy to drift through the sunny streets singingthe _Marseillaise_ and the International . .. To mooch along through theforbidden avenues dreaming in the daylight of a new world . .. With redflags proclaiming the new masters of earth. Hundred thousands, then. Butnow, how many? Too dark to see, to count. An army, perhaps. Perhaps ahandful. .. . 

Feverish salutes in the shadows. .. . "_Gruss Gott, genosse!_"

Was it alive? Did the revolution live? What was happening in the emptystreets? Who was shooting? And the armies of Hoffmann? _Gruss Gott, genosse. _ Under Rupprecht the armies had lain four years in thetrenches. Great armies, swinging along like a single man, that had oncebattered their way almost into Paris against the English, against theFrench. 

"_Gruss Gott, genosse. _ _Hoffmann kommt_ . .. _Ja wohl, Gruss Gott!_"

Now twenty kilometers away and coming down the highroad againstMunich--against the drifting little clusters of lonely men whispering inthe shadows--the great armies of the Kaiser, an iron monster clickingdown the road toward Munich. Would there be artillery to meet them?_Gruss Gott, genosse, wer shusst dort?_ No, they had only guns, old gunsthat might not shoot. Old knives at their belts. .. . Darkness andrifle-spattered silences. Where was the revolution? The shadowswhispered, "_Gruss Gott. .. . _"

The shadows began to stir. A voice was talking in the night. High upfrom a window. Egelhofer, the communist. No, Levine. Who? A light inthe window. .. . Egelhofer, thin-faced, tall, black-haired. Egelhofer, thenew war minister. 'Shh! what was he saying?. .. "_Vorwaerts, derBanhoff. .. . _"

Yes, the armies of Hoffmann had come. The shadows stirred wildly. Forward . .. _es lebe die Welt Revolution!_ This time a battle-cry, hoarse, shaking. Men were running. Workingmen with guns, guns that wouldshoot . .. _"Der Banhoff . .. Der Banhoff. .. . "_

The shadows were emptying themselves. A pack was running. Two abreast, three abreast, in broken strings of men. Groups, solitary figures, hatless, bellowing. The revolution was moving. The empty streets filled. An army? A handful? Let God show in the morning. Workingmen with gunswere running through the night. Munich was shaking. .. . "_Der Banhoff, genosse, vorwaerts!_"

The revolution was emptying itself into the great square fronting thestation. Little lights twinkling outside the ancient weinstubes began toexplode. There must be darkness. Pop!. .. Pop!. .. A rattle of glass. Ablaze of shooting. The railroad station was firing now. 

"_Es lebe das Rate Republik!_" from the darkness in the streets. A sweepof figures across the open square. Arms twisting, leaping in suddenglares of flame. The revolution hurled itself with a long cry upon thebarricades of thundering lead. 

In the single lighted window of the government buildings a face stillspoke . .. _"Ich bin Egelhofer, ihr Krieg's minister . .. Ich komm. .. . "_

Waving a rifle over his head, the war minister rushed from the building. A marine from Kiel. A new pack loosened itself from the shadows. A warminister was leading. 

Moving swiftly through the streets, Dorn hurried to the seat of the newgovernment--the Wittelbacher Palais. Von Stinnes was waiting there. Hehad been delayed in joining the Baron by the sudden upheaval about thehotel. 

The wave had passed. Almost safe now to skirt the scene of battle andmake a try for the Palais. As he darted out of the darkened hotelentrance, the thing seemed for a moment under his nose. An oppressiveintimacy of tumult. 

"They're at the station, " he thought. "I'll have to hurry in case theyfall back. "

He ran quickly in an opposite direction followed by the leap of firing. Several blocks, and he paused. Here was safety. The revolution a goodhalf-mile off. He walked slowly, recovering breath. The street waslighted. Shop windows blinked out upon the pavements. A few stragglerswalked like himself, intent upon destinations made serious by the nearsound of firing. An interesting evening, thus far. A stout, red-facedman with a heavily ornamented vest followed the figure of a woman. Dornsmiled. Biology versus politics. .. . "Excuse me, pretty one, you looklonely. .. . " A charwoman. Black, sagging clothes. Dorn passed and heardher exclaim, "Who, me? You ask me to go with you? Dear God, he asks me!I am an honest workingwoman. Run along with you!" The woman, walkingswiftly, drew alongside. She was chuckling and muttering to herself, acurious pride in her voice, "He asked me, dear God--me!"

The abrupt sound of rifle-fire around the corner startled her. Dornhalted. The woman turned toward him, puzzled. 

"They are shooting a whole lot to-night, " she spoke in German. 

"Quite a lot, " he answered. 

She looked back at the red-faced man who had remained where she had lefthim. 

"What do you think of that dunce?" she whispered, and hurried on. 

Dorn followed leisurely in the direction of the Palais. 

CHAPTER VIII

A rabble of dictators, ministerial fledglings, freshly sproutedgovernors, organizers, departmental heads, scurried through the dimlylighted corridors of the old Palais. Dorn, with the aid of a handful ofcommunist credentials that seemed to flow endlessly from the pockets ofthe Baron, passed the Palais guard--a hundred silent men squattingbehind a hastily erected barricade of sandbags. 

Within he stumbled upon von Stinnes. The Baron drew him into a largeempty chamber. 

"We must be careful, " he whispered. His voice buzzed with an elation. "Already two ministries have fallen. There is talk now of Levine. He'sof the extreme left. I thought you would like to see it. It has itsamusing side. " He laughed softly. "I was with the men in the streets fora while. There was something there, Dorn. Life, yes . .. Yes . .. It wasamazing. But here it is different. What is it the correspondents say?'All is confusion, there is nothing to report. ' . .. Yes, confusion. There are at present three poets, one lunatic, an epileptic, fourworkingmen and a scientist from Vienna, and two school teachers. Theyare the Council of Ten. Look, there is _Muhsam, _ the one with the redvandyke. A poet. He used to recite rhymes in the Cafe Stephanie. "

The red vandyke peered into the room. "Stinnes, you are wanted, " hecalled. "I have my portfolio. I am the new minister to Russia. I leavefor Moscow to-morrow. "

"Congratulations!" the Baron answered. 

A tall, contemplative man with a scraggly gray beard--an angularChrist-like figure--appeared. He spoke. "What are you doing here, Muhsam? There is work inside. "

"And you!" angrily. 

"I must think. We must grow calm. " He passed on, thinking. 

"Landerdauer, " smiled the Baron, "the Whitman translator. "

"Yes, " the vandyke answered, "we have appointed him minister ofeducation. What news from the station, Stinnes?"

"It is taken. "

Dorn followed the Baron about the corridors, his ears bewildered by thescreechings from unexpected chambers of debate. He listened, amused, tothe volatile von Stinnes. 

"They are trying for a coalition. Nikish is at the top. A formerschoolmaster. The communists under Levine won't come in. The workingmenare out overthrowing the world, and the great thinkers sit in conferencehitting one another over the head with slapsticks. Life, Dorn, is adroll business, and revolution a charming comedy, _nicht wahr?_ But itwill grow serious soon. Munich will be cut off. Food will vanish. Aha!wait a minute. .. . "

He darted after a swaggering figure. Dorn watched. The baron appeared tobe commanding and entreating. The figure finally, with a surly shake ofhis head, hurried off. The Baron returned. 

"That was Levine, " he said. "He won't come in unless Egelhofer isratified as war minister. Egelhofer is a communist. Wait a minute. Iwill tell them to make Egelhofer minister. I will make a speech. We musthave the Egelhofer. "

He vanished again. Dorn, standing against a window, watched frantic menscurry down the corridor bellowing commands at one another. .. . 

"Yesterday they were garrulous little fools buzzing around café tables, "he thought. "To-night they boom. Rodinesque. And yet comic. Yes, comedians. But no more than the troupe of white-collared comedians inWilhelmstrasse or Washington. The workers were different. There wassomething in the streets. Men in flame. But here are little matches. "

He caught sight of Mathilde and called her name. She came and stoodbeside him. Her body was trembling. 

"Did you spend the money?" he asked softly. 

"Yes, but they will buy the garrisons back again. They have more fundsthan we. Oh, we need more. "

"Who will buy them back?"

"The bourgeoise. They have more money than we. And without the garrisonswe are lost. "

She wrung her hands. Dorn struggled to become properly serious. 

"There, it may come out very fine, " he murmured. "Anyway, von Stinnes ismaking a speech. It should help. "

"Stinnes. .. . "

"Yes, trying to bring Egelhofer in as war minister. He talked withLevine. .. . "

"I don't understand, " she answered. "He is doing something I don'tunderstand, because he is a traitor. "

She became silent and moved closer to Dorn. 

"Oh, Erik, " she sighed, "I must cry. I am tired. "

He embraced her as she began to weep. Von Stinnes emerged, red-faced andelated. 

"It is settled, " he announced. "Hello! what's wrong with Matty?"

"Tired, " Dorn answered. 

"We will go to the hotel. "

They started down the corridor. A group of soldiers emerged from achamber, blocking their way. 

"Baron von Stinnes, " one of them called. The Baron saluted. 

"You are under arrest by order of the Council of Ten. "

Von Stinnes bowed. 

"Go to the hotel with Matty, Dorn. I will be on soon. "

To the soldiers he added, "Very well, comrades. Take me to comradeLevine. "

"We have orders. .. . "

"To Levine, I tell you, " he interrupted angrily. "Are you fools?"

He removed a document quickly from his coat pocket and thrust it underthe soldiers' eyes. 

"From Levine, " he whispered fiercely. "Now where is Levine?"

The soldiers led the way toward the interior of the Palais. 

 * * * * * *

Outside, Dorn supported the drooping figure of the girl. Runners passedthem crying out, "It is over! We have taken the station!"

They arrived at the hotel. The lobby was thronged with people. Achocolate salesman from Switzerland was orating: "They have erected aguillotine in Marien Platz. They are shooting down and beheadingeverybody who wears a white collar. "

The hotel proprietor quieted the crowd. 

"Nonsense!" he cried. "Ridiculous nonsense! We are safe. They are allgood Bavarians and will hurt nobody. "

Dorn led Mathilde to his room. She threw herself on the bed. 

"So tired!" she whispered. 

"But happy, " he added. "Your beloved masses have triumphed. "

"Don't. I'm sick of talking. .. . "

"Too much excitement, " he smiled. 

They became silent. Dorn, watching her carelessly in the dimly lightedroom, began to think. .. . "Disillusionment already. The dream has died inher. A child's brain overstuffed with slogans, it begins now to ache andgrow confused. Tyranny, injustice, seem far away and vague. Therevolution in the streets has blown the revolution out of her heart. There will be many like that to-morrow. The over-idealized idealistswill empty first. The revolution was a dream. The reality of it will eatup the dream. Justice to the dreamer is a vision of new stars. To theworkingman--another loaf of bread. "

"Of what are you thinking, Erik?"

"Of nothing . .. And its many variants, " he answered. 

"We've won, " she sighed. "Oh, what a day!"

He noted the listlessness in her voice. 

"Yes, " he said, "another sham has had heroic birth. Out of workingmenwith guns there will rise some day a new society which will be differentthan the old, only as to-morrow is different than to-day. The rivers, Mathilde, flow to the sea and life flows to death. And there is nothingelse of consequence for intelligence to record. "

"You talk like a German of the last century, " she smiled. "Oh, you're astrange man!"

This pleased him. He thought of words, a ramble of words--but a knock atthe door. Von Stinnes entered. He was carrying a basket. 

"Food, " he announced cheerfully. "With food in our stomachs the worldwill seem more coherent for a while. "

He busied himself arranging plates of sandwiches on a small table. 

"Mathilde asleep?"

He walked to the bed and leaned over her. The girl's eyes were closed. 

"Poor child, poor child!" the Baron whispered. He caressed her headgently. "We will not wake her up. But eat and leave her food. Do youmind if we go out for a while? It is still early and it will be hard tosleep to-night. I know a café where we can sit quietly and drink wine, perhaps with cookies. "

Their eating finished, Dorn accompanied his friend into the street. 

"It seems as if nothing had happened, " he said, as they walked throughthe spring night. "People are asleep as usual, and there is an odor ofsummer in the dark. "

Von Stinnes silently directed their way. After a half-hour's walk hepaused in front of an ancient-looking building. 

"We are in Schwabbing now, " he said, "the rendezvous of the WeltAnschauers. I think this place is still open. "

He led the way through a narrow court and entered a large, dimly-lighted room. Blank white walls stared at them. Von Stinnes pickedout a table in a corner and ordered two flasks of wine from a stoutwoman with a large wooden ring of keys at her black waist. 

They drank in silence. Dorn observed an unusual air about his friend. Hethought of Mathilde's suspicions, and smiled. Yet there was somethinginexplicable about von Stinnes. There had been from the first. 

"Inexplicable because he is . .. Nothing, " Dorn thought. "A chevalier ofexcitements, a Don Quixote of disillusion. .. . "

"You are thinking of me, " the baron smiled over his wine-glass, "as I amthinking of you. Here's to our unimportant healths, Erik. "

Dorn swallowed more wine. To be called Erik by his friend pleased him. He looked inquiringly at the humorous eyes of the man, and spoke:

"You are cut after my pattern. "

The Baron nodded. 

"Only I have had more opportunities to exercise the pattern, " hereplied. "For the pattern, dear friend, is scoundrelism. And I, Godbless me . .. " He paused and gestured as if in a hopelessness of words. 

"There is quality as well as quantity in scoundrelism, " Dorn suggested. He was thinking without emotion of Anna. 

"I have decided to remain in Munich, " von Stinnes spoke, "and thatmeans that I will die here. "

"The day's melodrama has gone to your head, " Dorn laughed. 

"No. There are people in Munich who know me quite well--too well. Andamong their virtues they number a desire for my death. In Berlin it isotherwise. Then too, this business of to-day can't last. It is alreadytopheavy with thinkers, and will eventually evaporate in a dozenexecutions. It may come back, though. I cannot forget the workingmen whostormed the Banhoff. "

He paused and drank. 

"Yes, I have decided to stay and play awhile. There will be a few weeksmore. One will find extravagant diversions in Munich during the next fewweeks. I am already Egelhofer's right-hand man. I will organize theSoviet army, assist in the conduct of the government, try to buy coalfrom Rathenau in Berlin, make speeches, compose earth-shakingproclamations, and end up smoking a cigarette in front of a Noskefiring-squad. .. . Do not interrupt. I feel it is a program I owe tohumanity. And in addition, I am growing weary of myself. "

Dorn shook his head. 

"Romantics, friend. I do not argue against them. "

"I wonder, " von Stinnes continued, "if you realize I am a scoundrel. Ihave thought at times that you did, because of the way you smile when Italk. "

"Scoundrels are creatures I do not like. And I like you. Ergo, you arenot a scoundrel, von Stinnes. "

The Baron laughed. 

"A convenient philosophy, Erik. Well, I was in the German intelligenceand worked in Paris during the second year of the war. Prepare yourselffor a confession. My secrets bore me. And a little cocotte of a countessbetrayed me. It is a virtue French women have. They are not to betrusted, and love to them is something which may be improved by theexecution of a lover. But there was no execution. To save my skin Ientered the French intelligence--without, of course, resigning from theGerman. Thus I was of excellent service to the largest number. To theFrench I was invaluable. German positions, plans, maneuvers, at myfinger tips. .. . And to the Germans, unaware of my new and lucrativeconnection, I was also invaluable. Again positions, plans, maneuvers. Iwas transferred to Italy by the French and . .. But it's a complicatednarrative. I haven't it straight in my own mind yet. Do you know, I wakeup at night sometimes with the rather naïve idea that I, von Stinnes, who prefer Turkish cigarettes to women, even brunettes . .. But Istammer. It is difficult to be amusing, always. I think sometimes atnight that I was personally responsible for at least half thecasualties of the war. "

"Megalomania, " said Dorn without changing his smile. 

"Yes, obviously. You hit it. A distorted conscience image. Ah, thebombardments I have perfected. The hills of men I have blown up. Frenchmen, Germans, Italians. Yes, a word from me . .. I pointed thecannon straighter. .. . But disregarding the boast . .. You will admit mysuperiority as a scoundrel. "

"It is immaterial, " Dorn answered. "If you betrayed the French, you madeamends by betraying the Germans, and vice versa. As for the Italians . .. I have never been in Italy. "

Von Stinnes laughed. 

"You do not believe me, eh?"

"You are lying only in what you do not say, " Dorn laughed. 

"Yes, exactly. I will go on, if it amuses you. "

"It is better conversation than usual. "

"I am now with the English, " von Stinnes continued. "They play a curiousgame outside Versailles, the English. They have entrusted me with a mostdelicate mission. " He paused and drained his glass. "It is quitedramatic. I tell it to you because I am drunk and weary of secrets. Fiveyears of secrets . .. Until I am almost timorous of thinking even tomyself . .. For fear I will betray something to myself. But--it is droll. The million marks you so gallantly carried in for Matty, they weremine, Erik. " He laughed. "I gave them to Dr. Kasnilov, and a verymysterious Englishman gave them to me. .. . "

"Gifts of a million are somewhat phenomenal, " Dorn murmured. 

"I stole only a hundred thousand, " von Stinnes went on, "which, ofcourse, everyone expected. "

"But why the English, Karl?"

"A little plan to separate Bavaria from Prussia, and help break upMiddle Europe. You know feeling between the two provinces is intense. There was almost a mutiny in the second war year. And anything to helpit along. To-morrow, Franz Lipp the new foreign minister of the Sovietswill telegraph to Berlin recalling the Bavarian ambassador; there _is_one, you know--a figurehead. And the good Franz will announce to theworld that Bavaria has declared its independence of Prussia. This willbe a politic move for the Soviets as well as England. For thebourgeoisie in Bavaria dislike Prussia as much as the communists dislikeher. But I bore you with intrigue. We have had our little revolution forwhich you must allow me to accept an honest share of credit. .. . Let ushave another flask. "

"An interesting story, " Dorn agreed. 

"You still smile, Erik?"

"More than ever. "

"Ah, then truly, we are of the same pattern. "

Von Stinnes stared at him sadly. 

"You are my first companion in five years, " he added. 

"As you are mine, " Dorn answered. "Here . .. To the success of all yourvillainies and our friendship. "

"Which is not one of them, " the Baron murmured. "You believe me?"

"Of course. "

"Ah! it is almost a sensation to be believed . .. For speaking the truth. I feel as if I have committed some exotic sin. Yes, confession is goodfor the soul. "

"Shall we go back to the hotel?"

The Baron leaned forward and grasped Dorn's hand feverishly. 

"I do not wish to joke any more, " he whispered. "I have told you thetruth. And you still smile at me. You are a curious man. I have for longsat like an exile surrounded by my villainies and smiling alone at theworld. But it is impossible to live alone, to become someone whom nobodyknows, whom trusting people mistake for someone else. I have wanted tobe known as I am . .. But have been afraid. Ah! I am very drunk . .. Foryou seem still amused. "

Dorn squeezed his hand. 

"Yes, you are my first friend, " he said. The Baron followed him to hisfeet. They were silent on the way to the hotel. Von Stinnes walked withhis arm linked in Dorn's. Before the latter's room he halted. 

"Good night, sweet prince, " he mumbled drowsily, "and may angels guardthy sleep. "

Alone, he moved unsteadily down the hall. 

Mathilde was gone. Moving about the room, Dorn found a note left forhim. He read:

"A man was here asking for you. An American officer. I met him in thelobby and mentioned there was an American here and he asked your name. When I told him he seemed to be excited. He said his name is CaptainHazlitt and he is in the courier service on his way from Paris toVienna. I do not like him. Please be careful. 

 "MATHILDE DOHMANN. "

CHAPTER IX

In the days that followed Dorn sought to interest himself in the detailsof the situation. The thing buzzed and gyrated about him, tiring histhought with its innumerable surfaces. Revolution. A new state. Newflags and new slogans. 

"I can't admire it, " he explained to Mathilde at the end of the firstweek, "because its grotesqueries makes me laugh. And I cannot laugh atit because its intensity saddens me. To observe the business sanely isto come to as many conclusions as there are words. "

Mathilde had recovered some of her enthusiasm. But the mania that hadilluminated her thought was gone. She spoke and worked eagerly throughthe days, moving from department to department, helping to establishsome of the innumerable stenographic archives the endless stream ofsoviet pronouncements and orders were beginning to require. But at nighther listlessness returned. 

"There is doubt in you too, " Dorn smiled at her. "I am sorry for that. It has been the same with so many others. They have, alas! becomereasonable. And to become reasonable . .. Well, revolution does notthrive on reason. It needs something more active. You, Mathilde, were arevolutionist in Berlin. Now you are a stenographer. Alas! one collapsesunder a load of dream and finds one's self in an uninteresting Utopia, if that means anything. Epigrams lie around the street corners of Munichwaiting new text-books. "

They were walking idly toward the café von Stinnes had appointed as arendezvous. It was late and the dark streets were deserted. The shopshad been closed all week. The Revolution was struggling in poorlyventilated council-rooms with problems of economics. Beyond thepersistent rumors that the city, cut off from the fields, would starvein another two days and that the legendary armies of Hoffmann werewithin a stone's throw of the Hofbrau House, there was littleexcitement. "My employers, " von Stinnes had explained on the fourth day, "are waiting to see if the Soviet can stand against the Noske armiesfrom Prussia. The armies will arrive in a few weeks. If the Soviet candefeat them and thus establish its authentic independence, my employersin Versailles will then finance the Bavarian bourgeoisie and assist inthe overthrow of the Communists. On the one condition, of course, thatthe bourgeoisie maintain Bavaria as an independent nation. And this thebourgeoisie are not at all averse to doing. It sounds preposterous, doesn't it? You smile. But all intrigue is preposterous, even when mostsuccessful. "

"I quite believe, " Dorn had answered. "I've long been convinced thatintrigue is nothing more than the fantastic imbecilities unimaginativemen palm off on one another for cleverness. "

Now, walking with Mathilde, Dorn felt an inclination to rid himself ofthe week's political preoccupation. Mathilde was beginning to have asentimental influence upon him. 

"Perhaps if she loved me something would come back, " he thought. "Anywayit would be nice to feel a woman in love with me again. "

An innocuous sadness sat comfortably in his heart. Later he wouldembrace her. Kiss . .. Watch her undress. Things that would meannothing. .. . But they might help waste time, and perhaps give him anotherglimpse of . .. He paused in his thought and felt a dizziness enter hissilence. Words spun. "The face of stars, " he murmured under his breath, and laughed as Mathilde looked inquiringly up at him. 

The café was deserted. Von Stinnes, alone in a booth, called "Hello" tothem as they entered. 

"We have the place almost to ourselves, " he said. "There are some peoplein the other room. "

He looked affectionately at the two as they sat down, and added, "Howgoes the courtship?"

"Gravely and with cautious cynicism, " Dorn answered. "We find itdifficult to overcome our sanities. "

He smiled at the girl and covered her hand with his. Her eyes regardedhim luminously. They sat eating their late meal, von Stinnes chatting ofthe latest developments. .. . A mob of communist workingmen had attackedthe poet Muhsam while he was unburdening himself of proletarian oratoryin the Schiller Square. 

"They chased him for two blocks into the Palais, " the Baron smiled, "andhe lost his hat. And perhaps his portfolio. They are beginning todistrust the poets. They want something besides revolutionary iambicsnow. Muhsam, however, is content. He received a postal card thisafternoon with a skull and cross-bones drawn on it informing him hewould be assassinated Friday at 3 P. M. It was signed by 'The Society forthe Abolition of Monstrosities. ' He is having it done into anexpressionist placard and it will undoubtedly restore his standing withthe Council of Ten. Franz Lipp, the foreign minister, you know, hasordered all the telephones taken out of the foreign office building. It's an old failing of his--a phobia against telephones. They send himinto fits when they ring. He has incidentally offered to sign a separatepeace with the Entente. A crafty move, but premature. And the burghershave been ordered under pain of death to surrender all firearms withintwenty-four hours. "

The talk ran on. Mathilde, feigning sleep, placed her head on Dorn'sshoulder. 

"You play with the little one, " whispered von Stinnes. "She is in love. "

Dorn placed his arm around her and smiled at her half-opened eyes. 

A man, walking unsteadily across the empty café, stopped in front of thebooth. 

"I've been looking for you, " he said. "You don't remember me, eh?"

Dorn looked up. An American uniform. An excited face. 

"My name's Hazlitt. Come out here. "

Von Stinnes leveled his monocle witheringly upon the interloper andmurmured an aside, "He's drunk. .. . "

Dorn stood up. 

"Yes, I remember you now, " he said. The man's tone had oppressed him. "What do you want?"

He detached himself from Mathilde and stepped into the room. Hazlittstared at him. 

"I owe you something, " he spoke slowly. "Come out here. "

Watching the man as he approached, Dorn became aware of a rage inhimself. His muscles had tightened and a nervousness was shaking in hiswords. The man was a stranger, yet there was an uncomfortable intimacyin his eyes. 

Hazlitt stood breathing heavily. This was Erik Dorn--the man who had hadRachel. Wine swept a flame through his thought. God! this was the man. She was gone, but this was the man. Shoot him down like a dog! Shoot himdown! Kill the grin of him. He'd pay. He'd killed something. Shoot himdown! There was a gun under his coat--army revolver. Better thanshooting Germans. This was the man. 

"You're going to pay for it, " he spoke. "Go on, say something. "

Dorn's rage hesitated. A mistake. What the devil was up?

"Oh, you've forgotten her, " Hazlitt whispered. Shoot him! Voices insidedemanded wildly that he shoot. Not talk, but kill. 

"Rachel, " he cried suddenly. His eyes stopped seeing. 

Dorn jumped for the gun that had appeared and caught his arm in time. Rachel--then this was something about Rachel? Hazlitt . .. Rachel. What?A fight over Rachel? Rachel gone, dead for always. Get the gun away, though. .. . 

They were stumbling across the room, twisting and locked together. Hesaw von Stinnes rise, stand undecided. Mathilde's face, like somethingshooting by outside a car window. And a strong man trying to kill him. .. For Rachel. A Galahad for Rachel. 

His thought faded into a rage. A curse as the man grabbed at his throat. The gun was still in the air. His wrist was beginning to ache fromstruggling with the thing. This was part of the idiocy of things. But hemust look out. Perhaps only a moment more to live. The man was weeping. Mumbling . .. "you made a fool out of her . .. You dirty. .. . "

As they continued their stumbling and clutching, a fury entered Dorn. He became aware of eyes blazing against him--drunken, furious eyes thatwere weeping. With a violent lunge he twisted the gun out of the man'shand. There was an instant of silence and the man came hurling againsthim. 

Dorn fired. Down . .. "my head . .. " He lay still. The body of Hazlittsprawled over him. For a moment the two men remained embraced on thefloor. Then the body of Hazlitt rolled slowly from on top. It fell onits back--a dead face covered with blood staring emptily at the ceiling. 

Dorn, with the edge of an iron table foot embedded in his head, laybreathing unevenly, his eyes closed. 

CHAPTER X

The blinds were drawn. Cheering drifted in through the open window. Mathilde sat in a chair. She was watching him. 

"Hello!" he murmured. "What's up?"

"Erik . .. "

She fell to her knees beside the bed and began to weep. He lay quietlylistening to her. Bandages around his head. A lunatic with a gun. Yes. Rachel. The man had been in love with Rachel. Pains like noises in hisears. 

"You mustn't talk. .. . "

"I'm all right. Where's von Stinnes?"

"'Shh. .. . "

He smiled feebly. She was holding his hand, still weeping. A memoryreturned vividly. A man with blazing eyes. He had lost his temper. Butthere had been something more than that. Two imbeciles fighting over athing that had died for both of them. Clowns at each other's throat. Abackground unfolded itself. Against it he lay watching the two men. Herewas something like a quaint old print with a title, "Fate. .. . "

"Bumped my head, " he murmured. But another thought persisted. It movedthrough the pain in his skull, unable to straighten itself into linesof words. It was something about fighting for Rachel. He would askquestions. 

"What happened, Mathilde? Where'd he go?"

"You mean the man? 'Shh. .. . Don't talk now. "

"Come, don't be silly. "

The thinness of his voice surprised him. 

"What became of the fool?"

"He's dead. "

"Dead?"

"Yes, you shot him. Now be quiet. "

"Good God, so I did. I remember. When he jumped at me. "

A sinking feeling almost drifted him away. He felt as if he had becomehungry. The man was dead. .. . "I killed him. Well . .. What of it?"

He opened his eyes and looked at the room. It was day--afternoon, perhaps. 

"The doctor says you'll be all right in a few days. But you must bequiet. .. . "

"Von Stinnes, " he murmured. "There'll be trouble. Call him, will you?"

Mathilde turned away. Now the pain was less. He could hear cheeringoutside. A demonstration. Workingmen marching under new flags. 

"Von Stinnes is under arrest, Erik. "

"What for? A new government?" What a crazy business. 

"No. Don't talk, please. Later. .. . "

He was too weak to sit up. 

"Things will have to be straightened out, " he muttered. "The fool was anAmerican officer. There'll be trouble. "

"No, don't worry. Von Stinnes has fixed things. "

His eyes grew heavy and closed. Sleep . .. And let things, fixed orunfixed, go to the devil. 

When he awoke again the room was lighted. Mathilde, standing by thewindow, turned as he stirred. 

"Are you awake?"

"Yes, and hungry. "

She brought a tray to his bed. He raised himself carefully, his headunbearably heavy. Mathilde watched him with wide eyes as he sipped somebroth. 

"What did they arrest the Baron for?" he asked. 

She waited till he had finished, and cleared the bed, sitting down onthe edge. Her face lowered toward him till her lips touched and kissedhim. 

"For murder, " she whispered. Another kiss. "Now you must be quiet andI'll tell you. He gave himself up when the police came. We carried youout first. And then I left him. "

"But, " Dorn looked bewilderedly into the eyes of the girl. 

"It was easier for him than for you. They would take you away for trialto America. But he will be tried here. And he will come out all right. Don't worry. We thought your skull was fractured, but the doctor saysit was only a hard blow. "

She lowered her head beside him on the pillow and whispered, "I loveyou! Poor Erik! He is defenseless--with a broken head. "

"You are kind, " he answered; "von Stinnes, too. But we must set mattersright. .. . "

"No, no, be still!"

He grew silent. It was night again. In the morning he would be strongenough to get up. A misty calm, the pain almost gone, veins throbbingand a little split in his thought . .. But no more. 

"I will sleep by you, " Mathilde spoke. She stood up and removed herwaist and shoes. He watched her with interest. Another woman curiouslylike Anna, like Rachel--like the two creatures in Paris. Shoulderssuddenly bare. Possessive, unashamed gestures. .. . She lay down besidehim with a sigh. 

"Poor Erik! I take advantage of a broken head. "

"No, " he smiled. 

They lay motionless, her head touching his shoulder timidly. 

"I could live with you forever and be happy, " she whispered. 

"We will see about forever--when it comes. "

"Do you like me--perhaps--now?"

He would have preferred her silent. Silence at least was an effortlesslie. To make love was preposterous. How many times had he said, "I loveyou?" Too many. But she was young and it would sound pretty in her ears. 

"Mathilde, dear one. "

Her arm trembled across his body. 

It was difficult, but he would say it. .. . "Yes, in an odd sort of way, Mathilde, I love you. .. . "

"Ah! you are only being polite--because I have fed you broth. "

"No. As much as I can love anything. .. . "

"Later, Erik. 'Shh! Sleep if you can. Oh, I am shameless. "

She had moved against him. He thought with a smile, "What an originalway of nursing a broken head!"

Later, tired with a renewed effort to straighten out words about thefool and Rachel and himself, he closed his eyes. Mathilde was stillawake. 

"I'll see von Stinnes in the morning, " he murmured drowsily. "VonStinnes . .. A gallant friend. .. . "

. .. Someone knocking on the door aroused him. Dawn was in the room. 

"Matty, " he called. She slept. He found himself able to rise and hislegs carried him unsteadily to the door. A tall marine, outside. 

"Herr Erik Dorn?"

Dorn nodded dizzily. 

The man went on in German. "I come from Stinnes. I have a letter foryou. "

He took the letter from his hand and moved hurriedly to a chair. 

"Thanks, " vaguely. The marine saluted and walked off. Mathilde hadawakened. 

"What are you doing?"

She slipped out of bed and hurried to him. 

"A letter, " he answered. He allowed her to help him back to his pillow. Reclining again, his dizziness grew less. 

"I'll read it for you, " she said. 

"No. Von Stinnes. .. . "

"It may be important. "

"I'll be able to read in a moment. "

She shook her head and slipped the envelope from his weakening fingers. 

"I know about von Stinnes. Don't be afraid. May I?"

He nodded and she began to read:

"DEAR ERIK DORN:

"I write this at night, and to-morrow I will be ended. You must notmisunderstand what I do. It is a business long delayed. But I have madea full confession in writing for the Entente commission--ten closelywritten pages. A masterpiece, if I have to boast myself. And in order toavoid the anti-climax which your sense of honor would undoubtedlyprecipitate, I will put a period to it in an hour. A trigger pulled, andthe nobility of my sad country loses another of its shining lights. I amoverawed by the quaint justice of life. I end a career of villainy witha final lie. It would really be impossible for me to die telling atruth. The devil himself would appear and protest. But with a lie on mylips, it is easy. Indeed, somehow, natural. But I pose--a male Magdalenein tears. Do not misunderstand--too much. You are my friend, and I wouldlike to live a while longer that we might amuse ourselves together. Youhave been an education. I find myself even now on this auspiciousmidnight writing with your words. But I mistrust you, friend. You woulddeny me this delicate martyrdom if I lived. For you are at bottomlamentably honorable. So now, as you read this, I am dead (a sentenceout of Marie Corelli) and the situation is beyond adjustment. Pleaseaccept my service as gracefully as it is rendered. The confession, as Isaid, is a masterpiece. It would please my vanity if sometime you couldread it. For in this, my last lie, I have extended myself. Dear friend, there is a certain awe which I cannot overcome--for the drama, orcomedy, finishes too perfectly. You once called me a Don Quixote ofdisillusion. And now, perhaps, I will inspire a few new phrases. Letthem be poignant, but above all graceful. I would have for my epitaphyour smile and the whimsical irony of your comment. Better this than thehand-rubbing grunt of the firing-squad returning to barracks after itslabors. Alas! that I will not be near you to hear it. But perhaps therewill come to me as I submit myself to the opening tortures of hell, anecho of your words. And this will bring me a smile with which to cheatthe devil. I bequeathe to you my silver cigarette-case. You are mybrother and I say good-bye to you. 

 "KARL VON STINNES. "

"No postscript?" Dorn asked softly. 

Mathilde shook her head. There was silence. 

"Will you find out about him, please?" he whispered. 

The girl dressed herself quickly and left the room without speaking. Alone, Dorn lay with the letter in his hand. 

He spoke aloud after minutes, as if addressing someone invisible. 

"I have no phrases, dear friend. Let my tears be an epigram. "

PART V

SILENCE

CHAPTER I

The sea swarmed under the night. A moon road floated on the long darkswells. From the deck of the throbbing ship Dorn looked steadily towardthe circle of moving water. In the salon, the ship's orchestra wasplaying. A rollicking sound of music drifted away into the dark monotoneof the sea. 

A romantic mood. A chair on an upper deck. Stars and a moon road overthe sea. Better to sit mumbling to himself than join in the chatter ofthe cabin. The gayly lighted salon alive with laughter, music, andvoices touched his ears--a tiny music-box tinkling valiantly through thedark sweep of endless yesterdays, endless to-morrows that sighed out ofthe hidden water. The night was an old yesterday, the sea an oldto-morrow. 

A sadness in his heart that kept him from smiling, a strange comedy ofwords in his thought, a harlequin with the night sitting on his lap. There were things to remember. There were memories. Unnecessary tothink. Words formed themselves into phrases. Phrases made dim picturesas if the past was struggling fitfully to remain somehow alive. .. . Hisgood-bye to Mathilde. And long, stupid weeks in Berlin. The girl hadbeen absurd. Absurd, an impulsive little shrew. With demands. Fourmonths of Mathilde. Unsuspected variants of boredom. Clothed in herunrelenting love like an Indian in full war dress. Yet to part with herhad made him sad. 

The sea rolled mystically away from his eyes. 

"An old pattern, " his thought murmured, "holding eternities. And thelittle music keeps tinkling downstairs. A butterfly of sound in thenight. Like a miniature of all living. Ah, I'm growing sentimental. Sitting holding hands with the sea. She was sad when I left her. What ofit? Von Stinnes. Dear friend! No sadness there. He was right. Newphrases, graceful emotions. What an artist! But Warren couldn't writethe story. It has to be played by a hurdy-gurdy on a guillotine. "

He let his words wander gropingly over the water until a silence enteredhim. Thus life wandered away. The sea beat time to the passing of ships, changing ships. But always the same beat. It was the constancy of thestars that saddened him. September stars. The stars were yesterdays. Yes, unchanging spaces, unchanging yesterdays, and a ship's orchestradropping little valses into the dark sea. He opened a silvercigarette-case--an heirloom with a crest on it. Von Stinnes again. Curious how he remembered him--a memory neither sad nor merry--but finallike the sea. A phantom of word and incident that bowed with anenchanting irony out of an April day. The other, the fool with thegun. .. . Good God, he was a murderer! He smiled. Von Stinnes, amelancholy Pierrot doffing his hat with a gallant snicker to the moon. Hazlitt, a pantaloon. Yet tragic. Yes, there was something in the caféthat night--two men hurling themselves drunkenly against the tauntingemptiness of life. The rage had come because he had remembered Rachel. Asudden mysterious remembering. A remembering that she was gone. It hadtorn for a moment at his heart, shouted in his ears and driven him mad. 

Something had taken Rachel out of him. Time had eaten her image out ofhim. He had remembered this in the café. But why had he fired at thestranger? Because the man's eyes blazed. Because he had become for aninstant an intolerable comrade. 

"We fought each other for what someone else had done to us, " Dornmurmured. "Not Rachel but someone that couldn't be touched. Absurd!"Hazlitt slipped like a shadow out of his mind--an unanswered question. 

The throbbing ship with its tinkling orchestra, its laughing, chatteringfaces, was carrying him home over a dark sea. At night he sat alonewatching the circle of water. Four vanished nights. Four more nights. Hesighed. The sadness that lay in his heart desired to talk to him. Hestruggled to change his thinking. Ideas that were new to him arose atnight on the ship. 

"Not now, " he whispered. He was postponing something. But the night andthe rolling sea were swallowing his resistance. Words that would tellhim the pain in his heart waited for him. .. . "Anna. Dear God, Anna! It'sthat. But why Anna now? It was easy before. "

Words of Anna waited for him. He stared into the dark. 

"I want her. I must go back to her. Anna, forgive me!"

A murmur that the darkness might understand. The long rolling sealistened automatically. Weak fool! Yet he felt better. He could thinknow without hiding from words that waited. 

His heart wept in silence. The unbidden ones came. .. . Anna--standinglooking at him. A despair, a death in her face. Something tearing itselfout of her. What pain! But no sound. An agony deeper than sound in hereyes. He trembled at the memory. The crucified happy one. .. . 

Dear God, would he always have to remember now? Other pictures weregone. They had drifted away leaving little phrases dragging in histhought. Now Anna had found him. Not a phantom, but the thing as he hadleft it, without a detail gone. The gesture of her agony intact. Histhought shifted vainly away. He knew she was standing as he had lefther--horribly inanimate--and he must go back. He would hold her in hisarms, kiss her lips, kneel before her weeping for forgiveness. Ah! hewould be kind. At night he would sit holding her head in his arms, stroking her hair; whispering, "Forget . .. Forget! A year or two ofmadness--gone forever. But years now waiting for us. New years. Everything is gone but us. That brought me back. Mists blew away. DearAnna, I love you. "

He was making love to Anna, his wife. A droll finale. Tears came in hiseyes. There lay happiness. She would move again. The rigid figure thathe had left behind and that was waiting rigidly, would smile again. Heplunged desperately into the dream of words to be. The music from thesalon had ended. Better, silence. Nothing to remind one of the fugitivetinkle of life. A dark, interminable sea, a moon road, a sigh of rollingwater and a ship throbbing in the night. 

"Dear Anna, I love you. " And she would smile, her white face and eyesthat were constant as the stars. Constant, eternal. Love that was nomystery but a caress of sea nights. Forgive him. And her sorrow wouldheal under his fingers. It would end all right. The two years--thehalloo of strange sterile things--buried under the smile of her eyes . .. Deep, sorrowful, beautiful. Words to be. "Anna we will grow oldtogether, holding to each other and smiling; lovers whom the years makealways younger. " Words that were to heal the strange sadness that hadcome to him and start a dead figure into life. 

He stood up and walked to the rail, staring into the churn of waterunderneath. 

"It's slow, " he murmured. "Four more days. "

Anna's love would hide the world from him. But a fear loosened hisheart. The smell of sea whirled in his veins. 

"Perhaps, " he thought dreamily, "perhaps there will be nothing. She willsay no. "

He hesitated, straightened with a sigh. 

"A wife deserter, a seducer, a murderer. I mustn't expect too much, eh, von Stinnes?"

He smiled at the night. The sound of the Baron's name seemed to bring astrength into him. He walked toward his berth, his head unnecessarilyhigh, smoking at his cigarette and humming a tune remembered from theMunich cafés. 

CHAPTER II

There were people in New York who came to Erik Dorn and said: "Tell usabout Europe. And Germany. Is it really true that. .. . " As if there weresome inner revelation--a few precious phrases of undistilled truth thatthe correspondent of the _New Opinion_ had seen fit to withhold from hiscommunications. 

The skyscrapers were intact. Windows shot into the air. Streets bubbledwith people. A useless sky clung tenaciously to its position above theroof-gardens. The scene was amiable. Dorn spent a day congratulatinghimself upon the genius of his homeland. He felt a pride in theunbearable confusion of architecture and traffic. 

But in the nine months of his absence there had been a change; or atleast a change seemed to have occurred. Perhaps he had brought thechange with him. It was evident that the Niagara of news pouring out ofEurope into the press and periodicals of the day had inundated theprovincialism of his countrymen. People were floundering about in a dazeof facts--groping ludicrously through labyrinths of information. 

It had been easy during the war. Democracy-Autocracy; a tableau to lookat. Thought had been unnecessary. In fact, the popular intelligence hadlegislated against it. The tableau was enough--a sublimated symbol ofthe little papier-maché rigmarole of their daily lives, the immemorialspectacle of Good and Evil at death grips, limelighted for a moment bythe cannon in France. The unreason and imbecility of the mob crownedthemselves. Thought became _lèse majesté_. 

Dorn returned to find the tableau had suffered an explosion. It had forsome mysterious reason glibly identified as reaction burst intofragments and vanished in a skyrocket chaos. Shantung, Poland, littlenations, pogroms, plebiscites, Ireland, steel strikes, red armies, Fourteen Points, The Truth About This, The Real Story of That, theLeague of Nations, the riots in Berlin, in Dublin, Milan, Paris, London, Chicago; secret treaties, pacts, betrayals, Kolchak--an incomprehensiblemuddle of newspaper headlines shrieked from morning to morning and saidnothing. The distracted mob become privy for the moment to the vastbiological disorder eternally existent under its nose, snorted, yelped, and shook indignant sawdust out of its ears. 

In vain the editorial Jabberwocks came galloping daily down the slopesof Sinai bearing new tablets written in fire. The original and onlygenuine tableau was gone. The starry heavens which concealed the DeityHimself had become a junkpile full of its fragments. 

"In the temporary collapse of the banalities that conceal the worldfrom their eyes, " thought Dorn, "they're trying to figure out what'sreally what around them--and making a rather humorous mess of it. "

He went about for several days dining with friends, conferring withEdwards and the directors of the _New Opinion_, and slowly shaping his"experiences abroad" into phonograph records that played themselvesautomatically under the needles of questions. 

At night, he amused himself with reading the radical and conservativeperiodicals, his own magazine among them. 

"The thing isn't confined to the bloated capitalists alone, " he laughedone afternoon while sitting with Warren Lockwood in the latter's rooms. "The radicals are up a tree and the conservatives down a cellar. What doyou make of it, Warren?"

"I haven't paid much attention to it, " the novelist smiled. "I've beenbusy on a book. What's all this stuff about Germany, anyway? I read somethings of yours but I can't figure it out. "

Dorn exploded with another laugh. 

"You're all a pack of simpletons and bounders, still moist behind theears, Warren. The whole lot of you. I've been in New York three days andI've begun to feel that there isn't a remotely intelligent human animalin the place. I'm going to retreat inland. In Chicago, at least, peopleknow enough to keep their mouths shut. I'll tell you what the troubleis in a nutshell. People want things straight again. They want black andwhite so's they can all mass on the white side and make faces at theevil-doers who prefer the black. They don't want facts, diagnosis, theories, interpretations, reports. They want somebody to stand up andannounce in a loud, clear voice, 'Tweedledum is wrong. Tweedledee isright, everything else to the contrary is Poppycock. ' Thus they'd beable to put an end to their own thinking and bury themselves in theirown little alleys and be happy again. You know as well as I, it makesthem miserable to think. Restless, irritable, indignant. It's likehaving bites--the more they're scratched the worse they itch. It's thewar, of course. The war has been a failure. The race has caught itselfred-handed in a lie. Now everybody is running around trying to confessto everybody else that what he said in the past was a lie and that thereal truth is as follows. And there's where the trouble begins. Thereain't no such animal. "

"I see, " said Lockwood, smiling. 

"Yes, you do, " Dorn grinned. "You don't see anything. The trouble is . .. Oh, well, the trouble is as I said that the human race is out in theopen where it can get a good look at itself. The war raised acurtain. .. . "

"What about the radicals, though? They seem to be saying somethingdefinite?"

"Yes, shooting one another down by the thousands in Berlin--as they willsome day in New York. Yes, the radicals are definite enough. .. . Therevolution rumbling away in Germany isn't a standup fight betweenCapital and Labor. It's Radical _versus_ Radical. Just as the war wasImperialist _versus_ Imperialist. One of the outstanding lessons of thelast decade is the fact that the world's natural enemies haven't yet hada chance at each other, being too busy murdering among themselves. It'scoming, though. Another tableau. All this hysteria and uncertainty willgradually simmer down into another right-and-wrong issue--with lifeboiling away as always under a black and white surface. "

"Do you think we're going to go red here?" Lockwood asked pensively. 

"It'll take a little time, " Dorn went on. He had become used to recitinghis answers in the manner of a schoolmaster. "But it's bound to happen. Bolshevism is a logical evolution of democracy--another step downward inthe descent of the individual. Until the arrival of Lenine and Trotzkyon the field, there's no question but what American Democracy was themost atrocious insult leveled at the intelligence of the race by itsinferiors. Bolshevism goes us one better, however. And just as soon asour lowest types, meaning the majority of our politicians, thinkers, andwriters, get to realizing that bolshevism isn't a Red Terror with a bombin one hand and a dagger in the other, but a state of society surpassingeven their own in points of weakness and abnormal silliness, they'llstart arresting everybody who isn't a bolshevist. Capital will put up afight, but capital is already doomed in this country. It isn't respectedfor its strength, vision, and creative powers. It is tolerated to-dayfor no other reason than that it has cornered the platitude market. I'mtelling you, Warren, that when we get it drummed into our heads thatbolshevism isn't strong and powerful, but weaker, more prohibitive, moresentimental, more politically inefficient, and generally worse than ourown government, we'll have a dictator of the proletaire in Washingtonwithin a week. "

Lockwood sighed unhappily and lighted a pipe. 

"If you were talking about men and women maybe I could join you, " heanswered. "But I got a hunch you're just another one of those newspaperNeds. The woods are full of smart alecks like you and they make me kindof tired, because I never can figure out what they're talking about. AndI'll be damned if they know themselves. They think in big hunks and keepa lot of words floating in the air. .. . What old Carl calls 'Blaa . .. Blaa. .. . '"

The two friends sat regarding each other critically. Dorn nodded after apause. 

"You're right, " he smiled. "I'm part of the blaa-blaa. I heard themblaa-blaa with guns in Munich one night. And up in the Baltic. You'reright. Anything one says about absurdity becomes absurd itself. Andtalking about the human race in chunks is necessarily talking absurdly. Tell me about that fellow Tesla. "

"They deported him to Rooshia, " Lockwood answered. "There was quite aromance about the girl. That was your girl, wasn't it?"

"Yes, Rachel. She wouldn't tag along, eh?"

"No. I suppose they wouldn't let her. I don't know. There was a lot ofstuff in the newspapers. "

The novelist seemed to hesitate on the brink of further information. Hisfriend smiled understandingly. 

"It doesn't matter, Warren. Go ahead. Shoot. "

"Cured, eh?"

"No--dead. "

Lockwood nodded sagely, his mouth half open as if his words were staringat Dorn. 

"Well, there isn't much I know. I met a little girl the other day--MaryJames; know her?"

"Yes. "

"She was quite excited. She told me something about an artist that usedto hang around Tesla. It seems that he kidnapped her and carted her toChicago. This James girl was all upset. "

An interruption in the person of Edwards the editor occurred. The talklapsed once more into world problems with Lockwood listening, skeptically open-mouthed. 

Late in the evening Edwards suddenly declared, "You're making a bigmistake leaving New York, Erik. You've got a market now. Your stuffwent big. "

"I'm through, " Dorn answered. He arose and took his hat. "I'm leavingfor Chicago to-morrow. "

He paused, smiling at Lockwood. 

"I'm going home. "

The novelist nodded sagely and murmured, "Uh-huh. Well, good-night. "

Making his way slowly through the night crowds and electrophobia oflower Manhattan, Dorn felt peacefully out of place. His thought hadbecome: "I want to get back to where I was. " In the midst of themechanical carnival of Broadway he caught a memory of himself walking towork with a stream of faces--of a sardonic Erik Dorn to whom the streetwas a pattern; to whom the mysteries tugging at heels that scratched thepavements were the amusing variants of nothing. 

CHAPTER III

"Eddy. "

"Yes, dear. "

"I have some news for you. "

The round, smiling face of Eddy Meredith that refused to change withage, beamed at Anna. 

"Erik's back. "

The beam hesitated. 

"He wrote. He's coming to see me. "

"Anna. .. . "

"Yes, dear, I know. It sort of frightens me, too. But, " she laughedquietly, "there is nothing to be frightened about. He didn't give anyaddress or I would have written him telling him. "

"He must know you're divorced, " Meredith spoke nervously. 

"I don't know if he does, Eddy. "

She reached her hand out and placed it over his, her eyes glancing atthe figure of Isaac Dorn. He was asleep in a chair. 

"Please, dearest, don't worry, " she whispered. 

"It'll be hard for you. "

Meredith's face acquired an abnormal expression. 

"Maybe you'll feel different. " He sighed, and Anna shook her head. "When's he coming?"

"To-morrow night. "

"Did he say anything in the letter?"

She stood up and went to a desk. 

"Here it is. " A smile touched her lips. "He always wrote curiousletters. Words and words when there was nothing to say. And a singlephrase when there was something. " She read from a sheet of paper--"'DearAnna, I am coming home. Erik. '"

In the corner Isaac Dorn opened his watery eyes and stared at theceiling. 

"Are you awake, father?"

"Yes, Anna. "

"Did I tell you I'd heard from Erik?"

The old man mumbled in his beard. 

"He'll be out to-morrow night, " she said, smiling at him. He nodded hishead, stared at her, and seemed to doze off again. 

"Father is failing, " Anna whispered. Meredith had arisen. His face hadgrown blank. He walked toward the hall, saying, "I'll go now. "

Anna came quickly to him. Her hands reached his shoulders and she stoodregarding him intently. 

"There's nothing any more, dear. It all ended long ago. Perhaps I'll besad when I see him. But sad only for him. "

Meredith smiled and spoke with an effort at lightness. 

"Remember, I don't hold you to anything. I want you only to be happy. Inyour own way. Not in my way. And if it will mean happiness for you to. .. For you to go back, why . .. " He shrugged his shoulders and continuedto smile with hurt eyes. 

"Eddy. .. . " Her face came close to his. He hesitated until her armsclosed tightly around him. He felt her warm lips cling and open. 

"You've never kissed like that before, Anna. " There was almost a fear inhis voice. 

"Because I never knew I wanted you, " she whispered, "till now--till thisminute; till you said about my going back. "

Her face was alive with emotion. A laugh, and she was in his arms again. They stood embraced, murmuring tenderly to each other. 

Later in her bedroom Anna undressed slowly. Her thoughts seemed to bequarreling with her emotions, her emotions with her thoughts. This wasErik's room--ancient torture chamber. Something still clinging to itswalls and furniture. Ah, nights of agony still in the air she breathed. Her words formed themselves quietly. They came to peer into herheart--polite visitors standing on tiptoe before a closed cell that hidsomething. 

"Is there anything?" she murmured. "No. I'm different. "

She thought of the day she had come out of a grave and resumed living. It had seemed as if she must learn to walk again, to breathe, todiscover anew the meanings of words. At first--listless, uncertain. Thennew steps, new meanings. Her mind moved back through the year. She hadwept only once--on the night of the divorce. But that was as one weepsat an old grave, even a stranger's grave. The rest had been Eddy. 

"I've changed. And I've been happier in many ways. "

She was talking to herself. Why? "I'm a different Anna. " But why thinkof it? It was settled. 

She lay in the bed and her eyes opened at the darkness. Here was whereshe had lain when she had died. Each night, new deaths. Here the lonelydarkness that had once choked her, torn at her eyes and made her screamaloud with pain. Things on the other side of a grave. Memories becomealien. Things of long ago, when the whisper of the dark came like aninsanity into her brain. "Erik gone! Erik gone! Gone!" A word that beatat her until she died--to awake in the morning and stumble once morethrough a day. 

Now she regarded the dark quietly. Black. It had no shape. It layeverywhere about her. But it did not burn nor choke. A peaceful, harmless dark that could only whisper as if it were asking something. What was it asking? Long arms of night reaching out for something. Butthere was nothing to give, even if she wanted to. Not even tears. Nothing to give, even though it whispered for alms. Whispered, "Erik . .. Erik!" But there was no little memory. No big memory. Dead. Torn out ofher. So the dark whispered to a dead thing in her that did not stir. Asmile like a tired little gesture passed over her. "Poor Erik, poorErik!" she murmured. "He must be thinking things that are no more. "

She grew chill for an instant. .. . The memory of agonies, of the screamsher love had uttered as it died. 

"Poor Erik!"

She buried her cool cheek restlessly in the pillow. 

CHAPTER IV

Everything the same as it had been. As if he had stepped out of theoffice for a walk around the block and come back. But a sameness thathad lost its familiarity. Old furniture, old faces, intensely a part ofhis consciousness, yet grown strange. It was like forgetting suddenlythe name of a life-long friend. 

His entrance created a stir of excitement. He had spent the precedingtwo days arranging with the chief for his return. Barring theNietzschean who had functioned in his absence, none had expected him. 

He pushed open the swinging door with an old gesture, and walked to hisdesk. Here he sat fumbling casually with proofs and the contents ofpigeonholes. An old routine saying, "Pick me up. " Familiar triflesrebuked him. The staff sauntered up one by one to greet him. Crowley, Mortinson, Sweeney. 

"Well, glad to see you back. We've sure missed you around here. "

Handshakes, smiles, embarrassed questions. A few strange faces to beresented and ignored. A strange locker arrangement in a corner to befrowned at. But the rest of it familiar, poignant--a world where hebelonged, but that somehow did not seem to fit as snugly as once. Handshakes in the hall. A faint cheer in the composing-room as hesauntered for the first time to the stone. Slaps on the back. Busy menpausing to look at him with suddenly lighted faces. "Well, Mr. Dorn, greetings! How are ye? You're looking fine. .. . "

His world. It was the same, only now he was conscious of it. Before hehad sat in its midst unaware of more than a detail here, a gesturethere. Now he seemed to be looking down from an airplane--a strangebird's-eye view of things un-strange. 

He returned to his desk. The scene again reached out to embrace him. Familiar colored walls, familiar chatter and flurry of the afternoonedition going to press. He felt its embrace and yet remained outside it. There were things in him now that could never be a part of theunchanging old shop. 

During a lull in the forenoon he leaned back in his chair and staredinto the pigeonholes. Memories like the unfocused images of a dream oneremembers in the morning jumbled in his thought. The scene around himmade things he recalled seem unreal. And the things he recalled made thescene around him seem unreal. He tried to divert himself by rememberingdefinitely. .. . "We lay in a moon-lighted room and I whispered to her:'You have given me wings. ' I held a gun and pulled the trigger as hejumped at me. .. . Then von Stinnes took the blame. .. . There's arestaurant in Kurfursten Damm where Mathilde and I. .. . What a night inMunich!. .. At the Banhoff. What do I remember most? Let me see. .. . Yes. .. There was a note pinned on the blanket saying she was gone and I . .. But there's something else. What? Let me see. .. . "

He tried to evoke clearer pictures. But the sentences that passedthrough his mind seemed sterile, impotent. The past, set in motion byhis effort, evaded him. Its details blurred like the spokes of a swiftlyturning wheel. He smiled. 

"A sinner's darkest punishment is forgetting his sins, " he murmured tohimself. He thought of the evening before him. "Better not think ofthat. Read proofs. " He had deferred his meeting with Anna until heshould be able to come to her from his desk in the office. 

As the day passed an impatience seized him. The unfinished event broughta fear with it. .. . "I must put it out of my mind until to-night. " But itremained and grew. 

In the afternoon he sat for an hour talking to Crowley and Mortinson. Helistened to them chuckle at his anecdotes. Their faces beaming withaffectionate interest seemed nevertheless to say, "All this isinteresting, but not very important. Not as important as sitting in theoffice here and sending the paper to press day after day. "

The words he was uttering bored him. He had heard them too often. Yet hekept on talking, trying to bury his impatience and fear in the sound ofhis voice. His anecdotes were no longer memories. They seemed to havebecome complete in themselves, related to nothing that had everhappened. He wondered as he talked if he were lying. These things he wassaying were somehow improvisations--committed to memory. He kept ontalking, eagerly, amusingly. 

The afternoon passed. A walk through familiar streets and it was timefor dinner. 

"I'm not hungry. I'll eat, though. "

Yes, the evening ahead was important--very important. That accounted forthe tedium of the day. But it would be dark soon. There would be ato-morrow. There had been other important evenings. It was not necessaryto get too nervous. He had writhed before in the embrace of interminablehours, hours that seemed never to arrive. Then suddenly they came, looming, swelling into existence like oncoming locomotives that openedwith a sudden rush from little discs into great roaring shapes. And oncearrived they had seemed to be present forever. But suddenly the roaringshapes were little discs again. Hours died as people died--with anabrupt obliteration. Yet each new moment, like each new face, becameagain interminable. Time was an endlessness whose vanishing left itsillusion unchanged. 

But now it was night. 

"At the end of this block is a house. Two doors more. I have no key. Ring the bell. God, but I'm an idiot. She'll answer the door herself. What'll I say? That's her step. Hello? No. Walk in. Naturally. "

He stopped breathing. The door opened. His legs were made of whalebone. But there was a new odor in the hallway. .. . And something new here inher face. He stood looking at the woman with whom he had lived for sevenyears and when he said her name it sounded like that of a stranger. Hisfeatures had a habit of smiling. An old habit of narrowing one of hiseyes and turning up the right corner of his lips. He stood unconsciousof his expression, his smile a mask that had slapped itselfautomatically over his face. 

But they must talk. No, she had him at a disadvantage. Her silence couldsay everything for her. His silence could say nothing. He reachedforward and took her hands. 

"Anna. .. . "

She was different. A rigidness gone. When he had left her she wasstanding, stiffened. Now her hands were limp. Her face too, limp. Hereyes that looked at him seemed blind. 

"I've come back, as you see. "

That was banal. One did not talk like that to a crucified one. Her handsslipped away and she preceded him into the room. He looked to see hisfather, but forgot to ask a question about him. Anna was standingstraight, looking straight at him. Not as if he were there, but as ifshe were alone with something. 

"You must let me talk first, Erik. "

Willingly. It was difficult to breathe and talk at the same time. He satdown as she moved into a chair opposite. 

Something was happening but he couldn't tell yet. She was changed. Olderor younger, hard to tell. But changed. It was confusing to look atsomeone and look at a different image of her. The different image was inhis mind. When she talked he could tell. 

"Did you know that I had gotten a divorce, Erik?"

That was it, then. She wasn't his wife any more. A sort of hocus-pocus. .. Now you are my wife, now you aren't my wife. 

"No, Anna. "

"Four months ago. "

"I was in Germany. .. . " Mathilde, von Stinnes, _es lebe die WeltRevolution_, made a circle in his head. 

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry you didn't find out. "

It was impossible. Something impossible was happening. Of course, he hadknown it would happen. But he had fooled himself. A clever thing to do. He was talking like a little boy reciting a piece from a platform. 

"I've come back to you because everything but you has died. I begin withthe end of what I have to say. I came back from Europe . .. Because Iwanted you. .. . "

She interrupted. "I wrote you a letter when I found out about her. Isent it to New York. "

"I never got it. "

"I'm sorry. "

Quite a formal procedure thus far. A letter had miscarried. One couldblame the mails for that. And a divorce. Yes, that was formal too . .. "whereas the complainant further alleges . .. " He felt that his legs weretrembling. If he spoke again his voice would be unsteady. He did notwant that. But someone had to speak. Not she. She could be silent. 

"Anna"--let his voice shake. Perhaps it would help matters. "You'vechanged. .. . "

"Yes, Erik. .. . "

"I haven't much right to ask for anything else. .. . "

Why in God's name could he think clearly and yet only talk like ablithering fool? He would pause and gather his wits. But then he wouldstart making a speech . .. Four-score and seven years ago ourforefathers. .. . 

"I'm sorry you came, Erik. .. . "

This couldn't be Anna. He closed his mouth and stared. A dream full ofnoises, voices, Anna saying:

"We mustn't waste time regretting or worrying each other aboutthings. .. . It's much too late now. "

He wanted to say. "It is impossible that you do not love me because youonce loved me, because we once lay in each other's arms . .. Sevenyears. " But there was no Anna to say that to. Instead, a stranger-woman. An impulse carried him away. He was kneeling beside her, burying hisface in her lap. It didn't matter. There was no one to see. Perhaps herhand would move gently over his hair. No, she was sitting straight. Still alone with something. She was saying:

"I'm sorry. Please, Erik, don't. "

"I love you. "

"No. No! Please, let's talk. .. . "

He raised his face. It was easier now that he was crying. He wouldn'thave to be grammatical . .. Or finish sentences. 

"I understand, Erik. I was afraid of this. For you. But you mustn't. 'Shh! it's all over. "

"No, Anna. It can't be. You are still Anna. "

"Yes. But different. "

He stood up. 

"Really, Erik, " she was shaking her head and smiling without expression, "everything is over. I would rather have written it to you. I could havemade it plain. But I didn't know where to reach you. "

He let her talk on and stood staring. Her face was limp. There wasnothing there. He was looking at a corpse. Not of her, but somehow ofhimself. There in her eyes he lay dead--an obliteration. He had comeback to a part of him that had died. It was buried where one couldn'tsee, somewhere behind her eyes. 

"I have nothing more to say, Erik. But you must understand what I havesaid. Because it means everything. "

He listened, staring now at the room, remembering. They had livedtogether once in this room. There was something beautiful about theroom. A face that held itself like a lighted lamp to his eyes. "Erik, Erik, I love you. Oh, I love you so. I would die without you. Erik, myown!" The walls and books and chairs murmured with echoes. The familiarslanting books on their shelves. The large leather chairs under thelight. He must weep. The little things that were familiar--mirrors inwhich he saw images and words . .. A white body with copper hair fallenacross its ivory; white arms clinging passionately to him; a voice, rapturous, pleading. He must weep because he had come back to a worldthat had died, that looked at him whispering with dead lips, "Erik, mybeloved. Oh, I'm so happy . .. So happy when you kiss me . .. Mydearest. .. . "

He closed his eyes as tears burned out of them. Anna in a blur. Stilltalking quietly. Embarrassed by his weeping. He was offering her hissilence and his tears. He had never stood like this before a woman. Butit was something other than a woman--an ending. As if one came upon afigure dead in a room and looked at it and said without surprise, "It isI. "

"So you see, Erik, it's all over. I can't tell you how. It took a longtime, but it seemed sudden. I don't know what to say to you, but it willbe better to leave nothing unsaid. I'm trying to think of everything. I'm going to be married next month. Remember, I'm not the Anna you knew. She isn't getting married again. I'm somebody totally different. I feeldifferent. Even when I walk. You never knew me. I can remember our yearstogether clearly. But it seems like a story that was once told me. Doyou understand, Erik? I am not bitter or sad, and I have no blame foryou. You are more than forgiven. .. . "

No words occurred to him. Somewhere behind the smooth face of her hefancied lived a woman whose arms were about his neck and whose lips werehungering for him. 

"It's all very clear to me, Erik. I've thought of it often. You made mea part of yourself and when you deserted me, you took that with you, andleft me as I am; as I was born. .. . "

"Will you play something on the piano for me, Anna?"

"No, Erik. "

He seated himself slowly and remained with his head down. There wasnothing to think. 

"I'll go in a few minutes, " he muttered. 

Anna, standing straight, watched him as if she were curious. He felt hereyes trying to acquaint themselves with him, and failing. He was growingangry. Better leave before he spoke again. Anger was in him. It was shewho had been the unfaithful one. He could smile at that. He stood upthen, and smiled. This was a part of life, to be felt and appreciated. Ahandshake, a smile that von Stinnes would have applauded, and he wouldhave lived another hour. 

"On the boat I made love to you, " he said softly, "and I am not unhappy. It is only--my turn to weep a bit. "

He regarded her calmly. Yes, if he wanted to . .. There was somethingwaiting. .. . Even though she thought it dead. If he wanted to, there wasa grave to open, slowly, with tears and old phrases. 

She let him approach her. He felt her body grow rigid as he placed hisarms around her. His lips touched her cold cheek. 

"It was to make sure that you were dead, " he whispered. 

She nodded. 

. .. Another hour ended. He had returned. Now he was going away again andthe hour was a disc whirling away, already lost among other discs. 

The street was chilly. He walked swiftly. His thoughts were assemblingthemselves. Words that had lain under the tears in the room thawed out. 

"She will marry Meredith and the old man will come to live with me. Ishould have gone upstairs and said hello. But he was probably asleep. I'll take my books and furniture. She won't need them with Meredith. Get an apartment somewhere. How old am I? About forty. Not quite. Changed completely. Curious, I didn't want her after she'd talked aboutit. I suppose because I didn't really come for her--for somebody else. Conrad in quest of his youth. Lost youth. How'd that damn book end?Well, what of it, what of it? Things die without saddening one. Yet onebecomes sad. A make-believe. That's right. No matter what happens youkeep right on thinking and breathing as if it were all outside. Yes, that's it--outside; a poignant comedy outside that talks to one. Deathis the only thing that has reality. We must not take the rest tooseriously. If I get too bored I can remember that I killed a man anddevelop a stricken conscience. Poppycock!. .. The old man'll be anuisance. But he's quiet, thank God! Well, well . .. I'm too civilized. Isuppose I made an ass of myself. No. .. . A few tears more or less. .. . "

His thought paused. He walked, looking at things--curbings, houses, street trees, lights in windows. He resumed, after blocks:

"Good God, what a thing happened to her! To change like that. Anawfulness about it. Death in life. Have I changed? No. I'm the same. Butthat's a lie. I was in love once . .. A face like a mirror of stars. Thephrase grows humorous with repetition. It doesn't mean anything. Whatdid it mean? Like trying to remember a toothache . .. Which tooth ached. But it only lasted . .. Let's see. Rachel, Rachel. .. . Nothing. It wasgone a week after I came to her. The rest was--a restlessness . .. Wanting something. Not having it. Well, it doesn't matter now. "

In his hotel room he undressed without turning on the lights. He feltnervous, vaguely afraid of himself. 

"I might commit suicide. Rather stupid, though. I'll die soon enough. Maybe a few more things left to see and feel and forget. Who knows? I'llhave to look up some of the ladies. "

He crawled into bed and grew promptly sleepless. 

"If I'm honest I'll be able to amuse myself. If not . .. Oh, Lord, what amess! No. Why is it? Life runs away like that--hits you in the eye andruns away. "

He closed his eyes and sighed. Like himself, the world was full ofpeople who lived on. Things ended for them and nobody could tell thedifference, not even themselves. Being happy--what the devil was that?Happiness--unhappiness--you slept as soundly and ate as heartily. 

"I'm a little tired to-night. " An excuse for something. He was afraid. He reached over to the small table near the bed and secured a cigarette. Lighting it, he lay on his back, blowing smoke carefully into the darkand watching the tobacco glow under his nose. 

"Damn good thing I'm not an author. End up as a cross betweenMaeterlinck and Laura Jean. One could write a volume on a cigaretteglowing in the dark. "

He puffed until the tobacco was almost ended. He placed thestill-kindled stub on the table and sighed:

"Yes, that's me. Life has had its lips to me blowing smoke and fire outof me. And now a table top on which to glow reminiscently for a moment. And cool into ashes. Apologies to Laura Jean, Marie Corelli--and God. "

CHAPTER V

Rachel, removing her heavy coat, walked briskly to the grate fireburning in the rear of the studio. She stood looking into the flames andrubbing the cold out of her hands. 

"Well, I kept the appointment, Frank. "

Brander, the artist, sprawled on a cushion-littered couch, sat upslowly. His heavy eyes regarded her. 

"We had quite a talk. You know his wife has remarried. "

"That so?" Rachel laughed. 

"Mr. Dorn sends you his regards. "

"That'll be enough. "

"I must say he's much cleverer than you, Frank. "

"What did you talk about? Soul stuff, eh?"

"Oh, not entirely. "

She came over to the couch and patted his cheeks. 

"My hands--feel how cold they are. "

"Never mind your hands. What did our good friend have to say forhimself?"

"Oh, talk. " Her dark eyes glanced enigmatically from his stare. 

Brander swore. "I want to know, d'you hear?"

"Dear me! Soulmate bares all. " She laughed and walked with a sensualswing down the long room. 

Brander, without stirring, repeated, "Yes, everything. "

Rachel's face sobered. 

"Why, there's nothing Frank--of interest. "

"Hell, I've caught you crying over him. "

"Well, what of that? A woman's tears, you know, a woman's tears, don'tmean anything. "

"They don't, eh?"

"No. " The sight of him hunched amid the cushions seemed to appeal to herhumor. A large, strong monkey face against blue, green, and yellowpillow faces. She laughed. 

"Well, I'll tell you something. There's going to be no soul stuff inthis. You're mine. And if you start any flapdoodle hand-holding with ourgood friend, I'll knock your heads together into a pulp. "

He raised his large shoulders and glowered majestically. Rachel, pausedbeside a canvas, regarded him with half-closed eyes and smiling lips. 

"He sent his kindest wishes to you. "

Brander left his seat and strode toward her. 

"That's enough. "

"And asked us to call. And if we couldn't come together, I might callalone, " she spoke quickly. Her eyes were mocking. An oath from Branderseemed to amuse her. 

"You're in love with him, " he muttered, his fingers tightening abouther wrist. "Come, out with it! I want to know. "

"Yes. " Rachel's eyes grew taunting. "He is the knight in shining armor, fairy prince, and the man in the moon. "

"Never mind laughing. I want to know. "

"Well, listen then. " Her voice grew vibrant as if a laugh were talking. "His eyes are the beckoning hands of dream. Poor Frank doesn't know whatthat means. "

Brander swung her toward the couch. She fell amid the cushions with alaugh. He stood looking at her and then walked slowly. 

"Don't touch me. Don't you dare!"

A grin crossed the artist's face. 

"I know you and your kind, " he answered, "mooney girls. Mooney-headedgirls. I've had 'em before. "

"Keep away. .. . "

Her face as he bent over her glowed with a sudden terror. 

"Mooney girls, " repeated Brander. 

His hands reached her shoulders and held her carelessly as she squirmed. 

"You're hurting me. "

"I'll hurt you more. Talk out now. Are you in love with that loon?"

"Yes. "

"More than me?"

"Yes. "

Brander's face reddened. His hand struck her chin. Rachel shut her eyesto hold back tears. 

"Are you still?"

"Yes. Always. " Her teeth clenched. "Go on, hit me, if you want to. Ilove him. Love him always. Every minute. As I did. Do you hear? I lovehim. "

She opened her eyes and shivered. He was going to kill her. He tore ather clothes, beating her with his fists until her head rattled on herneck. 

"I'll fix your love for him, " Brander whispered. The pain of his blowsand shakings were making her dizzy. 

"Frank . .. Dear, please. .. . "

"Do you love him?"

"Yes. "

She tried to bury her head in her arms, but he untwisted her gesture. His hands, striking and clawing at her, made her scream. A mist--he hadseized her. 

"Frank! Frank!"

"Do you love him now?"

She opened her eyes and stared wildly into Brander's face. It grinned ather. Her arms clutched his body. 

"No, no!" she cried, her mouth gasping. "Don't talk. Don't askquestions. Love . .. " she laughed aloud eagerly, brazenly. Her thin armstightened fiercely about him. "I love this. "

CHAPTER VI

Isaac Dorn was sitting in a chair beside the gas-log fire in his son'sapartment. His thin fingers lay motionless on his knees. His head hadfallen forward. 

It was early evening when his son entered the room. Dorn paused andlooked at the silent figure in the chair. The old man raised his head asif he had been spoken to and muttered. "Eh?"

He saw his son and smiled. He would like to talk to him. It was lonelyall day in the house. And things were beginning to fade from his eyes. It was hard even to see if Erik was smiling. Yes, his face was happy. That was good. People should look as Erik did--amused. Wait . .. Waitlong enough and it all blurred and faded gently away. 

"What made you so late, Erik?" he asked. Now his son was laughing. Thatwas a good sign. 

"A lot of work at the office. The Russians are at it again. And I met anold friend this afternoon. A dear old friend. Old friends make onesentimental and garrulous. So we talked. "

He noticed the old man's eyes close but continued addressing him. 

"We discussed problems in mathematics. How many yesterdays make ato-morrow. That gas-log smells to high heaven. "

He leaned over and turned out the odorous flames. He noticed now thatthe old man had dozed off again. But his talk went on. It had become ahabit to keep on talking to his father who dozed under his words. "She'sgoing to drop around and visit us. And we will perform a gentle autopsy. Stir a little cloud of dust out of the bucket of ashes, eh? And perhapswe will come to life for a moment. Who knows? At least, we shall weep. And that is something. To be able to weep. To know enough to weep. Hername is Rachel. "

He paused and walked toward the window. 

"Rachel, " he repeated, his eyes no longer on the old man. "Her name isunchanged. .. . "

He opened von Stinnes's silver case and removed a cigarette. He stoodgazing at the snow on roofs, on window ledges, on pavements. Crystallinegeometries. Houses that made little puzzle pictures against the stagnantcurve of the darkening sky. A zigzag of leaden-eyed windows, and windowsringed with yellow light peering like cat eyes into the winter dusk. Thedarkness slowly ended the scene. Night covered the snow. The city openedits tiny yellow eyes. 

A street of houses before him. A cigarette under his nose. An old manasleep. Outside the window the snow-covered buildings stood in the darklike a skeleton world, like patterns in black and white.