VEILS 
 ISIS 
 
 HARRI S | 
 
 m
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 s
 
 THE VEILS OF ISIS 
 FRANK HARRIS
 
 THE VEILS OF ISIS 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANK HARRIS 
 
 Author of "The Bomb," "Montes, the Matador," 
 "Unpath'd Waters," etc. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 Copyright, 1915, 
 By George H. Doran Company
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Veils of Isis 9 
 
 The Yellow Ticket 27 
 
 The Ugly Duckling 49 
 
 A Daughter of Eve 79 
 
 Isaac and Rebecca 149 
 
 A French Artist 185 
 
 A Fool's Paradise 217 
 
 Within the Shadow 241 
 
 A Miracle and No Wonder 267 
 
 A Prostitute .......... 285 
 
 The Kiss" ... k .... 301 
 
 H 
 
 . .JO
 
 The Veils of Isis
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 TOWARD the end of the second dynasty a 
 youth whom his father and mother had 
 named Amanthes came to manhood near the village 
 of Assouan on the Nile. From childhood on he had 
 been self-willed and passionate beyond the ordi- 
 nary, and growing in boldness and intelligence he 
 took the lead of the other young men. Because of 
 his superiority his father and mother, though poor 
 cultivators, were persuaded to devote him to the 
 priesthood. And as the young man was nothing loath 
 they took him one day to the Temple of Osiris. The 
 Chief Priest received them with kindness, for the 
 youth's promise had been noised abroad and he 
 spoke to them warmly in favor of the God whom 
 he worshiped and His divine mission: he told them 
 how Osiris had come down from Heaven to help 
 men and had suffered Death for their sakes through 
 the Powers of Darkness. With tears in his eyes he 
 told of the resurrection of the God and how at the 
 last He should judge the dead. 
 
 9
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 Scarcely had he finished when Amanthes cried : 
 
 "Can a God be defeated? Why didn't Osiris 
 conquer the Darkness?" and other such things. 
 
 And when his father and mother, terrified by his 
 boldness, tried to restrain him, for the Chief Priest 
 held up his hands in deprecation, Amanthes went 
 on stoutly: 
 
 "I can't adore a God who accepts defeat; and I 
 don't fear judge or judgment. I want to worship 
 Isis, the woman-goddess, the giver of life, for her 
 creed of joy and hope and love must last as long 
 as the earth lasts and the sun gives light." 
 
 The Chief Priest pointed out that the temples to 
 Osiris were larger and more important than any 
 other, and the service of the God was nobler and 
 more highly rewarded, but Amanthes would not be 
 persuaded, insisting that the only divinity he could 
 worship was Isis, to whose service he was willing 
 to devote himself night and day with all his heart. 
 
 Impressed by his earnestness and enthusiasm, the 
 Chief Priest at length decided that it might be as 
 well if Amanthes went down the river to Memphis 
 to the great Temple of Isis, and as the young man 
 took fire at the suggestion he offered to give him 
 letters to the High Priest which would insure his 
 being accepted, and he excused himself afterward 
 10
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 for this weakness by saying that he had never met 
 so eloquent a youth or so sincere a calling. Aman- 
 thes, he said, seemed careless about everything else, 
 but the moment the name of Isis was mentioned his 
 eyes glowed, his face became intense, and it really 
 looked as if the youth were inspired. 
 
 Ten days later Amanthes journeyed down the 
 river to Memphis, and presented himself before 
 the authorities of the Temple of Isis. But here his 
 passion carried little persuasion, and at first it 
 seemed as if his desire would be thwarted. The 
 High Priest read the letter of his colleague and, 
 after one glance at Amanthes, proposed to engage 
 him as a servitor in the Temple, but thought it 
 right, at the same time, to warn him that only the 
 best and noblest were selected to wait on the God- 
 dess herself, and that before one could hope to enter 
 her immediate Presence one must have spent half 
 a lifetime in the temple. 
 
 "It took me," he said, "nearly five years to learn 
 the routine of the service." 
 
 Amanthes listened with wide eyes and bowed in 
 silence to the High Priest's decision, but from the 
 very day he entered the temple he set himself to 
 learn all the ritual and ceremonial forms, and de- 
 voted himself with such passion to whatever was 
 
 II
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 given to him to do that he became a marked man 
 among the younger priests. 
 
 Though he held himself aloof from all his com- 
 rades, he was not much disliked by them, for when- 
 ever his father and mother sent him presents of 
 dates or dainties he shared them out among the 
 others, contenting himself always with the simple 
 sustenance provided in the Temple. 
 
 To his father and mother he wrote but once, tell- 
 ing them to look upon him as dead, for he had given 
 himself to the service of the Goddess with heart 
 and life and for him there was no looking back. 
 
 A few months after his admission to the Temple, 
 Amanthes took a chance opportunity and begged the 
 High Priest to enroll him among the immediate 
 servants of the Goddess. 
 
 "I know all the forms and ceremonies by heart," 
 he said, "and am eager now to learn the will of the 
 Goddess herself." 
 
 The High Priest was greatly astonished; but 
 though he found by examining the young man that 
 he was indeed a master of all the services, he would 
 not grant his request. 
 
 "You have still much to learn," he said, "before 
 you can hope for such honor, and the next test is 
 difficult," and on that he took Amanthes to the 
 12
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 library of the Temple and showed him a room filled 
 with great rolls of papyrus, and priests studying 
 them. 
 
 "They are all at work," he explained, "inter- 
 preting the divine Oracles." 
 
 "But where are the Sayings of the Goddess?" 
 cried Amanthes, as if nothing else mattered. 
 
 "Here," said the High Priest, turning over one 
 small yellow roll, "are the sacred words of the Di- 
 vine One, the words which have been commented 
 upon by wise men for thousands of years, and be- 
 fore we can believe that anyone is worthy to enter 
 the shrine of the Goddess he must first show his fit- 
 ness by interpreting her Oracles, or correcting some 
 of the commentators who have gone before." 
 
 "Let me first see the Goddess and learn her will," 
 argued the young man; "when I know her I shall be 
 able to interpret her words." 
 
 "Presumption!" cried the High Priest, "mortals 
 can only get glimpses of the Divine, and can never 
 know the divine Will completely, any more than they 
 can see the Goddess unveiled." 
 
 All the young man's pleading was met with a 
 steady refusal: it was unheard of that any priest 
 should be admitted to the Shrine of the Deity before 
 he had passed at least ten years in the Temple. 
 
 13
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 "I myself," said the High Priest at length, "knew 
 all the Oracles and had written two great books 
 upon them before I was admitted in my twelfth year 
 of service, and even then I only served at the door, 
 and never entered the Shrine but with eyes bound so 
 that I might not look upon the naked beauty of the 
 Goddess." 
 
 Amanthes pleaded with him as one pleads for 
 life; but still the High Priest remained obdurate. 
 
 "There are the Oracles," he said, pointing to the 
 books; "distinguish yourself and I will shorten the 
 time of your probation as much as I dare, or as cus- 
 tom will allow." 
 
 Amanthes once more bowed his head and took 
 his place among the students. 
 
 In the seventh month of the same year Amanthes 
 interpreted a saying of the Goddess with such free- 
 dom that all the readers cried blasphemy against 
 him, and brought him before the High Priest to an- 
 swer for the crime. Amanthes defended himself 
 with much boldness and many good reasons, till the 
 High Priest cried : 
 
 "You read the Oracles as if the Goddess were a 
 woman and nothing more, and that is wrong." 
 
 "How else can they be read?" retorted Amanthes. 
 "If she is not a woman one can never understand 
 
 14
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 her, and if she is more than a woman we men can 
 only get to the divine through the human." 
 
 The High Priest himself was shaken, and hesi- 
 tated to decide, for in the course of the argument 
 he had found that the young man had read the 
 sacred Roll from beginning to end, and knew every 
 word of the Goddess by heart. 
 
 "How did you learn it," he couldn't help asking, 
 "in so short a time?" 
 
 Amanthes only looked at him smiling, by way of 
 answer, and again begged the Chief Priest to admit 
 him now to the service of the Goddess, for he had 
 surely proved himself and been patient. There was 
 nothing to gain by waiting. 
 
 But immemorial custom was against him and the 
 High Priest resented his insistence. 
 
 "You are too daring," he said at length; "it may 
 be well to use boldness to a woman, but to a Goddess 
 you must show reverence." 
 
 "No, no," cried Amanthes, "reverence to the 
 woman, who doesn't expect it and will be won by it, 
 boldness to the Goddess." 
 
 "Blasphemy," cried the High Priest; "you are on 
 a dangerous way and I must not encourage you," 
 and motioning to the great bronze door, behind 
 them, he added: "Go on diligently as you have be- 
 
 15
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 gun and it will be open to you perhaps after five 
 years." 
 
 "Five years!" repeated Amanthes sadly; "five 
 years of life and youth lost: five years!" 
 
 "That door has never opened in less," replied the 
 High Priest solemnly, but as he spoke Amanthes 
 gripped his arm, crying: 
 
 "Look, look!" and when the High Priest turned 
 he found the door of the Shrine standing open. 
 
 "Strange," said the old man; "it must be some 
 accident; I will shut it," and he seized the handle, 
 but the door would not be moved; and as he stood 
 there all shaken and hesitating, Amanthes with eyes 
 aflame cried out: 
 
 "See, Isis the Beloved, Isis herself has answered 
 my prayer." 
 
 And Amanthes moved as if to enter the sacred 
 place, but the High Priest held him back, warning: 
 
 "If you enter without reverence and bound eyes 
 you will die on the threshold." 
 
 Amanthes laughed aloud, and strode past him 
 into the Shrine, and as the High Priest held up his 
 hands in fear and horror, the bronze door drew to 
 of itself and closed between them. 
 
 From this time on Amanthes was constantly in 
 the Shrine of the Goddess. Indeed, he scarcely gave 
 16
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 himself time to eat or sleep, and everyone remarked 
 how thin he grew and haggard with the constant 
 service. And when, after some months, the High 
 Priest warned him that his health would break 
 down, and told him that he must not forget that the 
 chief thing was the interpretation of the Oracles, 
 Amanthes answered impatiently: 
 
 "I know nothing yet: the Goddess vouchsafes no 
 answer to my entreaties! How can one interpret 
 without knowledge?" 
 
 Now there was a tradition that in the first dynasty 
 a young priest had been consumed in the service of 
 Isis, and had wasted away before the Goddess, till 
 one day he was translated into flame and disap- 
 peared in a moment, and it crossed the High Priest's 
 mind that Amanthes was on the same road, and 
 likely to meet the same fate, and he desisted from 
 admonishing him, fearing to make bad worse. He 
 left the young man to his own devices, till strange 
 tales came to him from the other priests that set 
 all the Temple whispering. 
 
 It was put about that at night Amanthes used to 
 speak to the Goddess as if she were a woman, and 
 touch her statue as if the limbs were flesh. He had 
 been overheard entreating her as a lover entreats his 
 mistress, telling over her beauties adoringly, and 
 
 17
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 begging her to lift the veil that prevented him en- 
 joying her divine loveliness. While all the priests 
 were muttering, and wondering how the impious 
 boldness would be punished, one came to them with 
 ashen face and a stranger tale. 
 
 "The Goddess has answered Amanthes," he 
 gasped; "Isis asked him why he wanted the veil 
 lifted, and he stretched forth his arms and cried: 
 'For Love's sake,' and as he spoke the Goddess 
 trembled, and I fled, for indeed the sacred veil had 
 begun to fall away " 
 
 The priests wouldn't credit the tidings. But when 
 Amanthes came forth from the Shrine some be- 
 lieved, for he was as one transfigured. He spoke to 
 no man, but went straight to his cell, and from this 
 time on he was continually heard praising the God- 
 dess in song and glorifying her Service. 
 
 A little later Amanthes went to the High Priest 
 and asked him to be allowed to write an interpreta- 
 tion of the Oracles, and his interpretation was so 
 bold at once and simple that the High Priest was 
 amazed by it and frightened, and asked him how he 
 dared to treat the divine words so boldly, and the 
 young man answered quietly now and in all humility: 
 
 "Love is my only guide, and the boldness of love 
 is reverence." 
 .18
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 The High Priest bowed his head, for in spite of 
 himself he was moved by the young man's tone and 
 unaccustomed humbleness. And when the servitors 
 came to the High Priest and demanded that Aman- 
 thes should be punished for insolent boldness he 
 shook his head and rebuked them impatiently. And 
 when they persisted, declaring that the worship of 
 Amanthes for the Goddess was an outrage and in- 
 sult to her, he answered simply: 
 
 "The Goddess can protect herself." 
 
 It was evident to all that he did not believe the 
 slanders. And indeed such portions of the interpre- 
 tations of Amanthes as the High Priest thought fit 
 to publish were so astonishingly simple and con- 
 vincing that they won many to admiration, and his 
 fame was noised abroad throughout all the land of 
 Egypt, and people came from afar to hear his words 
 and to listen to his interpretation of the divine 
 speech. 
 
 And his humility now was as evident as his bold- 
 ness had been aforetime. 
 
 "I know nothing," he said: "I am but a reed 
 through which the Goddess speaks : of myself noth- 
 ing." 
 
 His modesty impressed the people more than any 
 assurance would have done, and when he served Isis 
 
 19
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 in public the great Temple was thronged and all 
 the people stirred by the fervor of the ritual, and 
 when at the end he knelt before the Goddess, to re- 
 cite the formal benediction, he prayed with such 
 passion that everyone was affected, and the worship 
 of the Goddess, the Giver of Life, spread on all 
 sides and grew mightily. 
 
 The success of Amanthes made many of the 
 priests envious, and sharpened the jealousy of those 
 who had been against him from the beginning. And 
 of these one of the chief was that servitor who had 
 already spied upon him, and reported his entreaties 
 of the Goddess to the High Priest. This man had 
 been one of the most learned of the commentators 
 before Amanthes had appeared. He did not know 
 all the words of the Goddess like Amanthes, but he 
 knew by heart all the comments that had been made 
 on them and all the interpretations for a thousand 
 years, which were indeed in themselves a library of 
 dead men's words. He had been supplanted by the 
 coming of Amanthes, and now lived for nothing but 
 his undoing. One day he came to the High Priest 
 with a mysterious air and a slander which he would 
 not tell, and when the High Priest pressed him to 
 say what it was, he withstood him. 
 
 "I will not repeat what I have heard," he said, 
 20
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 "nor soil my lips with the blasphemy. Come and 
 hear for yourself." 
 
 And when the High Priest refused to come, for 
 he was very old and fearful of shocks, the slanderer 
 insisted: 
 
 "You will see Amanthes," he said, "at his foul 
 work; and you will see Her too, and you shall judge 
 whether such things are to be permitted." 
 
 He spoke with such horror and hinted at such 
 practices that the High Priest at length consented to 
 go to his cell with him and spy upon Amanthes ; for 
 his cell joined the Shrine itself, and was only sepa- 
 rated from it by one wall. And he showed the High 
 Priest that, when his cell was darkened, they could 
 see between two layers of the stone everything that 
 went on in the Shrine of the Goddess and hear every 
 word as distinctly as if they had been within the 
 sacred place. 
 
 And while the High Priest and servitor were lis- 
 tening, Amanthes entered the Shrine and stood be- 
 fore the Goddess. And they saw that he had come 
 as from the bath, for his neck shone and his linen 
 had been bleached by the Nile water. For some 
 time he stood in dumb entreaty with hands out- 
 stretched, and the High Priest thought that the 
 Goddess trembled before the dumb intensity of the 
 
 21
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 appeal, and he turned his head aside for he would 
 not trust his eyes. 
 
 At length Amanthes spoke, and the High Priest 
 scarcely recognized his voice: 
 
 "How long?" he cried. "How long?" 
 
 And his arms fell as if in despair, and he sighed 
 heavily as one in pain. And suddenly he went over 
 to the Goddess, and put his hands upon her hips, 
 and the Chief Priest turned aside breathless, for he 
 would not look, though the servitor with sharp-set 
 eyes nudged him. But he heard Amanthes speak- 
 ing, and as he spoke he turned again to the Shrine, 
 and this was what he heard: 
 
 "How long am I to wait, O Queen; how long? 
 Before I knew you I worshiped you, and every fa- 
 vor you have accorded me has fed my passion. 
 When you removed the first veil you showed me a 
 new Isis, even lovelier than my imagining, and I 
 stood entranced; and every veil you have taken off 
 since has revealed some new perfection hitherto un- 
 dreamed. Am I then unworthy to have the last 
 veil lifted? Unworthy, though consumed with 
 adoration." 
 
 And as his hands touched the Goddess, the High 
 Priest saw that she trembled as if she had been flesh 
 22
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 and blood, and his breath caught, for the Goddess 
 spoke. 
 
 "If I refuse," said Isis, "it is for your sake, 
 Amanthes," and her hand touched his hair. 
 
 And Amanthes cried aloud: 
 
 "To refuse one thing is to refuse all : love knows 
 no denials : I would see you as you are, as the Gods 
 see you face to face." 
 
 And the High Priest shuddered in fear, for the 
 grave voice of the Goddess was heard again: 
 
 "No woman's soul can resist love: to-morrow it 
 shall be as you desire." 
 
 And they saw Amanthes twine his arms round the 
 Goddess and kiss her limbs, and with the last look 
 the High Priest saw that he was prone before the 
 Shrine with his lips pressed against the feet of Isis. 
 
 And the High Priest as he went would not even 
 speak with the servitor, for he was full of appre- 
 hension, and torn in many ways, partly by affection 
 for Amanthes, partly by curiosity, and most of all 
 for fear of what would happen on the morrow. 
 
 In the morning he gave orders that the servitor 
 should be in close attendance upon himself, and that 
 his cell, from which one could look into the Shrine, 
 should be closed, and he ordained twenty-four hours 
 
 23
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 of solemn fasting and prayer for all the priests, and 
 decreed that the Temple should be shut. 
 
 In the second hour, after the orders had been 
 given, Amanthes came to him, and the High Priest 
 hardly dared to look on him, for his face was as 
 the face of one who had talked to the Divine and 
 won his soul's desire. 
 
 But Amanthes stretched out his strong hands and 
 caught the old man by the shoulders, and said in his 
 rich voice: "I thank you. You have done what I 
 would have ordered in your place." 
 
 And the High Priest gasped: 
 
 "Are you not afraid?" 
 
 "Afraid?" he cried. "To-night is the night for 
 which I was born," and as he turned and went the 
 High Priest saw his shining eyes and felt a little 
 
 envious. 
 
 The morning after the great fast the High Priest 
 went himself to the Shrine with all his attendants 
 robed and in order as to solemn service. And after 
 the three prayers the bronze doors were opened; 
 and there, stretched before the Goddess, lying prone, 
 was Amanthes. And the moment the High Priest 
 saw him he knew that the youth was dead, and when 
 he looked up at the Goddess he saw she was veiled 
 as usual, and her hands were by her side. 
 
 24
 
 The Yellow Ticket: Jiolte Bilet
 
 The Yellow Ticket: Jiolte Bilet 
 
 THE scene is in Moscow, just where the wide 
 Boulevard meets the TVerskaia. In the mid- 
 dle of the way is the statue to Puschkin; on the right 
 hand, walling the street, the great monastery to the 
 Passion of Christ. This is the favorite promenade 
 of the gay-plumaged night-birds of Moscow. They 
 walk up and down the street in the glare of the 
 shops, and then cross and go down the Boulevard, 
 shadows drifting from darkness into the light, and 
 again from the light into darkness. 
 
 One night in the early winter of 19 12 a young 
 girl was among them, warmly but dowdily dressed, 
 like a well-to-do provincial; yet she scanned the 
 passers-by as the professionals scan them, and 
 walked slowly as they walk, though it was no time 
 for loitering. The winter had set in early, and 
 already in November the air was keen with frost, 
 and the stars glittered like diamonds. 
 
 A young man came hurrying by: as he passed he 
 caught sight of the girl's profile and eyes as she lin- 
 
 27
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 gered before a shop window. He stopped at once 
 and went over to her. 
 
 "Are you waiting for anyone?" he asked. 
 
 The girl replied quite quietly: 
 
 "No one in particular." 
 
 "Willi do?" he asked gaily. 
 
 She threw a quick glance at him and nodded. 
 
 His manner changed with her acceptance. For a 
 moment he put out his hand as if to take her by the 
 arm, and then drew back. 
 
 "I'm so sorry, but I have to dine to-night with 
 some relatives; I'm late already," he hurried on, 
 "but I must know you; I never saw anyone so pretty. 
 I can't stay to-night; I must go now; I can't get out 
 of it. You'll meet me to-morrow night, won't you?" 
 
 The girl shook her head. 
 
 "But why not?" he exclaimed. "It's absurd. I 
 want you; you have taken my fancy, and I want to 
 know all about you. Do promise me you will go 
 home now and be here to-morrow at the same time." 
 
 The girl shook her head again: "I can't prom- 
 ise." 
 
 "But why not?" he insisted. "It's absurd. Sup- 
 pose I pay you for the evening?" 
 
 He threw open his fur coat and took some notes 
 out of his waistcoat pocket. 
 28
 
 The Yellow Ticket: Jiolte Bilet 
 
 "No, no !" cried the girl, shrinking away; "I don't 
 want money." 
 
 "Don't want money?" he said. "Don't be silly. 
 What else are you here for? Now look," he went 
 on imperiously, "here are ten roubles. Now go 
 home, and I'll meet you here to-morrow night at 
 half-past seven exactly. Will you promise?" 
 
 She shook her head; but he seized her hand and 
 shut the note in the palm. 
 
 "I must go," he cried hurriedly; "but I'm sure 
 you'll be here to-morrow; you're too young to 
 cheat." And he hurried away. 
 
 The girl didn't turn to look after him, but stood 
 for a moment undecided, then took out a little purse 
 and pushed in the banknote and resumed her casual 
 walk, now glancing at the passers-by, now with ap- 
 parent coquetry stopping in the full glare of some 
 shop window, loitering. 
 
 A little while later another man accosted her. 
 
 "What are you doing?" he asked. 
 
 She looked up as the strong voice reached her. 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "And your name?" he went on, drawing her 
 nearer still to the glaring light in the window. 
 
 "Rebecca," she said, looking up at him. 
 
 "A Jewess!" he cried. "I might have known it 
 
 29
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 with that coloring and those great eyes. But you 
 don't look Jewish, you know, with that little straight 
 nose; and you are new at this game, aren't you?" 
 
 The girl's eyes met his for a moment. 
 
 "Yes," she replied. 
 
 "Will you come and dine?" he asked. 
 
 The girl nodded. 
 
 "Are you free for the night?" 
 
 She paused as if swallowing something before she 
 nodded. 
 
 "Come on, then," he said; "we'll go and have 
 some dinner and a talk." 
 
 The next moment he had stopped a droschky that 
 was swinging by behind a black Orloff, and had 
 helped the girl to a seat. 
 
 "To the Hermitage," he said, and the little car 
 whirled away down the street. 
 
 The Hermitage in Moscow is a very convenient 
 establishment. It has over two hundred suites of 
 rooms, from five roubles for the night to fifty; from 
 one room with a bed in it and the ordinary exiguous 
 toilet requirements, to a suite of sitting-room, bed- 
 room, and a bathroom so large that a couple may 
 swim about in it. It has sixteen entrances, too, and 
 as many exits, so there is small chance of meeting 
 anyone you don't want to meet. 
 
 30
 
 The Yellow Ticket: Jiolte Bilet 
 
 The man, evidently a well-to-do merchant, se- 
 lected a good number, and as they followed the 
 waiter into the corridor a little bell tinkled, and con- 
 tinued to tinkle till they got into the sitting-room and 
 the closed door shut out its ringing. 
 
 "What's that bell for?" asked the girl. 
 
 "Oh, that is one of the customs of the place," said 
 the man, taking off his gloves and laughing to the 
 waiter; "isn't it, Ivan? The bell rings just to warn 
 people not to leave their rooms till the new comers 
 are installed, otherwise one might meet inconvenient 
 people in the passages. Everything is well arranged 
 in the Hermitage, that one can say for it." 
 
 The girl nodded her head, smiling, and stood ex- 
 pectant in the middle of the room. Hurriedly, but 
 as one accustomed to it, the man ordered a good 
 dinner, and as the waiter left the room he turned 
 with astonishment to the Jewess: 
 
 "What!" he cried, "you haven't taken off your 
 hat and coat yet?" and he came toward her as if to 
 help her. 
 
 At once she hurried over to the nearest glass, put 
 up her hands, and took off her little fur cap and be- 
 gan arranging her hair; then slowly loosening her 
 coat, she folded the heavy garment carefully, and 
 laid it on a chair. 
 
 31
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 The man went on talking the while : 
 
 "Lucky it was I met you; didn't know what to do 
 with my evening. A man I expected to see failed 
 me and I was at a loose end, when I caught sight of 
 your pretty face. But what age are you, Rebecca? 
 You look very young," he added, as if remarking 
 her extreme youth for the first time. 
 
 "Sixteen," she said. 
 
 "Really!" he cried. "I should have thought nine- 
 teen; but then you mature more quickly than Rus- 
 sians, don't you?" 
 
 The girl shrugged her shoulders. "I suppose 
 so. 
 
 They were interrupted by the waiter who brought 
 in dinner, and for the first course or two little was 
 said. As usual, they had the meat first and then 
 the fish, Russian fashion. When they had finished 
 the fish, the man's appetite being half sated, he found 
 time to notice that the girl had hardly touched the 
 food. 
 
 "Come, come," he cried, "you must eat." 
 
 "I can't," she said; "I don't feel hungry." 
 
 "That is no reason: you must eat," he insisted. 
 "We live by eating; and you must drink too," and 
 he poured her out another glass of sweet cham- 
 pagne. "You like champagne, don't you?" he asked. 
 
 32
 
 The Yellow Ticket: Jiolte Bilet 
 
 "It tastes funny," she said. "At first it went up 
 in my nose and tickled. I never saw it before." 
 
 "Really!" he exclaimed, "then you must be new 
 at the game. How long have you been in Mos- 
 cow?" 
 
 The girl seemed to hesitate: looked at him and 
 looked down. 
 
 "You needn't tell me if you don't want to," he 
 said huffily. 
 
 The waiter interrupted them again. 
 
 In a few minutes more the meal was finished. 
 The man lit a cigarette. The waiter left the room 
 for the last time, the pair were alone. 
 
 "Come, Rebecca," said the man. "Come and give 
 me a kiss." 
 
 The girl came round the table and stood beside 
 him. He put his arm round her and drew her down 
 to his knee. She seemed awkward, hesitant. 
 
 "Where is the kiss?" he asked, smiling. 
 
 The girl turned to him, and kissed his cheek. 
 
 "Good God!" he cried, "you don't call that a 
 kiss, do you? What is the matter with you?" and 
 he put his cigarette-holder down on the table, and, 
 winding both arms round her, drew her to him and 
 held his lips to hers. 
 
 33
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 She yielded stiffly, reluctantly. After kissing her 
 for some little time the man pushed her away. 
 
 "Do you call that kissing? Why, you can't kiss 
 at all. What's the matter with you? Give me a 
 proper kiss." 
 
 Again the girl pecked at his cheek. 
 
 "Look here," he said, "if I displease you, tell me; 
 but don't go on like this ; it's silly." 
 
 He rose, looking at her crossly, his vanity smart- 
 ing. 
 
 The girl noticed for the first time when he drew 
 himself up that he was fine looking, above middle 
 height, and powerful: a man in the prime of life, 
 thirty perhaps, with strong face, clean-shaven but 
 for the small fair mustache. 
 
 "You dislike me?" he went on, putting his hands 
 on her shoulders, "tell me the truth?" 
 
 "No," she shook her head. 
 
 "Then why don't you kiss me?" 
 
 "I have kissed you." 
 
 "But you know that isn't the proper way to kiss," 
 he said. 
 
 "Are there many ways of kissing?" she asked, 
 looking up at him. 
 
 "Of course," he said. "This is the right way," 
 and, taking her head in his hands, he crushed his lips 
 
 34
 
 The Yellow Ticket: Jiolte Bilet 
 
 on hers. "Now give me a good kiss, as if you liked 
 
 me." 
 
 With glowing face, the girl gave him another 
 peck. 
 
 "What do you mean?" he said, sitting down. 
 "Come, tell me. I must know. Is it pretense with 
 you, or dislike?" 
 
 The girl shook her head. 
 
 Suddenly her troubled, hot face gave him a new 
 idea: "You're not a novice, are you? How long 
 have you been in Moscow? Where do you live? 
 Come, tell me." And he drew her to his knee again. 
 
 As the girl sat down she put her right elbow on 
 the table behind her to keep herself upright and, as 
 luck would have it, snapped the amber and meer- 
 schaum cigarette-holder. As she started up the man 
 picked up the cigarette-holder, smiling. 
 
 "I don't mind," he said, "it doesn't matter. I 
 will put the cigarette further away on a plate." 
 
 "I am so sorry," cried the girl. 
 
 "It's nothing," said the man. "But tell me when 
 did you come to Moscow?" 
 
 The girl stood before him with her hands clasped 
 in front of her, for all the world like a schoolgirl; 
 indeed, she was hardly more. She had evidently 
 made up her mind to speak. 
 
 35
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 "This afternoon," she replied. 
 
 "What! for the first time?" he asked. 
 
 "For the first time," she repeated. 
 
 "Where do you live?" 
 
 "Here," she said. 
 
 "Here?" he repeated; "what do you mean?" 
 
 "It's a long story," she said, unclasping her hands 
 and quickly clasping them again. 
 
 "Tell me it," he said. "We have time, and I 
 should like to hear it all," and he drew her toward 
 him. 
 
 And standing there by his left knee she told him 
 the story. 
 
 "I came from Gorod by train. It is a long story." 
 
 Encouraged by his "Go on," she began again. 
 
 "I wanted to study at the University. Only three 
 Jewesses are allowed to come from Gorod to Mos- 
 cow. The three who won had been studying for 
 years and years; the youngest of them was over 
 thirty. Only three are allowed each year to leave 
 the town, and there are thousands of Jewesses in 
 Gorod. I was fourth, so I would have had to wait 
 another year or perhaps longer. But as my mother 
 was a widow I soon coaxed her, and she gave me 
 the money and let me come to Moscow to study." 
 
 36
 
 The Yellow Ticket: Jiolte Bilet 
 
 "Why do you want to study?" he asked; "what's 
 the good of books? They only tire pretty eyes." 
 
 The girl stared at him in wonder; the question 
 was so unexpected, she had to think to find an an- 
 swer; she began confusedly, eagerly: 
 
 "I want to know heaps of things, I'm so igno- 
 rant," she burst out. "I want to be like the great 
 women who have done things in the world. Oh, I 
 can't say what I want to say; but I — you know, to 
 be ignorant to-day is stupid, oh, I " 
 
 He nodded, hardly interested, wishing to get the 
 story. 
 
 "And so you came to Moscow?" 
 
 "This afternoon," she said; "it was already get- 
 ting dark. I went to a hotel, but at the hotel — I 
 had taken a room and everything — before they sent 
 for my box to the station they asked me for my 
 passport, and when I told them I hadn't a passport 
 they changed their manner at once, said they had no 
 room for me, I had better go. . . . 
 
 "I went to a cheaper hotel and showed them that 
 I had money; but again, as soon as they found I 
 had no passport, they turned me out into the streets. 
 ... I did not know what to do. I spoke to a lady, 
 and she answered rudely, treated me as if I were a 
 beggar. So at last I spoke to one of those women 
 
 3?
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 who walk up and down the street. She was kind 
 to me; she told me I could not get a lodging any- 
 where in Moscow without a passport; it was not 
 possible. But even when she found out I was a 
 Jewess she was kind, told me I was in a bad way, 
 for I should not be able to get a passport, because 
 the police don't like Jewesses. The only thing for 
 me to do, she said, was to get a Yellow Ticket of 
 the — you know — the Yellow Ticket of the prosti- 
 tute 1" 
 
 The man whistled — "Whew!" — a long, low note. 
 
 "She said, as it was early, she would go with me 
 to the police bureau, and on the way she told me that 
 it was quite easy to get a Yellow Ticket. I had only 
 to go in boldly and ask for one and pay fifteen 
 roubles, and come away. If I had money and 
 wanted to study, I did not need to — do anything, 
 but with the Yellow Ticket there were hundreds of 
 houses where I could get a lodging; otherwise they'd 
 let me freeze on the street. . . ." 
 
 The girl paused and looked at him. 
 
 "A prostitute is welcome, but not a Jewess, in 
 Moscow — Christian Moscow," she added as if to 
 herself. 
 
 The man laughed and put his arms round her. 
 38
 
 The Yellow Ticket: Jiolte Bilet 
 
 "You are delightful," he said, laughing again. 
 "Well, what happened then?" 
 
 "I went into the station," the girl went on, "and 
 asked one of the policemen where I was to get a 
 'Yellow Ticket.' And he tried to kiss me and then 
 took me into the Inspector's room, and the Inspector 
 came and began questioning me. When I told him 
 I had just come to Moscow he tried to kiss me, and 
 I wouldn't let him, so he said he wouldn't give me 
 a Yellow Ticket unless I let him kiss me; well, I let 
 him; but then he wanted . . . 
 
 "At last I ran out of the place without the Ticket, 
 and found that my friend had gone away. After a 
 little while I found another woman, again a woman 
 of the streets, and told her what had happened. 
 She told me the only thing she could think of was 
 for me to get a man and go home with him, and 
 then get him to come with me in the morning to 
 the police bureau, and a Yellow Ticket would be 
 given to me at once. 
 
 "The Yellow Ticket," she explained gravely, "is 
 a sort of prize in Moscow!" 
 
 "I dare say we can manage the Yellow Ticket," 
 said the man carelessly. "But are you really a 
 novice r 
 
 The girl nodded. 
 
 39
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 "You would rather not begin the game?" 
 
 She nodded quickly, eagerly. 
 
 "What an adventure!" he cried, stretching out his 
 arms. "Do you know, it is rather lucky you have 
 fallen into good hands, Rebecca? You interest me. 
 Strangely enough, I don't want to kiss anyone par- 
 ticularly who doesn't want to kiss me. That is 
 strange, isn't it?" he asked, laughing. 
 
 "No," she said, "it seems to me quite natural." 
 
 "That is because you are a girl," he replied, 
 smiling. "It isn't natural to most men. Come, 
 now, do you want to go in there and sleep alone? 
 What would you like me to do? Let you sleep alone 
 and then help you to get the Yellow Ticket in the 
 morning, or go in there with you and have a good 
 time?" and he nodded to the bedroom. 
 
 "Alone," she cried. "Do you mind? But then, 
 where are you to sleep?" she added ruefully. 
 
 "Oh, I can sleep there," he said, pointing to the 
 sofa; "I have often slept in worse places. I will 
 read some papers I have got in my overcoat, and you 
 can go in and go to bed." He spoke as if dismissing 
 her, and the girl went hesitatingly toward the bed- 
 room door. At the door she turned and looked at 
 him. He nodded, smiling, and waved his hand to 
 her. 
 
 40
 
 The Yellow Ticket: Jiolte Bilet 
 
 "That's all right," he said; "have a good sleep." 
 
 "I'd like," she said, coming back a little way 
 toward him, "I'd like to kiss you." 
 
 "Come along," he said, and she came back to 
 him slowly across the room, and this time she yielded 
 herself to him and left her lips on his. He lifted her 
 away at last, and said: 
 
 "Now?" half interrogatively. 
 
 The girl cried: quickly: 
 
 "Good night; thank you so much; good night," 
 and, running across the room, disappeared into the 
 bedroom and closed the door. 
 
 For a moment or two the man looked at the door, 
 smiling; then he got up and went to his overcoat, 
 took out some papers, lit another cigarette, and set- 
 tled down to read in the armchair. 
 
 An hour later there was unbroken silence in the 
 room. The man got up, stretched himself, took off 
 his collar and coat, undid his boots, arranged his 
 big fur overcoat as covering, then went to the door 
 of the bedroom and listened: all was still. He put 
 his hand on the handle: he could hear his heart 
 throb. 
 
 After a pause he turned away and threw himself 
 down on the sofa. In ten minutes he was asleep. 
 
 41
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 Shortly before eight o'clock the man woke, got up 
 and opened the windows, rang the bell and ordered 
 breakfast, went into the bathroom and bathed his 
 face and hands. While the waiter was laying the 
 table, he went out hurriedly. In an hour he re- 
 turned and went over and knocked at the girl's door. 
 A moment later he heard her voice, and went in. 
 She was standing fully dressed before him. 
 
 "Slept well?" he asked. 
 
 "Thanks to you !" she nodded, and the deep eyes 
 dwelt on him. 
 
 "Been up long?" he asked. 
 
 "Two hours," she replied. 
 
 "Oh, you early bird ! Now come and have break- 
 fast. I have news for you." 
 
 "I have news for you too," she said, following 
 him to the table. "This is a funny place." 
 
 "Why do you call it funny?" he said, taking up 
 some salt fish on his fork. 
 
 "Because I came in while you were sleeping," she 
 said, "and tried to go out. I wanted to buy you a 
 cigarette-holder for the one I broke, but when I got 
 to the entrance I was stopped. They told me I 
 couldn't go out without you. It appears I might 
 have robbed you, or murdered you, so I was es- 
 42
 
 The Yellow Ticket: Jiolte Bilet 
 
 corted back here and told to wait. It is a funny 
 place, the Hermitage." 
 
 "Do you know, you are a dear," he said, "to 
 have thought of that holder," and he stretched out 
 his hand to her. She came now willingly and stooped 
 her dark head to his fair one and kissed him. 
 
 "That's better!" he cried. "You are making 
 great progress. Fancy! You have learned to kiss 
 quite nicely in twenty-four hours; that is very quick." 
 
 "Very easy," she said saucily, "when the heart 
 teaches the lips." 
 
 "So you do like me a little?" he asked. 
 
 Again the eyes dwelt on him. 
 
 "Yes," she replied simply. 
 
 As if trying to shake off an unwonted emotion, 
 he got up and said in his ordinary quick tone : 
 
 "I have been out trying to do something for you," 
 and he took out his pocketbook and laid it on the 
 table. 
 
 She noticed that his nails were more carefully 
 kept than her own; she liked the evidence of care. 
 
 "You interested me last night," he said, "and I 
 wanted really to do something for you, and persuade 
 you to like me, I don't know why." 
 
 "That was good of you," she said, coming over 
 
 43
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 and standing beside him; "but I do like you," she 
 added softly. 
 
 "I thought perhaps you might," he said, putting 
 his arm round her, "but, curiously enough, I wanted 
 you to be free, quite free ; so I went out and got you 
 baptized, you little Jewess," and he turned up the 
 pretty, glowing face with his hand and kissed her 
 on the lips. 
 
 He went on speaking with mock gravity : 
 
 "Your name now is Vera Novikoff, and not Re- 
 becca Rubinovitch." 
 
 "Vera Novikoff?" the girl marveled. 
 
 "Yes," he said, taking a paper out of his pocket- 
 book. "Everything can be bought in Moscow, and 
 I went out to buy a passport for you, and I bought 
 a passport this morning in the name of Vera Novi- 
 koff, and as Vera Novikoff you can live in Moscow 
 wherever you please, how you please, unmolested." 
 
 "How good of you!" she cried. "I knew you 
 were good. But it must have cost you a lot of 
 money?" 
 
 "No," he said, smiling into her eyes. "No, 
 strange to say, Vera, it was cheaper than the Yel- 
 low Ticket. You said the Yellow Ticket was fifteen 
 roubles; I paid twelve for this. It is cheaper, you 
 see," and he held it toward her. 
 
 44
 
 The Yellow Ticket: Jiolte Bilet 
 
 The girl took it in her hands, and said, simply, 
 slowly, as if to herself: 
 
 "Cheaper! Yes, it costs less than the Yellow 
 
 Ticket. . . ." 
 
 4$
 
 The Ugly Duckling
 
 The Ugly Duckling 
 
 After Hans Christian Andersen 
 
 MY earliest memories are neither very clear 
 nor very interesting; but when still very 
 young I became conscious that I was unlike my 
 brothers and sisters: I grew faster than they did 
 and as soon as I out-topped them the tolerance they 
 had hitherto shown me ceased; instead of kindness 
 I got nothing but blame : whatever I did they found 
 fault with: I was always getting in their way it 
 seemed and always being snapped at by a brother 
 or sister with reason and without. At first I didn't 
 mind this much: with the unconsciousness of youth 
 I took it all as part of the unexpectedness of life 
 and paid no particular attention to it, giving as good 
 as I got. But day by day the differences between my 
 brothers and sisters and myself grew more marked, 
 and I soon began to notice that they were getting 
 our mother on their side and putting her against me, 
 which made me miserable. 
 
 49
 
 L The Veils of Isis 
 
 In my wretchedness I would wander away from 
 the others, for I hated to show how they had hurt 
 me, and took to swimming about in the lake. I was 
 attracted by the smell of a plant which only grew in 
 rather deep water, and when I tasted it as young 
 things do, I found it scented and sweet and infinitely 
 more to my liking than the scraps of meat which 
 the others were always hunting for along the shore 
 of the lake or at the back-doors of the apefolk. 
 And this taste of mine seemed to annoy my mother 
 almost as much as it did my brothers and sisters, 
 who all declared that the plant I liked was bitter 
 and bad and made them as sick as I am sure the 
 scraps of meat did me. At first, I couldn't for the 
 life of me see why I shouldn't eat what I liked so 
 long as I accorded the others the same freedom; but 
 my mother told me it was wrong to be peculiar; it 
 was good to be like the others and bad to be dif- 
 ferent from them, which seemed to me, I don't know 
 why, senseless and unreasonable. But one day I 
 was shown the matter from her point of view. 
 
 My lonely wanderings had made me fond of 
 going into deep water, and I was soon a far stronger 
 swimmer than any of my brethren : one day I ven- 
 tured to swim out to the reed-fringed island in the 
 center of the lake, and coast about it. There I 
 
 50
 
 The Ugly Duckling 
 
 found food of all sorts in profusion and of the 
 very best, and nothing would content me but I 
 must return at once and tell the others of my dis- 
 covery. As luck would have it our mother had 
 gone up the yard with the big drake, and I soon 
 persuaded the ducklings to follow me to the island. 
 It was a good way out and when we left the 
 shelter of the shore, the waves ran higher, and 
 soon one of the little ducklings was in trouble: see- 
 ing that, I helped her and in a little while the whole 
 brood came safely to shore. But perhaps because 
 they were tired and a little afraid they didn't like 
 the food I showed them, and soon all wanted to 
 get home again. I was disgusted with them but 
 too proud to beg them to stay and give the new 
 place a fair trial, so I stepped at once into the water 
 and began to swim back. 
 
 On the way home one duckling after another 
 was buffeted by the waves and got giddy, and in 
 spite of all my efforts, if our mother had not espied 
 us and come to my assistance, one or more of the 
 brood must have been drowned. As soon as we 
 all reached the shore our mother turned on me 
 and upbraided me bitterly; I was not only ugly and 
 overgrown, but wicked as well: she didn't know 
 how I could be a child of hers : I was all neck and 
 
 51
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 legs, not like a nice round duckling at all; dirty 
 green, too, in color and not fluffy and soft like 
 my pretty brothers and sisters. They were right 
 to call me "The Ugly Duckling"; my conceit was 
 intolerable, and if she ever again caught me break- 
 ing bounds and leading her little dears into danger, 
 she'd teach me it was dangerous to break her com- 
 mands. 
 
 All this time she went on smoothing and petting 
 the little ones who seemed most knocked about; but 
 I could see that the little beasts pretended to be 
 more exhausted than they really were, just to get 
 her sympathy, and perhaps be favored later with 
 a dainty tid-bit or two which she might discover. 
 And this set me against them almost as much as 
 the delight they plainly showed on hearing me 
 scolded. 
 
 After that adventure they always called me names, 
 "Long-Neck" or "Black Shanks" or "Ugly Duck- 
 ling" or something, and I took to living more and 
 more by myself. 
 
 It became my chief pleasure to swim right out 
 in the pond amid the high waves, and soon I got 
 to know every nook and corner of the pond as 
 well as the oldest drake. 
 
 When I came back after any of these expeditions 
 52
 
 The Ugly Duckling 
 
 I was always blamed by my mother who held me 
 up now as an example of all that was wild and 
 wicked to my brothers and sisters. 
 
 "You think you're very clever," she used to say, 
 "but one of these days you'll be properly punished 
 for your impudence. I'm sure I don't know how 
 you came to be a child of mine. I'm ashamed of 
 you. You're not like a nice obedient little duck at 
 all." 
 
 This made me very wretched, and I told her I 
 thought she was unkind, but she insisted that what 
 my brothers and sisters did was right, and it was 
 naughty of me not to be like them. 
 
 One day, however, they were all glad I was not 
 like them. We were out at the edge of the pond, 
 and I was sunning myself on the sand when a rough 
 red terrier came rushing down at us. All my 
 brothers and sisters ran together quacking and cry- 
 ing in huge dismay. And though our mother went 
 in front of them, it was perfectly plain that she, 
 too, was frightened; in fact, she quacked them all 
 into the water as soon as she could. But I didn't 
 see why we should all run from one little animal 
 with four legs, and so I puffed out my wings to 
 get them ready to strike and to shield my neck and 
 went toward the dog. As soon as he saw that 
 
 53
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 there was someone not afraid of him, he stopped in 
 astonishment and began to bark. I could not help 
 hissing myself a little in defiance and to keep up 
 my courage. 
 
 "Come on," I said. 
 
 But he jumped round me barking, and it was 
 quite easy for me to turn and face him all the time. 
 In a minute or two he got tired, and then became a 
 little ashamed of himself, so he pretended to see 
 something interesting in the distance and scampered 
 off. When I turned to the rest they were all in 
 the water, and I thought they would at least thank 
 me, for by facing the dog I had given them the time 
 to get into safety. They all knew that if it hadn't 
 been for me some of them might have been killed. 
 I was a little proud of myself, and so was the less 
 prepared for the return they made me. As I came 
 toward them after a last look at the terrier, my 
 brother Bill called out: 
 
 "Look at 'Long Neck' strutting about and show- 
 ing off." 
 
 And sister Jane cried : "No wonder the dog ran 
 away, he's so ugly," and they all laughed at the 
 insult. 
 
 "Cowards needn't talk about being ugly," I re- 
 plied. 
 
 54
 
 The Ugly Duckling 
 
 But my mother snapped me up : 
 
 "You shouldn't speak so," she said, "and you 
 shouldn't be so proud; it is nothing to be proud of, 
 a long neck." 
 
 The contempt hurt me so much that tears came 
 into my eyes, so I just walked into the water and 
 swam away out by myself. The moment I passed 
 the usual limit of the shallow water, my brethren 
 all quacked loudly, and made mother watch me, and 
 she called me to come back, but my heart was too 
 full; I cruised about by myself. 
 
 A little while later she called us all to dinner, 
 but I didn't come: I knew they were going to hunt 
 about for worms and pieces of meat and refuse in 
 the farmyard, and all that stuff used to make me 
 sick, so I said I wasn't hungry. But my mother 
 cried back that I was to come in any case, that I 
 soon would be hungry. I replied that then I would 
 eat some the reeds or the plants that grew around 
 the island in the middle of the pond, and this was 
 a signal for a new outburst. 
 
 "He thinks he's very fine," quacked Bill. "He 
 is a vegetarian and won't eat a nice tasty bit of 
 meat: he wants to be different from everybody." 
 
 For answer I began swimming out to the is- 
 land and let them jeer. From that day on I took 
 
 55
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 to going about entirely by myself, and when I was 
 lonely I just swallowed the tears and lived with my 
 dreams. 
 
 One day I watched a hawk flying over the wood. 
 I thought it must be fine to fly so high, and I began 
 to exercise my wings and soon took delight in fly- 
 ing all round the island and circling higher and 
 higher above the tops of the trees of the great 
 wood. 
 
 One day my brothers saw me coming down and 
 of course told my mother, and she took me seriously 
 to task: 
 
 "You'll fall and kill yourself one day," she said. 
 "It is no proper ambition for a duck; you don't 
 want to make yourself hard and leathery; you ought 
 to be plump and soft and juicy." 
 
 I said I hVted to fill myself like the rest till I 
 couldn't waddle, but at this they all set upon me 
 and began to peck at me. Involuntarily I lifted 
 my wings, and struck, not hard, but just to keep 
 them off. As luck would have it I hit Bill, and 
 he gave one loud squawk and turned over on his 
 back as if he were dead. My mother went and 
 fondled him and called him every endearing name 
 she could lay her tongue to, and said I was a great 
 brute to use my strength like that, and she would 
 
 56
 
 The Ugly Duckling 
 
 have nothing more to do with me; I was a beast 
 for injuring my brother, for only a beast would do 
 such a thing; and she hoped she would never see 
 me again. 
 
 I had gone into the water after the quarrel, but 
 this hurt me so much that I simply sprang from 
 the water and in half a dozen strokes of my wings, 
 was out of hearing. 
 
 From that day on, I only saw them in the dis- 
 tance. My life was very lonely: I had no one to 
 play with, no one to talk to, no one to tell what I 
 thought or felt. Indeed, almost the only amuse- 
 ment left me was the pleasure of long flights. In 
 a short time I found I could fly for hours, and the 
 fields of air became my playground, but I never 
 ventured very high, for I remembered what my 
 mother had said about falling and killing myself. 
 
 How long this life went on, I don't know, but 
 I grew and grew and grew so that I was ashamed 
 of myself. I was bigger than all my brothers and 
 sisters put together, and was not frightened of any- 
 thing: for one day a dog ran at me and I struck 
 him with my right wing and he went away limping 
 and yelling worse even than my brother Bill. This 
 filled me with pride, but I should have liked to have 
 had some one to tell it to. 
 
 57
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 Indeed, it was the loneliness of my life which 
 made me take the next step. On the other side of 
 the pond there was a farmhouse and yard and many 
 broods of hens, who were very proud indeed of 
 their breed; the Anglo-Dorkings. Unable at times 
 to stand the misery of my lonely state, I crossed 
 the pond and took to moping with these creatures 
 and listening to their talk. 
 
 An old hen, with some half-grown chickens was 
 the first to speak to me, and I paid her many com- 
 pliments by way of thanks. I couldn't help smiling, 
 however, when she took all my courtesy praise as 
 merited, and confided to me that when young the 
 biggest rooster in the yard, an old Cochin with 
 hairy legs, had called her "The Angel of the 
 World." This surprised me, for she was both 
 old and ugly and could never, I thought, have been 
 pretty. Two of her chickens were friendly to me, 
 but their brethren eyed me askance and at once be- 
 gan to rag me for my thick legs and the size and 
 shape of my feet. 
 
 The better I knew the hens, the less I liked them. 
 They were just as base and even dirtier than the 
 ducks : they all ate greedily and were cruelly selfish 
 and indifferent to others' pain. 
 
 One day, I saw the two pullets I liked flirting with 
 58
 
 The Ugly Duckling 
 
 same young roosters ; when entreated too nearly they 
 ran away, it is true, but I saw that their flight was 
 only pretended coldness put on to increase the ardor 
 of the suitors ; in reality they were both delighted. 
 
 The Anglo-Dorking view of life was just as timid 
 as that of the ducks. When the chickens wanted 
 to stretch their wings and fly, the mother hen told 
 them it was very wrong, and when I argued with 
 her, I soon saw that she only said this in order to 
 have all her chickens about her, and so gratify at 
 once her vanity and her mother love. If I ven- 
 tured to suggest that all one's powers should be 
 used, she flew out at what she called my vile im- 
 morality, and assured me that no child of hers would 
 ever listen to such mad unreason. 
 
 One day when the mother hen was talking to 
 the old Cochin, I wandered with the rest down to 
 the shore of the lake. There the dancing, cool water 
 tempted me, and I waded in and swam about re- 
 joicing in my skill and strength. One or two of 
 the chickens ventured into the water in emulation; 
 but they nearly got drowned, and I had to spoon 
 them out with my bill. They were wretched little 
 creatures who couldn't even swim, and the cold 
 water made them very uncomfortable, and gave them 
 colds. When the mother hen came down and found 
 
 59
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 them, she was very angry with me, and told me 
 she would have me punished if I didn't behave 
 myself better. I found that the great law among 
 the Anglo-Dorkings was to do as others did, for 
 if you didn't, they all condemned you as vile and 
 bad. 
 
 I couldn't help asking myself whether there was 
 any reason in all their condemnations, and I soon 
 discovered that the foundation of their morality 
 was self-pride. They all really believed that what- 
 ever the Anglo-Dorkings did was right, and the 
 law of the Universe. They even fashioned God 
 in their own likeness, a superior sort of fowl, and 
 most of them were sure that he was a true Anglo- 
 Dorking. 
 
 They were not only conceited; but curiously self- 
 willed and quarrelsome. They believed in fighting 
 about everything; they decided questions of gov- 
 ernment by a dispute between the two parties and 
 in their courts matters of right and wrong, of truth 
 and justice even, were settled by hiring paid liars 
 on either side to falsify facts and give a plausible 
 coloring to patent absurdities. They went so far 
 as to explain what they considered defects in the 
 constitution of the Universe by inventing an evil 
 deity which they called a devil, and by pretending 
 60
 
 The Ugly Duckling 
 
 that the god and the devil were always at war. 
 Whenever any of them got ill through over-eating 
 or drinking they ascribed the sickness to the malefic 
 power of the devil, and so got rid of the necessity 
 of blaming themselves and reforming their conduct. 
 
 Their chief amusement was a pitched battle be- 
 tween two cocks; and their power of eating, which 
 they carried to gluttony, was as highly esteemed 
 among them as courage. 
 
 One day they got up a fight, and the two cocks 
 chosen for the combat fought for nearly an hour. 
 Very soon one cock was over-matched, but all his 
 fellows encouraged him to go on, till he staggered 
 about the ring half blind, with strips of skin hang- 
 ing down his neck, and bleeding from a hundred 
 wounds. It was a dreadful and degrading spec- 
 tacle, and the faces of the bystanders showed such 
 eagerness and ghoulish satisfaction that I could 
 stand it no longer. 
 
 "Stop, stop," I cried, "you brutes. Don't you 
 see that the poor thing has no chance, and can only 
 suffer?" 
 
 At once all the Anglo-Dorkings fell upon me in 
 fury, and drove me out of the yard. 
 
 The Anglo-Dorkings didn't talk so much or so 
 loudly as the ducks : indeed, they were rather silent 
 
 61
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 except after a fight or birth or some unusual oc- 
 currence; then they crowed and bragged and flapped 
 their wings as loudly as ever they could. 
 
 The habit these animals had of bragging and 
 crowing was absolutely ridiculous. When I first 
 heard one of their chiefs crow for a full quarter of 
 an hour about the virtues of the Anglo-Dorkings I 
 burst out laughing, which was taken in very bad 
 part: I was told that self-respect was natural in an 
 Anglo-Dorking; but it was not their self-respect 
 which struck one, but their extravagant vainglory. 
 
 Gradually I came to understand that their inor- 
 dinate conceit and belief in their own virtues was 
 the secret of their strength. It gave them the power 
 of banding together when threatened by any enemy. 
 When a rat once appeared in the farmyard and 
 wanted to make a meal off one of the little fluffy 
 chicks the hens stood together as a rampart in de- 
 fense, and the cocks went forward to attack the 
 intruder, who thought it best to get away while he 
 could; and even when a hawk hovered above the 
 yard, the hens, though they retreated, covered the 
 little ones with their wings, protecting them at the 
 risk of their own lives. 
 
 This conduct seemed to me admirable. The 
 Anglo-Dorkings were strong from this virtue of 
 62
 
 The Ugly Duckling 
 
 union, and from a power of breeding which was 
 quite extraordinary. They were always bringing 
 forth fresh broods, which, as soon as they grew 
 up, used to fend for themselves. 
 
 The worst of it was that any virtue they pos- 
 sessed was always obscured by some counterbalanc- 
 ing vice, or by some brainless hyprocisy or make- 
 believe which robbed it of all savor. For example, 
 it seemed to me as to all animals that our bodily 
 desires should be satisfied, of course in moderation. 
 But the Anglo-Dorkings indulged in over-eating, 
 and especially in over-drinking, to such an extent 
 that in middle age seven out of ten of them were un- 
 wieldy fat and suffering from the diseases incident 
 to shameful excess and grossness. I felt no shame 
 in any natural desire so long as it was under due 
 restraint and subordinated to reason of some higher 
 purpose; but they pretended that hens had no nat- 
 ural sex-feeling, and insisted on bringing them up 
 in unreasoning ignorance of their chief function. 
 
 For a long time I couldn't find any explanation 
 of this preposterous and stupid convention. They 
 all talked of it as the heart of their morality, de- 
 claring that chastity was the chiefest virtue in a pul- 
 let, and innocence a sort of added glory, and when 
 I protested that innocence was only another name 
 
 63
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 for ignorance, and that self-control of sexual de- 
 sire and not chastity was the way of virtue, they 
 showed me measureless contempt and dislike. At 
 the same time they were not nearly so particular in 
 regard to the young roosters, but treated their love- 
 making with an amused tolerance : "Young roosters 
 will be young roosters," was one of their proverbs. 
 This and the fact that the hens had no share what- 
 ever in making the laws, of course showed that they 
 looked upon the hens as their inferiors, and wished 
 to keep them in a servile condition for some reason 
 or other. It was impossible to persuade the foolish 
 creatures that if they lifted the hens to an equality 
 with themselves, and taught them instead of keep- 
 ing them in disgraceful ignorance, they would in- 
 tensify affection, and ennoble the whole commerce 
 of love. For some vague reason the Anglo-Dorking 
 roosters feared that if the hens were instructed they 
 would get out of hand and cease to be subservient 
 instruments of their pleasure, and they exalted hen- 
 purity and innocence and constancy into the chiefest 
 of virtues, and hedged them about with all the sanc- 
 tions of religion, whereas in reality their pretended 
 virtue was nothing better than a convention and ex- 
 cuse for short-sighted selfishness. For the ignorance 
 of the pullets could in the nature of things only last 
 64
 
 The Ugly Duckling 
 
 for a short period in youth, and the chastity was 
 sure to be forfeited before maturity. 
 
 All this hen-morality seemed to me inept and 
 hypocritical, and in essence base; but the Anglo- 
 Dorkings resented any discussion of the matter as 
 proof of viciousness. Often and often I remon- 
 strated with them, and pointed out that it was neces- 
 sary to know all about the sex-function, and that it 
 should be studied most carefully in both sexes as 
 the central secret of life; but even the hens hid their 
 heads under their wings while I spoke, pretending 
 to be ashamed, while the roosters attacked me with 
 violence. I found that I should have to keep my 
 mouth shut and my reason in abeyance if I wanted 
 to live among them in peace. 
 
 But, after all, it was their conceit and clannish 
 spirit which rendered it impossible for me to live 
 with them. True, they didn't interfere with me 
 much, being too intent on their own affairs; but as 
 soon as I made them aware of my existence by 
 laughing at them, or by begging them not to fight 
 by reasoning with them, they all fell upon me with 
 one accord, their unanimity being really wonderful. 
 
 The more I knew of them the clearer I saw that 
 the soul of them was self-pride. Surely there never 
 were bipeds so pleased with themselves. One cus- 
 
 65
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 torn they had which was exquisitely absurd, and yet 
 was plainly the outgrowth of their extravagant self- 
 esteem. There was a poor skinny rooster, who was 
 so old that he could scarcely move; his comb hung 
 down about his neck, and his tail feathers had all 
 fallen out, and yet even the youngest and handsom- 
 est hens fluttered about him in a swarm and made up 
 to him, flattering him in a silly and disgraceful way. 
 I couldn't understand the reason of this, for the old 
 rooster could never have been even a moderately 
 good specimen, and was now weak-kneed, decrepit 
 and querulously vain. When the young hens flat- 
 tered him, and he tried to strut and crow, he looked 
 so funny that I did not know whether to laugh or 
 cry. But the Anglo-Dorking hens all frowned on 
 me, and one of them told me I ought to be ashamed 
 of myself laughing at one of their lords. 
 
 "What does that mean, a lord?" I asked. 
 
 "One of our rulers," she said. 
 
 "But why does he rule?" I asked. "Is he wiser 
 or better than the rest of you?" 
 
 "Oh, dear, no," she replied, "but we honor him 
 more." 
 
 "But why?" I asked, "what has he done?" 
 
 "Nothing," she replied; "he's the son of his 
 father." 
 66
 
 The Ugly Duckling 
 
 "I suppose he is," I answered, "but what did his 
 father do?" 
 
 "Nothing," she replied, "that's his nobility." 
 
 I could not understand their reverence for use- 
 less, worthless creatures, but merely to question its 
 validity got one into disgrace with the Anglo-Dork- 
 ings. They resented any criticism of their beliefs or 
 customs, and were amusingly certain that all such 
 criticism springs from ignorance or inferiority. 
 My questions about their lords, and the reverence 
 they paid them, caused them to look on me with 
 suspicion and dislike: they began to call me a for- 
 eigner, and spoke of ducks as an inferior species of 
 creatures. I didn't mind this much, for I felt no 
 desire to stand up for the ducks who had cast me 
 off; but when the Anglo-Dorkings began to insist 
 that my admiration for what was right and reason- 
 able was a sign of shallowness, I began to answer 
 back, and the situation grew strained. They threat- 
 ened and I scoffed, for I was young, and it soon be- 
 came apparent that there would be an outbreak of 
 violence. Curiously enough, a very small cause de- 
 termined the catastrophe. 
 
 I have already told how the ducks used to eat 
 scraps of offal. The custom seemed to me filthy 
 and unhealthy; but they excused it by pleading hun- 
 
 6 7
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 ger. The Anglo-Dorkings, however, went much 
 further ; they hung dead meat up till it became putrid, 
 and then gobbled it down at feasts and ceremonial 
 dinners And when one turned from the loathsome 
 mess they used to remark complacently that "only 
 the well-born could really enjoy the aristocratic 
 flavor of high game." 
 
 I made fun of this argument, and thereby fell 
 into utter disgrace. In their anger they invented all 
 sorts of slanders about me : "I had been expelled 
 from among the ducks," they said, "for nearly 
 killing one of my smaller brethren." "I lived," 
 another story ran, "by stealing from the game lard- 
 ers." No invention was too improbable, no lie too 
 absurd for the Anglo-Dorkings to believe about any 
 creature who ventured to criticize them. 
 
 I discovered incidentally that they had outlawed 
 and expelled some of their noblest and best for no 
 other reason than that those wise ones had dared to 
 find fault with some of their customs. Even a cer- 
 tain lord, who, in spite of his opportunities as a 
 parasite and hanger-on, had developed some indi- 
 viduality and courage, was disgraced for making 
 fun of them, and hounded out of the country as im- 
 moral because he couldn't be sufficiently hypocritical 
 or servile to win their favor by flattery. 
 68
 
 The Ugly Duckling 
 
 At length their animosity to me became active. I 
 was challenged to fight by this cock and by that, and 
 as soon as I flew up high to evade attack they called 
 me a coward, and when I struck with the elbows of 
 my wings, with which I was able to hit hard, I was 
 set upon by the whole crowd for striking unfairly, 
 and was so bepicked and bespurred that I was glad 
 to get away with whole bones. I fled for my life 
 and they stood together in a crowd and flapped 
 their wings in triumph, and crowed in unison for 
 some time after I had passed out of their sight. 
 
 Life soon became tragic to me in its loneliness. 
 The ducks feared me; the Anglo-Dorkings hated 
 me; and when I passed to the other end of the pond 
 and met the geese I fared but little better. True, 
 they were not nearly so clannish as the Anglo-Dork- 
 ings; they had more respect, too, for originality and 
 individuality. I could never make out why they 
 were called "geese," or rather why the word "goose" 
 among the hens had come to mean something fool- 
 ish. For really these geese were more intelligent 
 and better educated than the Anglo-Dorkings, or 
 even the Cochins, and had a far keener sense of 
 what was reasonable as opposed to custom and con- 
 vention. Taking them all in all, I thought the geese 
 superior to the Anglo-Dorkings in many respects: 
 
 6 9
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 they were more civilized, more courteous, with a 
 higher intellectual life. 
 
 In particular they found the hen-morality as ab- 
 surd as I did; and the hypocrisy and self-applause 
 of the Anglo-Dorkings were as distasteful to them 
 as to me. I might have lived among the geese in 
 comparative happiness had I happened to be born a 
 goose, but their language was very difficult to me, 
 and in spite of all my efforts I never entirely mas- 
 tered it or made it my own. 
 
 I took to living more and more by myself, and 
 resolved not to depend in any degree upon others. 
 After all, I used to say, consoling myself, the sky 
 does not belong to the Anglo-Dorkings, and the 
 fields of air and the sunshine by day, and the winds 
 and stars by night were as much mine as theirs. If 
 they had made me an outcast and pariah, what, after 
 all, did it matter? My life was mine to live as I 
 chose, and the days were mine to spend nobly if I 
 pleased. And so I took to the life of a solitary, and 
 grew strong in loneliness, though always a little sad. 
 
 One day I was out in the pond when something 
 made me look up, and I saw a skein of great birds 
 coming down the sky; the sun turned their wings 
 to silver. When they neared the wood I thought 
 they would alight, but at the last moment they rose 
 70
 
 The Ugly Duckling 
 
 again to clear it, and soon went high up in the blue, 
 and dwindled away, but one that seemed weary 
 lagged behind and came beating down nearer and 
 nearer, and at last splashed in the water close to the 
 island. To my astonishment it was just like me, but 
 evidently very tired, so I went over to it, and when 
 I came near I saw that it was more graceful than 
 I was, with slighter neck and more rounded breast, 
 so I said: 
 
 "Good day, miss, you are an Ugly Duckling, too." 
 
 She turned on me at once. "Duckling, indeed, you 
 don't know what you are talking about; I am a swan, 
 as you are." 
 
 "Am I, indeed?" I asked, in amazement, and then 
 in a breath, "what is a swan?" 
 
 "The finest bird in the world." 
 
 "Really?" I cried, "I thought ducks and hens 
 were the finest birds." 
 
 "Little tame beasts," she said, "fit for nothing 
 but to quack and crow and breed. I suppose this 
 little pond is theirs : I would never have come into 
 it if I hadn't been very tired from the long flight." 
 
 "Why do you call the swans the finest birds in 
 the world?" I ventured to ask. 
 
 "Because we are the Children of Light," she re- 
 
 7i
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 plied proudly, "and follow the Sun round the 
 world." 
 
 "Are you going there now?" I asked. 
 
 "Yes, to the other side of the world," she replied 
 proudly, "to the land of sunshine; but now I am 
 tired and hungry," she added, with a little smile. 
 
 "Oh, come with me," I said, "and I'll show you 
 where you can get such nice things to eat," and I 
 guided her round the island to my quiet eating place 
 under the trees, and there she ate and drank so daint- 
 ily I could have kissed her: and afterwards she 
 preened herself and made her toilet, and I watched 
 her with eyes rounded with admiration. I saw she 
 was very tired, so I asked her wouldn't she like to 
 sleep, and led her again to the quietest place in the 
 whole pond, and she said I must wake her before the 
 sun got low, for she must join the rest that night at 
 a lake far away. I kept watch while she slept, but 
 all the time my heart was burning within me, for I 
 knew if she went away and left me I should die of 
 grief. Life by myself seemed ten times as lonely 
 and miserable since I had seen her and admired her 
 delicious beauty, and I simply couldn't bear her to 
 go away and forget me. Tears came burning into 
 my eyes at the thought. Besides, I, too, had always 
 hated the darkness and gloom of the sad Northern 
 72
 
 The Ugly Duckling 
 
 winter; though I had been taught it was wrong to 
 love the light as I did. Now, however, that I knew 
 it was right, I was filled with the desire to fly far 
 away and see the world and have great Adventures; 
 for I, too, was a Child of the Light. 
 
 Suddenly the resolve came; I would fly away with 
 her. My heart beat in my throat with the hope. I 
 could remain on. the wing for hours and hours, all 
 day long if I chose, for I was very hard and strong, 
 thanks to my lonely life. The thought of her com- 
 panionship thrilled me and encouraged me, and 
 caressing her in my heart as she slept I resolved to 
 go with her if she would let me to the end of the 
 world. I felt a little sorry about leaving the ducks, 
 but, after all, they didn't care for me, and I loved 
 the newcomer in quite a different way. She seemed 
 to me grace itself and beautiful exceedingly, and 
 proud as a queen, and I wondered if she would ever 
 let me touch her even with the tips of my wings. 
 
 While I was cruising about her quite silently and 
 watching her, the swan awoke and at once, to my 
 astonishment, began another toilet. She flittered 
 the water over her shoulders and laughed as the 
 drops ran over her breast and sparkled on her pearly 
 throat. 
 
 73
 
 [The Veils of Isis 
 
 I asked her was she quite rested, and she said 
 gaily : 
 
 "Oh, yes"; and I wanted to know why she hadn't 
 slept till I woke her, and she said she supposed it 
 was the anxiety, because now she had rested, she 
 would have to go. She thanked me prettily for the 
 food I had given her and said that really my resting 
 place near the island was very sweet. 
 
 Emboldened by her kindness, I asked her could I 
 go with her? She turned to me and said: 
 
 "Of course, if you like, there is nothing to prevent 
 you." 
 
 That was not what I wanted, so with a lump in 
 my throat, I asked: "Would you like me to go?" 
 
 She looked at me a little while as if considering, 
 which frightened me quite cold, but at length she 
 said bravely : 
 
 "I should like you to come because you are a man 
 swan, and the lake on the other side of the world 
 is such a long, long way off and the others are all 
 quite old, and I get a little frightened flying in the 
 dark all by myself. Sometimes I scarcely know 
 what to do when the wind gets high and I am away 
 up out of sight of earth." 
 
 "Oh, that must be fine!" I cried. "I'm very 
 strong and should like it, above everything : it is so 
 
 74
 
 The Ugly Duckling 
 
 good of you to let me go with you : I will do every- 
 thing for you: I will be your servant and when 
 you sleep I will cruise round you to protect you, 
 you are so lovely," I added, half afraid. 
 
 She shook her head a little at that, and said she 
 didn't like compliments. But I don't think she was 
 really displeased, for the next moment she looked at 
 me again with kindness. 
 
 "We must go now," she said; "we are wasting 
 time," and the next moment she sprang out of the 
 water into the air and I followed. Up and up and 
 up she went in great rings, and I beside her wing- 
 beat for wing-beat, but I had to restrain myself and 
 beat slowly; for I was much the stronger and did 
 not want to hurry her. And after we had gone 
 steadily up and up for some time, she cried to me: 
 
 "Look down now and take leave of your duck 
 pond." 
 
 And I looked down and the great height fright- 
 ened me, for the pond was nothing but a gray speck 
 in the green, miles and miles below, and my heart 
 failed me, for I remembered what my mother had 
 said, that I should fall one day and kill myself, and 
 for a moment I fluttered in the air, but as the swan 
 turned her head to see what was the matter, I struck 
 out again, for I was ashamed of my fear. I went 
 
 75
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 right up to her with strong wing-stroke exulting, for 
 she was beside me, and I felt it was better a thousand 
 times to be killed falling from heaven than to live 
 in a duck pond. 
 
 76
 
 A Daughter of Eve
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 AN old-fashioned square house on Long Island, 
 set in a clearing of pine trees: a break in 
 the cliff shows a little triangle of sandy beach and 
 the waters of the Sound dancing in the moonlight. 
 Half a dozen men are sitting about on the stoop 
 looking over the silvery waters. 
 
 The evening papers had published an account of 
 Mrs. Amory's will which showed that she had left 
 half a million dollars to a nursing home for mill- 
 children in Philadelphia. The news set us all talk- 
 ing of the wonderful work she had done and her 
 self-sacrifice. Most of us assumed that it was a 
 religious motive that had induced this rich and, it 
 was said, handsome woman to give years of her 
 life to improving the lot of the city's waifs and 
 strays. 
 
 The ladies had left us and gone up to bed; but 
 we still discussed the matter. Suddenly Charlie 
 Railton turned to Judge Barnett of the Supreme 
 Court of the State of New York, who sat with his 
 chair tilted back against the wall ruminating. 
 
 79
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 "Say, Judge, what do you think of it anyway? 
 I'd like to hear your opinion." 
 
 "I have no opinion on the matter," replied the 
 Judge, taking the cigar out of his mouth and speak- 
 ing very slowly, "I don't know women well enough 
 to be sure about anything where they're concerned." 
 
 "Plead guilty, Judge," cried Railton, who was 
 about thirty years of age, "plead guilty and throw 
 yourself on the mercy of the Court: I guess you 
 know women better than most of us, and they're 
 pretty easy to know, it seems to me." 
 
 "I used to think so, too," said the Judge, "but 
 I got kind o' puzzled once and I've never been 
 sure since." 
 
 "How was that, Judge?" cried our host, one of 
 the boldest speculators on the New York Stock Ex- 
 change, scenting a mystery. 
 
 "It's a long story," said Barnett deliberately, 
 "and it's pretty late already." 
 
 We all protested and called for the story and 
 the Judge began: 
 
 "It takes one a long way back, I'm afraid; back 
 to the late sixties, and it's autobiographical, too; I 
 guess it has every fault." 
 
 "Go on," we cried in chorus. 
 80
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 After being admitted to the Bar — he resumed — 
 I went up to my mother's place in Maine, to rest. 
 Along in the winter I got pneumonia on a shooting- 
 trip and could not shake it off. I crawled through 
 the summer and then made up my mind to go to 
 California or somewhere warm for the winter; I 
 had had enough of snow and blizzards. I spent the 
 winter in Santa Barbara and got as fit as a young 
 terrier. 
 
 In the spring I went to 'Frisco and there in a 
 gymnasium and boxing saloon got to know a man 
 who was about the best athlete I ever struck. Win- 
 terstein might have been heavyweight champion if 
 he had trained, and he was handsome enough for a 
 stage lover. He was just under six feet in height, 
 with bold expression and good features; dark hair 
 in little curls all over his head and agate-dark eyes 
 which grew black when he was excited or angry. 
 
 I found he was a better man physically than I 
 was, and that was the beginning of our friendship; 
 we soon became intimate and he told me all about 
 his early life. He was born in the North of Eng- 
 land, and became a sailor in the English navy, but 
 he could not stand the rigid discipline, poor food, 
 and harsh treatment. He deserted in Quebec while 
 still a lad, and made his way to New York. He 
 
 81
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 had not had much education, but he had improved 
 what he had by reading. Like most men of in- 
 telligence who have not had a college training, he 
 set great store by books and book learning, and 
 got me to help him with mathematics. He had a 
 captain's certificate, it appeared, but he wanted to 
 know navigation thoroughly; he surprised me one 
 day by telling me he owned a little vessel which was 
 nearly ready for sea. 
 
 "I have just had her overhauled," he said; "would 
 you like to come and see her? She's lying off 
 Meiggs's." 
 
 "What do you do with her?" I questioned, full 
 of curiosity. 
 
 "I go pearling," he said; "pearls are found nearly 
 all round the Gulf of California. The fisher-folk 
 rake in the oysters and lay them on the beach till 
 they get bad and open of themselves. The chil- 
 dren collect the pearls and keep them until I come 
 round. I paid for the craft and have a couple of 
 thousand dollars put by from last year's work." 
 
 "But where did you learn about pearls?" I asked. 
 
 "I worked for a man once and picked it up. 
 Sometimes I make a little mistake, but not often. 
 You see we go to out-of-the-way places where we 
 82
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 reckon to give about a quarter what the pearls are 
 worth. That leaves a wide margin for mistakes." 
 
 "But I had no idea that there were pearls in 
 the Gulf," I said. 
 
 "Why not come along and see for yourself," he 
 said. "I'll be starting in a week. The schooner 
 had to have her bottom cleaned and the copper re- 
 paired, that's what's hung me up for this last month 
 or so. Now I'm about right for another year. If 
 you'd like to come, I'd be glad to have you." 
 
 "And make me mate?" I asked laughing. 
 
 "Commander," he replied seriously, "and you 
 shall have ten per cent, of the profits." 
 
 "I'll think it over and let you know," was my 
 answer. 
 
 The adventure tempted me, the strange life and 
 work, the novelty of the thing: I resolved to go 
 pearling. 
 
 I went with Winterstein to the wharf and he 
 showed his craft to me. She looked like a toy 
 vessel, a little schooner, a fifty-footer of about forty 
 tons. She sat on the water like a duck, a little New 
 England model with beautiful lines. Winterstein 
 introduced me to his first mate, Donkin, and his 
 second mate, Crawford. Donkin was a big lump of 
 a fellow, six feet two in height, broad in proportion 
 
 83
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 m 
 
 and brawny, a good seaman. Crawford I soon 
 found out was an even better sailor and more in- 
 telligent, though of only average strength. 
 
 "What about the crew?" I asked Winterstein 
 when we were alone in the little cabin. 
 
 "I want one more man and a boy," he replied 
 laughing at my surprised face. 
 
 "But," I retorted, "you can't have three officers 
 and one man." 
 
 "It's like this," he said: "Donkin has only been 
 a second mate, but he gets a first mate's certificate 
 provided he stays with me a year, and the same 
 thing with Crawford. The work is not hard," he 
 added apologetically, "they get good wages and a 
 lift in rank and it suits them, and so I get first- 
 rate work cheap. Four or five men can manage 
 this craft easy so long as we don't strike a cyclone 
 and there ain't much dirty weather in the Gulf." 
 
 A couple of days later Winterstein told me shyly 
 that he had been married recently, and after I 
 had congratulated him, he insisted that I must come 
 and be introduced to the prettiest girl in California. 
 All the way uptown he praised his young wife, and 
 the praise I found was not extravagant. Mrs. 
 Winterstein was charming: tall and fair with Irish 
 gray eyes; her shyness and love of Winterstein put 
 84
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 a sort of aureole about her. She was of Irish 
 parentage: before her marriage her name had been 
 Rose O'Connor. Nothing would do but I must 
 call her Rose at once. The pair lived in a little 
 frame house on the side of the bluff, where now 
 there is a famous park. An old Irishwoman did 
 the chores for Rose and mothered and scolded her 
 just as she had done before her marriage. Rose, 
 I learned, had been a teacher in the High School. 
 In the next few days I saw a good deal of her. 
 She was doing up the cabin and buying knick-knacks 
 for the cabin and tiny stateroom, and I naturally ran 
 her errands and tried to save her trouble. 
 
 Whenever I ventured a shy compliment she al- 
 ways told me I must see her sister Daisy, who was 
 at Sacramento in a finishing school. Daisy was 
 lovely and Daisy was clever; there was no one like 
 Daisy in her sister's eyes. 
 
 ****** 
 
 It was a perfect June morning with just air 
 enough to make the sun dance on the ripples, when 
 at length we were all ready on board and starting 
 out of the bay. 
 
 Our crew had been completed by a young darky 
 called Abraham Lincoln, who at once took over the 
 
 85
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 cooking, and a sailor called Dyer, who was a little 
 lame, but handy enough at his work. 
 
 The first part of the cruise was uneventful: it 
 might have been a yachting trip. Day after day 
 we sailed along in delightful sunshine, with a six- 
 or eight-knot breeze. The perfect conditions would 
 have been monotonous had we not amused ourselves 
 with fishing. One day I remember we got rather 
 rough weather and when Winterstein, Donkin and 
 myself took our bearings next day we found that 
 we had been swept some distance to the westward. 
 
 It was Crawford who solved the enigma for us. 
 He told us there was a current called the West Wind 
 Drift, which sets across the Pacific from East to 
 West as if making for 'Frisco and then flows down 
 the coast from North to South till it meets the 
 North Equatorial current which comes from the 
 South and sweeps out to the West, carrying the tail 
 end, so to speak, of the Drift with it. Where the 
 two opposing currents meet off the South Californian 
 coast, one often finds a heavy sea and variable 
 cross-winds. But as soon as we turned into the 
 Gulf the fine weather began again. 
 
 The trading which I had hoped would be full 
 of adventure turned out to be quite simple and 
 tame. We ran along the shore, stopping wherever 
 86
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 there was a village. Usually we dropped anchor 
 pretty close in and rowed ashore. At nine places 
 out of ten Winterstein was known. The fishermen 
 brought out their little cotton-bags of pearls and 
 we bought them. Curiously enough, the black pearl, 
 so esteemed to-day, had then no value at all. When- 
 ever we bought a packet of white pearls, the black 
 ones were thrown in as not worth estimating. The 
 pink pearls, too, had no price, unless they were 
 exceptionally large or beautifully shaped, and even 
 then they were very cheap. I began to collect the 
 black pearls to make a necklace for Mrs. Winter- 
 stein. I was half in love with her I think from 
 the beginning. She was not only very pretty but 
 laughter-loving, and girlish, and her little matronly 
 airs sat drolly upon her. Everyone on board liked 
 her, I don't know why. I suppose she wanted to 
 please us all; for she was full of consideration for 
 everyone. I have never seen any woman who ap- 
 pealed so unconsciously and so directly to the heart, 
 and her happiness was something that had to be 
 seen to be believed. She simply adored her hus- 
 band, waited on him hand and foot, and pampered 
 all his little selfishnesses. She was only unhappy 
 when away from him, or when it was rough weather 
 and she was sea-sick. Curiously enough, in spite of 
 
 87
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 the long cruise, she never became a good sailor. 
 In fine weather she was all right, but the moment 
 The Rose commenced to bob about, Mrs. Winter- 
 stein used to retire to her cabin. 
 
 I told no one about the necklace. I simply an- 
 nexed all the black pearls and determined to get 
 them strung together as soon as we got back to 
 'Frisco. I never landed without asking after them, 
 and even went so far as to buy some which were 
 being used by the native children as trinkets. I 
 remember once coming across an extraordinary 
 specimen as big as a marble, perfectly round, and 
 with a perfect skin. We were passing a cabin 
 where a couple of mestizo girls of fourteen and 
 sixteen were seated on the sand playing a game of 
 bones, which I think must be as old as the world, 
 for the Greeks knew it as astragalos. You throw 
 the round bones up into the air and turn your hand 
 round quickly and catch them on the back. Among 
 the five bones was a black pearl, which I admired at 
 once and bought for a quarter, I think. I can 
 still see the half-naked girl-child as she handed it 
 to me. She stood on one leg like a stork, and with 
 her right foot rubbed her left ankle, while glancing 
 at me half-shyly out of great liquid dark eyes. She 
 had only a red calico wrap about her body, out of 
 88
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 the folds of which one small round amber breast 
 showed: but she was evidently unconscious of her 
 nudity — a child in mind, a woman in body. 
 
 I have absolutely nothing interesting to tell of 
 this first cruise. We stopped once where the sea 
 must have receded from the land, for the town was 
 some four miles inland. I have forgotten the name 
 of the place, but it was quite a town — some two or 
 three thousand inhabitants. The smell of the 
 oysters on the sea beach, I remember, was over- 
 powering. Thousands and thousands of bushels 
 had been left to rot. Our harvest of pearls here 
 was so large that Winterstein resolved to go back 
 to 'Frisco at once and market his goods. We were 
 all tired of fish and biscuits, varied with sow-belly 
 fiery with salt and black with age. 
 
 The return trip was just as uneventful as the 
 voyage out. Winterstein's profits were beyond all 
 his former experiences. After paying all expenses, 
 giving me my tenth, and dividing another tenth be- 
 tween the two mates, he cleared up something like 
 six thousand dollars for two months' work. 
 
 He was naturally eager to get to sea again, but 
 there was a difficulty. Rose found that her sister 
 had left Sacramento, and had come to live in 'Frisco. 
 She had got work, too, I gathered, in a shop and 
 
 89
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 refused absolutely to be a schoolgirl any longer or 
 to accept her sister's advice. Rose was anxious 
 about her and resolved to take her on board with 
 us for the next cruise. But for a long time Miss 
 Daisy refused to come : she preferred, it appeared, 
 to be entirely on her own and it was only when 
 Winterstein joined Rose in solicitation that she 
 finally consented. I was rather eager to see this 
 very self-willed and independent young lady. 
 
 I was quite ready for another trip. It would 
 please my mother, I thought, if I went back with a 
 couple of thousand dollars in my pocket, and I had 
 got my black pearls strung as a necklace for Rose. 
 
 Winterstein warned me that the next trip would 
 perhaps not be so profitable, as he would leave out 
 the chief places, which he had already touched at, 
 and go to the more remote stations. 
 
 "Pearling," he said, "is like everything else in 
 life — the easiest work is the best paid." His phil- 
 osophy was not very deep though his observation 
 was exact enough. 
 
 We arranged to start one afternoon. I had 
 been in town making purchases. It was wretched 
 weather. A Nor'easter had sprung up and blew 
 sand through the streets in clouds. I only hoped 
 that the departure would be postponed. I found 
 90
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 Winterstein waiting impatiently for me, and his 
 wife's sister, too, was on deck in spite of the rough 
 weather. Winterstein introduced me to her. Daisy 
 O'Connor did not make much impression on me at 
 first; she was girlish-young and did not seem to 
 be anything like so good-looking as her sister. True, 
 she had large dark-brown eyes and good features, 
 but she was smaller than Rose, and without Rose's 
 brilliant coloring or charm of appeal. She treated 
 me rather coolly, I thought. Winterstein seemed 
 to be in a great hurry to get off. 
 
 "Why not put off going till to-morrow?" I asked. 
 "As soon as we get outside she'll duck into it half- 
 way up her jib." 
 
 "To-morrow's Friday," remarked Miss Daisy. 
 
 "Surely you're not superstitious?" I laughed. 
 
 "Yes, I am," replied the girl, and a peculiar 
 character of decision came into her face and voice. 
 
 "You know the old rhyme?" 
 
 She questioned me with a look, and I repeated the 
 old chanty : 
 
 Monday for health 
 
 And Tuesday for wealth 
 
 And Wednesday the best day of all, 
 
 Thursday for losses 
 
 And Friday for crosses 
 
 And Saturday no day at all . . . 
 
 91
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 "Thursday will be a bad start," I added. 
 
 "I like a bad start," she retorted; "a good start 
 often means a bad ending." She spoke bitterly, I 
 thought. 
 
 "A resolute little thing," I said to myself care- 
 lessly, while getting into my sea-togs. 
 
 In five minutes the anchor was up and the sails 
 set and we were beating out to sea in the teeth of 
 the gale. In the bay the wind came in gusts, but 
 as we held toward Lime Point it settled down to 
 a steady drive which heeled us over till the lee 
 scuppers were under water. Every moment it blew 
 harder. When we went about and opened out the 
 Golden Gate, The Rose went over, over till it looked 
 as if she would turn turtle. I laid hold of the main 
 rigging to keep my feet and get the spindrift out 
 of my eyes. Ten feet from me was the girl with 
 one hand on a stay, her slight figure braced against 
 the gale, evidently enjoying the experience. A dif- 
 ferent voyage from the first, I thought to myself, 
 and under different auspices. But the work and 
 danger stopped thought. As soon as we were out 
 of the Golden Gate and clear of Point Bonita the 
 sea began to pile up and break in masses on the 
 bar. We were in for a dirty night. In five minutes 
 we were all wet to the skin. The girl had gone 
 92
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 below. The companion, skylights and hatches were 
 all battened down and made snug and not a mo- 
 ment too soon. The sea on the bar was terrific: 
 again and again the green water buried the decks, 
 but as soon as we had got outside and turned her 
 bows southward, the gale came fair on the quarter 
 and the little "saucer" as I called The Rose made 
 good weather of it, lifting easily to the great comb- 
 ers and swooping along their shoulders into the 
 night, for all the world like some white sea-bird. 
 
 The coming on board of Daisy O'Connor altered 
 everything. I was too young at the time to ex- 
 plain, or even understand what was taking place. 
 The interest which used to center in Rose and Win- 
 terstein and abaft the companion, now followed 
 Daisy all over the ship. For the girl was never 
 long in one place and divided her favors impar- 
 tially among all the men on board. Now she 
 walked his watch talking to Donkin, or leaned 
 against the rail chatting to Crawford, or sat dis- 
 cussing a book with me. She was less with Winter- 
 stein than with any of us, which was not remarked, 
 because the weather still continued boisterous and 
 gave him a good deal to do between the stateroom 
 in which his wife spent most of her time and the 
 wave-swept deck. 
 
 93
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 In every way this cruise was different from the 
 first, less pleasant, if more exciting. The first thing 
 I noticed was that Donkin, who appeared to like 
 Winterstein on the first voyage, now disliked him. 
 Winterstein spoke sharply to him one day about 
 the way the jib was sitting: 
 
 "That jib's shivering," he said, "it's not set flat, 
 take a pull at it." 
 
 Donkin looked at him and said sulkily: 
 "That's because she's steered too free." 
 "That's all you know about it," replied Winter- 
 stein cheerfully, "at any rate take a pull at the 
 sheet." 
 
 The look of contempt and anger which Donkin 
 threw at the skipper surprised and shocked me. I 
 did not even then notice that Daisy was standing to 
 windward almost between them. It only occurred 
 to me long afterward. The Rose, which had been 
 the most comfortable craft in the world, had be- 
 come an ordinary sort of vessel. 
 
 The weather was very unsettled; usually we had 
 more than enough wind and a heavy lop of sea, 
 and the little craft, which was very light and shal- 
 low as a saucer, tossed about like a cork. 
 
 Three days out of four Rose O'Connor kept to 
 her berth, and never showed at all even at meal 
 94
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 times, and Daisy O'Connor took her place on the 
 deck and in the cabin as well. Day after day Win- 
 terstein and I lunched with her alone. The door 
 leading into Rose's stateroom was generally closed. 
 It was impossible not to be interested in Daisy. 
 She was very intelligent and self-centered, and as 
 reserved as Rose was ingenuous and open. She 
 struck me as being much older than Rose. She was 
 a sort of enigma, and I could not help wanting to 
 find the key to it. She never praised or com- 
 plimented one as Rose did; her praise was a word 
 or two, which seemed wrung from her, a tantalizing, 
 proud creature. 
 
 One day we were running along under some 
 bluffs; the wind was light and fitful; we had all the 
 plain sails set. Rose was on deck, seated in a 
 cane arm-chair to windward of the companion. 
 Winterstein was a consummate seaman, and that 
 day seemed a little anxious; he kept running down 
 to look at the barometer, and had a word or two 
 with Crawford, I remembered afterward. Neither 
 of them seemed to like the look of the weather. I 
 paid small attention to externals, for Daisy was 
 walking the deck with me, and I was telling her 
 how I intended to put up my shingle in New York 
 that winter and start my law office. She was look- 
 
 95
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 ing her very best and I had begun to wonder whether 
 she was not even more attractive than her sister. 
 When she got excited, or when the wind blew a 
 little sharply, her white skin would take on the 
 faint pink tinge of a sea-shell, and when interested 
 her eyes would grow large and deepen in color. 
 Altogether I was beginning to think her fascinating. 
 Unconsciously I was transferring to her my old 
 allegiance to Rose. Rose was not at her best this 
 cruise; she looked washed out and pale; she did 
 what she could, but the bad weather was against 
 her. Clearly the spiritual center of gravity, so to 
 speak, of the vessel, had changed, and I certainly 
 was not blind to the fact that Daisy gave me more 
 of her time than she gave to anyone else, though 
 she would often have long talks with Donkin. The 
 person she spent least time with was distinctly Win- 
 terstein. 
 
 While we were walking up and down talking, the 
 wind suddenly ceased, and the little craft shot up 
 at once on an even keel and set Rose's chair slid- 
 ing. It was stopped by Winterstein, who took his 
 wife below, and as we resumed our walk again I 
 noticed that the look Daisy threw at her sister was 
 more than indifferent; there was contempt in it. In 
 a minute or two Winterstein came up again and 
 96
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 stood near the main sheet and every now and then 
 we passed him. The wind was blowing again 
 steadily and the schooner heeled over under it and 
 all went on as before. Suddenly, without any warn- 
 ing, the wind veered round and blew from almost 
 the opposite point of the compass. With a slash 
 and crash the sails came flapping over our heads 
 and the boom smashed inboard, as if we were going 
 to gibe. The deck from slanting jumped level. I 
 
 * 
 
 caught the companion to hold myself. Daisy was 
 thrown past me and would have had a nasty fall, 
 had not Winterstein caught her in his arms. She 
 tore herself loose angrily, and he sprang to the main- 
 sheet and drew it taut and stopped the boom from 
 going over. The helmsman, Crawford, had been 
 almost as quick. No sooner had the squall struck 
 us than he put the helm up and the next moment 
 The Rose's bow fell off and her sails filled again 
 and she went on as before. In the nick of time 
 Winterstein eased away the mainsail. 
 
 The fine thing in the occurrence was Winter- 
 stein's extraordinary speed and strength. There 
 he stood holding the mainsheet, his magnificent 
 athlete's figure etched against the sky. Before I 
 had taken in his splendid unconscious pose, Daisy 
 made an inarticulate exclamation as if she had 
 
 97
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 caught her breath; but when I looked at her, her 
 face was as composed as usual and without ex- 
 pression. 
 
 I thought at the time that the weather was chiefly 
 responsible for the change in the moral atmosphere. 
 It is impossible to be good-tempered if you are 
 wet through by day and up half the night shorten- 
 ing sail or ready to shorten it. For the schooner 
 after all was only a small craft, and heavily sparred 
 even for summer weather. The sails, it was evi- 
 dent, were too big for her, though Winterstein de- 
 clared he had never seen such weather in Septem- 
 ber. I had never had harder work. Three days 
 out of the four we worked all day long and half 
 through the night. The little craft was under- 
 manned. And though we were all strong, five or 
 six pairs of hands cannot do the work of ten or 
 twelve, and no man can be in two places at once. 
 Our tempers began to get ragged. 
 
 On the first trip Crawford had been a great 
 friend of mine; he was really a fine sailor and in- 
 telligent besides, and whenever I wanted to know 
 anything, I used to go and talk with him, and even 
 in 'Frisco I took him out with me to the theater 
 once or twice, and was very much amused by his 
 98
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 shrewd comments. But one day he called me to 
 help him hauling in the jib. 
 
 "Bear a hand, damn you," he cried. I was 
 amazed. 
 
 "What's the matter, Crawford?" I said after- 
 ward, but he turned on his heel and muttered 
 something about "lazy" in such a tone that I re- 
 plied : 
 
 "Lazy or not, you had better curse someone 
 else." 
 
 But afterward, in cool blood, I could not help 
 asking myself what it all meant. I could find no 
 reason for Crawford's change of manner. "Lazy" 
 stuck in my mind. The day before had been fine 
 and I had sat in a chair near Daisy, and read 
 Whittier to her, but that could have nothing to 
 do with Crawford I decided, who seemed to me 
 quite old: he must have been nearly forty. 
 
 The weather made little difference to Daisy. She 
 was up on deck in all weathers, and seemed fairly 
 to revel in a hard gale. When it was dry she used 
 to wear a tight-knitted thing, like a long blue jersey, 
 which outlined her slight figure, and when it was 
 wet she would put on a waterproof, and tuck her 
 hair inside a close hood, which seemed to frame 
 
 99
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 her face lovingly; I liked her best when it simply 
 blew hard, and we could walk about and talk. 
 
 About this time I began to notice that Donkin 
 was trying in his uncouth way to make up to her. 
 He seized every opportunity of talking to her and 
 advising her. It was a remark of Crawford's that 
 opened my eyes. They were standing together 
 chatting one day when Crawford looked at me 
 over his shoulder and said: 
 
 "She does not care for him any more than she 
 cares for the mainmast, but the big fool thinks 
 she does." 
 
 A pang of surprise and anger told me that I 
 cared more than I admitted to myself. The idea of 
 Donkin, great, ugly, sullen Donkin, side by side with 
 that beauty and fine intelligence. 
 
 "Beauty and the beast," I said. Crawford 
 looked at me and turned aside: I realized that I 
 had spoken bitterly. 
 
 All this time there seemed to be less change in 
 Winterstein than in any of the rest of us. Day 
 after day and night after night he did two or three 
 men's work, and did not seem to feel fatigue or 
 need sleep. He was helped, of course, by his 
 magnificent health and strength. He appeared to 
 take it as a matter of course that I should monop- 
 ioo
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 olize Daisy, and we talked together at meal times 
 almost as if he were not in the cabin. Our talk 
 was mostly of books and works of art in which it 
 was impossible for him to join. He listened in- 
 deed, but could hardly expect to interest her in books 
 as I could. Sometimes I read scraps of Shelley or 
 Swinburne to her, and it was a treat to see her face 
 flush and change with the varying emotions. Her 
 eyes were extraordinary; they drew the very soul 
 out of one and tempted one perpetually to more 
 passionate expression. Talks begun in the cabin 
 continued with us on deck. No one made me talk as 
 she did. She was something more than a sympathetic 
 listener. She made one want to draw forth her 
 interest or rare word of praise. But if she showed 
 intense emotion about a piece of verse or some won- 
 derful cloud-effect, her interest was always imper- 
 sonal. As soon as the talk became at all senti- 
 mental she would break it off and her eyes would 
 grow inexpressive as brown stones. 
 
 After we had rounded the peninsula and turned 
 into the Gulf, the weather suddenly improved. Day 
 after day we floated along with a light breeze under 
 a pale-blue sky, tremulous with excess of light. Day 
 after day now Rose came up and we had tea and 
 even dinner on deck. But somehow or other Rose 
 
 IOI
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 never regained her position : we liked her and turned 
 to her, attracted by her smiling good humor, but 
 the spiritual interest of the ship was centered in her 
 sister. Everything in Rose was open, comprehen- 
 sible, from her flowerlike beauty to her manifest 
 devotion to Winterstein, but Daisy was a closed 
 book, a tantalizing puzzle; for all of us she had 
 the charm of the unknown and unexplored. She 
 entered into no direct competition with her sister; 
 she simply kept apart as a rival queen and there 
 could be no doubt that her court was better at- 
 tended. You flattered Rose and paid compliments 
 to her, the other you studied and sought to interest. 
 Rose was always more than fair to her sister. In 
 fact she praised her and made up to her timidly, 
 like the rest of us. One day Winterstein had gone 
 down for a pair of loose boots for his wife, as she 
 wanted to walk. While he put the boots on we 
 naturally talked of feet. I praised Rose's feet, but 
 she would not have it: 
 
 u My feet are huge," she said, "in comparison 
 to Daisy's. I take fours and she takes ones, don't 
 you, Daisy? Show them." 
 
 Daisy looked at her with a little smile, but did 
 not follow her advice. 
 
 "Come, Daisy, show us," I said. 
 102
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 She turned smiling inscrutable eyes on me and 
 that was all. Suddenly Winterstein laughed. 
 
 "Daisy wants to spare us," he said. Her face 
 hardened. 
 
 "Daisy does not think it a matter of any mo- 
 ment," she said, "but if you are all agreed, there 
 you are," and she pulled her feet together and drew 
 up her skirts deliberately, showing tiny feet and 
 two nervous, slight ankles. But almost at the same 
 moment she sprang to her feet: 
 
 "Are you coming?" she threw to me, and walked 
 down the deck. 
 
 "What wonderful feet you have," I said, "al- 
 most too small for your figure." 
 
 "Why should very small feet and hands be ad- 
 mired?" she said, turning to me. 
 
 I could not give her the answer that came into 
 my mind, and hesitated, seeking some other ex- 
 planation. 
 
 "It's traditional. ... I hardly know," I hesi- 
 tated and sprang to knowledge for evasion. "All 
 Greek statues of women have large feet," I re- 
 marked. 
 
 "But there must be a reason," she said, and her 
 eyes probed mine. 
 
 "Yes," I replied, feeling annoyed with myself 
 
 1031
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 for getting red. She took it all in coolly and then 
 changed the conversation, perhaps she understood 
 more than she admitted. 
 
 In the Gulf we called at various small stations 
 and did fairly well with the pearls. Rose had given 
 Daisy my black pearl necklace, I noticed: it seemed 
 strange to me that all the affection should be on 
 Rose's side. 
 
 The weather got finer and finer: it became so 
 hot indeed that Winterstein fixed up an awning from 
 the companion to the poop. We used to keep the 
 awning cool by throwing a couple of buckets of 
 water on it before Rose came on deck, for she felt 
 the heat intensely. 
 
 About this time I began to guess that her paleness 
 and languor had a cause, and we all felt more 
 kindly toward her if that were possible. But the 
 fact itself seemed to set her more and more apart, 
 putting her outside our circle. The heat seemed to 
 affect Daisy no more than it affected the rest of us. 
 I used to get up nearly every morning and bathe, 
 and when there was a wind Donkin or Crawford 
 used to throw a bucket of water over me and I 
 hopped about on the for'castle to dry myself. If 
 there was no wind I went overboard, keeping near 
 the vessel because of the sharks. One day I had 
 104 1
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 just run up after my bath, I was still drying my 
 head, when Daisy came on deck. 
 
 "Oh, how I should like a swim," she said. "I've 
 been so hot in that stewy cabin." 
 
 She did not look hot, she was always the picture 
 of neatness. But Donkin put his oar in at once. 
 
 "Nothing easier, Miss Daisy." 
 
 When had he commenced calling her by her 
 Christian name, I wondered angrily. 
 
 "Oh, but the sharks," she said. "If one were 
 to bite a foot off, or a hand, I should kill myself. 
 I do not mind death, but I would not be deformed 
 for anything. 
 
 "We could rig a sail out on the yard, so that you 
 could have four feet of water, and yet be per- 
 fectly safe," he replied. 
 
 "Oh, how splendid," she said, "I wish you would." 
 
 "In ten minutes, Miss Daisy," he said, and turned 
 away to the work, Crawford following at his heels. 
 
 "I must go down and get ready," she said, "but 
 won't you come in with me, you won't mind bathing 
 again, it will give me courage?" 
 
 "I have no bathing things," I said, "but I can 
 probably get a suit ready for to-morrow." 
 
 "What a pity," she pouted, "bathing alone is no 
 fun. Can't you make something do?" 
 
 io5j
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 "I daresay I can," I replied. 
 
 "Please," and she disappeared down the com- 
 panion. 
 
 I went below and got myself ready with a loose 
 flannel shirt, and a pair of duck trousers cut off 
 at the knee, promising myself to hem them round 
 next day. The rummaging about took me some 
 time, and when I came on deck Daisy was already 
 waiting and all the preparations had been made. 
 A yard had been sheered out from the ship and 
 stayed against the bulwark and companion. From 
 the end of it a square sail had been let down by a 
 cross yard at the end of the spar. The sail dipped 
 into the water and formed a bath of perhaps twenty 
 feet long, fifteen feet broad and four or five in 
 depth. The gangway opened into the middle of it, 
 and the little ladder led down to the water's edge. 
 When I came up, Daisy was thanking them. 
 
 "Did you ever see such a perfect bath?" she said, 
 turning to me. "Isn't it clever of them. I think 
 you sailors," and she looked into Donkin's eyes, 
 "can just do anything." (The fellow's weather- 
 beaten hide flushed to brick-red.) "It was Mr. 
 Crawford," she added, "who thought of putting 
 the sail by the gangway. He thinks of everything." 
 
 She was diabolically clever; for the praise was 
 106
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 deserved. Crawford's white face paled and he 
 fidgetted under her eyes. 
 
 Daisy had on a little green cap, into which she 
 had tucked her hair, and a great white bath sheet. 
 Winterstein came up from below and stood close by. 
 
 "Will you go first?" I said. 
 
 She turned and undid the tapes at her neck, and 
 let the bath towel slip on to the white deck. She 
 was in pale green with knickerbockers ; a little tunic 
 cut low at the neck fell over her hips. Her arms 
 were bare, and her legs from the knees down. 
 Everything suited her. She was adorable — girl and 
 woman in one. The next moment she had slid 
 down the ladder into the sea and was swimming 
 about. In a moment I joined her, and then she 
 explained to me that she could never float. 
 
 "My feet always go down," she said, "and before 
 I know it I am standing on my feet upright in the 
 water." Again and again she tried to float, but 
 always with the same result. I wondered if she 
 knew how provocative she was, as she lay there 
 on the blue surface, her little form in green and 
 white with the wet dress clinging to her figure and 
 outlining it. I think she must have known, for there 
 were the men leaning down from the bulwarks, all 
 staring at her with hot eyes. When she came on 
 
 107
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 deck she did not disappear at once into the bath 
 cloak, which Donkin held ready for her. She stood 
 there among the men on deck in her semi-nudity, 
 and cried: 
 
 "Oh, I have enjoyed myself; it has been perfect. 
 I am so much obliged to you," she said, turning to 
 Donkin, "and to you, too, Mr. Crawford." 
 
 I noticed that Dyer at the helm devoured her 
 with his eyes while Abraham's black face grinned 
 from the for'castle hatch. 
 
 "It was kind of all of you," she went on, "the 
 water was not a bit cold. You will put the sail 
 down to-morrow morning, won't you?" she said to 
 Donkin, as she stretched her arms backwards over 
 her head to get the cloak. The movement threw 
 her little breasts upward into sharp relief; the next 
 moment she had drawn the cloak about her with 
 a little gay laugh and disappeared down the com- 
 panionway. It was as if the sun had gone out. For 
 a moment we men stared at each other, and then 
 I went forward to change my things while Donkin 
 and Crawford busied themselves getting in the sail. 
 Suddenly I heard Winterstein's voice : 
 
 "Here, you Abraham, bear a hand with the swab 
 here and dry up this water. As you've come on 
 deck you may as well do something." I turned in 
 108
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 surprise, the tone was strangely hard and menacing, 
 utterly unlike Winterstein, but I did not catch a 
 glimpse of his face, for as soon as he had given the 
 order he turned away to stare at the land over the 
 poop. 
 
 What was the meaning of it all, I asked myself, 
 but I soon put the query out of my head, because 
 I did not want t& dull the vivid image of the girl's 
 beautiful figure which had been revealed to me. 
 Was anyone else as lovely? I asked myself. Her 
 feet were like baby feet. The marks of sex in her 
 figure were so slight that they merely accentuated 
 the beauty of the slim round outlines. What prov- 
 ocation in the crooked girlish arms, what a chal- 
 lenge in the inscrutable mutinous eyes. She had 
 been delightful to me in the sea : had turned to me 
 familiarly for help; I had touched her firm flesh 
 again and again, and I was intoxicated with her as 
 with wine. 
 
 I did not see Daisy again that morning until 
 lunchtime, or dinner as we called it. I had fished 
 persistently and called out loudly whenever I had 
 the opportunity, hoping that it would bring her on 
 deck, for she revelled in fishing, and was easily 
 the champion because all the men vied with each 
 other in picking the most attractive baits for her. 
 
 109
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 In this game Crawford was easily first. He 
 brought up a piece of red flannel one day, cut into 
 the shape of a narrow tongue; on the other side of 
 it he had sewn a glittering piece of white satin. 
 Equipped with this bait no one had a chance with 
 Daisy. She had caught three fish to my one, and 
 as Donkin or Crawford was always at hand to 
 pull up the wet line for her and take the hook from 
 the fish and put the bait straight again she had 
 little to do except amuse herself. 
 
 At lunch she took all my compliments in com- 
 plete silence. 
 
 "You would be able to float," I insisted, "if you 
 would arch your back and keep your head right 
 back." 
 
 But she would not have it. 
 
 "I do arch my back and put my head right back, 
 but my feet pull me upright." 
 
 "Such tiny feet," I replied, "have not the power 
 to pull anyone down." 
 
 "You shall try, to-morrow," she said. "I will 
 keep as rigid as you please, and you shall put your 
 hand under my back to see whether I am stiff." 
 
 Winterstein suddenly spoke: 
 
 "Why don't you put that French thing on, that 
 knitted thing instead of the tunic?" 
 no
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 "Do you mean the maillot?" she said slowly, 
 looking him straight in the eyes. 
 
 He nodded. His expression I remembered after- 
 ward was a little strained. 
 
 "I have not worn it," she said with her eyes on 
 the cloth, "since I bathed at the Cliff House, but as 
 you wish it," she added slowly, "I will put it on," 
 and she turned away indifferently. There was a 
 tension in the air, but not on her side I thought 
 as much as on his, but why? 
 
 "What is the maillot like?" I said, showing her 
 that I knew the French word. 
 
 "It's a knitted thing," she said; "all the girls used 
 to wear them and little French slippers. You know 
 we have parties in the baths. I have got all the 
 things still. I'll put them on to-morrow. I think 
 they suit me. Some people used to say so," she 
 added slowly. 
 
 Winterstein got up, and went into his wife's bed- 
 room for something or other. When he returned 
 I was leaving the cabin. Daisy called to me on 
 the way up that she would bring Browning with 
 her. She was sensitive to beauty of words or music 
 and extraordinarily intelligent: I delighted to read 
 her my favorite poems. 
 
 If I were a story-teller I'd try to make all you 
 
 in
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 people feel what we felt next morning. The weather 
 was perfect, the sea like glass: the little schooner 
 seemed to breathe gently as if sleeping on the oily 
 swell. Rose came on deck early and established 
 herself under the awning. I thought that her pres- 
 ence would make a difference, would act as a re- 
 straint on her sister and I wished her away. I had 
 got my bathing things in some sort of order the 
 evening before. I rather fancied myself in them. 
 I had not been on deck more than five minutes when 
 I noticed a sort of subdued excitement in everyone. 
 All the men were on deck and they had all rigged 
 themselves out more or less. Donkin was shaved 
 and so was Crawford, Dyer limped about in clean 
 ducks, and Abraham Lincoln had mounted a large 
 white collar with a scarlet and blue tie. Winter- 
 stein alone had made no change. He talked to 
 his wife while moving about whistling for wind as 
 if indifferent. . . . 
 
 For the first time I noticed clearly that Rose was 
 to become a mother. Her face was a little white 
 and drawn, and when she tried once or twice to 
 take a few turns with Winterstein you could see that 
 her figure had altered in spite of the loose dress 
 she wore. I was looking over the little lifeboat 
 
 112
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 which we carried on the davit amidship when I 
 heard Daisy's voice. 
 
 "What a perfect day," she said, "and how de- 
 lightful everything looks. I know I shall enjoy 
 the bath." 
 
 Naturally I went toward her. She was standing 
 close to the companion. Rose was sitting a yard or 
 so behind it with' her chair against the mahogany 
 top. Everyone was on the tiptoe of excitement. 
 Donkin, Crawford, Abraham Lincoln, all moved 
 like steel nibs toward the magnet, except Winter- 
 stein. The girl had her back to the men. Suddenly 
 she opened her wrap a little to show herself in her 
 maillot to her sister. Winterstein and I could not 
 help seeing her as well. It caught my breath. For 
 one moment I thought she was naked. The maillot 
 was white; the meshes of it showed the rose- 
 colored skin beneath. She looked like an ivory 
 statue by some modern French artist: she was 
 rounder, more woman-like than I had pictured her 
 immaturity. 
 
 "Oh, Daisy," cried Rose. 
 
 "He told me to put it on," said Daisy defiantly 
 looking at Winterstein while drawing the cloak 
 about her again. "You used to say it fitted me 
 perfectly," she added, "and liked me in it." 
 
 113
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 "Yes," said Rose, amiably, leaning back and 
 closing her eyes, as if in pain or weariness, "it 
 does suit you, but somehow or other it was dif- 
 ferent when half a dozen of you children were all 
 wearing them in the bath; besides you've grown, I 
 suppose, and it's in the open and men about . . ." 
 
 "I'll take it off," said Daisy in the hard clear 
 voice which I had come to recognize as a sign of 
 annoyance. 
 
 "Oh, no," said Rose, "I'd bathe in it now I had 
 it on. Go on," she said smiling, "the dip will do 
 you good." 
 
 The girl turned and without a word went down 
 into the cabin. In a minute or two she reappeared. 
 
 "Will you go down first," she said to me, "and 
 I will dive in." 
 
 She stood in the gangway with the shapeless wrap 
 about her. I nodded, for my mouth was dry, and 
 without more ado, threw myself into the sea, and in 
 a moment was standing on the sail dashing the water 
 from my eyes. Daisy opened the wrap slowly and 
 took her arms out of the sleeve with a sort of ser- 
 pentine movement, infinitely graceful and provoca- 
 tive. She had put on her little tunic over the mail- 
 lot. I was glad the outline was draped; but having 
 seen her in the maillot the vision of her form was 
 114
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 still with me in its half-ripe seduction. But being 
 hidden from the other men it seemed mine and 
 private. Yet I noticed that Donkin received her 
 bathing cloak mechanically without taking his eyes 
 off her. As she stood above me she swayed back- 
 ward, threw her hands above her head, then bent 
 gradually forward — down, down, the lines of her 
 flexible young body changing every moment and let 
 herself glide into the sea. All the time she stood 
 poised on the deck there was a steel band of hate 
 round my chest. I do not think the girl knew 
 what she was doing. I do not believe she could 
 have imagined the rage of desire her beauty called 
 to life in these men who had been a month at sea, 
 eating heartily while breathing in the tonic sea air. 
 As soon as she was in the water beside me all anger 
 vanished; she seemed to belong to me then, and 
 I wondered whether she liked me to touch her; at 
 any rate she was not adverse to learning anything 
 I suggested and naturally I was fertile in suggestions. 
 Suddenly she said she would float; she would 
 arch her back and put her head back as far as she 
 could, and I must put my hand under her waist and 
 support her, then I would see how impossible it 
 was for her to float. I did what I was told with- 
 
 "5
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 out thinking, and at first she floated and I looked 
 into her face and cried: 
 
 "You see, you see." But she was not looking 
 at me, her face was set hard, there was a sort of 
 defiance in it. I followed her glance up and saw 
 Winterstein leaning over the bulwarks gazing down 
 on her. I seemed to catch for the moment a sort 
 of tension between them and then slowly the vase- 
 like outlines of her hips sank lower and lower into 
 the water, and she came upright smiling: 
 
 "See how my feet drag me down," she said, push- 
 ing her right foot up through the water in comic 
 dismay, as if to show me how heavy it was. 
 
 Winterstein had left the bulwarks, but Donkin 
 was looking down at her and Crawford and the 
 others all drinking her in with greedy eyes. She 
 swam about a little and then climbed up the ladder 
 and stood at the top of it, half in the hot sunshine, 
 and half in the shade of the awning — to get warm, 
 she said. My foot was on the lower rung of the 
 ladder, I was so close to her that I could see every 
 line of her body, the adorable roundnesses, and the 
 fine nervous grace of it. I could scarcely refrain 
 from putting my hands on her as she stood there 
 swaying just in front of me, with the wet tunic 
 116
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 clinging to her like skin and showing all her adorable 
 nudities. 
 
 "It is too delicious," she said with a little shudder, 
 "the water is warmer than the air. The air makes 
 me shiver, but the water is warm like new milk. 
 You should come and bathe, too, Rose." 
 
 "Put on your wrap and change quickly, or you'll 
 catch cold," said Rose, who had picked up her things 
 and was going down to the cabin. She spoke a 
 little tartly, I thought. 
 
 The girl turned and let Donkin wrap the bathing 
 cloak about her without a word. I caught sight 
 of her as she turned, and the vision of her is with 
 me still. I've wondered since if there ever was 
 a more perfect figure, or if anyone else could be 
 so slim, with such tiny round breasts no larger than 
 apples. I can still see the dimples in her arms at 
 the elbow and the drips of water diamonding the 
 rosy skin as she lifted up her arms to take the cloak 
 which Donkin was holding. 
 
 The next moment she had vanished down the 
 companion. I stepped forward. Donkin and 
 Crawford were standing close together still staring 
 after the girl. As she disappeared they turned and 
 perhaps by accident jostled each other: in a flash 
 their jealous hate flamed. Before one could think 
 
 117
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 Donkin was holding Crawford by the throat while 
 Crawford was striking him on the face savagely. 
 The next moment Winterstein had thrust them 
 apart. 
 
 "Are you mad?" he said to Donkin in repressed 
 low voice. "I'm ashamed of you," he added, turn- 
 ing to Crawford and speaking more naturally. Don- 
 kin glowered sullenly while Crawford muttered 
 something and went forward. As I followed him 
 Lincoln's black face went down the forehatchway 
 and Dyer turned to take up his watch again; but 
 not before I had noticed a certain antagonism on 
 every face; they all reminded me of a set of dogs 
 on the point of fighting — all rigid, with bared fangs 
 and hating eyes. 
 
 The rest of the day passed in a sort of stupor, 
 Rose was on deck nearly the whole time, Winterstein 
 always in attendance. Daisy and I walked the deck 
 a good while together; I got her to say she liked 
 me, but when I pressed her to say how much, she 
 only laughed and changed the subject. She had a 
 long talk with Donkin and another talk with Craw- 
 ford; she even managed to smile at Dyer and trans- 
 port him into the seventh heaven of delight. For 
 the first time I began to realize her insatiate vanity; 
 she wanted all the men to admire her. I raged 
 118
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 against her in my heart, raged the more because I 
 was in the toils. I would have given ten years of 
 my life to have been able to have taken that slight 
 figure in my arms, to have crushed those little 
 breasts against mine and kissed the flower of her 
 mouth. 
 
 But of all this she seemed unconscious, she was 
 simply herself, quiet, aloof, and inscrutable till late 
 in the afternoon, when a little breeze sprang up, 
 a land breeze which gave the light schooner three 
 or four knots an hour — good steering way. Then 
 she had the lines up and fished from the poop. 
 Donkin and myself waited on her, while Winter- 
 stein walked up and down beside his wife from 
 the poop to the companion and from the companion 
 to the poop in silence. Dyer steered and Abra- 
 ham Lincoln came grinning to us every now and 
 then to bring fresh bait for Missy Daisy. . . . 
 ****** 
 
 The catastrophe came with startling suddenness. 
 I see now that it must have come, that it was all 
 prepared, inevitable. Yet the unexpectedness of it 
 and the tragic completeness were overwhelming. 
 It seems to have blotted out all that went before 
 so that I do not know whether it was two or three 
 days or half a dozen days later than the bathing 
 
 119
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 or not. Anyhow the bathing I have described was 
 the last. For some days after we had lively 
 breezes; the spar had to be taken in and the extem- 
 porized bath dismantled. We had called, I re- 
 member, at Mulege near Los Coyotes, and had had 
 a good haul of pearls and a lot of hard work. 
 
 One afternoon we had been working hard and 
 had had to row the boat for four or five miles 
 over shallow water to a village where the in- 
 habitants, we found, had collected pearls for years 
 and years and had never before been visited. The 
 bargaining was interminable. The fisher-folk had 
 no standard of value. One man wanted a dollar 
 for three or four fine pearls, another wanted fifty 
 dollars for an insignificant bad specimen, and we 
 were on the strain all day persuading and cajoling. 
 I was tuckered out when I got into the boat and 
 took the bow oar to Donkin's stroke while Winter- 
 stein sat in the stern sheets. I think Winterstein, 
 too, must have been tired and exasperated, for he 
 scarcely spoke all the way to the schooner. 
 
 When we got on board a six-knot breeze was 
 blowing. After telling us to keep our course, Win- 
 terstein went below. I went down, too, and had a 
 sleep: when I came up again I felt refreshed and 
 vigorous. 
 
 1 20
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 The night was wonderfully beautiful. The moon 
 rose like a crimson wafer through a thin heat mist, 
 but soon shook herself clear of her trailing garments 
 and walked the purple like a queen. I noticed for 
 the first time that the moon's radiance lent the edges 
 of the nearer clouds a brownish smoky rose tinge. 
 As the night wore on the fleecy round clouds gath- 
 ered closer together like silver shields hanging 
 heavily against the blue vault; the moonlight grew 
 fitful. 
 
 When I went down Daisy and Winterstein were 
 both on deck. They were standing near each other 
 just by the poop. When I came up after having 
 had a cup of coffee and a biscuit they were still 
 talking at intervals. She was sitting on the com- 
 panion while he stood in front of her or moved away 
 and then came back. I went forward to do some- 
 thing and when I returned they were still talking, 
 which seemed strange to me, for they seldom ex- 
 changed more than a word or two. Every now 
 and then she laughed, and the laugh was hard and 
 clear: she was scornful I thought. They seemed 
 so preoccupied that I was annoyed and would not 
 join them. Abraham Lincoln at the tiller was al- 
 most out of earshot. I suppose I was jealous. I 
 noticed that when the moon came out from the 
 
 121
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 darkening clouds they were some distance apart, but 
 as soon as the light was veiled they seemed close 
 together again. I was furious, my pride prevented 
 me going near them, yet I could not but stare to- 
 ward them at intervals, jealously watchful. Sud- 
 denly while I was a little to windward, just in line 
 with the helmsman, the moon came out, and I saw 
 Winterstein take Daisy's head quickly in his hands 
 and kiss her on the lips; my heart stopped. The 
 moon showed everything as if it were daylight. I 
 took a quick step forward when just as suddenly 
 I became aware that Rose had come out of the 
 companion and had seen her husband kissing her 
 sister. 
 
 For a moment she stood petrified. I heard a faint 
 exclamation, or was it merely her breath caught in 
 a gasp and strangled? She turned and moved across 
 the deck with her hand across her face. She struck 
 the low bulwark and there was a splash in the 
 water. The next moment Winterstein had sprung 
 to the side and plunged in after her. The second 
 splash seemed only a couple of seconds behind the 
 first. I jumped to the helm only just in time; for 
 the darky had let it slip from his hands and was 
 staring round where Winterstein had disappeared. 
 I crammed the tiller hard down, shouting: 
 122
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 "Man overboard, man overboard." 
 
 The next moment Crawford sprang on deck. 
 The little schooner was fluttering in the wind; she 
 came about with a jerk just as Crawford and the 
 darky dropped over the side into the dingy and 
 began rowing back. 
 
 "What is it?" cried Donkin, running aft. 
 
 "Mrs. Winterstefn fell overboard and Winter- 
 stein went after her. How long shall we take to 
 get back, do you think?" 
 
 "In a quarter of a mile," he replied, while loosen- 
 ing a life-buoy. 
 
 "Then we must pick them up?" I said. 
 
 "Of course," he answered. "I guess Winter- 
 stein's a good swimmer." 
 
 "First rate," I replied, but my heart was hurting 
 with fear. 
 
 At this moment Daisy passed across my line of 
 vision going to the bulwarks to look ahead. The 
 moon was full out and the light quite strong again. 
 I looked at her face and it seemed as if she were 
 excited, expectant, resolute; no trace of horror, or 
 fear. I gasped and suspicion came to me. Could 
 it be that she had wished for it? Her sister — it was 
 impossible. 
 
 Two minutes more and we were alongside the 
 
 123
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 boat again. Crawford had everything ready as 
 usual and had gone to the very spot, and as we 
 came up in the wind beside the boat I left the 
 helm to the nigger and leaned over the bulwarks. 
 I was just in time to see Winterstein come to the 
 surface and haul himself up by the stern of the 
 boat. 
 
 He stood there poised for a moment, and then 
 hurled himself into the sea again as if he would 
 go to the very bottom. My heart sank: he had 
 not found her yet. 
 
 I called to Crawford to know if he had seen any 
 trace of Rose. 
 
 "No sign," he replied, "and this is the skipper's 
 fourth or fifth dive. I guess it's no good." 
 
 "I think you ought to come into the boat," he 
 said a moment later, "and get Winterstein to come 
 on board. He'll kill himself with this diving. I've 
 never known a man keep down so long; he can't 
 do it again." 
 
 I jumped into the boat, and a couple of strokes 
 took us to the spot where Winterstein had disap- 
 peared. We stared down at the dark surface, but 
 there was not a sign or a sound. It seemed in- 
 credible that any man should be able to stay under 
 so long. 
 
 124
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 Suddenly Crawford cried, "There he is," and gave 
 a couple of quick strokes with his oar: slowly the 
 body came to the surface. As we caught hold of 
 him we saw that the blood was streaming from 
 his nose and mouth and ears. 
 
 "He's killed himself," said Crawford, "I thought 
 he would." 
 
 We got back to the schooner in a moment and 
 lifted Winterstein on board. 
 
 As I was helping to carry him toward the com- 
 panion with his head in my hands, Daisy caught 
 hold of me: 
 
 "Dead?" she cried, her eyes wild in the frozen 
 face. 
 
 "I don't think so," I replied, "he stayed under 
 too long. We must get him downstairs and bring 
 him to." 
 
 "Ah," she gasped, and let my arm go. 
 
 We carried Winterstein down to the cabin, turned 
 him over and poured the water out of him. After- 
 wards I blew whisky up his nose and poured some 
 down his throat, and in a few minutes he revived. 
 
 "Where is she?" he said, struggling to rise. 
 "Have you got her?" 
 
 "It's no good, Skipper," cried Crawford, holding 
 him down. "We did our best. You did all one 
 
 125
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 man could. She must have gone straight down. 
 There's not a sign of her." 
 
 "I must find her," he said, struggling up. But 
 he was too weak, he fell back fainting. 
 
 I do not know how the hours passed. I felt 
 dazed; but with an ache at my heart and a sort 
 of vague dread it was all incredible to me. I could 
 not believe that Rose was dead, drowned, that I 
 should never see her again, that charming woman 
 with her appealing, affectionate soul. It was too 
 awful to realize. I thought I'd wake up and find 
 it all a bad dream. Suddenly I noticed that my legs 
 were cold. I put my hand down, my trousers were 
 dripping wet from carrying Winterstein. The next 
 moment I became conscious that I was dead tired, 
 drunk tired, my eyes were closing of themselves. 
 Instinctively I turned into the for'castle, stretched 
 myself on the lockers and slept. . . . 
 
 When I awoke I did not know where I was: 
 everything was strange to me. Then I remem- 
 bered, and with the remembrance came the iron 
 band about my chest constricting my heart. I got 
 up and went on deck. No change there. The 
 schooner was just drawing through the water, the 
 sun shining; the light dancing on the wavelets; the 
 air like wine. Dyer was at the helm. If only last 
 126
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 night could have been blotted out? I could scarcely 
 believe it was real. As I went aft, Crawford met 
 me: 
 
 "How's Winterstein?" I asked. 
 
 "Sleeping now," he replied, "but he's been mighty 
 bad. I never saw a man so done up — never. How 
 did it happen? How did his wife go overboard? 
 You saw it," and his eyes probed mine. 
 
 "She came out of the companion," I said, "the 
 deck was on a bit of a slant ... it all happened 
 so quickly." I felt myself flushing. I was angry 
 with my hesitation. 
 
 "But why did she? How did she sink like that? 
 — it's mighty curious," he added suspiciously. 
 
 "Have you seen Miss Daisy?" I asked to change 
 the current of his thought. 
 
 "Miss Daisy," he repeated, emphasising the Miss, 
 so that I noticed how strange it was for me to use 
 the formal courtesy, "Miss Daisy ain't been up 
 yet. The nigger thinks 'twas jealousy between the 
 two sisters; but he saw nothing. You must have 
 seen." 
 
 I had had time to recover myself, and choose a 
 better way of putting him off the scent: 
 
 "It's awful, awful," I said, as if to myself. "I 
 
 127
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 can't understand it." Crawford grunted, still sus- 
 picious. 
 
 But in spite of the tragedy, the suspicions, and 
 the dark cloud of fear that hung over me as to 
 what might happen next, the ordinary routine of 
 life went on — luckily for all of us. A little later 
 Abe called to me from the for'castle to come and 
 have a cup of coffee. I found I was very hungry 
 and after breakfast felt much better, more hopeful 
 I mean and fitter to meet whatever might occur. 
 
 Half an hour later, Crawford was at the helm 
 steering. I was standing near the foremast when 
 suddenly Daisy came out of the companion and 
 spoke to Crawford in passing. He replied in a 
 monosyllable, without the usual greeting, and then 
 stared up at the mainsail as if there was nothing 
 more to be said. The instinctive puritanism of the 
 race spoke in his awkward rude rebuff. I saw the 
 color flood her cheeks and then ebb away. I 
 loathed the man; I could have beaten him for his 
 insolence; yet I was glad he had insulted her: why? 
 She deserved it all and more, I thought hotly — and 
 yet — she walked up the slanting deck, her little 
 figure thrown back proudly. I crossed to wind- 
 ward between the masts to cut her off: why? I 
 don't know. I only know that passion was in me; 
 128
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 she seemed so far away from us all with that level, 
 unseeing, unwavering glance; the proud aloofness 
 attracted me. I had never before understood the 
 fascination of her personality, of her courage. 
 When we met she stopped and her eyes held me. 
 
 "I know you never meant it, Daisy," I said lamely 
 and held out both my hands to her. 
 
 "Are you sure?" she replied, her eyes searching 
 hard. The words shocked me. I did not realize 
 that having just been insulted, she was all mistrust 
 and temper; if only I had said the right word; but 
 her pride angered me and for the moment I took 
 her question that may have only been doubt of me 
 for an admission of guilt. Fool that I was. 
 
 "God," I exclaimed violently and stepped back. 
 Her face hardened and she swept past me without 
 another word or look, leaving me there confused, 
 angry, wild, and back of all full of forgiveness — of 
 admiration. 
 
 I could not but dread the first meeting with 
 Winterstein. What would he say, how would he 
 take it all? I had not much time to let imagination 
 wander. As I turned in my walk, he was there. 
 His appearance was shocking; it wasn't only that 
 he was white and seemed ill; his clothes hung on 
 him; he was shrunken and his eyes were bad to 
 
 129
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 look upon — despairing — sad at one moment, the 
 next hot in self-anger and exasperation. 
 
 I went to him at once, my heart full of pity. I 
 saw he was all broken. 
 
 "I'm glad you're up," I cried cordially; "the air'll 
 do you good." 
 
 He looked at me with such dumb misery in the 
 glance that my eyes pricked: he nodded his head 
 once or twice and then went over to the low poop 
 and sat down. 
 
 A little later Dyer went to him and said break- 
 fast was ready. He shook his head merely and sat 
 on gazing moodily at the water. 
 
 The same thing happened at dinner-time, but 
 when pressed to eat by Crawford he replied, 
 " 'twould choke me. I'm all right." 
 
 The sweet old routine of life had done me good 
 so I thought it would do good to everyone and 
 should be kept up ; accordingly I went to dinner in 
 the cabin as usual. As Daisy did not appear I 
 knocked at the stateroom door and asked her to 
 come. A minute or so later she entered quietly, 
 but she hardly ate anything and spoke not at all. 
 At supper it was the same thing. 
 
 Winterstein sat on the poop till far into the 
 night. When Crawford came on watch, I took 
 130
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 Winterstein below: he said merely, "I shan't sleep," 
 but threw himself on the cabin sofa without un- 
 dressing. 
 
 The next day passed in the same way, but before 
 dinner Crawford told me that he could not get 
 Winterstein to take anything. 
 
 "If he doesn't eat, he'll go crazy," he said. "He's 
 just eatin' himself." 
 
 I told this to Daisy. She looked at me with set 
 face. 
 
 "I have no influence," she said slowly, as if speak- 
 ing to herself, "no influence, but I'll try." Her 
 face went rigid as she spoke. I nodded and went 
 with her up the companion ladder. But Winter- 
 stein didn't yield at first to her asking; he shook 
 his head, merely saying, "I can't." 
 
 "The soup will help you," she said, and then 
 slowly, "Rose would wish you to take it!" 
 
 "O, God!" he cried starting up and stretching 
 out his arms, as if he couldn't bear to hear the 
 name — and then sank down again. She put the cup 
 in his hands and he took it and drank, and then re- 
 lapsed again into his moody brooding silence. 
 
 When she returned she went straight to her cabin 
 and so another day went by. 
 
 The next day Winterstein took some soup I 
 
 131
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 brought him. In the evening Crawford proposed 
 to return at once to 'Frisco. 
 
 "I don't like his looks," he said; "he's worrying 
 himself crazy and I guess the sooner we all get 
 away from each other the better; perhaps we'll be 
 able to forget the whole derned thing then and live 
 again." 
 
 Donkin agreed with him, and so did I and the 
 ship's course was altered. 
 
 Daisy got into the way of walking the deck with 
 
 Donkin. He adored the very planks she trod on 
 
 and perhaps that touched her. Anyway, she was 
 
 with him now more than with any of us. It made 
 
 me angry and scornful, kept my jealousy alive, 
 
 prevented me from understanding her or forgiving 
 
 — I always saw the two heads together and the 
 
 fatal kiss. 
 
 ****** 
 
 In this puzzling world mistakes or blunders often 
 have worse results than crimes. The momentary 
 yielding to passion brought the tragedy and the first 
 tragedy inevitably drew on another. 
 
 We had got into the Equatorial Current and were 
 making fine time up the coast towards 'Frisco. The 
 weather was just what sailors like : a fair wind per- 
 fectly steady day after day; bright skies, and blue 
 132
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 seas with scarcely a white horse to be seen. We 
 did not alter the set of the canvas for days to- 
 gether: there was nothing for us to do unfortu- 
 nately. Unfortunately nothing to take our minds 
 off the tragedy, nothing to change the feeling of 
 misery and apprehension. I never passed such mis- 
 erable days : they seem like a nightmare to me still. 
 
 One morning I heard a row on deck and then 
 what sounded like a shot. I threw a coat on and 
 ran quickly up the companion. To my astonish- 
 ment there was no one steering, the helm was lashed 
 amidship. I heard a shout from overhead and saw 
 Donkin and Crawford in the main-rigging near the 
 heel of the top-mast. The next moment I noticed 
 Winterstein seated on deck between the two masts. 
 He was playing with a dead snapper making be- 
 lieve that it was about to bite him, drawing his 
 hand away quickly from the dead mouth with a 
 cackle of amusement. 
 
 "Good God!" I wondered, "what's the matter?" 
 As I went toward him, it suddenly came to me: 
 "He's mad," I said to myself. I was all broken 
 up with pity. 
 
 The men in the rigging shouted, "Look out," just 
 in time to put me on my guard: for Winterstein had 
 a revolver beside him, and as soon as I came within 
 
 133
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 his line of vision he took up the gun and leveled 
 it at me crying: 
 
 "There's another of 'em," and fired without more 
 ado. 
 
 I called out to him and backed away, but as he 
 was preparing to fire again, I slid across the deck 
 to the lee rigging and went up as fast as I could. 
 Neither Donkin nor Crawford had anything new 
 to tell me, except that Crawford had been slightly 
 wounded by the first shot Winterstein had fired at 
 him. It had just touched the right shoulder. 
 
 "It burns a bit," he said, "though it's not much 
 more than skin deep." 
 
 The nigger and Dyer, it appeared, had both fled 
 to the for'castle. We quickly resolved that the mo- 
 ment Winterstein went down below, one of us should 
 seize him and the others tie him up. 
 
 "If I could only get him away from his gun," 
 said Donkin, "I'd find out in five minutes whether 
 he's as strong as he thinks himself." 
 
 'You'll find out how strong he is soon enough," 
 I replied. He's about the best man with his hands 
 I ever saw. It will be all the three of us can do 
 to get the better of him." 
 
 "I've never seen the man yet," said Donkin 
 sturdily, "I was afraid of." 
 134
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 The trial came very soon. Of a sudden Win- 
 terstein stood up, threw the dogfish overboard and 
 leaving his revolver on deck walked quickly aft, 
 and disappeared down the companion. The next 
 moment we slid down to the deck, Crawford armed 
 himself with an iron belaying pin, a fearsome club 
 at close quarters. I crept stealthily along the 
 weather bulwarks to the companion and Donkin 
 strode boldly down the deck. I think it must have 
 been Donkin's heavy step that Winterstein heard; 
 for just before I got to the companion he passed 
 up it like a flash and stood facing him. 
 
 "Ho! Ho!" he cried, laughing, "Mr. Donkin 
 wants some gruel, does he? Take it, take it then," 
 and jumping in as lightly as a ballet dancer, he 
 struck out right and left. His left caught Donkin 
 in the face and the blood spurted as if the man had 
 been hit with a hammer, the second blow caught him 
 on the neck and hurled him down. 
 
 "Ho! Ho!" cried the madman again, dancing 
 about so as to face Crawford. 
 
 "Crawford want some, too." 
 
 Fortunately for Crawford, Donkin was a very 
 strong man, and scarcely had he been knocked down 
 when he picked himself up again. He was angry, 
 too, and his anger did him no good. With his 
 
 *35
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 head down like a bull he rushed at the skipper. 
 Winterstein side-stepped him to windward and as 
 he passed caught him a left-handed shot under the 
 ear with such force that Donkin seemed to touch 
 nothing till he crashed into the lee bulwarks and 
 lay there quiet enough. My chance had come: 
 Winterstein was within a yard of me. As he struck 
 Donkin I threw my arms about his waist from be- 
 hind, pinning his right arm to his side. At the same 
 time with the instinct of the wrestler I lifted him 
 from the deck so as to make him as helpless as 
 possible. For a moment he struggled wildly, roar- 
 ing like a bull; then in a second broke my grip and 
 got his right hand free. But I still held him and 
 as I was well behind him he could not get at me 
 easily. But he was too strong. The next moment 
 his right hand had caught my collar and shifted to 
 my neck and ear, and I felt myself being dragged 
 round. I knew that the struggle could only last 
 a second or two, and just as I was expecting his 
 blow I heard a thud; the writhing form in my arms 
 grew still and heavy and slid down on the deck. 
 Crawford had run across and struck Winterstein 
 on the temple with the iron belaying pin. Almost 
 at the same moment Dyer and Abraham Lincoln 
 ran up on deck. We hauled Donkin up out of the 
 136
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 lee scuppers and told Dyer to throw water over 
 him. We then wiped Winterstein's bleeding head 
 and carried him down below to his berth, where 
 we tied his hands and feet. Just after we had laid 
 him out, Daisy came out of her little stateroom. 
 She looked at us and in a phrase or two Crawford 
 flung the tragedy at her. She did not seem to notice 
 the man. She came straight to Winterstein. 
 
 "Leave him to me," she said, imperiously, kneel- 
 ing down beside him. 
 
 ****** 
 
 The second tragedy seemed to fall on numbed 
 senses. I scarcely remember any sequence of time 
 in what occurred afterward. I knew it soon came 
 on to blow, but whether it was that day or the next 
 or later, I could not tell. I remember that Win- 
 terstein appeared on deck again and sat in his old 
 place on the poop gazing out over the sea. His 
 madness seemed to have left him, but his brooding 
 silence now was often broken by periods during 
 which he moved about muttering to himself in- 
 cessantly. Crawford said he was talking of his 
 wife or to her. He was tragic, terrible — a figure 
 of despair. 
 
 ****** 
 
 We had altered our course again and were steer- 
 
 137
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 ing Nor'west. The Nor'east wind had grown to a 
 gale, while the current was running strong under 
 our feet. Between the tide and the wind the sea 
 grew into hillocks and hills and still it blew harder 
 and harder. . . . 
 
 Long ago we had taken all the sails off her, leav- 
 ing only a storm jib and a rag of tarpaulin in the 
 mainmast rigging aft, and under these two hand- 
 kerchiefs the schooner lay over so that her masts 
 were near the water. 
 
 Late in the afternoon Crawford asked me to 
 keep a sharp lookout. 
 
 " 'Frisco?" I asked, and he nodded. 
 
 I never was so glad of anything in my life, the 
 band round my chest seemed to loosen. 
 
 The sun was going down in a sort of yellow glare. 
 For over an hour or so Winterstein had been stand- 
 ing by the tarpaulin in the mainmast rigging staring 
 over the waste of water. I clawed my way aft to 
 him. The tarpaulin sheltered us from the fury of 
 the wind and made an oasis of quiet in the uproar. 
 
 "We'll soon be in 'Frisco!" I cried. 
 
 He looked at me with unseeing hopeless eyes : my 
 heart turned to water. Suddenly he caught me by 
 the shoulder. 
 
 "I can't stand it," he said, as if confiding to me; 
 
 138
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 but in a tone so low I could hardly hear him. "I 
 can't stand it." 
 
 "Time will soften the pain," I said. The words 
 rang false even to me. 
 
 "No, no," he shook his head. "It gets worse. 
 If it had been an accident, I might have stood it: if 
 some one else had done it, perhaps; but I did it, 
 I : that's the thorn that festers and stings and burns, 
 and gets worse not better, worse all the time. . . . 
 I was glad to go mad : I wish I could go mad again 
 and not think of it all the time." And he passed 
 his hand over his forehead in weary wretched-' 
 ness. . . . 
 
 "If I hadn't loved her so I might sleep now and 
 then and forget. I never cared for any other 
 woman: she was perfect to me from the beginning. 
 Hell," he broke off raging, "what sort of a fool was 
 I — eh? was there ever such a fool — a damned fool 
 — damned. . . . 
 
 "I don't know why I did it: it just took me at 
 the moment. Hell," and his eyes were wild. "I'm 
 not fit to live : this world's no place for fools," and 
 he laughed mirthlessly. . . . 
 
 "I can't stand it, I just can't stand it! Oh, my 
 sweet : fancy hurting you ! . . . 
 
 "Is there any other life, eh?" I could not an- 
 
 139
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 swer — my heart ached for him. "I never took 
 much stock in it; but I'll soon know. So long," 
 and he turned into the force of the wind and strode 
 aft. Even then I noticed that he could walk the 
 deck in the gale that seemed to blow my breath 
 down my throat and choke me. 
 
 I clawed my way forward again. Winterstein 
 was beyond my help. I was glad of the gale and 
 the wild seas and the danger. I didn't want to 
 think. I was filled with fear and pain. . . . 
 
 The wind came harder and harder. The tre- 
 mendous weight of it seemed to flatten the sea, and 
 you could only put your head above the bulwarks 
 if you held on with both hands. 
 
 All that night Crawford stuck to the helm and 
 it needed all his seamanship to bring us through 
 the storm. 
 
 At twelve o'clock we lifted the light and a little 
 later we got a little under the shelter of the land 
 and the sea was not so bad. But the bar gave us 
 an awful half hour. The little schooner came out 
 of the broken water with decks swept clean: the 
 boat had gone and all the bulwarks, and The Rose 
 was leaking in a dozen places: she would never go 
 to sea again. 
 
 When we came to anchor off Meiggs's wharf 
 140
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 about three o'clock we had all had enough of it. 
 In spite of the fear that the schooner might founder 
 under us and though I was frozen cold and wet, I 
 went below and slept without turning in. I had 
 not had a wink for two nights and had eaten nothing 
 but a biscuit for thirty-six hours. 
 
 Crawford woke me, bright sunshine fell down the 
 hatchway: as soon as I opened my eyes, I knew 
 something was wrong. 
 
 "What is it?" I cried. 
 
 "Winterstein went overboard in the night," he 
 said, "I don't know when, and the girl's been in 
 faint after faint. Donkin's going to take her up 
 to the house. I guess you had better get up, she 
 may want to see you. But don't say anything harsh 
 to her: she's had it bad enough. . . ." 
 
 I was on deck in five minutes in time to see Don- 
 kin bring Daisy out of the companion and take her 
 across to the ladder. He fairly lifted her into the 
 boat, and as he turned to row her ashore I caught 
 a glimpse of her face. It made me gasp: I never 
 saw such a change, never. Her face had gone quite 
 small like a little child's, and as white as if it had 
 been made out of snow. . . . 
 
 I could not stop on board the schooner; I guess 
 
 141
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 everybody left it as soon as he could. I came East 
 the same week and neve»- saw any of 'em again. 
 
 **; * * * + w * 
 
 A pretty bad story, ain't it? A brute of a story. 
 Just like life. No meaning in it: the punishment 
 out of all proportion to the sin. Sometimes it's 
 like that. Sometimes things a thousand times worse 
 go unpunished and then for a little mistake or slip, 
 tragedy piles itself on tragedy. There ain't no 
 meaning in it, no sense. I don't believe there's any 
 purpose either, anywhere- it's just chance. 
 
 The judge broke oft. 
 
 The dreadful story had held us; now some of 
 the men stretched themselves, lit -cigars, or took 
 drinks, but no one spoke for quite a while. 
 
 Suddenly Charlie Railton said: 
 
 "That Daisy was a wild piece, sure; but I thought 
 you were going to tell us something about Mrs. 
 Amory, Judge. I thought perhaps you knew her." 
 
 "I knew a good deal about her," replied Barnett 
 quietly, "though I never met her. I was mixed up 
 in her affairs after her husband died. I was agent 
 for the land she bought for almshouses. I let her 
 have it cheaper because of the object." 
 
 "I ought to have met her a dozen times, but I 
 never did, strange to say. Of course I knew all 
 142
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 about her for the last two or three years. I knew 
 she was a mighty good woman. Her lawyer, Hutch- 
 ins, whom I knew well, always said so, said she was 
 the best woman he ever saw, and one of the kindest. 
 Amory just worshiped her, I believe, and she 
 brought up his daughters by his first wife splendidly. 
 She had only one child of her own and it died. It 
 nearly killed her, Hutchins said. A mighty good 
 woman, and I ought to have met her a dozen times, 
 but it never happened so. . . . 
 
 "When she died Hutchins insisted that I should 
 go to the funeral. You know the house. I guess 
 it's one of the finest in the States. They laid her 
 out in the music-room. It looks like a church with 
 its high painted windows and old tapestries and 
 open timber roof: the paintings are all master- 
 pieces: three or four Rembrandts, I believe. 
 Well, they did the room up as a chapelle ardente — 
 and laid her out there in state, and all Philadelphia 
 went to visit her and a good many of her girls cried 
 over her. I went with Hutchins and nothing would 
 do but he would have me go right up to the coffin. 
 The moment I looked at her, the moment I saw her 
 face, the little face no bigger than your hand, all 
 frozen white; I knew her. That was the face I 
 had seen in the boat when Donkin rowed her ashore 
 
 143
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 thirty years before, "Jezebel's daughter," I used to 
 call her to myself. . . . 
 
 "I was just struck dumb, but I knew that was 
 why I had never met her. She had not wanted to 
 meet me. I was not a bit surprised when two 
 or three days later I had a letter from her. 
 Hutchins had to read the will and in it he found a 
 letter addressed to me. I have not got it by me, 
 but I can tell you some of what was in it; she had 
 no reason to be ashamed of it. I was wrong to 
 judge her as I did at the time. Young people are 
 mighty severe in their judgings. As you get older 
 you get more tolerant. . . . 
 
 "With the letter there was a little box, and in 
 the box a string of black pearls, the same I had 
 given her sister. Mrs. Amory began by telling me 
 that she had wanted to give them back to me, as 
 soon as Donkin had told her they were mine, but 
 all trace of me had been lost, and she had never 
 heard of me again till long after her husband's 
 death, when the end was near. She asked me to 
 give the black pearls to my eldest daughter Kate, 
 and she left me a string of white ones to give to 
 my youngest daughter. She seemed to know all 
 about us. . . . She told me I had always mis- 
 judged her and I guess I had. . . . 
 144
 
 A Daughter of Eve 
 
 "Winterstein, it appeared, knew her first; used 
 to meet her at the baths and swim with her and 
 make up to her. She thought he was in love with 
 her, and girl-like gave him her soul; made him her 
 god. Just before she went back to school she 
 brought him home and introduced him to her sister, 
 thinking that through her sister she would keep in 
 touch with him. She heard no more till her sister 
 told her they were married. She said it drove her 
 nearly crazy. . . . 
 
 "I guess Rose never knew that Daisy loved him, 
 but it was a bad tangle. Daisy did not say that 
 Rose knew, but she said Rose ought to have known 
 — anybody would have known. I think she was 
 wrong. She was judging Rose by herself; she was 
 mighty quick and observant while Rose just lived 
 like a flower. Besides Rose would never have 
 wanted her on board the schooner if she had even 
 suspected the truth. No; Rose acted in all in- 
 nocence. But Daisy couldn't see that; she was hurt 
 too badly to judge fairly. 
 
 "She did not excuse herself in the letter. She 
 confessed it was her wounded vanity led her to pro- 
 voke Winterstein. But she had no notion of any- 
 thing worse. 'I saw he admired me,' she said, 'and 
 that pleased me. I was hard and reckless; I felt 
 
 H5
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 hurt and cheated: he was mine and I could have 
 made a great man of him, I thought. Oh, I was 
 horribly to blame ; but he caught my head that night, 
 and kissed me against my will. I could not get 
 away. If I had been standing up, his lips should 
 never have touched me. You will believe me; won't 
 you? and forgive me; now that I am dead? . . .' 
 
 "I forgave her all right," the Judge said, "or 
 rather I understood her and there was nothing to 
 forgive. There's Angel and Devil in all of us, 
 Charlie, and the Heaven and Hell, too, is of our 
 own making, it seems to me. . . ." 
 
 146
 
 Isaac and Rebecca
 
 Isaac and Rebecca 
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 Rebecca Isaac. A brunette of seventeen, very 
 
 pretty: small with regular features and briU 
 
 liant coloring. David Isaac's daughter. 
 David Isaac. A Jew about sixty with high narrow 
 
 forehead and soft, indecisive chin, gray hair 
 
 and beard, a little bent. 
 Reuben Levison. A banker, very rich. A little 
 
 shorter than Isaac, inclined to be stout, bald. 
 
 David Isaac's cousin. 
 Mrs. Goldschmidt. An old woman attending 
 
 David Isaac. 
 
 Rebecca. So I can't get the dress. Oh, it's too 
 bad. I've been working for a fortnight and have 
 everything ready, and now I can't go to the dance. 
 It's too bad. [Stamps with rage.~\ 
 
 Isaac. But vy not, tear; you can vear something 
 else. 
 
 149
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 Rebecca. I've nothing to wear. My clothes a^e 
 too shocking. I never get a new frock — never. 
 
 Isaac. I'm sorry, tear; but I can't get six pounds 
 in a moment. 
 
 Rebecca. A moment — a week, you mean; you 
 said a week ago you'd try, try — h'm ! 
 
 Isaac. And I did try, my tear, I did indeed, but 
 I'm getting old and I can't sell de jewelry like I 
 used and dey won't trust me now mit fine pieces, 
 only cheap shtuff. 
 
 Rebecca. Oh, if I were a man, if only I were a 
 man! 
 
 Isaac. Don't say dat, dear I Vot would you 
 do? You are so pretty, like an ainchel, my little 
 girl. [He puts his hand caressingly on her shoul- 
 ders.] Everything vill come right mit a little pa- 
 tience. 
 
 Rebecca. Patience, that's what you always say, 
 patience — I hate the word. . . . Why don't you see 
 your cousin Reuben? 
 
 [Isaac shrugs his shoulders despairingly and closes 
 his eyes in token that nothing's to be hoped from 
 that quarter: the girl goes on.~\ 
 
 Why not take me to see him? 
 
 Isaac. Vot could you do? He's as old as me. 
 
 Rebecca. Oh, I don't know what I'd do: but I'd 
 150
 
 Isaac and Rebecca 
 
 do anything rather than rot away in this hole like 
 the others. I hate the Commercial Road and the 
 flashy foreigners, leering and sneering. I love 
 gentlemen like you see in the park on Sunday, quiet, 
 dignified. ... I hate common people and poverty. 
 It's a crime to be poor — a crime. 
 
 Isaac. Oh, my tear, don't say dat: I've alvays 
 worked hard, alvays. I thought honesty und vork 
 would make me rich, but they didn't. I've alvays 
 told my customers the truth, said what de tings 
 cost or nearly: but de world likes to be cheated, 
 likes to tink the false stones real 
 
 Rebecca. And the false stones are real. Oh, if 
 I were a man ! I'd tell the women the rings would 
 buy 'em sweethearts and money and happiness. I'd 
 fool them as they want to be fooled. Why not? If 
 you don't, some one else will and you'll get left, 
 that's all, stranded, old, poor, despised; poor — it's 
 the only crime ! 
 
 Isaac. I was alvays too scrupulous, alvays too 
 honorable, and now it's too late to begin all over 
 again. Besides, nobody trusts me now, dey all know 
 I'm poor. Dey used to tink I vos rich and a miser 
 and dey vould give me anyting, now dey know, dey 
 don't trust me no more, dey know I am honest and 
 dey don't trust me. 
 
 151
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 Rebecca. Why didn't you go to your cousin and 
 make him take you into his bank? Not now, I 
 mean, but when you first married. 
 
 Isaac. I vent to him, but he said I vos a fool to 
 marry a poor girl vidout a penny of dot, and Rachel 
 ven she heard it vos angry and vould not let me go 
 near him even ven you vos born. 
 
 Rebecca. He doesn't know anything about me, 
 does he? Nothing? You're sure? . . . Tell me 
 about him? Is he big and strong and hard? 
 
 Isaac. He's smaller nor me, a little shtout, bald 
 he vos too; but he has a vay vid 'im. 
 
 Rebecca. Is the bank large? 
 
 Isaac. Oh, a great place mid dozens of clerks 
 and brass railings, and you hear ze money singing 
 all day long — ah ! 
 
 Rebecca [clasping her hands J. Oh, tell me all 
 about it, all! I looked into a bank the other day; 
 it was bare and cold, but dignified. Has he a room 
 to himself? And a man outside the door to stop 
 people going in? 
 
 Isaac. Yes, on the first floor. He is not near 
 the clerks. All by himself upstairs in a great room, 
 vid thick carpets and beautiful chairs vid green 
 leather, real Chippendale chairs — beautiful. And 
 dere is a room in which you vait, mit all de papers, 
 
 152
 
 Isaac and Rebecca 
 
 papers in Cherman, French and English. And dere 
 is anodder room mit a long table and blotting pads 
 and seats all about. Oh, it is a great place ! 
 
 Rebecca. But tell me about him? Is he mar- 
 ried? What is his wife like? Has he any children? 
 Tell me all about him. 
 
 Isaac. I don't know anyting, my tear, I've never 
 asked. 
 
 Rebecca. Never asked! Oh! Has he a motor? 
 Is his chauffeur in livery? Have you seen a woman 
 in it? Oh, if I had only seen the outside of it, I'd 
 know if he was married or not. I'd know from the 
 chauffeur, I'd know from the look of the carriage. 
 Is it open or closed? Does it ever have flowers in 
 it? Where do you keep your eyes? 
 
 Isaac. I've only seen it outside de door. I've 
 never looked at it except to tink how fine it was and 
 how big. 
 
 Rebecca. Is it big? How many seats inside? 
 
 Isaac. I don't know. 
 
 Rebecca. Oh, my goodness! My goodness! 
 How shall I get away from all this? How shall I? 
 Can't you take me to see him? 
 
 Isaac. How can I, my tear, how can I? 
 
 Rebecca. When is his birthday? 
 
 153
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 Isaac. His birthday? Oh, soon, now, in July, 
 the fift. 
 
 Rebecca. That's only a fortnight to wait and 
 then you must take me. I should have a present 
 for him. I'll ask Julia to embroider some handker- 
 chiefs with his initials, and I'll say I did them. 
 
 Isaac [admiringly]. You clever girl! 
 
 Rebecca. Now you must go out every day, father, 
 and tell lies about the jewelry. What does it mat- 
 ter? Get the girls to put it on. Tell them the 
 rings make their hands look pretty, that a necklace 
 makes them look rich, like fine ladies. Say anything 
 to make me enough money for a new dress. I 
 must have a new dress. 
 
 Isaac. I vill do my best, but 
 
 Rebecca [pouting]. But, but, always but 
 
 [July: Isaac waiting. Rebecca dressed to go out.] 
 
 Isaac. Vy, you've got your hair down. Oh, it 
 is pretty. You do look pretty, but dat dress is 
 tight. No? Veil, you know best. But you've 
 powdered your face. Not? Veil, you know best. 
 I like you as you vos every day. You look younger 
 and older. I don't know vot. Veil, veil, you know 
 best. 
 
 154
 
 Isaac and Rebecca 
 
 Rebecca. My hair's down, of course, I'm fif- 
 teen, remember. 
 
 Isaac. He! he! Vot a girl it is! You are 
 seventeen, Rebecca. You vos born on the Fourth 
 of April, 1887. Dot's vy ve called you "Jubilee" 
 for your second name, dot's vy. 
 
 Rebecca. My second name's Judith, and I was 
 born in July, '90. I'm not fifteen yet. 
 
 Isaac. My tear, you are mistaken. You are 
 seventeen years past, I'm sure. 
 
 Rebecca [stamping]. You stupid, stupid. I won- 
 der mother could stand you. I'm fifteen, I tell you. 
 
 Isaac. Veil, veil, my dear. If you've made up 
 your mind I'm sure you're right. You know best, 
 just as your mother vos alvays right. Alvays a 
 master-woman, a 
 
 Rebecca. Oh, come along. You'd prose away 
 there all day. [After starting.'] What will you say 
 to Uncle Reuben? 
 
 Isaac. Vy, vot you told me. Dot I vant him to 
 know you, you are so pretty — vot? 
 
 Rebecca. What age is he exactly? What is he 
 like? 
 
 Isaac. He's my first cousin. He must be over 
 fifty. He's shtout and shtrong. He's only had to
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 take care of himself all his life. His father vos 
 rich. But vot vill you say to him? 
 
 Rebecca. I don't know till I see him. He's very 
 rich, you say, a real millionaire? An English mil- 
 lionaire? 
 
 Isaac. My tear, he's rich enough for anyting. 
 He has two or tree million. A house in Hampstead 
 like a palace, and servants everywhere. He is de 
 Reuben Levison — de great banker. 
 
 Rebecca. And you went to him when mother 
 was ill and he would not help you. What did he say 
 then? 
 
 Isaac. He said so I make my bed so I must lie 
 on it, and tings like dat. 
 
 Rebecca. How can men be such brutes? If he 
 had been poor with children of his own, I could 
 understand it. But rich and without any one, I 
 can't. He must be hard like stone and cruel. 
 
 Isaac. Oh, no, my tear. But the rich have to 
 refuse to give at de beginning and de habit becomes 
 second nature to dem. Besides, if dey didn't love 
 money more dan anyting, dey'd never get rich, 
 never. 
 
 Rebecca. Why didn't you get rich? Didn't 
 mother want you to get rich? Didn't she spur you 
 on? 
 
 156
 
 Isaac and Rebecca 
 
 Isaac. She loved me, und ve vos happy. I vos 
 too honest. I told de truth, not lies. But ven I 
 tink of you, I am sorry. I solt more this week from 
 lies, and it pleases everybody better. I told the 
 girls dey all looked so sweet and beautiful, as you 
 told me to. Dot's how I got you the dress, and it is 
 pretty. But it's short, do you like it so short? You 
 are very pretty in it. 
 
 Rebecca. I'm getting hot. I'll have to use my 
 puff. Why couldn't we drive? Everything is 
 against the poor — everything. . . . You must tell 
 him I'm the prettiest girl in the Road and not fif- 
 teen yet. 
 
 Isaac. But vy so young, my tear, fifteen, it's a 
 child. 
 
 Rebecca. Julia Hoppe said old men liked chil- 
 dren. That's why, if you must know. 
 
 Isaac. How clever you are, my tear. 
 
 Rebecca. If you hated poverty like I do you'd 
 
 be clever. 
 
 [Reuben Levison's office."] 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 [Reuben is seated at a table. He looks at Isaac 
 with the aversion of the rich man for the poor re- 
 lation.] 
 
 Reuben. What can I do for you, David, what 
 do you want? 
 
 157
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 Isaac. It's your birthday, Reuben, and I've 
 brought my girl to see you. 
 
 Mr. Levison. Your girl? What do you mean? 
 Your wife? 
 
 Isaac [hurriedly]. No, no, my wife's dead. I 
 mean my little child. She's the prettiest girl in the 
 Road — the prettiest in London, and so smart and 
 clever, and she wants to see you, Reuben — her rich 
 uncle ! 
 
 Mr. Levison. But I don't want to see her, I've 
 too much to do, and I can't waste time on children. 
 I'm busy, you must tell her that. 
 
 Isaac [twisting his hands about]. Oh, Reuben, 
 I can't, I can't, she'll be so disappointed at not see- 
 ing you. You can't refuse. She has worked your 
 initials on some handkerchiefs, oh, so beautifully. 
 She is the prettiest girl in all London, she is like a 
 flower. 
 
 Mr. Levison. What's her name? What age is 
 she? 
 
 Isaac [hurriedly"]- Her name's Rebecca, she's — 
 she's grown up. 
 
 Mr. Levison. All right, bring her in. I have no 
 time to spare. I can only give her a moment or 
 two. I thought perhaps you wanted to see me on 
 some business. 
 158
 
 Isaac and Rebecca 
 
 Isaac. Oh, I'll bring her, I'll bring her at vonce. 
 [He hurries out of the room.] 
 
 [A moment or two after; Rebecca comes in alone. 
 Reuben Levison looks at her, his sulky, annoyed air 
 vanishes. He gets up as the girl comes toward 
 him.] 
 
 Mr. Levison. Take a chair, Miss Isaac, take a 
 chair. [Putting one ready for her.] What can I 
 do for you? 
 
 Rebecca [smiling saucily]. Tell me first that the 
 uncle is not ashamed of his niece. 
 
 Mr. Levison [a little embarrassed, laughs]. 
 Ashamed, indeed, who could be ashamed of so 
 pretty a girl? 
 
 Rebecca [pouting]. Yet you've let all these years 
 pass without caring to know anything about the 
 pretty girl. 
 
 Mr. Levison. Now is that fair, Miss Rebecca? 
 How did I know that Miss Isaac was so pretty? 
 How could I guess? I thought you were a child. 
 
 Rebecca [smiling]. Well, I forgive you now. 
 [She produces the handkerchiefs.] I've brought 
 you something for your birthday. But perhaps 
 Mrs. Levison won't like you to use them. You see 
 
 159
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 I've worked your initials on them. [She lays them 
 on the desk.] 
 
 Mr. Levison [laughing]. They're very pretty, 
 and I'm very much obliged. Of course I'll use 
 them. There's no Mrs. Levison — you see I've had 
 no time to get married; now I'm too old, too ugly. 
 
 Rebecca. No, indeed you're not ugly. I won't 
 have you slander yourself. And you don't look a 
 bit old. I hate boys, they're no good. [She throws 
 him a long glance from under her eyelashes.] 
 
 Mr. Levison. [He gets up as if drawn by a mag- 
 net and stands over her.] I wish I was young and 
 handsome enough for you, Rebecca. May I call 
 you Rebecca? 
 
 Rebecca. Of course you may. [Seriously.] I 
 don't care for handsome men; they're always think- 
 ing of themselves. [Looking up at him.] You look 
 strong and I love strength. 
 
 Mr. Levison- Oh, I'm strong enough, but I'm 
 old, little girl. What age are you, Rebecca? You 
 look half child, half woman. 
 
 Rebecca [looking up at him]. I'm fifteen, nearly. 
 
 Mr. Levison [has laid his hands on her shoulder, 
 but now draws them away quickly]. Only fifteen, I 
 say, that's too young. My God! I'd have thought 
 you sixteen at least. 
 1 60
 
 Isaac and Rebecca 
 
 [He moves back from her, his face a little flushed.'] 
 
 Rebecca [looking at him with eyes that drink him 
 in]. I said "nearly fifteen," but I may be nearer 
 sixteen. [Archly.] Mayn't I? Don't you know 
 that all women make themselves younger than they 
 are. [She smiles.] Suppose I said I was sixteen 
 past? 
 
 Mr. Levison. [His face clears, and he steps 
 nearer her, smiling. She rises.] But are you? 
 That's the point? [He lifts her chin in his hand.] 
 
 Rebecca [burning her boats]. Yes, I'm over six- 
 teen. 
 
 Mr. Levison. Really? 
 
 Rebecca [nods her head]. I was born in '87, 
 I'm a Jubilee girl. I'm just seventeen, you see, quite 
 old already. 
 
 Mr. Levison. [Grown bold again, he slips his 
 arm round her shoulders.] I think you're a witch, 
 Rebecca, and know just what I am thinking of. 
 
 Rebecca [looking up at him]. What are you 
 thinking of? 
 
 Mr. Levison. [Their eyes meet.] Of you, of 
 course. I think you're one of the prettiest girls I've 
 ever seen in my life. 
 
 Rebecca [looking up at him again]. But do you 
 mean it? 
 
 161
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 Mr. Levison [drawing her to him~\. Of course I 
 mean it, and clever, too, if all your father says is 
 true. By the way [he draws back again] where is 
 he? 
 
 Rebecca [negligently']. In the waiting-room, I 
 suppose. 
 
 Mr. Levison. [His eyes narrow cunningly.] 
 Why didn't he come in with you? 
 
 Rebecca [her eyebrows lifted], I did not want 
 him to come. Do you want him? 
 
 Mr. Levison [suspiciously]. Why does he wait? 
 
 Rebecca. To take me home again, I suppose: 
 he brought me, you know. 
 
 Mr. Levison. Oh, I don't like that, you see I 
 have my business to think of. People may want to 
 see me at any time. I'm really very busy. I told 
 your father so. [Goes back to his desk.] 
 
 Rebecca [biting her lips]. I'm sorry. Do you 
 want me to go? I'm sorry. 
 
 Mr. Levison [recalled to full self-possession]. 
 You see I'm busy, my dear Miss Isaac. I'm very 
 busy and your father'll get tired waiting. 
 
 Rebecca. He's used to waiting for me. He's 
 reading some old German paper, and has forgotten 
 all about poor little Rebecca. 
 
 Mr. Levison [seating himself resolutely at his 
 162
 
 Isaac and Rebecca 
 
 desk again and beginning to gather up some papers']. 
 It was very kind of you to come, Miss Rebecca. A 
 very agreeable surprise, but I don't like to keep 
 Isaac waiting, and I'm really very busy this morn- 
 ing. 
 
 Rebecca. Well, good-bye, Uncle [going toward 
 him and holding out her hand, adding in a low, re~ 
 proachful voice] : You're not angry with me for 
 coming, are you? I was so eager to meet the great 
 Mr. Levison. But now I'm afraid you're angry 
 with me. 
 
 Mr. Levison [gets up and takes her hand]. Oh, 
 no, I'm not angry, Rebecca : you know I'm not angry. 
 But — but I am really very busy, some other day, 
 eh? You'll come again, eh? Another time — by 
 yourself, eh? 
 
 [Their eyes meet, and again he flushes while putting 
 his other hand on hers. She casts her eyes down, 
 turns and walks quietly to the door.] 
 
 Mr. Levison. [As she disappears he puffs out 
 his breath.] My God, she's pretty, a little devil, a 
 little witch. But I did right. That old father's 
 cunning. What did he want, waiting there? Down 
 at heel, as usual. How much would he want? . . . 
 Phew! I am hot. . . . Who would have thought 
 
 163.
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 such an old Cheap-Jack would have had such a 
 daughter. I very nearly kissed her. If I had, 
 would she have taken it? My God, I believe she 
 would. What a sweet girl ! But the father outside 
 the door. Pouf, it makes you careful. ... I won- 
 der is she sixteen past or did she only say it to give 
 me confidence. Oh, she must be sixteen or seven- 
 teen. She's perfectly formed, her legs and breasts, 
 yes, seventeen she must be, a perfect little witch. 
 . . . I wonder does she know what she's doing? 
 Sometimes she has such a child-air, her eyes are 
 liquid. Some girls are coquettes in the cradle. 
 Whew! ... I must have Rubie in. Shall I give 
 orders not to let them in again? No, I won't. 
 {Rings bell on desk, the door opens at once. A sort 
 of upper servant enters.'] Send Mr. Rubie to me, 
 and I'm "not in" to Mr. Isaac any more, you under- 
 stand? to Mr. Isaac; but if Miss Isaac calls, let her 
 in. 
 
 Servant. Yes, sir. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 Isaac. Vot did he say, tear, vot did he say? 
 Rebecca. Why did you wait? Let us go. 
 Isaac. Was he nice? Did he — was he kind? 
 Rebecca [in a hard voice]. Let us go. 
 [She goes out with her parasol ready to open, and 
 164
 
 Isaac and Rebecca 
 
 flashing bright smiles to every one she meets. Isaac 
 trots behind, but when they get into the street he 
 ranges up beside her.~\ 
 
 Isaac. Vot did he say, my tear? I am very 
 anxious. 
 
 Rebecca [looking at him with hard eyes']. What 
 was there to say? You were on the other side of 
 the door. Why didn't you go away? 
 
 Isaac. Oh, my tear. I did whatever you vanted. 
 I thought it best to be near you. If you had called 
 out I vould have come in at vonce. 
 
 [Rebecca looks at him contemptuously .~\ 
 
 Rebecca. Come in? What for? [Puts her nose 
 in the air."] 
 
 Isaac [with his irresponsible optimism tries again 
 and again to engage her in conversation]. Vot fine 
 offices and vot nice servants ! His man, dat man 
 in black came in and spoke to me. He remembered 
 me from years ago. Reuben's not married. I 
 thought you vould like to know. The man told me 
 he lived alone at Hampstead [Rebecca looks at him 
 pityingly] and he has two motors, one closed for the 
 City, and an open one. Oh, he has got on tremen- 
 dously. Lords come to him in his office und great 
 people. [Rebecca looks at him reflectively.] Oh, 
 I found out a lot. 
 
 165
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 Rebecca. You did. What did you tell the man? 
 
 Isaac. I say where we live, and he ask me who 
 you were ; I say my daughter. I am proud of you, 
 tear. I said I had brought you because you had 
 wanted to come, that you had worked some hand- 
 kerchiefs for your Uncle's birthday. 
 
 Rebecca [looks at him]. Why must you be a 
 fool! 
 
 Isaac. Fool? Vy, he want to know, and I am 
 proud of you, so proud, Rebecca. 
 
 Rebecca. Silly. I would ask everything and tell 
 nothing. You chatter, chatter, chatter, so that 
 everybody knows your business. That's why I say 
 you're foolish. I'd tell nothing. 
 
 Isaac. But, Rebecca ! why are you angry mit me? 
 I can only do my best. [Her face is resigned and a 
 little weary.'] I do all I can for you. I do my best. 
 
 Rebecca [looks at him and sums it all up dispas- 
 sionately]. Why don't you go away and leave me? 
 
 Isaac. I'm sorry I did not. I thought I vould 
 be a help to you. 
 
 Rebecca. Help! You can't help me; you can't 
 even help yourself. You are what they call unlucky. 
 [She shrugs her shoulders.] 
 
 Isaac [drops his head]. Dat's vot Rachel used 
 to say, I vos unlucky, and perhaps I vos. But it's 
 166
 
 Isaac and Rebecca 
 
 being too honest that has kept me down. To be 
 honest and truthful one should be rich — I'm too 
 good; the poor have no right to be honest. ... 
 
 A Month Later 
 
 [Rebecca comes into the room dressed for going 
 out. Isaac looks at her.] 
 
 Isaac. Vere did you get dat dress? How grown 
 up you look! Oh, I like you in dat long dress bestl 
 It makes you look taller, and you've done your hair 
 up, too. Vere are you going? Oh, you are pretty. 
 
 Rebecca [looks at him quietly]. I am going for 
 a walk. I shall perhaps be out to dinner. Julia 
 Hoppe may give me dinner. 
 
 Isaac. Oh, you're going mit Julia? Well, she 
 is nice, but a little fast, my tear, isn't she? You vill 
 be careful? 
 
 Rebecca. It's better to be a little fast than slow 
 these times. [Drawing on a long glove as she 
 speaks.] 
 
 Isaac. Vot splendid gloves ! You must have paid 
 six or seven shilling for dem gloves? Vere are you 
 going? 
 
 Rebecca [sharply]. Ask me no questions, I'll 
 
 167
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 tell you no lies. I'm going to Julia Hoppe's if you 
 must know. 
 
 Isaac. May I come? I don't like you valking 
 about de streets alone. 
 
 Rebecca. You may come if you want to. But 
 you had much better go out with the tray. It's 
 stopped raining now, and this dress is not paid for 
 yet. 
 
 Isaac. But vould you like me to come? 
 
 Rebecca. I don't care, I think you had better 
 make your round. I'm all right. Nothing'll hap- 
 pen to me. Nothing ever does happen in this dull 
 hole. Now don't worry: I'll be back soon. No- 
 body'll run away with me. [She goes out of the 
 door.~] Worse luck! 
 
 • • • • • o • 
 
 [Mr. Levison seated in his room, Rebecca enters 
 quickly. .] 
 
 Mr. Levison. How did you get in? Who let 
 you in? Where's Lewis? 
 
 Rebecca [with color in cheeks']. Three questions 
 in one breath : I walked in, simply. No, no ! [Com- 
 ing close to him.] I'll tell the truth. I waited till 
 Lewis went to the lift with the gentleman who just 
 came out, and then I slipped in. Are you glad to 
 see me? 
 
 168
 
 Isaac and Rebecca 
 
 Mr. Levison [rises]. I don't know. I'm glad, 
 yes. Who could help being glad? But I'm afraid 
 it's not wise. Where's your father? 
 
 Rebecca. I left him at home. [Taking a seat.~\ 
 Did you wish to see him? 
 
 Mr. Levison [dryly]. Not exactly. 
 
 Rebecca. You don't like him, but you're wrong. 
 He's a good sort — too good, that's the worst of him. 
 
 Mr. Levison [doubtfully]. Is he? I dare say. 
 But he's poor, and — and he always talks morality. 
 
 Rebecca. Talks morality? 
 
 Mr. Levison. Yes, he says he's poor because 
 he's honest and tells the truth, and all that. That 
 moral talk's frightening: in business it always means 
 an extravagantly high price. No one talks morality 
 who does not mean to get six times as much as the 
 thing's worth; at any rate that's my experience. 
 
 Rebecca [laughing heartily]. How funny you 
 are and how interesting! Every word that's said 
 then you think has something to do with the money 
 people want to get from you? 
 
 Mr. Levison. Of course. 
 
 Rebecca. Poor Daddy! You don't understand 
 him. There's no purpose in what he says. He's 
 really very good and kind. 
 
 Mr. Levison. He brought you here, didn't he? 
 
 169
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 Rebecca. No. [Hesitates, then boldly.] I 
 wanted to come. I came alone. 
 
 Mr. Levison. Really? And he's not waiting 
 outside for you? Not at the corner? 
 
 Rebecca. Of course he's not waiting, he doesn't 
 even know I've come. 
 
 Mr. Levison [rising, but still hesitating']. And 
 you really are nearly seventeen, not fifteen? 
 
 Rebecca [getting up gravely, and turning round 
 so that he can see her long dress]. Now do I look 
 fifteen? I was born in '87, I'm a Jubilee girl. [Sit- 
 ting down again.] You must believe me. Why my 
 second name's "Jubilee." 
 
 Mr. Levison. Is it? H'm ! Write it down there, 
 will you? H'm. Your father'll be expecting you 
 home soon — to dinner? 
 
 Rebecca. No, I told him I was going to dine 
 with a girl friend, Miss Hoppe. There now: 
 [laughing]. Does that please you? 
 
 Mr. Levison. That's right. Always tell me 
 everything and we'll get along like a house on fire. 
 [Goes over to her.] So you wanted to see me, eh? 
 little girl? [She looks up at him.] Would you 
 come out to lunch with me, Rebecca? 
 
 Rebecca [formally]. I should be very pleased. 
 
 Mr. Levison [flushing slightly]. You look much 
 170
 
 Isaac and Rebecca 
 
 better in that dress, taller: Won't you stand up and 
 let me see? 
 
 [Rebecca stands up.] 
 
 Mr. Levison [embarrassed]. You are pretty! 
 [Puts his hand on her shoulder and draws her to 
 him.] If you were not so young, I'd ask you for a 
 kiss. [Slides hrs arm down to her waist.] Would 
 you give me one, Rebecca? 
 
 [Rebecca slowly lifts her eyes to his. Mr. Levison 
 kisses her on the lips, he feels her yield herself.] 
 
 Mr. Levison [noisily, to get rid of the signifi- 
 cance of the act]. There, now we are friends, eh? 
 Oh, you are lovely, lovely. [Moves away a step.] 
 What lips you have! we'll be great friends, won't 
 we? [Rebecca nods and looks up in his face.] Will 
 you do something for me? 
 
 Rebecca [gravely, like a child]. Yes, I will. 
 
 Mr. Levison. I want you to go out first, or my 
 clerks'll talk and I don't want 'em to talk about you. 
 I like you too much for that. You go out and wait 
 for me at the next corner, the corner of the street 
 leading to the bank, you know the corner ? [Rebecca 
 nods quickly.] I'll come in five minutes or so, do 
 you mind waiting? [Rebecca shakes her head "no" 
 and smiles.] You don't mind. You're a brave girl. 
 
 171
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 [She turns to go. Levison puts his arms round her 
 from behind.] But first I want a long kiss, a real 
 kiss. [Rebecca turns her head round and their lips 
 meet. A long pause during which he kisses and 
 caresses her.~\ Now, run along, Rebecca, run along, 
 my dear, I'll not be five minutes. [She goes out, 
 while he stands rooted in the middle of the room.] 
 She is a miracle, that girl, a blooming miracle ! Sev- 
 enteen, and kiss like that. She's everything — clever, 
 bright, quiet — and beautiful. [As if defending him- 
 self he speaks aloud.] A lovely girl, any man might 
 be proud of her — lovely and clever. What lips, 
 what eyes! [Going to his desk.] If I'm the first 
 she'll not repent it. She really cares for me, I do 
 believe. How her lips trembled and clung! My 
 God, I'm hot. But does she care for me? Or is it 
 just my money? Well, what matter. Her kisses are 
 just as sweet — perhaps sweeter. . . . She's well 
 dressed, her father must make something. She'll 
 deal with him. She told the truth. I need not 
 trouble. It'll be all right. She cares for me a little 
 perhaps. I must hurry. If she waits there long 
 some fool of a clerk'll speak to her: D — n them! 
 [Pulls his desk to, and looks for his hat.] How 
 lovely she is, what lips, what a figure. [Stands be- 
 fore the door.] My heart's thumping, lips dry. I 
 172
 
 Isaac and Rebecca 
 
 didn't believe I could feel like this. I'm more ex- 
 cited than I ever was in the biggest deal. By God, 
 this is living. [Goes out hastily.'] 
 
 A Year Later 
 
 [Isaac is in bed. Mrs. Goldschmidt comes into the 
 room.] 
 
 Mrs. Goldschmidt. A gentleman to see you, Sir. 
 
 Isaac. To see me, a gentleman; I'm in bed. I'm 
 not veil. Vot gentleman, vot's his name? 
 
 Mr. Levison [entering the room]. It's only me, 
 Isaac. Thought I'd come and see you. Heard you 
 had a cold. Bad enough to keep you in bed, is it? 
 
 Isaac. Oh, Mr. Levison, this is kind. Yes, it's 
 pleurisy I've got. I vos out in the rain, and this 
 doctor shtuff, he no good. 
 
 Mr. Levison [looking round]. Have you no one 
 to wait on you but that old woman? Where's Re- 
 becca? 
 
 Isaac. She vent out and has not come back yet. 
 Young tings must go out. 
 
 Mr. Levison. But didn't she come back at three? 
 
 Isaac. She generally comes back about dree but 
 I don't know to-day, I vos sleeping. 
 
 Mr. Levison. When did you awake? 
 
 173
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 Isaac. About a quarter of an hour ago. Vot 
 time is it now? 
 
 Mr. Levison. After nine. But don't you know 
 where she is? You must know. A self-willed young 
 girl like that ought not to be out alone. You know 
 where she is, don't you? 
 
 Isaac. Perhaps I do. 
 
 Mr. Levison. Well, where? 
 
 Isaac. Vy should I tell you? 
 
 Mr. Levison [getting angry]. Because I want 
 to know, and I mean good to her and no one else 
 does. 
 
 Isaac. So you say. 
 
 Mr. Levison. But why don't you help me when 
 I say I mean good to her? 
 
 Isaac. Vy should I help you, Reuben Levison? 
 You took my girl from me, persuaded her to go out 
 vid you. You gave her dose sable furs, which she 
 says are cheap shtuff. But ven I vos young I deal 
 in furs at Lemburg, and I know. . . . 
 
 Mr. Levison. Well, what's that to you? You 
 brought her to see me, didn't you? I didn't ask you 
 to. You brought her for something? 
 
 Isaac. She vanted to go: she vos discontent: vot 
 could I do? You vos old and I thought you might 
 help her like a fader: she's so pretty. 
 174
 
 Isaac and Rebecca 
 
 Mr. Levison. Men don't feel like fathers to 
 pretty girls; at any rate, I don't. And now she's 
 got me. I care for her and want her. If she'll only 
 play fair with me, I'll be good to her. She's a fool 
 sometimes, too self-willed for anything. She's like 
 a man. She just does what she wants to do. Now 
 will you help me ? 
 
 Isaac [weakly]. Vot can I do? 
 
 Mr. Levison. Does she go out with any one else, 
 tell me? How did you guess the furs came from 
 me? You know a lot, I expect. 
 
 Isaac. Perhaps I do, perhaps I don't. 
 
 Mr. Levison. Surely you want to help your 
 daughter to get on, don't you? 
 
 Isaac. How do I know dot I am helping her? 
 She told me often and often not to interfere. 
 
 Mr. Levison. But you must interfere, man. You 
 must get her to be true to me. I'll give her more 
 than anybody else. 
 
 Isaac. So you say. 
 
 Mr. Levison. If you'll help me all you can, I'll 
 help you, give you an allowance, make it easy for 
 you. 
 
 Isaac. Vot can you do more dan de doctors, and 
 dey can't do noting. My head he ache and you can- 
 not take it away. I get weaker every day, you can't 
 
 175
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 make me stronger. I vish I could leave Rebecca 
 some money; but I can't. . . . 
 
 Mr. Levison [shrugs shoulders]. But, Isaac, tell 
 me. Rebecca was to have dined with me to-night. 
 She did not come. I waited nearly an hour, and 
 then I motored here. Where has she been in the 
 meantime? Did she come here to-day at three? 
 
 Isaac. [The old man tosses his head wearily as 
 if fatigued.'] I don't know: I vos sleeping. 
 
 Mr. Levison. May I go into her room and look? 
 It is in there? Isn't it? [Pointing to a door.] 
 
 Isaac [lifting himself in bed]. You must not, 
 you must not. She vould leave me altogether den. 
 
 Mr. Levison [looks at him angrily and shrugs his 
 shoulders]. Damnation! 
 
 Isaac [awakened again]. Vot did you give her 
 besides furs? 
 
 Mr. Levison. Oh, I don't know, dresses, what- 
 ever she wanted. 
 
 Isaac [nods his head]. Did you give her jewelry 
 — a golt bracelet? 
 
 Mr. Levison. No, has she one? 
 
 Isaac. Who gave her de bracelet? My little 
 
 girl ! 
 
 Mr. Levison. A bracelet 1 [He stands still.] 
 176
 
 Isaac and Rebecca 
 
 Come, Isaac, you know more than you say. Tell 
 me, who gave it her? 
 
 Isaac. I know nozing. I don't know if she have 
 bracelet. Rebecca's all right. Vy you bozzer me? 
 
 Mr. Levison. My God, my God! Taking a 
 sudden resolution, sits down by the bed.] Look 
 here, Isaac. I'll marry her; I will, by God! I can't 
 live without her. I'll marry her at once. Don't you 
 say anything about what you have said to me. But 
 when she comes home, forbid her to go out again in 
 the evening. Be firm. Say it is not kind to you. 
 She's got a great affection for you. Say it's wrong 
 to leave you alone, and I'll marry her, by God, I 
 will. I always intended to since I knew I was the 
 first, now my mind's made up. 
 
 Isaac. Rebecca's mind, perhaps he's not made up. 
 
 Mr. Levison. What do you mean, Isaac? You 
 don't think she'll leave me in the lurch, and marry 
 some one else, do you? You don't mean to say it's 
 gone as far as that? Oh, my God, my God! Who 
 is it? Tell me? Do! 
 
 Isaac. I know nozing. I've alvays told de trut. 
 
 Mr. Levison. All rot, that talk. You're damn 
 cunning. You know a great deal more than you say. 
 Why do you think she won't marry me? 
 
 Isaac. I know nozing. I tink if I vere a man 
 
 177
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 tree times her age, like you, I'd marry her quick. 
 All girls like marriage. You'll put it off and off. 
 She say nozing, but she's very proud. 
 
 Mr. Levison. My God, I believe you're right, 
 I've been a fool. She's everything I want, pretty, 
 clever, and knows more than anybody'd guess. Will 
 you fix it up, Isaac? Say you want her to marry me. 
 
 Isaac. No, you must do that. Why not vait for 
 her, and say it yourself, or come in de morning? 
 
 Mr, Levison. Which would be the better day? 
 One hardly knows what to do with her. She might 
 be angry if I waited, and yet I hate to go away. 
 What do you think, Isaac? Should I wait now, or 
 should I come in the morning? 
 
 Isaac. I tink to-morrow, to-morrow is anozer 
 day. 
 
 Mr. Levison. Well, I'll go now and come back 
 to-morrow, but put in a good word for me, Isaac, 
 you'll see I can be grateful — later! [Goes.} 
 
 [About midnight. Rebecca, in Russian Sables, comes 
 into her father's room. I. c.~\ 
 
 Rebecca. You awake, father? Mrs. Gold- 
 schmidt's asleep. I thought I'd come in and see how 
 you are. 
 
 178
 
 Isaac and Rebecca 
 
 Isaac. I'm awake, tear, I am awake, but vere 
 have you been? 
 
 Rebecca. I have been to the theater. 
 
 Isaac. Really? 
 
 Rebecca. Really. Why shouldn't I tell you the 
 truth? It's too much trouble to tell lies. 
 
 Isaac. Why didn't you go with Mr. Levison to 
 dinner? 
 
 Rebecca [quickly']. Has he been here? 
 
 Isaac. Yes, my tear. 
 
 Rebecca. Well, what did he say? 
 
 Isaac. Oh, he say a lot of tings. He vant to 
 know vere you vent. I told him I did not know. 
 He asked me vedder you vere mit anybody else? I 
 told him I not know. 
 
 Rebecca. That was right. I'll make Mr. Levi- 
 son pay for prying. 
 
 Isaac. Oh, I vould not, Rebecca, I vould not. 
 He's a rich man, and means good to you. He vants 
 to marry you. 
 
 Rebecca. To marry me! He didn't say so? 
 
 Isaac. He vill propose. Oh, he's mad after you, 
 mad. He vill propose, he say so. He vanted to 
 vait for you to-night 
 
 Rebecca [Iter eyes narrowing']. Because I did 
 not meet him once or twice. He always wants to 
 
 179
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 talk about himself and I want to go to the theaters 
 and the opera. Oh, the opera ! [And she claps her 
 hands.] What else did he say to you, father? Tell 
 me everything. 
 
 Isaac. Oh, he said he gave you the furs. 
 
 Rebecca. But how did he come to say he'd marry 
 me? What made him say that? He has never said 
 it to me. 
 
 Isaac [wearily]. I don't know. I asked him 
 did he give you ze golt bracelet. He say "no," and 
 ask me who give it you? I say I don't know. 
 
 Rebecca. The bracelet? But no one has given 
 me any bracelet. Why should any one give me a 
 bracelet? 
 
 Isaac, \_He shrinks.] Don't be angry mit me, 
 Rebecca, but I saw you mit a bracelet vonce and I 
 thought perhaps he had given you the bracelet. 
 
 Rebecca [laughing']. You amuse me. Don't you 
 recognize your own things, you silly Dadda? I got 
 a chain from your tray, from underneath, and 
 plaited it round four times into a bracelet. 
 
 Isaac [sitting up in bed, excited]. Dat's vot made 
 him mad : Dat's vy he vant to marry you : dat's vy. 
 
 Rebecca [nods head]. Oh, you clever, clever 
 Dad! You made him jealous. You clever Dad, 
 180
 
 Isaac and Rebecca 
 
 who would have thought you'd bring him up to the 
 scratch? 
 
 Isaac. I did it not on purpose. It vos jest 
 chance, or perhaps Gott, Rebecca, ze Gott of our 
 f aders ! 
 
 Rebecca. Anyway, it's a bit of all right. [Laughs 
 triumphantly.'] I've always heard that God helps 
 those who help themselves. 
 
 181
 
 A French Artist
 
 A French Artist 
 
 ONE night.after dining with Henri Dartier, the 
 critic and writer who has done so much to 
 make modern English literature comprehensible to 
 Frenchmen, we went into Pousset's brasserie, where 
 from time to time one can meet most of the leaders 
 of French thought. 
 
 Presently a pair came into the room who drew 
 all eyes. The man was like a high priest, with 
 black hair and long, silky black beard, regular fea- 
 tures and pallid skin. As he came nearer the im- 
 pression deepened; he was a very handsome man 
 of about thirty-five, the great, dark eyes were su- 
 perb and there was a pontifical majesty in the portly 
 dignified figure. He dressed the part, too; he wore 
 no collar, or rather the collar was a band of black 
 moire silk which seemed to form part of his waist- 
 coat — not a spot of color about him — a study in 
 black and white, for the black clothes set off the 
 pallor of his skin. Beside him a tiny girl's figure, 
 her head reaching hardly to his chin, her pale, gold 
 
 185
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 hair was banded round her ears, framing her face, 
 sharpening the thin oval of it, and accentuating the 
 rather peaked, prominent nose, the red mouth, and 
 small, bony chin. Her eyes held one — large, gray- 
 blue eyes, enigmatic — emptied of expression. She 
 might have stepped out of a canvas of Botticelli — 
 an immature virgin, full of character by some primi- 
 tive master. The contrast between the two was so 
 astounding — the individualities of both so marked 
 and so uncommon, that I turned eagerly to Dartier, 
 who knows every one, to learn about them. 
 
 "Yes, I know them," he replied to my question; 
 "he is from Provence, an artist, Piranello: the girl's 
 his wife." 
 
 "His wife," I cried, "she might be his daughter." 
 
 Dartier shrugged his shoulders. 
 'She is older than you think." 
 'I should like to know them," I remarked. 
 
 "Nothing easier," was his reply, and he got up 
 and called out, "Piranello, mon ami!" 
 
 A nearer acquaintance only sharpened my curi- 
 osity. Piranello was to me a new type; there was 
 something of the pontiff not only in his looks, but in 
 his nature; in his unaffected seriousness, in the slow 
 gestures of his long, white fingers; something hier- 
 atic in his dignity and repose, a consciousness of 
 186 
 
 «*<
 
 A French Artist 
 
 individual worth, that would have been pomposity in 
 any one less simple and sincere. 
 
 And his wife, Claire, was just as singular a per- 
 sonality. She talked very little; was very quiet; her 
 extraordinary self-repression was in itself a distinc- 
 tion, yet each of her words counted, and if a good 
 thing was said, or anything to excite her, any cry of 
 passion or of revolt, the thin nostrils would vibrate, 
 the eyes darken, and the whole face sharpen to in- 
 tensity. . . . 
 
 Piranello was very courteous. In answer to the 
 questions of Dartier, he said he had done no paint- 
 ing lately, but was interested in enamels and mosaics. 
 
 "The beginnings of half a dozen arts," he re- 
 marked, "or the culminating points, whichever you 
 like. I have been busy, too, with some new jewelry," 
 and his long, white fingers waved toward an orna- 
 ment on the blue of his wife's dress. It was an 
 imitation of an open oyster-shell, with a great pink 
 pearl in the cup and a tiny black one at the side. 
 Madame Piranello detached it from her dress with- 
 out a word, and handed it to me. I could not help 
 exclaiming with admiration; it was an astonishing 
 copy in some metal or other and curiously enam- 
 eled; the outside as rough as any oyster-shell, while 
 the inside had a milky radiance, shot through with 
 
 187
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 faint colors, like the most lovely mother-of-pearl, 
 a perfect setting for the great gem. It would have 
 been hard to find a more effective or extraordinary 
 piece of jewelry. 
 
 "Jewelry should be barbaric," Piranello said, "the 
 gem is the subject; the artist must set it to show off 
 its beauty, its strangeness, its individuality. It is 
 what an incident of real life is to the story-teller; 
 he should only use it if it suits him, if he can make 
 it significant — beautiful or terrible. Two or three 
 diamonds side by side in a ring; a whole row of 
 pearls cheek by jowl in a necklace, are merely sym- 
 bols of vanity and wealth — evidence of vulgar bad 
 taste. The pearls are selected because of their like- 
 ness one to another; whereas the charm of pearls, 
 as of everything else, is in their unlikeness to each 
 other. That is why I put my tiny black pearl there, 
 to set off the exquisite pink glow of the master- 
 gem . . ." 
 
 The man interested me, and the woman had a 
 certain attraction; I was glad when, in answer to a 
 request by Dartier, Piranello invited me to visit his 
 studio. 
 
 "I have got my forge," he said, "just off the Rue 
 Ramey, away up beyond the Butte de Montmartre, 
 where one is hidden from the hive, and Claire has 
 .188
 
 A French Artist 
 
 made an interesting room or two, which you may 
 care to see . . ." 
 
 When we parted for the night I asked Dartier 
 about him. 
 
 "You will see for yourself," he said. "Piranello 
 has a real talent. He made a name ten years ago 
 in Paris by painting girls like the Primitives, and 
 old men like Balzac. Perhaps because his pictures 
 affected us a good deal we used to call them the 
 wicked virgins and wise saints: we Parisians always 
 mock our emotions. You will see for yourself next 
 Wednesday." 
 
 On Wednesday I drove up to the Butte, and then 
 got down and walked nearly to the fortifications 
 along the slope of the hill turned away from Paris. 
 There in a waste place I found the artist's house 
 and studio. The house was the ordinary French 
 suburban box, and from the outside seemed abso- 
 lutely commonplace. But the door opened into 
 a great vaulted room, like the refectory of some old 
 convent. A staircase at the far end led to the upper 
 part of the house. Beyond it I was told was the 
 tiny kitchen. Between the arches of the vaulted 
 room were paintings of primitives done on panels, 
 and here and there primitive statues of saints in 
 stone and marble. The furniture was all early 
 
 189
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 renaissance; the whole room of the time of Henry II. 
 
 The little lady who came to meet me belonged 
 to the same period. Claire seemed a little angular, 
 a little stiff, just as the Gothic saints seemed a little 
 stiff, because of the pointed folds of their drapery. 
 
 Piranello, she said, was in his studio. Would we 
 care to look at the room first; we did care. It was 
 a feast to the eye. Not many things in it, but every- 
 thing chosen with unerring knowledge and taste. 
 Here was a St. Rocque, standing with compassionate 
 hands outspread over a lady who was ministering to 
 his wound — an atmosphere of human pity and suf- 
 fering about the group which gripped the heart. 
 On the other side of the white vault a St. Louis in 
 the same hard, gray stone with the cross on his 
 breast and the fleur-de-lis of France on his raiment, 
 the two fingers of the right hand uplifted in a gesture 
 of admonition. Next to him a triptych of some 
 early Florentine painter, noteworthy for the suave 
 beauty of the faces, and for a page whose right hand 
 was toying with a jeweled dagger while he waited on 
 the Virgin. 
 
 Over the door by which I had entered was a win- 
 dow of renaissance glass, which threw gules of crim- 
 son and primrose on the narrow oaken table. On 
 the table itself a vase of alabaster with one yellow 
 190
 
 A French Artist 
 
 rose in it. The simplicity and unity of effect made a 
 singular appeal. 
 
 The little lady led me out by a side door under 
 the stairs, and we found ourselves at once in the 
 studio, where Piranello was at work. The studio 
 was evidently built on for the sake of the light from 
 above, which could be shaded at will with heavy, 
 dark curtains. It was paved like the room we had 
 just left with great slabs of stone, and at one end 
 stood a huge forge, with immense bellows, which a 
 little boy was working. Piranello came to meet us 
 in an old blue blouse, all stained with blotches of 
 paint and ochred by many scorchings. He had been 
 working at a crucifix. The conception was ingenious. 
 An enormous cliff-like hill of some rough metal rep- 
 resented the calvary, with forests, lakes, and foot- 
 paths of a dozen colors, and toiling up the hill little 
 figures of men and women of every race and every 
 variety of costume. On the top the wooden cross 
 all empty, with gouts and clots of blood on the nails 
 and arms, and at the foot a woman prostrate — sor- 
 row in every line of the broken figure. 
 
 "I never care to attempt the figure of the 'Cruci- 
 fied One,' " said Piranello quietly, "it is the cross 
 itself which is of such significance — the instrument of 
 
 191
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 torture and death, turned into a symbol of faith and 
 
 hope." 
 
 ******* 
 
 It is curious when you come to know some one 
 who is a personage how astonished you are after- 
 ward by the amount of talk that goes on about him. 
 I had never heard of Piranello or his wife before, 
 but after visiting them I seemed to hear of them on 
 all sides. Some people declared that it was his 
 wife and her strange beauty which had given him all 
 his talent. But when you talked of the heads of his 
 old men, modeled with extraordinary realism and 
 understanding — heads weird and tortured and in- 
 spired — the critics shrugged their shoulders and 
 thrust forth their lips contemptuously. Their malev- 
 olence did not weaken the impression made upon me 
 by the artist and his wife. 
 
 In time I got to know Piranello rather well. The 
 question of his wife's importance to his art inter- 
 ested me excessively. One day he showed me a won- 
 derful picture done some years before of "Susanna 
 and the Elders," in which his wife's girlish beauty 
 was exposed with extraordinary realism and emo- 
 tion, while lust itself was incarnate in the vicious 
 masks of the peeping old men. 
 
 "You have been extraordinarily fortunate in your 
 192
 
 A French Artist 
 
 wife as a model," I exclaimed, "an ideal figure, is 
 she not?" for indeed the unveiled charm of her 
 adolescence redeemed the whole scene. 
 
 Unconscious of what was passing through my 
 mind, Piranello remarked casually: 
 
 "A good model: art begins in imitation, but it 
 must become interpretation before it's worth much." 
 
 "Her figure is not only lovely," I went on, "but 
 just what you wanted here to lift the portraits of 
 those ignoble old beasts to the plane of great art — 
 a wonderful model! How lucky you were to find 
 her." 
 
 I had roused him at last. 
 
 "Not lucky," he said; "luck had nothing to do 
 with it. We artists have always our models in our 
 heads. I'll explain if you like. Quite early I was 
 taken by the primitive masters; I suppose their sin- 
 cerity, naivete and frankness appealed to me — the 
 more complicated we are, the more simplicity moves 
 us. Then I went to northern Italy, and studied the 
 beginnings of painting, as I might have gone to 
 Flanders, or indeed to Russia. Do you know that 
 the Russian school of painting dates from the early 
 part of the fifteenth century? I could show you a 
 picture of a Russian primitive which you would mis- 
 take for an Italian. I went to Orvieto and Ravenna 
 
 193
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 and spent three weeks there: I learned a great deal 
 from Signorelli ; the astounding vigor, directness 
 and force in him and in other early masters affected 
 me with pleasure as poignant as pain. . . . 
 
 "Gradually I began to find myself. The passion 
 in me gave me an ideal of girlhood, and I began to 
 see what I wanted. . . . But I had no formula, you 
 understand, no symbol. I began doing girls' por- 
 traits ingenuously, catching a glimpse of innocence 
 here, and there — the dawning of a child's soul. Bit 
 by bit the surprising richness of life revealed itself 
 to me, and I began seeking, seeking, and as soon 
 as I began to seek with faith I began to find on this 
 hand and on that, models with the features and fig- 
 ures I wanted for this or that effect. Gradually 
 my own desires grew definite and distinct and then 
 I met my wife. . . . Was she sent to me, or did my 
 desire call her out of the crowd? She affected me 
 like a piece of music heard in some previous exist- 
 ence, my whole soul was poured out like water at 
 her feet. I was all one hunger and thirst for her, 
 and she cared for me as well. . . . Of course her 
 dress was all wrong, and her hair stupid — modern; 
 she had been trying to make her face pretty like 
 every one's face, like the face of a fashion plate. I 
 showed her what her face really was, the distinction 
 194
 
 A French Artist 
 
 of it, and what her figure was and the subtle, superla- 
 tive attraction of it. . . . She seized on the idea, 
 womanlike, and as soon as she dressed as I wished, 
 and saw the sensation she created when she went 
 abroad, she developed the idea with great talent. 
 She's very fine. . . ." 
 
 "That explains part of your work, but it does 
 not explain the other side of your talent — your 
 men's heads. . . ." 
 
 "The interest of a man's face," he said, "is all of 
 the intellect, spiritual, while the woman's is all of 
 the body; the ideal of the one is passion and suffer- 
 ing; the ideal of the other grace and innocence. I 
 love a man's head when it is worn hard by intense 
 feeling and furrowed by thought. I love the mask 
 of the foul bird of prey with the fat Jew nose, 
 greedy, coarse mouth, and obscene vulture neck. I 
 love the broad face of the lion, with the square jaw, 
 low forehead, heavy brows: courage, cruelty, hate, 
 stamped all over it: or the narrow mask of avarice 
 with its thin lips and pointed teeth : the smile of con- 
 scious power and the clawlike, grasping fingers. Oh, 
 I come across superb men's heads everywhere. But 
 strange to say, it is life which supplies me with all 
 my ideals of men: the models themselves suggest the 
 artistic treatment, indicate the heightening touches, 
 
 J 95
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 whereas with the girls' faces and figures the idea is 
 always within me, suggested by desire. ... I don't 
 know which is the more effective artistically: prob- 
 ably my girls are truer, deeper than my men. They 
 have less of life in them, and more of ideal beauty: 
 sometimes I think it is the ideal that endures, and 
 sometimes life and the sense of life, but I don't 
 know — no one knows. . . . 
 
 "I am still seeking, seeking, but I have got out on 
 a by-path, I'm afraid. My first impulse seems to 
 be exhausted. ... I don't mean that," he added 
 quickly. "I mean that it is accomplished in some 
 sort. I think of going to Belgium and Holland. I 
 want fecundating. All this cursed enamel work is 
 not my true work, but it has taught me new combina- 
 tions of colors — new iridescent effects. I am getting 
 ripe for a new start. . . ." 
 
 I could not help wondering whether the woman 
 had come to the same point. Madame Piranello 
 was more secretive, or was it modest reticence? 
 Still, now and then she let drop a word which was 
 significant. 
 
 On one occasion, I remember, I asked them to 
 
 lunch at a Paris restaurant. The fashion of the 
 
 moment had given women a sheath-like dress of 
 
 great simplicity. The fashion could easily be ap- 
 
 196
 
 A French Artist 
 
 proximated to the style of the Primitives, and Mad- 
 ame Piranello had brought about the combination 
 dexterously. Her figure could not help but be slight, 
 yet there was a suggestion of round litheness about 
 it which was very seductive. 
 
 "I am so sorry," she said, "that we are late, but 
 the Master did-.not like my dress : it does not fall in 
 pointed Gothic angles. Artists," she added, with 
 her eyes upon mine, "are slow to admit that their 
 ideals may develop and girls become women. . . ." 
 
 There had evidently been a dispute between them 
 on the subject, for Piranello took her up quickly. 
 
 "That's not the point," he exclaimed, "there's an 
 ideal in every one, and your ideal is not of the wom- 
 an-mother. You confuse all one's ideas of the fit- 
 ness of dress, and " 
 
 "And the result is perfection," I broke in hastily, 
 to clear the air: but though Madame Piranello had 
 remained silent she had not changed her opinion. 
 Her eyes had grown dark, like violets in water, and 
 the little nostrils beat quickly: yet she was wise 
 enough to meet rebuke with silence. 
 
 *K *|C 3jC 7fi *|> *f* ^^ 
 
 A year or so later I met them at Fontainebleau, 
 and found that the paths had diverged a great deal 
 further. While his wife prepared afternoon tea we 
 
 197
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 talked in the garden. He was now full of Memling, 
 and the Van Eycks and Matsys : 
 
 "You have no idea the great things I found," he 
 cried; "I shall go back to Flanders for a year. They 
 have given me a dozen ideas. I am working at a 
 gaudy, great picture now. Adam and Eve leaving 
 the garden — of bourse of their own free will," and 
 he laughed. "Eve is sorrowing at the loss of the 
 accustomed, and fearful; but Adam is delighted with 
 the sovereignty of the larger world — his eyes aglow 
 with the vision splendid." 
 
 "Madame Piranello standing for Eve?" I guessed. 
 
 "No, no," he replied, with a little temper, "women 
 seek admiration and not artistic effects. It's a great 
 pity. . . . You see, Claire's older than she was, and 
 now she wants to show her tiny waist and round 
 figure, and she's too short for the style, too short- 
 legged. It's a great pity. . . . Still, perhaps it's 
 for the best: another ideal has shaped itself in me. 
 She must be tall, and very slight. There must be 
 about her the adorable awkwardness of childhood: 
 the indecision of form of the young girl," and he 
 drew the outline of the figure wi£h his thumb in the 
 air. "Just a hint, perhaps, of curve in the hips, but 
 not the vase-like roundness of womanhood — I love 
 the subtle hesitation of line, every indication of 
 198
 
 A French Artist 
 
 youth, youth with curiosity in the eyes and eager- 
 ness — the possibility but not the suggestion of pas- 
 sion. 
 
 "Your new ideal will be difficult to find," I re- 
 marked. 
 
 "No, no!" he exclaimed, "one of these days I am 
 sure to come across it. Life's a treasure-house, a 
 miraculous treasure-house which holds everything, 
 a thousand, thousand ideals. Its richness is incon- 
 ceivable: while the idea is yet vague in the mind, 
 nature presents you with its realization. I'll meet 
 my ideal one of these days." 
 
 "And how about your old men?" I asked. 
 
 "That was all rather crude, don't you think?" he 
 replied carelessly. "A mere contrast with my girl 
 figures: a sort of rebound of passion. I no longer 
 feel that impulse. I don't want worn, tired heads 
 of old men, but the perfect figure of the mature 
 man, force in the yoke-like shoulders, energy in the 
 long, flat steel bands of the thigh-muscles, and the 
 face of conquering achievement. I have a perfect 
 model for my Adam," he added, "Adam who finds a 
 larger freedom in disobedience and a wider kingdom 
 in revolt: he must be as strong as Michel Angelo's 
 ideal, but not so tortured: more easeful, graceful, I 
 think, more like a figure of Donatello. . . ." 
 
 199
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 Next spring the Adam and Eve of Piranello made 
 a week's sensation in Paris, and shortly afterward 
 the gossips were all agog: he had left his wife with- 
 out rhyme or reason, they said, and was going 
 about with a foreigner, a Danish girl of extraordi- 
 nary appearance. 
 
 I was eager to see her and to know what would 
 be the result of the separation. Madame Piranello, 
 I was informed, was living very quietly in a little 
 house on the borders of the forest of Fontainebleau. 
 She seemed perfectly happy, Dartier told me. 
 
 "There's a great deal of worldly wisdom in that 
 little thing," he remarked; "she will fall on her feet. 
 
 The son of R , the Minister of Justice, is mad 
 
 about her. But she will not marry him. My wife 
 says she really cares for Piranello in spite of his 
 bad treatment of her, or perhaps because of it," the 
 genial cynic added with a smile. "But Piranello's 
 in a bad way," he went on, "his latest ideal is a cau- 
 tion: you must see her. . . ." 
 
 Sure enough, I did see her a week afterward at 
 a reception in the Latin Quarter, where artists and 
 editors came together and a few society people, just 
 to reconcile smartness with talent. 
 
 She came into the room a little before Piranello: 
 she was as tall as he was — with a crown of ashen- 
 200
 
 A French Artist 
 
 fair hair, parted at the side and brought into a big 
 sweep across the forehead like a boy's, and knotted 
 tightly at the nape : long, green eyes, with triangular 
 face and pointed chin. Her figure seemed to be all 
 angles: even Piranello could scarcely complain of 
 her roundness. She talked French with a harsh, 
 northern accent She was not sympathetic to me: 
 there was something catlike cruel in the hard, naked 
 eyes, something of the snake in that flat, pointed 
 face. 
 
 Piranello was as hieratic as ever: but not so self- 
 poised as he had been. He watched his Dane, too, 
 as he had never watched his wife. I wondered 
 vaguely what the upshot would be. He asked me 
 to come to a private view of some of his pictures in 
 the Rue de Seze. I went. The man's art was dis- 
 quieting. Here and there a new symbolism showed 
 itself and certain ghostly effects of peculiar intensity 
 and significance had come into his work: but the 
 color scheme was gloomy and brutal. The joy of 
 living had disappeared from his work — passion it 
 seemed had its Nemesis shadow. 
 
 Still his art was interesting. There was a head of 
 Jupiter thrown out over clouds as fine as anything, 
 and modern — for this God had sightless, blind eyes. 
 Near by was a girl-child's figure, very slight and 
 
 201
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 tall and thin — too thin, and yet with beauty in its 
 awkwardness: the face in some strange way sug- 
 gested a skull : it was entitled Une fille d'Eve and 
 had an immense success in Paris. There was some- 
 thing macabre about it, something preternaturally 
 sinister. 
 
 Piranello was no longer as frank as he used to 
 be: he would not talk about himself and his aims as 
 of old, perhaps he was not so sure of himself. I 
 felt the solution of the problem would be with 
 Madame Piranello. 
 
 Madame Dartier took me one day to see her at 
 Fontainebleau. There were a couple of men in the 
 room — one a lame man with a powerful head, and 
 a look on his face of suffering. He had had a bad 
 fall, I learned, from horseback — and had injured 
 his spine: his fife was measured to him in months 
 by the doctors. He had been an admirer of Mad- 
 ame Piranello for years and was comparatively con- 
 tent now, because he could see her without con- 
 straint and had induced her to use his motor car. 
 The other visitor was a young man of a very dif- 
 ferent type. He was the R of whom Dartier 
 
 had spoken: with his brown hair, gray eyes and 
 short, sturdy figure he looked like a Norman. His 
 family was very rich, Madame Dartier told me. He 
 202
 
 A French Artist 
 
 had studied law in Paris, and had published a vol- 
 ume of poems. He was a good deal younger than 
 Madame Piranello, and evidently very much in love 
 with her. Madame Dartier was certain that Claire 
 would end by marrying him. 
 
 "It would be the best thing in the world for her," 
 she said; "she really deserves some happiness after 
 that wild life with Piranello." 
 
 "Does she care for him?" I asked. 
 
 "Of course," replied Madame Dartier, "she is 
 five or six years older than he is, and his devotion 
 would win any woman in time — especially one who 
 knows life as well as Claire knows it. Piranello 
 made her see all the colors of it, I can tell you." 
 
 "Why don't they marry?" I asked. "Surely 
 Piranello will give her a divorce." 
 
 "Oh, that's all arranged," said Madame Dartier. 
 "One good thing about you men is that you seldom 
 play dog-in-the-manger as women love to do. Claire 
 will be free in a month or two. But I'm afraid 
 she's hesitating: you see she had a real passion for 
 Piranello, and after the fire's burnt out, we women 
 cover up the ashes and keep them warm for a long 
 time. . . ." 
 
 As the afternoon wore away we all went for a 
 walk in the great forest, the finest in the world, I 
 
 203
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 sometimes think, and I had an opportunity to talk 
 quietly to Madame Piranello. 
 
 I told her quite frankly that I had seen Piranello 
 lately, and was interested in his work. 
 
 "You were a real friend of his, I know," she re- 
 marked; warmly, I thought. 
 
 "I was, indeed," I said, "and am still, and there- 
 fore very sorry that there is this cloud between you : 
 in you he has lost his best friend." 
 
 She looked at me frankly and her eyes were pa- 
 thetic : 
 
 "He does not think so," she began: "but perhaps 
 you are right. At any rate, I'm frightened when I 
 think of him, frightened and anxious. . . . 
 
 "He has a lot of good in him" — like all women, 
 she would try to justify her feelings by reason — 
 "a lot of good, and he will come to grief, I'm afraid. 
 Artists all strain after peculiarities and the quest is 
 dangerous : the preterhuman is not always the super- 
 human, oftener indeed it is the inhuman," she added. 
 . . . "That woman he has got now is a maniac, a 
 detraquee: one has only got to look at her to see it, 
 a morphino-maniac or worse." 
 
 "His pictures are wonderful," I said. 
 
 "Oh, yes," she answered, "yes, but not healthy 
 any more." 
 204
 
 A French Artist 
 
 Her insight astounded me. 
 
 "You see, he no longer has you for his model," 
 I said; "you were his ideal." 
 
 I had touched the right note at last. 
 
 "Do you know," she said gravely, "I think women 
 know more about life than men. He and I were 
 made for each other really, only he does not see it. 
 It is a pity — you complicated ones always miss the 
 obvious. He wanted a change, at least his body did, 
 and mon Dieu he's got it. She has a temper like a 
 fiend, you know, and she'll wear him to a rag, be- 
 cause he's a real artist, is Nello: his art is his life, 
 and as soon as his art deteriorates he'll go to the 
 bad." 
 
 "Why don't you see him, and tell him all that?" 
 I asked. "You have clearer eyes than he has, and 
 who knows, you might save him still." I was draw- 
 ing the bow at a venture. 
 
 She looked at me questioningly : a half smile stole 
 across her face: yet her eyes were kind: I thought 
 I understood. . . . 
 
 Three months later Madame Dartier said to me: 
 
 "Do you know that Monsieur and Madame Pira- 
 nello are together again? He nearly killed his Dane 
 one night: he found her morphia drunk with the 
 coachman: and he turned them out into the night: 
 
 205
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 she has disappeared, and a good thing, too. . . . 
 Claire went back to him at once. She's good, if you 
 like, but foolish — blind, I mean, to her own interest 
 as all good women are. R would have mar- 
 ried her at any moment, and given her every- 
 thing. . . ." 
 
 "Everything, except the" one thing she wanted/' I 
 added. Madame Dartier smiled and nodded with 
 perfect comprehension. 
 
 When I spoke to Dartier, I found him less hope- 
 ful : 
 
 "I believe Piranello still sees his Dane: she's like 
 a taste for absinthe, that woman : if you once get it 
 you'll die with it or of it," and he laughed. "If 
 Claire ever finds him out there will be a final rup- 
 ture. She's very proud and won't stand it. What 
 he can see in that bag of bones I can't imagine, yet 
 she holds him like a glue-pot." 
 
 The following summer Dartier's prediction came 
 true. 
 
 Madame Piranello, he told me, had left her hus- 
 band finally: she had caught him with the Dane, 
 whom he would not promise to give up. 
 
 "A miserable business altogether," said Dartier. 
 "Piranello is going to the devil, though I hear he 
 is working on a big picture — the Faust story. He 
 206
 
 A French Artist 
 
 has altered terribly. He takes morphia, too, now; 
 like grows to like." 
 
 "And Madame Piranello?" I questioned. 
 
 "Oh, she's all right," he replied. "A charming 
 little woman. My wife had her here for two or 
 three weeks: she is now living again at the little 
 house near Fontainebleau: my wife says she will 
 not be unmarried long. There are half a dozen men 
 after her. She is charming, you know, and decora- 
 tive and wise to boot." •, 
 
 I acquiesced, but I was a little hurt by his care- 
 less talk. I determined to call on Madame Pira- 
 nello and see for myself how the wind was blowing. 
 
 I found just a touch of bitterness in her which 
 I regretted: it came out when we talked of Pira- 
 nello. 
 
 "So you tried the great experiment," I began. "It 
 was very brave of you — very brave and kind." 
 
 "A poor farce," she said. "We women cannot 
 give sight to the blind : God alone can do that." 
 
 "It was a mistake, then?" I asked. 
 
 Her eyebrows went up. 
 
 "That Danish fiend has got him," she said; "now 
 we shall see what she makes of him. If she helps 
 him to great things, she's justified: but she won't. 
 I know him so well. He's a big child, and needs to 
 
 207
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 be taken care of. Really I always took great care 
 of him, though he did not know it, and now . . . 
 she only wants a companion on the road to hell." 
 
 She broke off. 
 
 "She informed me one day that he had made me, 
 that I owed whatever talent I had to him — la bonne 
 blague — it's very little one can owe anybody. . . ." 
 
 I was struck by her wisdom. 
 
 "I wish you would tell me," I said, "about your 
 early life!" 
 
 "Oh," she said, "there's nothing to tell. I was 
 brought up in the usual way. Perhaps a little more 
 strictly than usual — a Convent school and a bour- 
 geois home — all stupid and proper, you know. Of 
 course w,e girls talked, and what one did not know, 
 the other did, and if we were kept on the chain, so 
 to speak, our thoughts and imaginations were free 
 and they roamed about in vagabond fancies. What 
 a gorgeous life that is of a girl's day-dreams, and 
 nightly imaginings. The day dreams — all poems of 
 fairy princes and leaders of men and heroes. And 
 the night fancies when one can pull the clothes over 
 one's head and imagine what one likes, trying to 
 relieve our desires in dreams — the fear of the pur- 
 suer, and the hope that we shall be overtaken and 
 208
 
 A French Artist 
 
 feel the strong arms about us, and the man's lips on 
 ours. . . . 
 
 "Then one afternoon Piranello came and took 
 away my breath. Oh, I admit it — he's so handsome 
 and dark and strong, so different from anything I 
 had imagined — so priestlike, interesting. I was all 
 in a flutter. He took me to his studio with my 
 mother, and I saw his paintings — and that aston- 
 ishing Madonna he did with the curious half-smile 
 of content more enigmatical than Leonardo's. Of 
 course, I loved him. Love taught me both what he 
 wanted and what I wanted. . . . 
 
 "Curious, isn't it? One does not see one's own 
 type at first. As a girl one's a fool. I would have 
 given anything for a little Grecian nose — one seeks 
 to hide one's peculiarities, instead of accentuating 
 them. How blind one is, and then suddenly one 
 learns from a man or a painting, or gradually by 
 experience, that it is better to be oneself, and by 
 being oneself one suddenly becomes a personage — 
 originality is individuality, personality — anything 
 you like — even genius. . . ." 
 
 "You are very wise," I said. "It is quite true: 
 all you say is quite true; but how did the difficulty 
 arise?" 
 
 She sighed a little. 
 
 209
 
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 "I hardly know. Piranello wanted to keep me as 
 I was. But I learned the lesson: I was changing — 
 love had taught me many things, passion, too, had 
 taught me. He wished me to be stationary, inno- 
 cent and angular of body, with unseeing eyes. But 
 I could not remain a girl, and he would not realize 
 that it is the hint of understanding which makes 
 innocence mysterious and the suggestion of curve 
 which makes the line seductive. My development 
 was normal: it followed the ordinary course, while 
 he is a sort of morbid development." 
 
 "Will you never go back to him again?" I asked. 
 
 "Oh, never," she replied. "It's final. I did all I 
 could, more than I ought to have done. It was all 
 useless, and worse than useless. He has gone under 
 and wants to go lower. ... A woman must not let 
 pity master her: it is as dangerous for her as it is 
 for the man to let passion master him — passion and 
 compassion are our mortal enemies." 
 
 It was two or three years before I saw or heard 
 of them again, and then I got a message through 
 Dartier from Piranello, asking me to come and see 
 his pictures. I went and was shocked by his appear- 
 ance. He had shrunk to one half his former size 
 and aged beyond recognition. The face that had 
 
 210
 
 A French Artist 
 
 been rather plump was all seamed and lined and 
 wrinkled. The skin had fallen into pouches, the 
 large eyes had grown small : the black hair all gray, 
 scant on the temples, wispy, thin: 
 
 "Ah, I have changed," he said: the very voice 
 had dwined away. 
 
 After talking.of this and that he soon got on his 
 art. 
 
 "I want to show you my pictures," he cried, "my 
 great picture. It is symbolic. You know I used to 
 talk of life as a treasure-house in which you found 
 everything. It's not a treasure-house," he said, 
 coming close to me and speaking in a whisper. 
 "It's hell," and his yellow, tired eyes bored into 
 mine. . . . 
 
 "You know the old legend of Faust?" he went on. 
 "He asks the devil for this and for that and the 
 devil gives him all he asks, and as he gives, the devil 
 takes pieces of his soul in exchange, till he has got 
 it all. . . . Life gives us this and that of our heart's 
 desire, and takes our soul in exchange piecemeal, 
 and our friends come to us and beg us not to give 
 the last bit when we have already given it," and he 
 grinned savagely, "and then we die because without 
 a soul the body rots, doesn't it? the soul's the salt. 
 . . . I've imagined the world-devil like a king. He 
 
 211
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 gives Faust riches and honor and beauty — girl after 
 girl, fashioned to his desire, and when Faust asked 
 for more he said, 'You have nothing more to give 
 me in exchange. You are all mine. You have been 
 mine for a long time : don't bother me — you silly 
 fool'!" 
 
 His voice had grown shrill. I stared at him: 
 there was insanity in his working face and in the 
 wild sadness of his bloodshot eyes. 
 
 "And your Dane?" I asked, to shake off the effect 
 of his bitterness. 
 
 "She's dead," he threw out indifferently, "she 
 took an overdose one night. . . ." 
 
 ******* 
 
 I never saw him again, but I heard of him only 
 last year. It came about in this way: I was in- 
 vited to M. Souchard's, you know the man who 
 made a great fortune in Paris by the lines of steam- 
 ers. There I met Claire. She had married R 
 
 shortly after our last talk, and had now two chil- 
 dren. It. was at her home that I heard of Piranello 
 again from Dartier. 
 
 "A funny history," he said. "I always knew that 
 she would succeed and that Piranello would come to 
 grief. We are all wise after the event: the unex- 
 pected soon becomes the inevitable." 
 
 212
 
 A French Artist 
 
 "What happened?" I asked. 
 
 "She must not guess we are talking about it," he 
 said, drawing me aside. "I can tell you all there is 
 to be told in five minutes. Piranello had a little 
 Italian model, with whom he was in love, and she 
 had a friend as usual, her amant de coeur. One 
 night Piranello found them in the studio together: 
 he had a mania for discoveries, you may remember. 
 I suppose he thought himself as strong as ever, for 
 he attacked the young Italian, who threw him, and 
 he struck against the great crucifix, you remember 
 his enameled crucifix. The cross, it appears, tipped 
 over and crushed him — -the cross of his own mak- 
 ing. . . ." 
 
 Nice, May, 1910. 
 
 213
 
 A Fool's Paradise
 
 A Fool's Paradise 
 
 WESTBURY and Clayton had been friends 
 since their student days. Westbury was a 
 general practitioner, who in twenty years had 
 brought it to Harley Street and comparative riches. 
 Clayton, on the other hand, had been well off even 
 as a student, and had specialized as soon as he could. 
 After getting his degree in London he had spent 
 five years in German Augen-Kliniken, and was now 
 one of the first oculists in London, and esteemed 
 even in Berlin and Vienna. He cared little for 
 money and much for his craft, and as he grew older 
 the scientific side of his work became an art to him 
 of engrossing interest. The two men were dissimi- 
 lar in looks, as in purpose and mind. John West- 
 bury was an ordinary short, stout Englishman, with 
 an irregular, strong face and kindly brown eyes; he 
 liked his profession, except the getting up at night, 
 and he worked hard because he wanted to leave his 
 wife and children well provided for, and was ener- 
 getic by nature. His chief pleasure was a night at 
 
 217
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 a music-hall or a game of golf. Clayton, on the 
 other hand, was unmarried, slight and tall, with 
 hatchet face, thin features, and visionary gray eyes 
 which had a sort of mesmeric attraction for some 
 women and children. He found it impossible to 
 make new friends, a sort of shyness having grown 
 upon him through his absorption in his art; but he 
 loved to motor about the country at random; and 
 when he could get Westbury to accompany him he 
 was delighted, for Westbury not only recalled his 
 past youth to him, but made the present vivid with 
 stories and scraps of practical experience. 
 
 In the August of 1908 the two friends were on a 
 motor drive through the South of England. They 
 took it very leisurely, going hither and thither as 
 fancy or whim directed. A week of such vagrancy 
 had rather bored Westbury, who always wanted 
 some purpose even in pleasure. He could not help 
 preferring the known comforts of life to the untried 
 distractions; he suddenly proposed that they should 
 go to Winchester and visit the cathedral and school. 
 He thought it would be a good opportunity to decide 
 whether the school would suit his eldest son, of 
 whom he was inordinately proud. Clayton assented, 
 though a definite intention when he was pleasuring 
 annoyed him like a straight road. They spent the 
 218
 
 A Fool's Paradise 
 
 night in a very prim hotel in Winchester, and in the 
 morning went over the school and saw the wooden 
 platters the boys ate from, and were amused to hear 
 how the scholars arranged the mashed potatoes 
 round their quaint plates so as to keep the gravy 
 within bounds. After an hour or so in the old- 
 world surroundings they got into the car again, and 
 went out to Holy Cross and tasted the thin beer and 
 bread given in alms to every wayfarer for some five 
 hundred years now. Westbury wished to visit the 
 cathedral, but Clayton proposed to drive somewhere 
 into the country and take pot-luck for lunch. West- 
 bury hated pot-luck; but as Clayton had yielded to 
 him in almost everything day after day, he felt he 
 must risk it, especially as the chauffeur assured him 
 that he knew a place near Petersfield where one could 
 get a very good lunch indeed. The chauffeur's prom- 
 ise was more than fulfilled, and after an excellent 
 plain meal the two men mooned down the village 
 high street that straggled about as if it, too, were 
 without purpose in the world. 
 
 Of a sudden, just where the street broke into the 
 open country, they came upon a knot of boys making 
 fun of a youth who stood with his back to a gate 
 laughing. Westbury's attention was immediately 
 
 219
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 caught by the unusual spectacle. He questioned one 
 of the urchins. 
 
 "It's only Clarence Jones," said the boy. "He's 
 not right, sir; he's funny, and he do say funny 
 things; he talks and laughs to himself, and that 
 makes we laugh." 
 
 "You oughtn't to tease him," said Westbury. 
 "Where does he live?" 
 
 "With his mother, there," replied the boy, point- 
 ing to a homely little cottage a hundred yards from 
 the road, with a few trees about it. 
 
 "He doesn't look like an idiot," said Westbury 
 to Clayton, who seemed to take no interest in the 
 boy's explanation. 
 
 "No," Clayton admitted, waking up; "a well- 
 formed head. Is he an idiot?" 
 
 "They say so," replied Westbury carelessly. "A 
 merciful providence, isn't it, that so many idiots 
 seem to be happy? This fellow appears to be highly 
 amused." 
 
 "Rather unusual, isn't it?" asked Clayton, look- 
 ing at the idiot more intently. "There seems to be 
 a sort of meaning in his laughter. I wonder whether 
 he is an idiot?" 
 
 "Of course he is," Westbury decided. "No sane 
 220
 
 A Fool's Paradise 
 
 person would stand there to be mocked at and laugh 
 with delight" 
 
 Clayton did not appear to be convinced, for he 
 went over to the youth and began to talk to him, 
 examining him the while covertly. Westbury, on 
 the other hand, -followed his bent by trying to find 
 out from the gang of boys all about Jones. 
 
 It appeared that his mother was the widow of a 
 gamekeeper, who had been beaten to death one 
 night by poachers. Westbury scented a tragedy, 
 and was eager to learn all about the case; but the 
 urchins had not much to tell him. 
 
 Strange to say, Clayton appeared to be peculiarly 
 interested in the idiot. 
 
 "A most extraordinary case," he said, returning 
 to Westbury. "I want to examine him properly. I 
 should like to talk with his father." 
 
 "He's only got a mother," replied Westbury, 
 "but we could go and see her. I expect she'll be 
 delighted to see you if you think you can do any- 
 thing for him. What do you make of him?" 
 
 "I want to examine him," repeated Clayton. 
 
 "There is not much to be done with him," re- 
 marked Westbury. "He's been an idiot from birth, 
 I hear." 
 
 Just then the idiot appeared to notice Westbury 
 
 221
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 for the first time, for he broke into peals of wild, 
 hysterical laughter, bending down and rubbing his 
 legs with his hands in uncouth gestures of delight. 
 
 "He's as mad as a March hare," exclaimed West- 
 bury, with a certain natural irritation. 
 
 "He may be," Clayton admitted, "but let's go and 
 see the mother." 
 
 Mrs. Jones was a thin, neatly dressed woman, 
 whose speech was much above her position in life. 
 She had good eyes and forehead, and the small, 
 regular features showed traces of prettiness, but her 
 expression was subdued and anxious. When told 
 by Westbury that they were two doctors, and that 
 they took an interest in her boy, "At least, my friend 
 here, the great oculist, does," she invited them into 
 her cottage, and at Clayton's request showed him 
 into the little parlor in order that he might examine 
 her son at his ease. Westbury preferred to stay 
 with the mother in the little porch and finish his 
 cigar. 
 
 He soon heard her whole story. Her husband, a 
 great, strong man, head gamekeeper to the lord of 
 the manor, had been brought home eighteen years 
 before with his head battered in. 
 
 "There must have been three or four at him," she 
 declared proudly. "He died in that room in the 
 
 222
 
 A Fool's Paradise 
 
 morning just as the nurse came; I was only half 
 conscious — silly-like. When I saw them carry him 
 in with his poor head all blood I seemed to turn 
 cold inside. I went all dazed. I was expecting my 
 baby, sir, and was not very strong. ... I suppose 
 I was out of my head, for when I got to notice 
 things he had been buried two days" — she wiped 
 her eyes and sniffed — "and I was all alone with my 
 daughter and the baby. . . . 
 
 "The old squire has been very good to me. He 
 has allowed me ten shillin' a week ever since, and 
 this house rent-free. Oh! he's been very kind al- 
 ways; and my daughter married a draper at Alton, 
 and is very well off. She and her husband Mr. 
 'Arding, a very superior man, a gentleman, as you 
 might say, often drive across of a Sunday to see me. 
 It's his own trap, kept private. . . . I'm quite com- 
 fortable, though it's lonesome here. You see, I 
 was lady's-maid in London before my marriage, and 
 this cottage seems very lonely-like. . . . I'm always 
 grieving about Clarence; he was such a dear big 
 baby. He never cried in his life; but just when he 
 ought to have begun learning his letters and notic- 
 ing things, he took to this laughin'. ... If your 
 friend could cure him we'd all be thankful, I'm sure, 
 though Clarence is not so silly as you'd think . . . 
 
 223
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 he is wonderful sensible sometimes . . . and he al- 
 ways does what I tell him. . . ." 
 
 Westbury comforted her as best he could, and 
 talked of other things, wondering in himself the 
 while what on earth Clayton could find in the idiot 
 to keep him so long. 
 
 Suddenly the door of the parlor opened, and Clay- 
 ton beckoned to them. Westbury preceded the 
 widow into the little room. The idiot again burst 
 into his hideous cachinnation at the sight of West- 
 bury, doubling himself up with laughter. The 
 mother walked over to him and stroked his head, 
 saying: 
 
 "You must not laugh at the gentleman, Clarence; 
 it's rude to laugh." 
 
 Clarence evidently understood, and tried to obey. 
 He stood with twisted face, giggling, trying his best 
 to control himself. 
 
 "A most remarkable case, Mrs. Jones," said Clay- 
 ton. "I don't know yet, but I'm inclined to think I 
 can cure your son and make him like other boys." 
 
 The mother's face flushed, and she put up her 
 hand as if to ward off the shock. "Really, sir?" 
 was all she could say. 
 
 "I'm not sure, you know," Clayton went on. "I 
 don't want to lift your hopes too high, but the boy 
 224
 
 A Fool's Paradise 
 
 seems to me sensible enough were it not for this 
 laughing." 
 
 "That's it, that's it, sir!" cried the mother, stretch- 
 ing out both her hands. "He's sensible underneath, 
 is Clarence, and as good as gold. He's never any 
 trouble at all, and he understands any questions I 
 ask him: don't you, Clarence, dear?" 
 
 The boy looked at her and began to laugh quietly, 
 as if amused by the question. 
 
 "I shall have to see him in London," Clayton ex- 
 plained, "and make a close examination. I must get 
 a strong light on his eyes. Can you bring him or 
 send him up to me?" 
 
 The woman hesitated. 
 
 "If I decide that an operation is necessary I 
 would not charge you anything for it; but I should 
 have to keep the boy for a couple of months to in- 
 sure a proper recovery." 
 
 "It's very good of you, I'm sure," said Mrs. 
 Jones, "and I'll tell my daughter what you say. Do 
 you think you can make him all right, sir?" Her 
 doubting eagerness was pathetic. 
 
 "I'm inclined to think so," repeated Clayton. 
 "Here's my card, and if you decide to let me have 
 a try, I'll do my best." 
 
 225
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 "Thank you, sir," she said. "I'll tell all you say 
 to my daughter and her husband, and let you know." 
 ******* 
 
 As they walked toward the inn Westbury ques- 
 tioned Clayton. 
 
 "What bee's got in your bonnet, Dave?" he cried. 
 "Nothing on earth could do that idiot any good 
 unless you could put new brains into his head. What 
 do you mean by talking of an examination?" 
 
 "It's a very peculiar case," replied Clayton, as if 
 to himself, his eyes turned inward in thought, "a 
 most interesting case" ; and then, waking up, "I'll 
 let you know about it, if they send him to me." 
 
 "The only interesting thing I can see in the mat- 
 ter," rejoined Westbury, "is the fact that the shock 
 of seeing her husband murdered made the poor 
 woman give birth to an idiot, and an idiot who 
 laughs at everything. Murderous cruelty producing 
 
 idiot laughter — it's a mad world. . . ." 
 
 ******* 
 
 Some few months later Westbury called one after- 
 noon on Clayton, and spent the evening with him in 
 his study overlooking Regent's Park. They had 
 been talking a few minutes, when Westbury ex- 
 claimed: 
 
 226
 
 A Fool's Paradise 
 
 "By the way, I hear you have had Clarence Jones 
 up here and worked a miracle on him." 
 
 "The operation was successful," Clayton ad- 
 mitted. 
 
 "What was the matter with him, really? You 
 were very mysterious about it." 
 
 "Not mysterious," replied Clayton, "only doubt- 
 ful. I could not see his eyes properly at first, but 
 when I had him here and examined him closely it 
 was all pretty plain sailing." 
 
 "What was wrong with him?" cried Westbury. 
 "Did it explain that continual laughing of his?" 
 
 "It explained everything," replied Clayton. "His 
 eyes were abnormal. You wouldn't meet another 
 pair like them in a lifetime. . . . There were little 
 growths in the pupils, so that each eye had half a 
 dozen facets, so to speak. The boy saw every sepa- 
 rate object in half a dozen different aspects, just as 
 if he were looking into those concave and convex 
 mirrors you have in fairs. Nearly every object 
 therefore was amusing to him, though some things, 
 of course, appeared elongated and lugubrious. . . . 
 I had to remove all the little growths one by one — 
 rather ticklish work — and give the pupil time to knit 
 and heal, and the eye was perfect." 
 
 "My God!" cried Westbury, "what a magician's 
 
 227
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 wand that scalpel of yours is; with it you turn an 
 idiot into an ordinary boy — and an unpleasant idiot 
 at that," he added, a little malevolently. "His 
 mother, I suppose, is enchanted?" 
 
 "She writes very nicely to me about it. She was 
 altogether a superior woman, you remember. . . . 
 I have her letter somewhere," and he turned over 
 some papers on his desk. 
 
 "I suppose you'll be going down to see them?" 
 remarked Westbury. "There's no pleasure like the 
 pleasure we have in a really wonderful cure." 
 
 "I'll run down some time in the summer prob- 
 ably," Clayton rejoined; "but there is nothing to go 
 for immediately. The boy's eyes when I sent him 
 home were perfectly normal and strong. . . ." 
 ******* 
 
 In the early spring Clayton was surprised and not 
 a little annoyed by a letter he received from Mrs. 
 Jones. She asked him to come down and see Clar- 
 ence as soon as he could. The boy was "out of 
 sorts," she said, and caused her great anxiety. 
 
 "Out of sorts " Clayton could not under- 
 stand it. But as he practiced chiefly for his own 
 pleasure and had been really interested in the op- 
 eration on the boy's eyes, he took an early oppor- 
 tunity of motoring to the village. 
 228
 
 A Fool's Paradise 
 
 Mrs. Jones met him at the garden gate. 
 
 "I got your telegram, sir, saying you were com- 
 ing," she exclaimed hurriedly. "He's inside, but I 
 must tell you about him first. He's not happy, 
 sir; he's very depressed and disappointed and 
 angry " 
 
 "Angry," repeated Clayton; "but not with me, I 
 hope?" he asked, smiling. 
 
 "With every one," repeated Mrs. Jones, "I'm 
 sorry to say, and with you, too, sir, very angry. 
 You'll be gentle with him, won't you, sir?" 
 
 "Of course, of course," replied Clayton, his mind 
 trying to grasp the new situation; "of course I shall 
 be gentle. Everything's new to him, I suppose, and 
 strange?" 
 
 "That's it, sir; and he thinks everything's your 
 fault." 
 
 "I'm very sorry. Let me see him at once," said 
 Clayton, really astonished. "I'll do my best, you 
 know." 
 
 In another minute the doctor and patient were 
 face to face. The youth stood in the corner of the 
 room near the fireplace with averted face glowering. 
 
 "What is it, Clarence?" asked Clayton pleasantly, 
 going toward him. "I hear you're unhappy." 
 
 The youth looked at him without a word, his 
 
 229
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 face set with rage ; and now that his eyes were nor- 
 mal one could see that it was a fine face, well-shaped 
 and well-featured; but the merry look had gone, 
 and in its place was scowling hate. 
 
 "What's the matter?" repeated Clayton, a little 
 shocked by the youth's manifest rage and dislike. 
 
 "Matter," repeated the young man slowly. "I 
 suppose I ought to be grateful to you, oughtn't I?" 
 he sneered. 
 
 "I should think so," replied Clayton, a little net- 
 tled, "though I don't expect gratitude. I did my 
 best for you, and got nothing out of it." 
 
 "Did I ask you to do anything for me?" cried 
 the boy. "Who asked you to interfere?" 
 
 "Any one would do a kind act without being 
 asked," Clayton answered gravely. 
 
 "A kind act?" cried the young man, seizing the 
 table with both Rands and thrusting his hot face 
 forward. "A kind act, you call it?" 
 
 "Certainly," retorted Clayton; "a kind act to 
 turn a laughing idiot into an ordinary youth. I 
 should think so, indeed." 
 
 "Ordinary be damned!" cried the youth; "ordi- 
 nary! Till you came I was happy, happy as a king. 
 I was more than contented. Everything I saw was 
 wonderful to me. Even the boys who laughed at 
 230
 
 A Fool's Paradise 
 
 me and mocked me were comic creatures who amused 
 me. There they were, the grinning faces, dozens of 
 'em — all different, too funny for anything. I was 
 amused from morning till night. My mother took 
 care of me ; I lacked nothing ; all my life was a dream 
 of pleasure. . . . 
 
 "Then you came where you were not wanted, and 
 with your damned cleverness robbed me of all the 
 joy and wonder, turned me from a king with all the 
 world for my fools into a dull, ordinary creature. 
 
 "Not ordinary even," he went on wildly, as if 
 the word excited him, "but behind everybody else, 
 more stupid. I cannot even go to school. I don't 
 know anything. Every one pities and despises me 
 now. Here I sit all day long trying to learn to read 
 and to make pothooks. The devil could not have 
 
 done worse to me than you've done, you " and 
 
 the young man threw himself into a chair and leaned 
 his burning face on his hands. 
 
 "Come, come," said Clayton gently, going over 
 to him, genuinely affected by his misery. "Come, 
 come, Clarence, all this will pass. You will soon 
 overtake the other boys, and as soon as you learn 
 to read easily you will have books and all the wisest 
 men as your companions. You will soon see that 
 you are better off." 
 
 231!
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 "Do you think I haven't told myself that?" cried 
 the youth, looking up with streaming eyes. "But it 
 is not true; the charm and wonder of the world 
 have gone from me forever. I shall never see the 
 comic faces again; never again notice the thousand 
 different shades of expression, never again. How 
 could you? How could you? . . . Oh, my God! 
 how miserable I am!" 
 
 Clayton drew up a chair; he was interested, in 
 spite of himself, by the bitterness of the youth's 
 grief. He put his arm around his shoulder. 
 
 "In a little while, Clarence, you will be able to 
 study all sorts of expressions not only in the living 
 people about you, but in books. You will come to 
 know all the great men and women who have lived 
 before you. 
 
 "I have taken away from you an unreal world; 
 but you have got the real world instead, and it is an 
 infinitely richer world than the one you have lost, 
 for it holds all the past as well as the present. Think 
 of that." He spoke with infinite gentleness; but the 
 youth would not be comforted. He looked up at 
 him with his face all shaken. 
 
 "You don't know, you don't know !" he cried. "I 
 was happy, happy as a god in my own paradise, and 
 now I am outcast and miserable — less than nothing. 
 232
 
 A FooPs Paradise 
 
 Girls came to me and wanted to know why I laughed 
 at them, what I saw in their faces; and I saw such 
 wonderful things. Now nothing — every face is al- 
 ways the same; men and women — like the faces of 
 sheep or cows — nothing in them. Oh ! it is a dread- 
 ful world — common and ugly and always the same. 
 I hate it, hate it all. . . . You robbed me of para- 
 dise, thrust me out into this beastly ugly world; and 
 I had never done you any harm — never, never. . . ." 
 
 He wept with such passion that Clayton began to 
 fear that he would make himself ill. After trying 
 in vain to cheer him with some commonplace con- 
 solation, he left the room. 
 
 Mrs. Jones met him with questioning, anxious 
 eyes : he nodded his head gravely. 
 
 "It's worse than I thought, Mrs. Jones. I want 
 to go and think it all over. A man may do great 
 harm with the best intentions; but I think it will 
 be all right in time. He's an astonishing youth; in 
 time he'll get accustomed to the change and find 
 compensations." 
 
 "That's the worst of it, sir," cried the mother. 
 "At first he set to work and was not unhappy; he 
 worked very hard at his reading and writing. Clar- 
 ence has a great deal of sense," she added; "he 
 often surprises me by what he says. But as time 
 
 233'
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 went on he seemed to find it harder and harder. . . . 
 "He began to read the Bible, sir. I thought 
 'twould do him good, and ever since he has talked 
 about being driven out of paradise and a devil with 
 a flaming sword. Sometimes I'm really afraid for 
 his reason. You don't think he'll go mad, do you, 
 sir?" 
 
 "No, no!" cried Clayton; "put that fear out of 
 your head; his mind's all right, and if we can get 
 his hope and ambition roused, you'll be proud of him 
 yet. I'm very much interested in him." 
 She nodded her head feebly, doubtfully. 
 "Thank you, sir. I had better go to him now. 
 After one of these fits he always has a bad head- 
 ache. . . ." 
 
 Clayton went to the inn puzzled and annoyed. 
 Reflection showed him no new argument, and when 
 he returned to the house after lunch the mother 
 told him that Clarence had gone to bed worn out, 
 and was sleeping, she thought. At any rate, she 
 was sure it would be better not to disturb him. Clay- 
 ton returned to London, promising he would write. 
 During the next few days he thought a good 
 deal about the matter, and at length came to a de- 
 cision and wrote his patient a long letter. Before 
 sending it he went round to Westbury, in whose com- 
 234
 
 A Fool's Paradise 
 
 mon sense he had a great deal of confidence. He 
 told Westbury what had happened, and asked him 
 what he thought of the youth and his paradise. 
 
 Westbury shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "An ungrateful hound. If I were you I'd pay 
 no more attention to him. That's the sort of thanks 
 you get in life when you do good to people. . . . 
 I've had dozens of similar experiences. I never 
 look for gratitude now, and never meet it. Men 
 are ungrateful by nature, and women spiteful to 
 boot. Why should you bother yourself? You did 
 everything for the best." 
 
 "Yes, I know," replied Clayton dubiously, "and 
 it was my best. Yet the doubt torments me. The 
 boy's eyes smarted after the operation, and I gave 
 him cocaine to dull the pain. Surely it's my duty to 
 diminish the discomforts of life to him now. I've 
 written him a letter, and I want you to hear what 
 I've said. I must encourage him, you know. . . . 
 I'll not trouble you with the whole screed — just the 
 gist of it. I begin by telling him that his experience 
 is not singular, though it's uncommon. "Every artist, 
 every great man, begins life like an ordinary boy, 
 and so long as he is commonplace he is happy; but 
 when, bit by bit, he grows above other men, he be- 
 gins to see men and women as Clarence used to see 
 
 235
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 them, in all sorts of comic lights and tragic lights as 
 well, and the pageant of life becomes infinitely inter- 
 esting to him. 
 
 "But all his fellows resent his superiority and do 
 their best to pay him out for it; they jeer at him and 
 insult him; they hate him, in fact, and if they get 
 a chance they punish him dreadfully. 
 
 "All great men, artists and thinkers alike, are 
 agreed that genius is a long martyrdom, that happi- 
 ness is only to be found in ordinary conditions and 
 ordinary life. 
 
 "Success and praise and pleasure are all got by 
 being commonplace, by being exactly like the ordi- 
 nary run of mankind, one of the many. . . . 
 
 "You see," Clayton broke off, "I insist on all this 
 to give him ambition and hope, to hearten him ; then 
 I go on: 
 
 "But if, indeed, your earlier experiences were so 
 delightful that you can do nothing but pine for them 
 and desire them, you may win them all back again. 
 All you have to do is to set yourself to learn and 
 to grow so as to become wiser and gentler and more 
 loving than your fellows, and you will then see the 
 faces of men and women once again in a hundred 
 different facets, and they will all move you to laugh- 
 ter or to tears. . . . But men and women will hate 
 236
 
 A Fool's Paradise 
 
 you for your superiority and punish you for it; you 
 will be thrust out of the paradise of ordinary life, 
 and be made an outcast and a pariah . . . the 
 Vision Splendid has to be paid for, and the price is 
 heavy." 
 
 237
 
 Within the Shadow
 
 Within the Shadow 
 
 A LICK WILSON was from Leith. He had 
 gone to sea as a lad, and now at twenty-five 
 was chief officer of the passenger steamer Amazon, 
 which plied between Hong Kong and Shanghai. He 
 was a handsome fellow, with blue eyes and fair 
 mustache, and more than the brains of the ordinary 
 sailor. Wilson had chosen the Eastern Service be- 
 cause the advancement was quicker, the pay higher, 
 and also a little because the East drew him; China 
 in especial, with its strange customs and incompre- 
 hensible spirit, excited his curiosity, attracted him 
 as what is unknown and extraordinary is apt to at- 
 tract the young and romantic. The pull of China 
 upon him was so overpowering that within a week 
 after seeing Shanghai for the first time, he began 
 to study Chinese seriously. Now, after three years' 
 work, he knew the language, both spoken and writ- 
 ten, fairly well, and found the knowledge profitable. 
 But China itself and the Chinese were still a closed 
 book to him; he knew enough to be sure that the 
 
 241
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 ordinary English sailor's view of the people was 
 silly to absurdity, but he was still utterly in the dark 
 as to what the Chinese really were, and what they 
 desired; their customary thoughts and their ideals 
 alike hidden from him. This year, however, 1909, 
 was destined to open his eyes to many hitherto un- 
 dreamed-of things. 
 
 In Hong Kong they shipped a Chinese passenger 
 of great importance, the Mandarin Phang, who had 
 been sent on a mission to Tokyo. Phang was an 
 ordinary Chinaman of the south, small of stature 
 and of very quiet, retiring manners. Wilson thought 
 him old, because the fixed, impenetrable, beady black 
 eyes were darned about by innumerable tiny 
 wrinkles, but he might have been only fifty or so, to 
 judge by his walk and appearance. He was evi- 
 dently a man in authority, for his secretary was 
 always obsequious to servility. The other members 
 of his suite were all women, but neither Wilson nor 
 any other of the personnel of the Amazon had seen 
 them near at hand. They had come on board at 
 night, having taken the chief apartment, and spent 
 most of their time in their rooms. For an hour or 
 so each day, however, they came up on the main deck 
 to take the air, but on these occasions they kept 
 strictly to themselves and seemed afraid even of 
 242
 
 Within the Shadow 
 
 speaking above their breath to each other, much less 
 to any of the ship's crew or officers. 
 
 Still, it became known that one of them was old 
 Phang's wife, and, according to the stewardess and 
 second officer, she was very young — a mere child, 
 not yet sixteen — and very pretty. Wilson heard the 
 talk, but paid little attention to it. He realized by 
 this time how impossible it was to get to know a 
 Chinese lady of good class. Besides, he had his 
 work to do, and it was engrossing, and, if that were 
 not enough, he had made large purchases on his own 
 account in Hong Kong, and was a good deal occu- 
 pied with plans for securing the largest possible 
 profit. 
 
 For the first three days the weather was ideal; a 
 little hot, as it is apt to be toward the end of June, 
 but very pleasant, tempered with cool airs from the 
 north, and the sea was calm as a lake. On the 
 Thursday afternoon, however (they had left Hong 
 Kong on the Monday), the outlook changed; the 
 sun went down in a blaze of color, the lofty bell 
 of sky without a cloud, and yet Captain Malcolm 
 would not leave the bridge, and was evidently un- 
 easy, though one could hardly say why. About nine 
 o'clock the moon climbed above the horizon, a moon 
 like a conflagration — a red wafer — promising fine 
 
 243
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 weather, and yet none of the old salts standing 
 about could rid themselves of apprehension. 
 
 Suddenly Wilson went into the Captain's deck 
 cabin to consult the barometer; in a trice he was 
 back again and on the bridge beside the captain. 
 
 "The barometer is falling, sir," he said, u as if 
 the bottom had dropped out of it." 
 
 "We're in for a typhoon," remarked Captain 
 Malcolm quietly; "luckily a screw steamer can't be 
 taken aback like a sailing ship." And he added: 
 "You'd better step below to the Pigtails and warn 
 them of the bad weather, and put everything ship- 
 shape for them. I'd go myself, but their lingo is 
 beyond me." 
 
 Without a word, Wilson hurried below and made 
 straight for the Mandarin's stateroom; he didn't 
 even step into his own cabin on the way to tidy it 
 up a bit or put things straight. He knocked at the 
 stateroom door and, after a pause, in which he 
 seemed to feel himself scrutinized, the door slid 
 open and discovered Phang's secretary. Wilson 
 blurted out what he had to say, but before his story 
 was ended he was allowed inside and asked to ex- 
 plain by Phang himself, who was with his wife in 
 the saloon. 
 
 Wilson told them what there was to fear, in Chi- 
 244
 
 Within the Shadow 
 
 nese, and offered to go into their bedrooms and se- 
 cure whatever was loose or breakable, but while he 
 was speaking the shock came, and the ship was 
 thrown almost on her beam ends. As luck would 
 have it, Wilson was to leeward of the pair, and as 
 the ship heeled over and they were flung downward, 
 he had time to stem his foot against the sofa and 
 catch them — one in each arm. Phang went green, 
 but lost nothing of his polite self-possession. As 
 the ship righted herself a little he begged Wilson to 
 help him to his bedroom, as if no one existed save 
 himself. Without a word Wilson placed the girl 
 gently on the sofa behind him; her veil caught in 
 one of the buttons of his coat, and as he drew away 
 their eyes met — a moment only, yet Wilson felt as 
 if he had been taken possession of; never had he 
 had such an impression. As he helped Phang to his 
 room he couldn't help saying to himself: "How ex- 
 traordinary! What did her eyes say? What does 
 she mean?" And then, with a start of astonish- 
 ment: "How lovely she is; she might almost be 
 English !" 
 
 The vessel had already begun to roll, for she was 
 very light and the sea was beginning to get up. 
 Phang evidently felt the motion, for he turned 
 ashen; he did not complain, however, but lay down 
 
 245
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 and asked for a drink of water. As Wilson turned 
 to get it, the girl came into the room and fell on her 
 knees by the side of the bed. "What can I do?" 
 she cried. 
 
 "Go to your room, flower of the waters," replied 
 Phang, "and send my secretary to me; this sickness 
 can only be relieved by sleep. . . ." 
 
 They must have been caught by the whirling skirt 
 of the storm, for instead of passing through it in 
 a few hours, they had it all night and nearly all the 
 next day, and when the wind went down the waves 
 still continued to run high. A dozen times that night 
 Wilson went below to minister to Phang's comfort, 
 with the unavowed hope of meeting the girl-wife 
 again, and finding out what her enigmatic, arresting 
 look really meant; but she kept to her own room. 
 
 Next day Phang was worse, and Wilson had to 
 persuade him to see the doctor. When he returned 
 with the surgeon his heart stopped; for the girl 
 was kneeling by Phang's head. A word from her 
 husband and she kept her place, though she had 
 already risen to go. The surgeon made a careful 
 cursory examination, and promised to send some 
 medicine with directions. While this was going on 
 Wilson, standing behind him, had ample time to 
 study the girl without being seen by the husband. 
 246
 
 Within the Shadow 
 
 Her face was the rather long oval that the Chinese 
 admire and regard as a mark of distinction; the hair 
 and eyebrows were the purple-black of her race; 
 the eyes were long and large; in color the clear 
 brown of the coffee bean, and this, with the dark 
 pupil, gave them, Wilson decided, the peculiar in- 
 tense expression which had such an effect on him. 
 In figure she was very slight, and evidently still im- 
 mature. Did she notice his intent scrutiny? he asked 
 himself. She kept looking from Phang to the doctor 
 as if no one else were in the room, and yet, surely, 
 she must have felt Wilson's mute admiration. As 
 the doctor, who had been his screen, moved, Wilson 
 dropped his eyes and turned with him to the door, 
 first casting a careless look round the room, as if 
 the proceedings had rather bored him. 
 
 All through Phang's illness, which lasted three or 
 four days, he was in and out of the sick room, for 
 he was the only officer on board who understood 
 Chinese, and the captain and doctor had to use him 
 as interpreter. Perhaps because of the services he 
 rendered Phang, he got to like him, as we usually 
 like those we help. He admired, too, the ex- 
 traordinary self-control and secretiveness of the old 
 Mandarin. And one day, when the doctor said half 
 a day in the open air would cure him, Wilson sent 
 
 247
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 the doctor up to prepare the couch near the coop, 
 and then took the old man in his arms like a child 
 and carried him up and laid him on the sofa. 
 Phang's hard features relaxed into a sort of smile 
 as he said: "The thanks of the weak to the strong!'' 
 After this the pair had several talks, and Wil- 
 son confessed his desire to understand Chinese ways 
 and modes of thought. Phang told him that he 
 would feel honored to show him his humble dwell- 
 ing. As it drew toward evening Phang felt the cold 
 and Wilson volunteered to run down and fetch him 
 a wrap. He opened the stateroom door, turned to 
 the left into Phang's bedroom, and found himself 
 face to face with the girl. Their eyes met, and in- 
 voluntarily he held out his hands. With a little cry 
 she came to him, and as he took her lips, conscious 
 life passed into intense feeling. A moment later, it 
 seemed, she shrank back listening, with finger on 
 lips, and then turned her back to the young man and 
 busied herself in setting the bed to rights. Wilson 
 asked for a wrap, and murmuring an excuse, as if 
 she had just become aware of his presence, she laid 
 a quilted silk garment on the chair near him. As 
 Wilson took it and moved to the door, the secre- 
 tary came in smiling. Had he seen or heard any- 
 248
 
 Within the Shadow 
 
 thing? Or had the girl been too quick for him? 
 Wilson couldn't decide, and so hurried on deck. 
 
 Without further incident of note, except some 
 long and interesting talks between Wilson and 
 Phang, they reached Shanghai. A few days after 
 they parted, Phang sent his secretary to Wilson to 
 ask him to his house. He found as he expected — a 
 palace, with a mean front to the street, but luxuri- 
 ous within, almost beyond belief, and set in a huge 
 garden with a pagoda at the end furthest from the 
 house. From the beginning Wilson flattered the old 
 man assiduously, which might have given rise to 
 some suspicion had he not at the same time plied 
 him, Scot-like, with innumerable questions about his 
 life and beliefs, and the hidden reason of ancestor- 
 worship, and a score of similar mysteries. Again 
 and again he returned to the house and drank tea 
 with the old Mandarin, and walked in the garden; 
 but never cast eyes, even for a moment, on the girl- 
 wife, and, of course, never asked after her. 
 
 Two or three days had elapsed since his last 
 visit, when, one evening, in his English hotel, a let- 
 ter was brought to him by the waiter; in it was a 
 strip of rice paper with the words in Chinese, "The 
 pagoda one hour after sunset." 
 
 His heart fluttered into his throat with excite- 
 
 249
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 ment; he never hesitated, never doubted; but gave 
 himself up at once to considering ways and means. 
 Almost instinctively, sailor-like, he had taken the 
 bearings of the house, and within half an hour after 
 getting the note he had found the back street and the 
 dead wall behind which was level with the roof of 
 the pagoda. He passed on his way, staring about 
 and whistling, as if wholly unconcerned, for he had 
 always in mind the picture of her starting back, lis- 
 tening intently with chin out-thrust and startled eyes 
 and uplifted warning finger. 
 
 As he dropped off the wall that night and stepped 
 into the deeper shadow of the pagoda, a tiny hand 
 took his, and the next moment she was in his arms. 
 Silently they crept into the pagoda hand in hand like 
 children. . . . 
 
 Almost at once he was struck by her utter un- 
 likeness to anyone he had ever known or read about. 
 She seemed to give herself to her instincts as un- 
 consciously as a healthy young animal; for some 
 time he thought she was free even of coquetry. 
 When he praised her beauty, and especially her eyes, 
 she would not have it; she was not well-born, she 
 said; her feet were common and her nails also; 
 Phang, on the other hand, was of really high blood 
 250
 
 Within the Shadow 
 
 and distinguished-looking; though he was so old and 
 cruel. 
 
 "I don't know why he wanted me," she said; "he 
 doesn't any more. I think he hates me. ... I was 
 eager to love him when he married me; now I hate 
 him. He's cold like a snake and one day he'll 
 sting. . . ." 
 
 All this was said under her breath. It was only 
 when Wilson insisted that she would speak at all, 
 seeming to dread the slightest sound. In breathless 
 whispers, mouth to ear, she told him that Phang 
 had gone for a week to the Governor of the Prov- 
 ince; but when he joyously cried: "Then there's no 
 danger!" 
 
 "Hush! Hush!" she breathed. "There's always 
 danger in China. Does Phang know even now of 
 our love? Did he invite you here to make sure? 
 Is there one of his spies on the roof or under the 
 floor? Was I followed gliding through the garden, 
 or you striding carelessly along the street? Who 
 shall say? But danger, my white savage," and she 
 caught him to her heart, "there is always danger in 
 China, always death following close behind you — 
 and me," and she clung to him. "But after all, love, 
 with death at the end, is better than life with that 
 old man. Oh, how fear quickens love!" she cried, 
 
 251
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 and kissed him in a frenzy of passion as if love alone 
 could banish the dread. . . . 
 
 Every meeting increased their passion, but her 
 vigilance didn't slacken; and bit by bit her fear and 
 desperate courage and sheer force of affection won 
 him to deeper feeling. But, Scot-like, he wanted to 
 argue: 
 
 "You talk of danger," he began, "but Phang 
 liked me, I think; at any rate, he always welcomed 
 me. He wouldn't have done that if he had sus- 
 pected anything?" 
 
 "Oh, dear," she wailed, as if in pain. "You 
 don't understand us Chinese. Phang will show you 
 the same face always, even the day you perish by 
 his orders. His vengeance passes to its aim, and 
 makes no sign, like a knife through water. He may 
 wait for years, but he will never forget. Oh, be- 
 lieve me, and take care while it is time!" 
 
 "But you?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, I'm doomed," she replied carelessly. "I 
 counted the cost and made up my mind to pay it 
 when your eyes first drew mine in the cabin; there 
 is no chance of escape for me. Don't talk; what 
 does it matter! Already I ought to be gone. . . ." 
 
 And a little later, like a wraith, she was gone, 
 252
 
 Within the Shadow 
 
 melting like a shadow into the shadows, "and leaving 
 her lover half afraid — of he knew not what. . . . 
 
 Every night he took more care; her assurance of 
 danger infecting him, and pity grew strong in him 
 as he began to realize her martyr-passion. 
 
 She found strange words to convince him. "Does 
 your fear make you regret?" he asked once; she 
 laughed noiselessly. 
 
 "Do you know what I regret?" she whispered. 
 "That I shall never see your white body, never know 
 you exactly, never have a perfect image of you to 
 console me in the long years when my being is 
 melted into the line of my ancestors and lost as 
 vapor in air. . . . Last night I wept all night think- 
 ing of it. . . . You will return to your country and 
 some of your own women will strip you, laughing, 
 and kiss your breast and your great limbs, and know 
 every little bit of you, better than they know them- 
 selves; but I never shall. I touch you and touch; 
 and I weep because my fingers are blind and have 
 no sight-joy in you." 
 
 He took her in his arms and kissed her, all shaken 
 by the intensity of her passion. 
 
 • ••••• • 
 
 One night it rained heavily and Wilson hurried, 
 
 253
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 threw himself over the wall, and was first in the 
 pagoda; a minute later she came and, divining his 
 presence, went straight to him in the dark. 
 
 "You love me!" she cried. "You are early, but 
 you're wet," she added. 
 
 "It's nothing," he said, kissing her, and she gave 
 herself to his embrace with hot lips and mute in- 
 tensity. "I would ravage you to-night," she whis- 
 pered, touching him with throbbing silken fingers. 
 
 When he came to reflection it struck him that she 
 was braver than heretofore, spoke out loud, was less 
 reticent than usual; he wanted to know the reason. 
 
 "Phang comes back a day sooner than he said," 
 she answered, and her voice was grave. "To-mor- 
 row is our last night." 
 
 "Oh, what bad luck!" he groaned. "Damn him, 
 he might have given us a day more instead of less." 
 
 "You don't guess what it means?" she asked, and 
 then : "I'm sure Phang knows and did this to pun- 
 ish us; it is the beginning of his revenge." 
 
 "Nonsense, dear," he cried; "it would be silly, 
 childish." 
 
 "We are all children," she replied gravely, "and 
 children can be very cruel." 
 
 "Is that the reason you are bolder to-night?" he 
 asked. 
 
 254
 
 Within the Shadow 
 
 "Greedy," she replied simply. "What does it 
 matter now? Perhaps in his rage he will make a 
 quick end." 
 
 His heart shrank into a tight knot with pain; but 
 his courage revolted : 
 
 "If he touches you," he growled, "I'll kill him 
 like a dog." 
 
 "Oh, you child," she exclaimed, sighing. "He will 
 strike so that you will know only what he wishes 
 you to know; but don't let us waste the precious 
 minutes; don't rob me of my joy," and she nestled 
 back in his arms with a sigh. . . . 
 
 Next night he came to her and said: "To-day, 
 as I was walking along the street that leads from 
 our church to the water, a huge stone fell from a 
 roof and almost crushed me. What luck it didn't, 
 eh? Or I should not be here to hold you and kiss 
 you." 
 
 She fell from him as if she were broken, and in 
 the dusk he could see her eyes white with fear. He 
 lifted her to him and she moaned: 
 
 "Oh, I was sure! Oh, take care, take care; I'm 
 sure, sure." 
 
 "Sure of what?" he asked. 
 
 "Sure," she said, "that Phang knows and will 
 revenge himself. He is learned among the learned, 
 
 2 5S
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 and rich besides, and riches can do anything in 
 China. Oh, take care!" and she threw her arms 
 about him and strained him to her breast as if to 
 convince herself by touch that she held him and he 
 was safe. 
 
 "Take care or he will have you killed," she whis- 
 pered. "Killed as if by accident, and no one will 
 ever know the truth, and your spirit will not be able 
 even to hope that your murderer will be punished. 
 . . . Take care of what you eat and what you drink. 
 Take care of your steps on the quayside and your 
 shadow on the wall. Take care when you go to 
 bed and when you get up. Ah ! If you should die, 
 I'd hate myself forever. . . ." 
 
 "Don't fear for me," he cried, "or for yourself; 
 I have prospered and I can take you with me. I 
 will not leave you to danger. . . ." 
 
 "Thank you, thank you," she triumphed. "I love 
 to hear you say it, though it can never be. It joys 
 me to hear you." 
 
 "But why can't you come?" he continued, getting 
 more resolved, man-like, as he felt himself more 
 likely to lose her. 
 
 "Can you pluck a flower and plant it in the ground 
 and think it'll grow?" she asked. "No, no, you 
 savage man ! we have had our week of love, a pearl- 
 256
 
 Within the Shadow 
 
 week, perfect, and I shall go to death thinking you 
 wanted me for always, my white god! You would 
 have taken me with you if you could, and I shall 
 be happy in death thinking of that, and the cold of 
 the grave will not chill me. . . ." 
 
 That night they were late, for he couldn't bear to 
 let her go, and she seemed willing to stay, eager to 
 do his pleasure in every way. Later it filled him to 
 the lips with misery to think of how she yielded to 
 his every wish at once without sign of fear. 
 
 Again and again they embraced, and she said: 
 "Do not come till you hear from me. If indeed by 
 a miracle we have escaped, it must be months be- 
 fore you visit Phang again, and when it is wise I 
 will send you word; but I feel sure to-night is the 
 end of our joy. Never mind. You have made me 
 so happy that I do not care what comes now." 
 
 And he said: "I go across the sea again, and as 
 soon as the ship returns I will visit Phang." 
 
 At the door she held his face long in her hands, 
 perusing it in the half-light, feature by feature, and 
 of a sudden was gone. 
 
 Next morning Wilson went aboard cheerfully 
 enough; he had had a great holiday, he thought; the 
 future seemed bright and his sailor-work pleased 
 him. Hoasen's forebodings were mere girlish ex- 
 
 257
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 travagance. For some days he was too busy to give 
 thought to anything outside his duties. Now and 
 then doubts flashed across his mind, but he brushed 
 them aside. Once on the high seas again, his mind 
 swung back of its own account to his experiences in 
 the pagoda, and he was surprised to find that scene 
 after scene stood out clearer in memory and more 
 significant than it had appeared at the time; touches 
 he had forgotten came back — words, looks, kisses. 
 . . . He could discover no reason for it, no expla- 
 nation. Day by day, too, he became more surely 
 aware that her fears had some foundation; certain 
 of her phrases set him a-shiver, heart-sick with fear. 
 And all the while, hour by hour, his passion for her 
 grew; so delicate of body she was, and so brave, so 
 passionate that she stayed late that last night, 
 though sure of death, to amaze him with her deli- 
 cate caresses. 
 
 Before he reached Hong Kong he knew that his 
 proposal to take her away with him and marry her, 
 which he had thrown out without reflection, just to 
 please her, was the outcome of his deepest nature. 
 The conviction held him; he should have taken her 
 with him that very night and brought her on board 
 the Amazon. He was independent, had money — all 
 at once he felt he had made a hideous blunder. 
 258
 
 Within the Shadow 
 
 As soon as he got off duty at Hong Kong he 
 sought out Chinese merchants and put supposititious 
 cases, but could extract nothing from them — a pretty 
 girl, more or less — their long eyes grew narrower 
 in amusement. He frequented the club and found 
 that those who knew China best were inclined to the 
 belief that Hoasen's fears were justified — "A Man- 
 darin of the first rank could do whatever he pleased 
 with an unfaithful wife." The heartache in him 
 grew desperate. 
 
 Even Captain Malcolm soon remarked his un- 
 easiness; the younger officers tried to joke him about 
 it, for Wilson was a favorite; but he minded noth- 
 ing, literally the deck burned him till he got the or- 
 der to "let go 1" 
 
 As soon as he reached Shanghai he begged for 
 leave, and went straight to Phang's house. If he 
 had thought of danger it would have stilled his pain 
 to affront it, but as a matter of fact he went in irre- 
 sistible impulse without thought. The old Man- 
 darin received him cordially; inquired after his 
 health, his fortune, wished him all good things 
 with suave politeness, and Wilson, restless, nervous, 
 dared not put the question that trembled on his lips. 
 He felt like a bull tied to a stake and baited; his 
 blood boiled in him ; yet he could do nothing, noth- 
 
 259
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 ing; could frame no word that might not do harm, 
 and now he knew that he was being played with; 
 that Hoasen was right, that this old withered 
 creature was enjoying his embarrassment, savoring 
 his own vengeance. If only he had the proof. He 
 looked down at him, and the muscles on his arms 
 and chest grew taut as whipcord — he would strangle 
 him where he stood. Those impenetrable stony 
 eyes (snake's eyes, he thought savagely) met his 
 placidly, and the wrinkled yellow face smiled and 
 Phang continued his courteous phrases while accom- 
 panying his visitor to the very door. There he 
 paused and his smile became pensive: 
 
 "I have had a great loss since I saw you last," he 
 remarked casually. "My wife, whom you may re- 
 member on the steamer — I was absent a week 
 nearly — she must have caught a chill, for when I re- 
 turned she became ill" (and his eyelids fluttered re- 
 flectively) "and died." 
 
 "Died!" Wilson repeated, choking. "Died!" 
 
 The old Chinaman blinked his eyes several times 
 as if in tender regret, and then, cordially: "But 
 you will come again and give the old man the pleas- 
 ure of your youth, and health, and " 
 
 Wilson was in the street dazed. Dead, his love 
 dead. He tore his collar loose and hurried to the 
 260
 
 Within the Shadow 
 
 hotel and shut himself in his room. Dead! How? 
 The old snake! Why hadn't he trodden on his 
 head! He couldn't believe it. How to make sure? 
 Who could help him? 
 
 At some time or other he had heard, as every- 
 one in Shanghai has heard, of Shimonski, the Polish 
 interpreter, who was practically a Chinky himself 
 and knew China as he knew his pocket. The very 
 man ! If anyone could solve the riddle, Shimonski 
 could. 
 
 Wilson sought him out, and after some hours 
 ran him to earth and got speech of him. He was 
 in such deadly earnest, obsessed by such passion, 
 that Shimonski listened to his story and then, rub- 
 bing the short red bristles of his unshaven chin, he 
 remarked coolly: 
 
 "I've heard something about this . . . Hoasen, 
 you say her name was . . . I've heard of her. 
 There was something peculiar — I can't remember 
 what. But I'll find out exactly and let you know 
 in a day or two. You don't mind spending a little 
 money? No. All right. You shall hear." 
 
 Three days later he came to Wilson. 
 
 "I know everything," he began. "There was no 
 trouble about it. Phang's secretary is a scholar; I 
 
 261
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 am a scholar; for four pounds he told me every- 
 thing. . . . 
 
 "Your Hoasen was called 'The Flower of the 
 Waters,' probably because she was pretty and very 
 slight — the Chinese prefer fruit that is not quite 
 ripe. . . . Phang found out your intrigue himself 
 when he was ill on board your ship." 
 
 "But there was nothing to find out then," inter- 
 rupted WilsOn. "Nothing." 
 
 "Yes, there was," Shimonski persisted. "Phang 
 saw you staring at her. There was a mirror in front 
 of his bed in which he could see you, and he saw, 
 too, that Hoasen was conscious of your admiration, 
 that is, had already accepted it in her heart. (The 
 Chinese never deceive themselves about facts; that's 
 their strong point.) He had to go away, but he 
 seized the occasion to have Hoasen watched. Every- 
 thing said and done in the pagoda was reported to 
 him. Why, once when you swung yourself over the 
 wall, you almost fell upon the secretary; he chuckled 
 over it to me! 
 
 "When Phang returned he greeted Hoasen and 
 
 a little later went to the Chief Judge, a friend of 
 
 his. But as he wanted the guilty punished in the 
 
 way of his own Southern Province, he must have 
 
 262
 
 Within the Shadow 
 
 prepared it all, even before he went away for that 
 week." 
 
 "What do you mean?" cried Wilson. "Are these 
 people human?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," replied Shimonski, "but they are cruel, 
 too; indeed, they take a sensuous pleasure in refined 
 cruelty. 
 
 "Before I tell you the story you must know that 
 Phang has gone into the interior and is now be- 
 yond your reach. . . . 
 
 "Well, to resume : He returned and told Hoasen 
 that Hoan, the magistrate, wanted to see her, and 
 if she wished he would accompany her to his court. 
 The girl no doubt guessed what that meant. Phang 
 had the state palanquin out; the girl-wife dressed 
 herself in her best, and they went off to the court; 
 but, as she crossed the threshold, Phang turned 
 quietly home. 
 
 "Hoasen got out of the palanquin and found her- 
 self face to face with Hoan; nobody else in the 
 courtyard but a huge elephant in one corner with 
 his two attendants and a block of stone. Hoan told 
 her that her husband accused her of adultery and 
 had given proofs. Because her ancestors were 
 known to him he had sent his officials away, trusting 
 
 263
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 that force would be unnecessary, and being very de- 
 sirous of sparing her the shame of open accusation. 
 
 "Having said this, he held out his hand; she took 
 it and he led her toward the elephant. As they drew 
 near, one of the attendants came toward them car- 
 rying the block of stone. Hoan left her and walked 
 out of the courtyard. 
 
 "The attendant put the block of stone before 
 Hoasen and begged her to lie down and put her 
 head on it. Without a word, she did as she was 
 told, and as he squatted in front of her his com- 
 panion came toward them with the elephant. When 
 the great beast was quite close, his attendant began 
 teasing his front leg with a little switch. At first 
 the elephant seemed unwilling to do what was re- 
 quired of him. He shifted his weight from one 
 foot to the other uneasily, but after a tap or two he 
 lifted his right foot and put it down quietly on the 
 girl's head, which squelched like a ripe mango." 
 
 264
 
 A Miracle and No Wonder
 
 A Miracle and No Wonder 
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 Lady Betty Morrison 
 
 A pretty woman of about thirty. 
 Antoinette 
 
 Her maid, a French girl of about twenty. 
 Sir John Morrison 
 
 An Englishman of about fifty, inclined to be 
 stout, healthy looking, well-dressed. 
 Jeanne 
 
 A stout peasant woman of about forty, the 
 Cure's servant. 
 William 
 
 A chauffeur. 
 
 A pleasant villa on Cimiez looking down on Nice. 
 
 Lady Betty. Does this hat suit me, Antoinette? 
 Antoinette. Oh, perfect, milady; milady is beau- 
 tiful in it, and the rose, she sets off milady's pallor. 
 
 267
 
 ,The Veils of Isis 
 
 Lady Betty [studying herself in the glass]. It 
 seems to me a little too large. 
 
 Antoinette. Oh, no, milady. Milady's height 
 carries it off; it is a picture. 
 
 Lady Betty. We are going to lunch in Monte 
 Carlo and shall certainly not be back before dinner. 
 You can have the whole day to yourself, Antoinette, 
 till seven o'clock. 
 
 Antoinette. Oh, thank you, milady. I was going 
 to ask milady something. My sister she has a child, 
 a new-born child, and I wanted to go and see her. 
 
 Lady Betty. Oh, of course, do you want more 
 than a day? 
 
 Antoinette. Oh, no, milady, she lives at Esca- 
 rene, about four leagues up in the mountains. It is 
 her first child. 
 
 Lady Betty. Oh, how interesting! What a lucky 
 woman! How I should like to see it. 
 
 Antoinette. Lucky, I don't know. Her husband 
 is only a garde champetre. They are poor. A child 
 — that costs money — and it takes away from the 
 work. 
 
 Lady Betty. What matter, what matter ! I would 
 give anything for a child, anything in the world! 
 Oh, I must see it. When can I see it? 
 
 Antoinette. Milady could drive to Escarene one 
 268
 
 A Miracle and No Wonder 
 
 day. But it is only a village lost among the moun- 
 tains. The road goes up and up all the way follow- 
 ing the river, the Paillon. 
 
 Lady Betty. But how will you get there and 
 back? You cannot go twelve miles and back in an 
 afternoon. I'll give orders for you to take the 
 small car : John will drive you. You shall visit your 
 sister in state, and tell her from me that I will come 
 and see the baby one day, if she will let me. Is it 
 a boy or a girl? 
 
 Antoinette. A boy, milady. 
 
 Lady Betty. Oh, lucky woman. What luck ! Ah 1 
 to have a boy; her first child a boy, what luckl 
 
 Antoinette. The poor — they have too much of 
 such luck, milady. 
 
 Lady Betty. And the rich too little. Ah! 
 [Sighs']. 
 
 [She begins putting on her gloves and Antoinette 
 tidies up the things. ~\ 
 
 Antoinette. I thank milady for the automobile. 
 All Escarene will stare at me. 
 
 Lady Betty. What age is your sister? I thought 
 you told me once that she was thirty, as old as I 
 am? 
 
 Antoinette. Oh, milady, she is older than you, 
 and she looks ten years older. Poverty ages. 
 
 269
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 Lady Betty. And she has not been married a 
 year yet? 
 
 Antoinette. Oh, no, milady, not quite a year yet. 
 
 Lady Betty. What luck, what wonderful luck. 
 Tell her I will come and see her son. [Sweeps out 
 of the room.] 
 
 Lady Betty [dressing for dinner]. Did you see 
 your sister, Antoinette? 
 
 Antoinette. Oh, yes, milady, thanks to milady's 
 kindness, I had three hours at Escarene — I saw my 
 mother, too. 
 
 Lady Betty. Is the boy healthy? 
 
 Antoinette. Oh, it is a great fat baby. 
 
 Lady Betty. And your sister, is she in bed still? 
 
 Antoinette. Oh, no, milady, it is a week ago, and 
 she is up and working. She could not stay in bed. 
 Who would do the work? 
 
 Lady Betty. And well again? 
 
 Antoinette. She looks a little pale, but she is 
 quite well. She will soon get strong again in that 
 air. 
 
 Lady Betty. Did you say that one day we shall 
 go up and see the boy? [Rises.] 
 
 Antoinette. She will be very pleased and proud, 
 milady — I have something to say to milady, if she 
 270
 
 A Miracle and No Wonder 
 
 really goes to Escarene. Milady says she wants to 
 have a child. There is a way, I think. 
 
 Lady Betty [pauses]. A way? What do you 
 mean? Of course I want a child. Sir John wants a 
 boy to inherit all the money and the estate, and I 
 have no child and we have been married five years. 
 What way do you mean? 
 
 Antoinette. When I was at Escarene, I had three 
 hours there, so I went to see my mother, also, and 
 I spoke to her of milady, how kind milady was and 
 how milady wants a child. And my mother says all 
 she must do is to go on a pilgrimage to the Monas- 
 tery of La Madonna, la Bona Dea, the country peo- 
 ple call her beyond Sospel. 
 
 Lady Betty. What do you mean, Antoinette? 
 
 Antoinette. My mother, she tell me all about it, 
 milady. When a woman of the country not have a 
 child, she go to the Monastery away up in the moun- 
 tain beyond Sospel and there she walk seven times 
 round the Church, praying at all the shrines, and 
 each time she say the Ave Maria, to the Holy 
 Mother, and then she get a child, sure, sure ! 
 
 Lady Betty. Really. It is all superstition, I'm 
 afraid. But we might go one day. 
 
 Antoinette. Surely if milady wishes, we could 
 
 271
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 go. And it is true. My mother she know many 
 cases, she say, and all get child after one visit. 
 
 Lady Betty [in a depressed voice']. But I'm not 
 a Catholic, Antoinette. 
 
 Antoinette. Oh, that make no difference, milady; 
 believe or not believe, it make no difference. 
 
 Lady Betty. But tell me what one is to do? 
 Nothing but go seven times round the Church and 
 pray once at every shrine and say an Ave Maria 
 before the Madonna? 
 
 Antoinette. Yes, milady, and then you must go to 
 the sacristy and confess to one of the monks, who 
 will give you absolution for everything, and then 
 you come out and go home and you are sure of a 
 child. Sure, sure, my mother says. It never fails. 
 
 Lady Betty. You say the Monastery is beyond 
 Sospel. Sospel is past Mentone, isn't it? 
 
 Antoinette. Yes, milady would have to start 
 early. 
 
 Lady Betty. You would have to come with me, 
 Antoinette, I could never go alone. I have a good 
 mind to ask Sir John. 
 
 Antoinette. I would not tell Sir John, if I were 
 milady. It is better a woman keep all those things 
 to herself. Tell the men nothing, or they'll know as 
 much as we do in the end. 
 272
 
 A Miracle and No Wonder 
 
 Lady Betty [clasping a bracelet]. Yes, perhaps 
 you're right. I don't think it's necessary to say 
 anything. We might get away next Thursday. 
 Sir John is going to the pigeon-shooting match. I 
 would not go with him for anything. How men can 
 see poor little birds rise from a trap and shoot them 
 down I cannot imagine. It is horrible. That is 
 why I will not stay in Monte Carlo. I cannot bear 
 even to hear the bang, bang, bang of the guns. 
 
 Antoinette. Milady is so kind. When she have 
 a child she will pet it all day long. 
 
 Lady Betty [clasping her hands]. Oh, do you 
 think I shall, do you really think I shall? It would 
 be too wonderful. I shall be so happy ! 
 
 [Sir John Morrison on the point of leaving the 
 breakfast-room.'] 
 
 Sir John. I'll take the little Peugeot, then. It'll 
 run me over to Monte in half an hour, and I'll leave 
 you the big car and William. He will take you any- 
 where you want to go. I suppose you'll go visiting 
 or something? 
 
 Lady Betty [a little nervously]. Yes, I'll pay 
 visits, I think. 
 
 Sir John. You see, I cannot help going. Hugh 
 Harrison is to shoot. I've known him a long time, 
 
 273
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 and he's pretty useful with a gun. I'd like to see 
 him win the Grand Prix. 
 
 Lady Betty. If he has only gamekeepers against 
 him, as you say, he's sure to win: isn't he? 
 
 Sir John. Most of the Italians are gamekeepers, 
 I believe, and they practice night and day. The 
 English aren't used to this confounded glare. The 
 Italians have won seven times in the last ten years. 
 They are sure to beat us in the long run. You see, 
 we are only amateurs, and they are professionals. 
 That's why we English are getting beaten in every- 
 thing: We're only amateurs. As long as it was a 
 fight between amateurs we beat the world, but since 
 these Italian chaps have made shooting a business 
 they beat us. 
 
 Lady Betty. You're not going to shoot, are you? 
 
 Sir John. No, I should have no earthly chance. 
 I was runner-up in the Poule d'Essai, but that was 
 more good luck than anything else. 
 
 Lady Betty. I'm sure you're as good a shot as 
 any of them. Bring Harrison to dinner if you can. 
 I should like to hear who wins to-day. 
 
 Sir John [preparing to go out]. I will. But I'll 
 not be back before six. I could be back to tea if 
 you liked? 
 
 Lady Betty. Oh, no, don't trouble, you know 
 274
 
 A Miracle and No Wonder 
 
 you don't care for tea. I may have tea out some- 
 where. I intend to have the whole afternoon to 
 myself. So you need not be back before eight, till 
 dinner-time, in fact. [Sir John kisses her.~] 
 
 Sir John. I'll be back before eight, good-bye. 
 
 Lady Betty [hesitating]. I wonder if I ought to 
 go. My heart's beating: I am quite excited. I 
 suppose I had better ring for Antoinette, and start 
 almost immediately. There goes the Peugeot and 
 John. I wonder if it is wrong. I'll ring for An- 
 toinette. 
 
 [In a moment Antoinette comes into the room 
 dressed to go out.~\ 
 
 Oh, you are ready, Antoinette. 
 
 Antoinette. Quite ready, milady, and William's 
 ready, too. I told him to be prepared to go a long 
 distance. If monsieur have gone by the lower road 
 to Monte Carlo we ought to go by the Grand Cor- 
 niche to Mentone, and so avoid Monte Carlo. Shall 
 I bring milady her hat down here? 
 
 Lady Betty. Are you sure you know just what I 
 ought to do? Even then I don't believe anything'll 
 come of it. . . . 
 
 Antoinette. Oh, yes, something'll come, I feel 
 it. I know all zere is to do. Milady need have no 
 
 275
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 fear at all, the monks are very nice men, and I'll 
 go round the Church with milady. 
 
 Lady Betty [given over to her thoughts']. Hurry, 
 then, Antoinette. Bring me my things, and we'll 
 start. 
 
 [Two hours later, a small country inn in the moun- 
 tains.] 
 
 Lady Betty. But, Antoinette, this is not a Church 
 or a Monastery; this is an Inn. 
 
 Antoinette. The Church, milady, is just round 
 the corner. If milady will get out here and just go 
 into a room for a few minutes, I will go and find 
 out everything, and then I'll come back for milady. 
 [Lady Betty leaves the auto, and goes to a room as 
 the maid requests. Alone she gets nervous.] 
 
 Lady Betty [thinking]. I do hope it's all right. I 
 know Sir John wants a boy more than anything, and 
 so do I. Now I'm here I might as well go through 
 with it. It would be too childish to turn back. It 
 cannot do any harm to pray in a Catholic Church. 
 
 Antoinette [coming in]. Oh, milady, I have bad 
 news. The monastery has been what you call dis- 
 established; the monks they have all gone away. 
 Un grand malheur! We have our journey for 
 nothing. 
 
 Lady Betty. But the Church is there, Antoinette. 
 276
 
 A Miracle and No Wonder 
 
 Antoinette. Oh, yes, milady, the Church is there, 
 but the monks have gone and the confess in the 
 sacristy is impossible. 
 
 Lady Betty. What does that matter, we can go 
 round the Church and pray at the shrines. 
 
 Antoinette. Oh, yes, milady [staring], we can 
 do that, but the monks have gone; the miracles 
 have all ceased! 
 
 Lady Betty. Now I have come, Antoinette, I 
 think I'll go to the Church and pray. 
 
 Antoinette. As milady wishes, but I will go and 
 see to whom milady can confess. 
 
 Lady Betty. You must come with me to the 
 Church. 
 
 Antoinette. Oh, I will go to the Church with 
 milady, and then I will leave milady and go and see 
 if there is a Cure : milady must confess to some one. 
 [They go together to the Church. Antoinette takes 
 Lady Betty in and points out to her the three chapels 
 in all of which she must pray, and the High Altar at 
 which she must say an Ave Maria, then she whispers 
 to Lady Betty. ~\ 
 
 I'll be back in half an hour. 
 [In half an hour Lady Betty comes out of the 
 Church and meets Antoinette, who has brought the 
 
 277
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 auto to the door of the Church. Lady Betty is a 
 little rapt.] 
 
 Antoinette. The Cure, milady, lives a mile away. 
 I thought milady had better go in the automobile, 
 but milady must go alone. My mother she says the 
 lady must go alone to the monks to confess, or else 
 there will be no miracle. So I wait here for milady. 
 • •••••• 
 
 [Lady Betty gets into the automobile and is whirled 
 away.] 
 
 William [at the door of the auto]. This is the 
 Parson's house, my lady [pointing to the door of a 
 small house in the middle of a garden], 
 [Lady Betty gets out and goes up to the door. Wil- 
 liam drives the car past the house in order to turn 
 round. Lady Betty knocks. Jeanne comes to the 
 door.] 
 
 Lady Betty. Is the Cure in? 
 
 Jeanne [impressed in spite of herself by Lady 
 Betty's dress and the automobile]. No, Madame. 
 He is not in. He will be in in half an hour. 
 
 Lady Betty [taking out her purse and selecting a 
 louis, which she hands to the woman, who stares at 
 her in amazement]. I want to see him; may I come 
 in? 
 
 Jeanne. Certainly, if Madame pleases. 
 278
 
 A Miracle and No Wonder 
 
 [They enter the house together. .] 
 
 Lady Betty. I would not have come but the mon- 
 astery is closed, and I have prayed in the Church. 
 
 Jeanne [in the middle of the room']. Oh, Mad- 
 ame is one of those? 
 
 Lady Betty [smiles affably]. I have been married 
 some time and have no child, and my maid An- 
 toinette, who is half Italian and half French, told 
 me that if I made a pilgrimage here and prayed 
 round the Church seven times I should get a child, 
 and so I came here — will the miracle take place, do 
 you think? 
 
 Jeanne [disdainfully]. But, my good lady, those 
 games are all over now. The monastery was shut 
 last summer. The monks were all turned out. 
 There are no more miracles now. There is no one 
 in the monastery, but a couple of sisters from Nice, 
 so you can guess there are no miracles with them. 
 
 Lady Betty [vaguely annoyed by the familiarity 
 of the woman, and only half understanding her 
 patois]. Of course, I know, being a Protestant, it 
 may be difficult for me. But I have prayed at all the 
 shrines, and before the Madonna, and I went seven 
 times round the Church, and Antoinette said that if 
 I saw the Cure and confessed to him it would be all 
 the same as confessing to one of the monks. 
 
 279
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 Jeanne [loudly"}. What impudence! I should 
 like to see that Antoinette. She must have impu- 
 dence, that girl; let her come and talk with me — 
 I'll teach her. 
 
 Lady Betty. I don't understand you. Why 
 should you get angry? Doesn't the Cure hear con- 
 fessions, or do you think because I'm not a Catholic 
 I have no right to confess? 
 
 Jeanne [sulkily, yet still impressed by the visitor's 
 calm politeness']. M. the Cure hears confessions, 
 of course, in the Church, in the usual way. But that 
 is not the same thing as the monks, surely, surely, 
 Madame sees that? 
 
 Lady Betty [shaking her head]. I don't under- 
 stand you [looking at her with large open eyes']. 
 Not in the very least. 
 
 Jeanne [at length realizes a part of her visitor's 
 innocence and draws nearer to her confidentially]. 
 Mais, ma bonne dame. It is clear, isn't it? The 
 monks were all young, strong men, who had nothing 
 to do but eat and hear confessions. Ah! so long 
 as they were here miracle followed miracle; and no 
 wonder. Ah! I should think so indeed. But the 
 Cure, my man, he's sixty; it isn't the same thing — 
 
 and you're not one of those 
 
 280
 
 A Miracle and No Wonder 
 
 Lady Betty. But I have prayed at all the shrines, 
 and now I want to confess. 
 
 Jeanne [shrugs her shoulders']. If the lady 
 wishes to, of course, but there are no miracles now ! 
 Since the fathers went away and the sisters came, 
 there are no more miracles. That was to be ex- 
 pected, eh? Sisters can't work such miracles. 
 
 Lady Betty [flushing']. Oh! I don't think I'll 
 wait, thank you. Good day. [Passes out abruptly 
 without another word.] 
 
 281
 
 A Prostitute
 
 A Prostitute 
 
 IT had been a great evening. We had spent it 
 in an avant-scene at the Opera in Nice, listen- 
 ing to The Messaline of the famous English mu- 
 sician whose operas are played in every European 
 capital oftener than in London. The composer had 
 been "called" by the public a dozen times and had 
 been kissed on both cheeks by the somewhat volumi- 
 nous prima donna to the delight of the audience. 
 Now he was giving supper to three or four of us at 
 the Casino. It was the night of the entrance of 
 King Carnival, and the whole of the Place Massena 
 was thronged with the gay excited crowd. 
 
 The supper was excellent; but the eating and 
 drinking were only incidentals, the background, so 
 to speak, of the picture. The passionate music was 
 still throbbing in our blood; the splendid defiance of 
 the Gladiator's death-song still rang in our ears and 
 the excitement called forth the true qualities of the 
 guests to unwonted expression. 
 
 A world-famous Belgian novelist told the astound- 
 
 285
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 ingly simple, passionate life-story of Aimee Desclee, 
 the great French actress of his youth. Henri Bauer, 
 whose likeness to the great Dumas makes him fa- 
 mous, related some of his experiences during the 
 Commune, and described the miseries he had under- 
 gone as a convict in the French penal settlements 
 on the other side of the world. "Assez bizarre" 
 was the novelist's comment; "it is the convicts and 
 criminals to-day who are steering humanity, and 
 molding the society of the future." 
 
 But neither M 's story, nor Bauer's experi- 
 ences made such an impression as a very simple 
 episode recounted by a Russian-Pole, a M. Rhiman- 
 ski. The incident is like a burr in my memory and 
 refuses to be dislodged, and I still ask myself whether 
 it was the narrator and his way of telling the story, 
 or the story itself, which turned for me a mere oc- 
 currence into a sort of event. 
 
 Rhimanski, I had been told, was a superb 'cellist, 
 and as soon as he began to speak one noticed that 
 his artistry was not limited to music. In manner he 
 was reserved and quiet — almost subdued; in person, 
 unremarkable ; just over middle height, loosely made, 
 and slight, with ordinary brown hair, mustaches, and 
 beard, a low forehead, Calmuck nose and gray eyes. 
 The brown mustache did not prevent one seeing that 
 286
 
 A Prostitute 
 
 the lips were sensitive and finely cut; a deep furrow 
 running down the forehead lent a certain look of 
 age or thought to the face. A man of thirty-five 
 or so, whose attractions were not on the surface. I 
 should never have noticed him were it not for his 
 story, and that was brought in quite naturally; but 
 he told it with the brevity and suggestion of a 
 master. 
 
 Bauer's experiences, I remember, had been inter- 
 rupted by the entrance of a party of noceurs who 
 seated themselves at the next table to us — two or 
 three young rastas with some gay ladies from 
 Monte Carlo whose pictures were in every shop 
 window. Bauer stopped short, and the conversa- 
 tion naturally turned to the oldest of the professions. 
 Interest in it was shown by the novelist, good- 
 humored toleration by Bauer, when Rhimanski sud- 
 denly took up the ball : 
 
 "Why don't you write an opera about it?" he 
 questioned de Lara; "nothing has been done yet, 
 nothing, and it is the most enticing, absorbing theme. 
 In his Maison des Morts Dostoievsky has a curious 
 page about the dignity of the convicts in Siberia — 
 the 'unfortunates' as the inhabitants call them. The 
 contempt of others, he declares, increases the vanity 
 and self-assertion of the outcasts. That side of 
 
 287
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 prostitution, too, should be studied. . . „ Then 
 there is the whole terrible education to be pictured, 
 the rose dreams and facile high enthusiasms of the 
 girl, all blotted out by the knowledge of the brute, 
 man: the drama of desertion and abuse, the tragedy 
 of the street and the sewer, — the massacre of the 
 innocent. What an opera to write, what a 
 Bible! . . . 
 
 "I was in Paris as a student ten or fifteen years 
 ago, very poor, living the usual life. Very much in 
 love with my little friend . . . devoted to her in 
 truth. . . . The other day coming out of the opera 
 — I play at the Opera Comique — a friend took me 
 to supper at Durands. While we were talking a 
 lady came in, a lady with her bonne. She had a cup 
 of chocolate. I felt that I knew her, and yet I was 
 uncertain; I was puzzled by her face; it was distin- 
 guished looking; but I could not be sure. As she got 
 up to go I saw that she moved well, carried her head 
 — a little proudly; in a flash I was sure and had gone 
 over to her: 
 
 " 'Surely I'm not mistaken, Madam, you are 
 Marie?' 
 
 " 'Yes,' she returned quietly, 'I knew you at once.' 
 
 "I was delighted: 'When can I see you?' She 
 seemed cold and not agreeably surprised as I had 
 288
 
 A Prostitute 
 
 expected. But I persisted; I was overjoyed to see 
 her; she was part of my lost youth. ... I went 
 out with her and found to my astonishment that 
 she had an automobile at the door. 
 
 11 'My chief pleasure,' she said deprecatingly, 'I 
 live at Auteuil. Paris deafens me, and I love the 
 Bois, and the environs of Paris, the drives, the trees 
 and the river.' . . . 
 
 'You must come to lunch with me,' I cried, 'I 
 must have a talk with you. I missed you so dread- 
 fully for years and years, and have thought of you 
 so often.' 
 
 'You left me,' she said, 'because you said your 
 mother was dying.' 
 
 "I was astonished by something sarcastic in her 
 tone. 
 
 'It was true,' I said. 'Her illness called me 
 back to Russia; my mother was nearly a year dying. 
 That's how I lost sight of you. I could not think 
 of even you in her suffering/ 
 
 " 'Oh,' she said, as if half convinced. 'I thought 
 it an excuse.' 
 
 'How could you?' I exclaimed. 'Does one in- 
 vent excuses when one is in love?' 
 "Her face grew cold. 
 
 'When I returned to France,' I went on, 'I 
 
 289 
 
 «« n
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 hunted for you everywhere, but could not find you. 
 I had a little money and was so eager to share it 
 with you.' 
 
 " 'You still play the 'cello?' she asked with polite 
 indifference. 
 
 " 'Yes, yes,' I cried, 'I'm now the first 'cellist at 
 the opera. But losing you took away the brightness 
 of life for me. My youth seemed to die when I 
 lost you. My mother and my first love went to- 
 gether. It sounds sentimental, but I cannot help 
 it: it is true. . . . How could you have believed 
 that I invented excuses to explain leaving you?' 
 
 "She lifted her eyebrows to me slowly. It was an 
 old gesture of hers. Her eyes were very fine, nut- 
 brown and long; she used to lift her eyelids as if 
 they were tired, slowly unveiling the great eyes. 
 
 " 'If you knew the lies men tell us,' she said. 
 
 11 'You are happy?' I asked. 'You have suc- 
 ceeded?' 
 
 " 'Oh, yes,' she replied carelessly, 'I too, was 
 wise in time; one must be reasonable. 'Tis in this 
 world we live, and after we have been used by 
 men, we learn to use them.' 
 
 " 'You must not be bitter,' I said. 'Come to- 
 morrow, and we will have a feast. Come.' 
 
 "She yielded to my eagerness; said she would pick 
 290
 
 A Prostitute 
 
 me up on the morrow at the corner of the Boule- 
 vard and the Rue Royale where I promised to be 
 at twelve o'clock. 
 
 11 'I must go now,' she went on, 'my bonne will 
 be astonished. I never speak to strangers,' and she 
 glanced at the automobile where the bonne was 
 fidgetting — a little impatiently, I thought. What 
 could I do but thank her and take her to the car- 
 riage. It slid round the corner and vanished, and 
 I was left staring at the church of the Madeleine 
 opposite, and the trees outlined against the solemn 
 spaces of the sky. . . . 
 
 "I had not recognized her at once, and yet she 
 had not altered much. Fancy not knowing Marie, 
 with whom I had had such joyous days and nights. 
 She had grown strangely dignified and quiet. How 
 gay she used to be; interested in everything and in- 
 teresting. I tried to call it all back again; but the 
 gorgeous life was gone; it belonged to the past, it 
 was all dead like a long disused room where the 
 dust lies thick. . . . 
 
 "Next day I was at the appointed place at the 
 exact moment, and almost immediately she drove up 
 in her automobile. She looked more like the old 
 Marie: there was a smile on her face. 
 
 11 'You are punctual, I see,' she said. 'Won't you 
 
 291
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 have a turn before lunch? It is only just mid- 
 day, and I seldom lunch till half-past twelve.' 
 
 "It was last May; the chestnuts were just coming 
 out in the Avenue and in the Bois. We whirled 
 along the white road and past the great arch, which 
 always recalls Napoleon to us Russians, and I 
 learned something of Marie's later history. She 
 was always articulate, what you call expansive, and 
 her frankness used to please me as much as her 
 gaiety, for I was always brooding and melancholy. 
 
 "She had met a man of sixty, it appeared, and 
 had lived with him for eight or ten years. He 
 was disillusioned, she said, yet kind at bottom; the 
 sort of man one thinks in youth very common, who 
 is rarer than a perfect black pearl. 
 
 " 'He died a year or so ago, and left me enough 
 to keep me in ease, so I take pleasure in going to 
 the theater and opera, and coming back to the 
 house which he bought for me. You see I have a 
 little girl, a younger Marie . . .' and she half- 
 smiled again. . . . 
 
 "It all seemed pathetic to me, I don't know why: 
 something transitory in it all and faded like an 
 old portrait done in tapestry. . . . 
 
 "When we turned she asked: 
 
 "'Where shall we lunch?' 
 292
 
 A Prostitute 
 
 «i <i 
 
 'You don't think I have forgotten your taste, 
 I cried. 'Let us go to that big brasserie on the 
 Boulevard, where you get the best beer in Paris.' 
 
 " 'Beer?' she replied, 'I detest it: I cannot drink 
 it, it makes me ill; I never could stand the stuff.' 
 
 " 'There must be some mistake,' I replied. 'You 
 always used to drink beer. You said you liked it 
 better than anything. Don't you remember? We 
 used always to go to the brasserie at the corner. 
 You cannot have forgotten the suppers of museau 
 de boeuf and beer — you loved it all.' 
 
 " 'I remember,' she said, and a half smile stole 
 over her face, and the heavy waxen eyelids drew 
 up, 'I remember; but if you please, you will give 
 me wine now. I prefer wine.' 
 
 " 'As you like,' I replied, a little disappointed. 
 'Shall we go to Durands? Though I don't sup- 
 pose you will get museau de boeuf at Durands.' 
 T don't like museau de boeuf I she pouted. 
 'Really?' I cried, and I could not get over the 
 wonder, but I followed her lead and at Durands 
 ordered what she wanted — the ordinary conven- 
 tional lunch, a little sole, the plat du jour, and a 
 bottle of sound light claret. 
 
 "We talked of a thousand things, recalled a thou- 
 sand memories: in an hour she had become as gay 
 
 293 
 
 "']
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 and vivacious as the Marie I had loved so pas- 
 sionately. 
 
 " Tell me,' I said at last, searching still for the 
 key of the mystery, 'why you smiled when I re- 
 called your old liking for museau de bceuf and 
 beer?' 
 
 " 'Haven't you guessed?' she asked, 'I never liked 
 either of them. I hate them.' 
 
 "Astonishment was still upon me; she laughed 
 again a little. 
 
 " 'I knew you were not rich in those days, my 
 friend,' she said, touching my arm lightly with her 
 fan, 'so I pretended to like museau de bceuf and 
 beer, because they were cheap. ... I cared for 
 you, you see . . .' she added gravely. 
 
 "I was struck dumb. . . ." 
 
 Rhimanski stopped speaking. His long fingers 
 played with his wine glass; while his eyes stared 
 into the noisy white square unseeing. 
 
 After a pause de Lara said: "Yet many good 
 people would be ashamed to speak to Marie; they 
 would call her a light woman, a prostitute. . . 
 
 "What wonderful creatures Frenchwomen are!" 
 
 cried the novelist. "Such relations between men 
 
 and women in France are often almost perfect; no 
 
 coarseness in them, nothing like your hideous Picca- 
 
 294
 
 A Prostitute 
 
 dilly Circus, your brutal prostitution. Here even 
 viciousness is not gross." 
 
 "I don't agree with you," said the Englishman 
 slowly. "That doesn't seem to me the true moral 
 of the story; indeed, properly considered, the true 
 moral seems to me very different. It seems to 
 show not the superiority but the inferiority of 
 Frenchmen." 
 
 "What do you mean?" cried the Belgian. "That 
 is the wildest paradox I ever heard." 
 
 "Much more than a paradox," said Henri Bauer, 
 "it is ridiculously absurd." 
 
 "Come," said de Lara, "won't you explain?" 
 
 "I can perhaps explain," said the Englishman, "in 
 terms of art, though I should despair of trying to 
 explain ethically. I think Frenchmen are quicker 
 to see esthetic reasonings." 
 
 "I don't care how you do it," said the French 
 novelist, "to attempt to justify such a paradox will 
 be amusing." 
 
 "Suppose you went into a house," began the Eng- 
 lishman, "and found all along the walls copies of 
 the finest pictures in the world, good copies, ex- 
 cellent copies, let us say. Let us even go further 
 still and say that there is really taste shown in 
 the picking of the masterpieces. Would you think 
 
 295
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 the man a critic of art, a connoisseur of the beauti- 
 ful? You would almost admit, wouldn't you, that 
 a man who had such copies of masterpieces had 
 no real sense of what art was? For consider, the 
 very thing that the copy has not got is the pecu- 
 liarity that makes the great picture ; the soul of the 
 masterpiece is lacking. All the rest is there. The 
 imitation is superb if you please, but the soul is 
 not there, and it is the soul you love in the master- 
 piece." 
 
 "That is all right," said Bauer, "but I don't see 
 any application; I see no similarity even in the two 
 cases." 
 
 "A moment," replied the Englishman. "You say 
 you have copies of love on all hands in France 
 that are almost as good as the real thing. You 
 say that the goodness of the copy proves your high 
 civilization. I say it proves your low appreciation. 
 If you knew what love was, the master-virtue of 
 love, you wouldn't have an imitation at any price; 
 the imitation is always without the soul of the mas- 
 terpiece, and it is the soul you want, the highest 
 reach of it. 
 
 "In England and in America, in Germany and in 
 Russia there is more or less the soul of love, and 
 copies of it are disdained, and even the best of 
 296
 
 A Prostitute 
 
 them not much appreciated: but in France and in 
 Japan, where you have not got the real thing, where 
 the passion of love itself is almost unknown, the 
 imitation is excellent and you are content with first- 
 rate copies. 
 
 "The English have the ideal, and alas! the Pic- 
 cadilly Circus also; but the Piccadilly Circus prop- 
 erly considered is a proof that we do know what 
 the ideal means." 
 
 "A superb argument," said the Belgian novelist, 
 "but still I think it a paradox." 
 
 "There is no doubt something in what you say," 
 replied de Lara, "but you must admit that Marie 
 at any rate had some of the essence of true love 
 in her, at least the noble self-sacrifice of it." 
 
 "Surely," replied the Englishman. "The es- 
 sence of true love may be found in illegitimate 
 unions. I am not contending that the master virtue 
 has to be blessed in church." 
 
 "I agree with you," cried Rhimanski, "that it is 
 the self-sacrifice that redeems and ennobles love." 
 
 297
 
 
 a 
 
 The Kiss 
 
 5)
 
 "The Kiss" 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 Mrs. Jeremiah Hudson (Phyllis). 
 
 Mr. Jeremiah Hudson. 
 
 Lieutenant Dick Braithwaite (cousin to 
 Mrs. Hudson) . 
 
 Dr. William Hudson (his brother). 
 
 The scene opens in a modern London drawing- 
 room. The four persons are standing about talking 
 after dinner: coffee cups on the small table before 
 the hostess: the Lieutenant is smoking a cigarette. 
 
 Lieut. Braithwaite. I have been trying to get 
 Phyllis to come to the theater to-morrow night. 
 Jimmy Welch is ripping in the new play. I laughed 
 till I ached over it. 
 
 Dr. Hudson. What's it about? 
 
 Lieut. Braithwaite. It's from the French : the 
 usual sort of French farce : bridegroom with entan- 
 glement: father-in-law with entanglement: the two 
 pairs get all mixed up : really great fun ! Shall I 
 get a box and we'll all go? 
 
 301
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 Mr. Hudson. Not for me, thanks, but perhaps 
 Phyllis would like it: persuade her. 
 
 Lieut. Braithwaite [turning to hostess~\. Do 
 come ! It is only nonsense, but you will have to 
 laugh; it'll take you out of yourself. 
 
 [As he goes on talking to his hostess, Mr. Hud- 
 son and Dr. Hudson come down to the front, right. ~\ 
 
 Dr. Hudson. You wanted to see me, and I 
 rather wanted a talk with you. 
 
 Mr. Hudson. Go ahead with your business. 
 What is it? 
 
 Dr. Hudson. I got an anonymous letter the 
 other day. It annoyed me. 
 
 Mr. Hudson [shrugging his shoulders']. No sen- 
 sible person pays any attention to those things. 
 
 Dr. Hudson. My dear Jerry, everybody pays at- 
 tention to them. 
 
 Mr. Hudson. I don't. 
 
 Dr. Hudson. I think you ought to. 
 
 Mr. Hudson. What! Was your anonymous let- 
 ter about me? 
 
 Dr. Hudson. No; but it had a nasty hint about 
 — [and he nods toward Mrs. Hudson and Lieut. 
 Braithwaite'] . 
 
 Mr. Hudson [shrugs his shoulders]. Silly! 
 Some slighted, spiteful ass ! 
 302
 
 "The Kiss" 
 
 Dr. Hudson. No, Jerry, they are not so silly. 
 You are away all day at business, and ever since 
 he came home wounded, Braithwaite has been taking 
 Phyllis here, there and everywhere, and she's a very 
 pretty woman, and looks younger even than she is. 
 
 Mr. Hudson [looking at his brother]. You want 
 to tell me that I am a good deal older than Phyllis, 
 and I'm too tired after all day in the Courts to go 
 out with her every evening. I know all that; but I 
 know Phyllis, too; I love her, and I'm not fright- 
 ened. 
 
 Dr. Hudson. That's just it, Jerry; husbands 
 never are frightened, even when they have good 
 reason to be. 
 
 Mr. Hudson. Nonsense, Will. Phyllis tells me 
 what Braithwaite says to her; how he flirts. No; 
 there's no danger signal even. A man doesn't lose 
 the affection of a woman unless he deserves to by 
 neglecting her, and I prize Phyllis now more than I 
 did ten years ago. Make your mind easy, I shall 
 scent danger afar off. 
 
 Dr. Hudson. Oh! all right! If you won't be 
 warned, you won't. Willful man — [He turns 
 away ] . 
 
 Mr. Hudson [laying his hand on his arm]. I 
 want a word with you and my business is much more 
 
 303
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 serious [the brothers look at each other]. Do I 
 look all right? 
 
 Dr. Hudson [scrutinizing him~\. Yes, why? Is 
 there anything the matter? 
 
 Mr. Hudson. Do you remember that little Pom, 
 Rex, my wife had? [The doctor nods.] It got 
 old, you know, white about the muzzle, rheumatic 
 and snappy. I persuaded Phyllis that it should be 
 put out of its pain, and took it to the chemist. A 
 drop of prussic acid on its tongue and it was all over. 
 Poor little beast! 
 
 Dr. Hudson. Of course, I remember perfectly, 
 but what of that? That's months ago. 
 
 Mr. Hudson. I know — four months ago. 
 
 Dr. Hudson. Well, what of it? 
 
 Mr. Hudson. Some time afterward, it must 
 have been nearly two months, I began to feel funny. 
 I can't describe it; the French word malaise comes 
 nearest it — our English "out of sorts !" All vague, 
 don't you know, but very uncomfortable. Luckily 
 it was the summer; I began to ride again, gave my- 
 self much more exercise, took my work easier, and 
 for a little while I seemed to get better. Lately I've 
 got worse. 
 
 Dr. Hudson. Worse? What do you mean? 
 
 Mr. Hudson. I had a dreadful attack yesterday. 
 
 3°4
 
 "The Kiss" 
 
 Mouth dry; felt as if I were choking; strangely ner- 
 vous, bathed in perspiration. Oh! I get quirks. 
 
 Dr. Hudson. The dog didn't bite you, did it? 
 
 Mr. Hudson [shakes his head]. No. 
 
 Dr. Hudson. Then it's all right. It's all fancy! 
 
 Mr. Hudson. I seem to remember I had a 
 scratch on my finger, but I couldn't be sure. But it 
 isn't fancy, Will. [Puts his hand across his eyes.] 
 I'm certain of that. I wish to God it was! 
 
 Dr. Hudson. I can take some of your blood and 
 have it analyzed, but I think you will find it's all 
 right. 
 
 Mr. Hudson. All wrong. Don't make any mis- 
 take, Will. I'm sure or I wouldn't have bothered 
 anyone. You know I am not fanciful. I never felt 
 so ill. I've read all the books about it in the last 
 twenty-four hours, and there's no doubt I had to 
 fight yesterday to keep control of myself; it's dread- 
 ful to feel that one can lose hold of oneself and slip, 
 slip into — what an awful torture chamber — God! 
 I'm not afraid of death; but madness scares me. 
 
 Dr. Hudson. What do you want me to do? 
 
 Mr. Hudson. I must go to the Pasteur Institute 
 in Paris at once without alarming my wife. You 
 must invent some excuse. 
 
 Dr. Hudson. Now, on the spur of the moment? 
 
 305
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 Mr. Hudson. If possible now, or to-morrow 
 morning by letter. But it oughtn't be delayed. I 
 have had one of those awful throat spasms again 
 this afternoon. 
 
 Dr. Hudson. Good God! that's bad! Would 
 it do if I said that I wanted you to proceed in the 
 case of the Comtesse de Gaudier, who owes me ten 
 thousand francs? 
 
 Mr. Hudson. That would do, I think. But per- 
 haps you had better write it to me as well; it'll carry 
 greater conviction, and I can say now that you want 
 me to go, and that I don't want to. That'll get my 
 wife accustomed to the idea I may have to go. Send 
 in the letter by hand in the morning. And now, no 
 sign. 
 
 Dr. Hudson. Take some bromidia to-night and 
 quiet your nerves. 
 
 Mr. Hudson. You unbelieving Christian ! [Aloud, 
 turning toward his wife and the Lieutenant.] I 
 don't want to leave London now, even for three or 
 four days. 
 
 Mrs. Hudson. Why? Does Will want you to 
 go away? 
 
 Mr. Hudson. [Nods reflectingly.] 
 
 Dr. Hudson. Phyllis, I want him to help me to 
 get that money in Paris that's owing to me : I want 
 306
 
 "The Kiss" 
 
 him to come with me, because he'll put me on to the 
 best procedure there, and he'll see the lawyer at the 
 Embassy, and get everything in order. 
 
 Mrs. Hudson. Why not, Jerry? A little 
 change will do you good [moving toward him]. 
 
 Dr. Hudson [turning to Mr. Hudson']. There 
 you are, you see, Phyllis agrees with me. 
 
 Mrs. Hudson [with conviction]. Jerry's run 
 down or overtired, or something. He has not been 
 himself for — oh, ever so long — more than three 
 months. He's got thinner, too, and to-day he looks 
 bad. 
 
 Dr. Hudson [with forced laughter]. You see, 
 Jerry, you're detected. I told him to take some bro- 
 midia to-night. He's overworked, and his nerves 
 are shaky. A little trip to Paris, a pleasant change 
 will do him all the good in the world. 
 
 Mr. Hudson. There's no pleasure for me with- 
 out Phyllis, and I don't want to disturb you [to his 
 wife]. 
 
 Mrs. Hudson. I think the trip would do you 
 good, Jerry. You know you love the sea, and I hate 
 that crossing; it's only an hour, but it always makes 
 me ill for a week. [Appealing to the room.] I am 
 the worst sailor in the world. I get ill when I see 
 boats rocking about on the sea : a wretched feeling. 
 
 307
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 Dr. Hudson [to his brother]. Make up your 
 mind to come to-morrow, Jerry. 
 
 Mr. Hudson. No, no. I have business, Will; I 
 can't leave like that. 
 
 Phyllis. But, Jerry, you told me the other day 
 that you haven't so much to do now; you can get 
 away easily. Do go if you can. Why not to- 
 morrow? 
 
 Lieut. Braithwaite. A trip to Paris will be the 
 very thing for you, old man. A week there will buck 
 you up no end. It's like a night out, don't you know. 
 Ha! Ha! Ha! 
 
 Mr. Hudson. Well, we needn't decide at once. 
 There's no hurry. 
 
 Dr. Hudson. Oh, yes there is. There is always 
 a hurry to get money, and always a hurry, too, to 
 have things settled. Make up your mind, Jerry. 
 
 Mr. Hudson. I'll think it over and see what can 
 be done. 
 
 Mrs. Hudson. I think you ought to go, Jerry. 
 
 Dr. Hudson. Now, say you'll come. 
 
 Mr. Hudson. I'll oblige all right if everyone 
 wants to get rid of me. 
 
 Lieut. Braithwaite. Lucky dog. A trip to Paris. 
 Ha! Ha! 
 
 [Curtain] 
 308
 
 "The Kiss" 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 A month later. Lieut. Braithwaite and Dr. Hud- 
 son in drawing-room together. 
 
 Dr. Hudson. Time they were here. 
 
 Lieut. Braithwaite. I don't know why Phyllis in- 
 sisted on going to Dover to meet him; he could have 
 traveled up all right alone. [Walking about. ,] I 
 believe the whole thing has been nerves. I remem- 
 ber 
 
 [The door opens and Mr. and Mrs. Hudson come 
 in. The Doctor hurries toward the patient. ~\ 
 
 Dr. Hudson [after the usual greetings']. Well, 
 you are looking all right, Jerry, I am glad to see. I 
 have had the best news, too, from the Pasteur peo- 
 ple; they assure me you are cured. You feel all 
 right, don't you? 
 
 Mr. Hudson [looking at him]. I shall never 
 feel all right again, Will. All the confidence has 
 been knocked out of me. I shall never feel sure of 
 anything again in this shifty world! 
 
 Lieut. Braithwaite. That's all nerves. I know 
 the feeling, but you'll get over that. 
 
 Mr. Hudson [to his brother]. I feel as if I were 
 walking on ice that may give way at any moment and 
 let me into the icy current. The funk has had one 
 
 3°9
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 good result, I think; it has made me more consider- 
 ate. I don't judge and condemn others as I used to. 
 
 Dr. Hudson. The treatment was not painful in 
 Paris, was it? 
 
 Mr. Hudson. Oh, no ! but pain is nothing. It is 
 the dreadful doubt of one's own sanity. The reali- 
 zation that reason is not under one's control and at 
 any moment one may be — mad. It's dreadful. 
 [Pulls himself together.] Very interesting things 
 one learns at the Institute. You know the infection 
 is conveyed through saliva if there is any abrasion 
 of the skin. It appears we have three skins on our 
 body; only two on our lips. Well, the belief is now 
 that this poison is strong enough to come through 
 the skin of the lips without abrasion. I must have 
 got the dog's saliva on my lip in some way. I suppose 
 without thinking I must have put my hand to my 
 mouth; for they have established the fact that it 
 didn't come through the hand. Awful what the re- 
 sult of a kiss might be! Worse than the kiss of 
 Judas ! 
 
 Mrs. Hudson [appealingly]. Come, Jerry, I 
 won't have you thinking of such things, or talking 
 of them; talking even is bad, it makes you realize 
 them; put them all out of your mind. 
 
 Dr. Hudson. She is quite right, you know, Jerry. 
 310
 
 "The Kiss" 
 
 Forget the experience; don't think of it again; put 
 it resolutely away from you. Live in the present. 
 
 Lieut. Braithwaite. It is all nerves, don't you 
 know. I'm sure it is nerves. I remember once in 
 camp near Rawul Pindi the cholera was pretty bad. 
 I got nursing the fellows and reading all about it, 
 and one day I got all the symptoms; had to go to 
 bed, was damn bad. Suddenly news came of a raid 
 — my chance, don't you know. I got up and rushed 
 into my clothes and started out — rode all night. 
 Next morning I was surprised to feel myself as fit as 
 I had ever been in my life. No touch of cholera 
 about me — all cured. 
 
 I told Phyllis when she wanted to go to Paris that 
 she could go without being seasick if she only made 
 up her mind. When the ship is going down, don't 
 ye know, it cures sea-sickness at once. All that ma- 
 laise yo»-talk about and dread — all mere nerves. 
 ^Mr. Hudson. The doctors say that when you 
 are getting well the danger of infection is greatest. 
 I am probably more dangerous now to others than I 
 was two months ago. 
 
 Lieut. Braithwaite [laughing]. Oh, dangerous! 
 You are as right as rain, don't ye know, if you'd only 
 make up your mind. 
 
 Mr. Hudson. You think so? 
 
 3 11
 
 The Veils of Isis 
 
 Lieut. Braithwaite. I am sure of it. I have told 
 Phyllis so a hundred times. 
 
 Mr. Hudson [steps to him and taking him by the 
 shoulders, thrusts his face quite close to his]. If 
 you are sure, then kiss me on the lips. 
 
 Lieut. Braithwaite [draws back~\. Oh, I say, 
 don't ye know, there's — there's no reason 
 
 Mrs. Hudson [coming forward]. So that's why 
 you didn't kiss me, Jerry. You must kiss me now. 
 
 Mr. Hudson [puts his hand on her head with in- 
 finite tenderness]. No need to test you, dear; 
 none. 
 
 312
 
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