VISIONARIES
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 EDWIN CORLE 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 JEAN CORLE
 
 VISIONARIES
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES HUNEKER 
 
 J'aime les nuages ... la has . . . ! 
 
 BAUDELAIRE 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 1905
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Published October, 1905. 
 
 Xortaoatr 
 
 J. 8. Gushing & Co. Berwick & Smith Co. 
 Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
 
 College 
 Library 
 
 MON CHER MAITRE 
 
 REMY DE GOURMONT 
 
 PARIS
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 FACE 
 
 I. A MASTER OF COBWEBS i 
 
 II. THE EIGHTH DEADLY SIN .... 23 
 
 III. THE PURSE OF AHOLIBAH .... 44 
 
 IV. REBELS OF THE MOON 64 
 
 V. THE SPIRAL ROAD 80 
 
 VI. A MOCK SUN no 
 
 VII. ANTICHRIST 135 
 
 VIII. THE ETERNAL DUEL 145 
 
 IX. THE ENCHANTED YODLER .... 149 
 
 X. THE THIRD KINGDOM 168 
 
 XI. THE HAUNTED HARPSICHORD .... 188 
 
 XII. THE TRAGIC WALL 203 
 
 XIII. A SENTIMENTAL REBELLION .... 227 
 
 XIV. HALL OF THE MISSING FOOTSTEPS . . . 249 
 XV. THE CURSORY LIGHT 266 
 
 XVI. AN IRON FAN 278 
 
 XVII. THE WOMAN WHO LOVED CHOPIN . . . 289 
 
 XVIII. THE TUNE OF TIME 309 
 
 XIX. NADA 326 
 
 XX. PAN 332
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 A MASTER OF COBWEBS 
 I 
 
 ALIXE VAN KUYP sat in the first-tier box 
 presented to her husband with the accustomed 
 heavy courtesy of the Soci6te Harmonique. 
 She went early to the hall that she might 
 hear the entire music-making of the evening 
 Van Kuyp's tone-poem, Sordello, was on the 
 programme between a Weber overture and a 
 Beethoven symphony, an unusual honour for a 
 young American composer. If she had gone 
 late, it would have seemed an affectation, she 
 reasoned. Her husband kept within doors ; 
 she could tell him all. And then, was there 
 not Elvard Rentgen ? 
 
 She regretted that she had invited the Pari 
 sian critic to her box. It happened at a soiree, 
 where he showed his savage profile among 
 admiring musical lambs. But he was never 
 punctual at musical affairs. This consoled 
 Alixe.
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 Perhaps he would forget her impulsive, fool 
 ish speech, "without him the music would fall 
 upon unheeding ears, he, who interpreted art 
 for the multitude, the holder of the critical key 
 that unlocked masterpieces." She had felt the 
 banality of her compliment as she uttered it, 
 and she knew the man who listened, his glance 
 incredulous, his mouth smiling, could not be 
 deceived. Rentgen had been too many years 
 in the candy shop to care for sweets. She re 
 called her mean little blush as he twisted his 
 pointed, piebald beard with long, fat fingers and 
 leisurely traversed his were the measuring 
 eyes of an architect her face, her hair, her 
 neck, and finally, stared at her ears until they 
 burned like a child's cheek in frost time. 
 
 Alixe Van Kuyp was a large woman, with a 
 conscientious head and gray eyes. As she 
 waited, she realized that it was one of her timid 
 nights, when colour came easily and temper ran 
 at its lowest ebb. She had begged Van Kuyp 
 to cancel the habit of not listening to his own 
 music except at rehearsal, and, annoyed by his 
 stubbornness, neglected to tell him of the other 
 invitation. The house was quite full when the 
 music began. Uneasiness overtook her as the 
 Oberon slowly stole upon her consciousness. 
 She forgot Rentgen ; a more disquieting prob 
 lem presented itself. Richard's music how 
 would it sound in the company of the old mas 
 ters, those masters who were newer than Wag 
 ner, newer than Strauss and the " moderns " ! 
 
 2
 
 A MASTER OF COBWEBS 
 
 She envisaged her husband small, slim, with 
 hisbushy red hair, big student's head familiarly 
 locking arms with Weber and Beethoven in the 
 hall of fame. No, the picture did not convince 
 her. She was his severest censor. Not one of 
 the professional critics could put their fingers on 
 Van Kuyp's weak spots "his sore music," as 
 he jestingly called it so surely as his wife. 
 She had studied ; she had even played the violin 
 in public ; but she gave up her virtuosa ambi 
 tions for the man she had married during their 
 student years in Germany. Now the old doubts 
 came to life as the chivalric tones of Weber rose to 
 her sharpened senses. Why couldn't Richard 
 
 The door in the anteroom opened, her guest 
 entered. Alixe was not dismayed. She left 
 her seat and, closing the curtains, greeted him. 
 
 The overture was ending as Rentgen sat 
 down beside her in the intimate little chamber, 
 lighted by a solitary electric bulb. 
 
 " You are always thoughtful," she murmured. 
 
 " My dear lady, mine is the honour. And if 
 you do not care, can't we hear the music of your 
 young man " he smiled, she thought, acidly 
 " here ? If I sit outside, the world will say 
 we have to be careful of our unsmirched reputa 
 tions we poor critics and slave-drivers of the 
 deaf." 
 
 She drew her hand gently away. He had 
 held it, playfully tapping it as he slowly deliv 
 ered himself in short sentences. He was a 
 Dane, but his French and English were with- 
 
 3
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 out trace of accent; certain intonations alone 
 betrayed his Scandinavian origin. 
 
 Alixe could not refuse, for the moment he 
 finished speaking she heard a too familiar mo 
 tive, the ponderous phrase in the brass choir 
 which Van Kuyp intended as the thematic label 
 for his hero, " Sordello." 
 
 " Ah, there's your Browning in tone for you," 
 whispered the critic. She wished him miles 
 away. The draperies were now slightly parted 
 and into the room filtered the grave, languorous 
 accents of the new tone-poem. Her eyes were 
 fixed by Rentgen's. His expression changed ; 
 with nostrils dilated like a hunter scenting prey, 
 his rather inert, cold features became transfig 
 ured ; he was the man who listened, the cruel 
 judge who sentenced. And she hoped, also the 
 kind friend who would consider the youth and 
 inexperience of the culprit. To the morbidly 
 acute hearing of the woman, the music had a 
 ring of hollow sonority after the denser packed 
 phrases of Weber. 
 
 She had read Sordello with her husband until 
 she thought its meaning was as clear as high 
 noon. By the critic's advice the subject had 
 been selected for musical treatment. Sordello's 
 overweening spiritual pride " gate-vein of this 
 heart's blood of Lombardy " appealed to Van 
 Kuyp. The stress of souls, the welter of cross- 
 purposes which begirt the youthful dreamer, his 
 love for Palma, and his swift death when all the 
 world thrust upon him its joys here were mo- 
 4
 
 A MASTER OF COBWEBS 
 
 tives, indeed, for any musician of lofty aim and 
 sympathetic imagination. 
 
 Alixe recalled the interminable arguments, 
 the snatches of poetry, the hasty rushes to the 
 keyboard ; a composer was in travail. At the 
 end of a year, Rentgen professed his satisfac 
 tion ; Van Kuyp stood on the highroad to fame. 
 Of that there could be no doubt ; Elvard Rent- 
 gen would say so in print. Alixe had been re 
 assured 
 
 Yet sitting now within the loop of her hus 
 band's music it suddenly became insipid, futile, 
 and lacking in those enchantments for which 
 she yearned. Her eyes dropped to the shapely 
 hands meekly folded in her lap, dropped be 
 cause the bold, interrogative expression on Rent- 
 gen's face disturbed her. She knew, as any 
 woman would have known, that he admired her 
 but was he not Richard's friend? His glance 
 enveloped her with piteous mockery. 
 
 The din was tremendous. After passages of 
 dark music, in which the formless ugly reigned, 
 occurred the poetic duel between Sordello and 
 Eglamor at Palma's Court of Love. But why 
 all this stress and fury ? On the pianoforte the 
 delicate episode sounded gratefully ; with the 
 thick riotous orchestration came a disillusioning 
 transformation. There was noise without power, 
 there was sensuality that strove to imitate the 
 tenderness of passion ; and she had fancied it a 
 cloudy garden of love. Alixe raised an invol 
 untary hand to her ear. 
 
 5
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 " Yes," whispered the critic, " I warned him 
 not to use his colours with a trowel. His theme 
 is not big enough to stand it." He lifted thin 
 eyebrows and to her overheated brain was an 
 unexpected Mephisto. Then the music whirled 
 her away to Italy ; the love scene of Palm a and 
 Sordello. It should have been the apex of the 
 work. 
 
 "Sounds too much like Tscha'fkowsky's Fran- 
 cesca da Rimini," interrupted Rentgen. She 
 was annoyed. 
 
 "Why didn't you tell Van Kuyp before he 
 scored the work ? " she demanded, her long gray 
 eyes beginning to blacken. 
 
 " I did, my dear lady, I did. But you know 
 what musicians are " He shrugged a con 
 clusion with his narrow shoulders. Alixe coldly 
 regarded him. There was something new and 
 dangerous in his attitude to her husband's music 
 this evening. 
 
 Her heart began to beat heavily. What if 
 her suspicions were but the advance guard of a 
 painful truth! What if' this keen analyst of 
 other men's ideas she dared not finish the 
 thought. With a sluggish movement the music 
 uncoiled itself like a huge boa about to engulf a 
 tiny rabbit. The simile forced itself against her 
 volition ; all this monstrous preparation for a 
 rabbit ! In a concert-hall the poetic idea of the 
 tone-poem was petty. And the churning of the 
 orchestra, foaming hysteria of the strings, bel 
 lowing of the brass would they never cease ! 
 6
 
 A MASTER OF COBWEBS 
 
 Such an insane chase after a rabbit ! Yes, she 
 said the word to herself and found her lips 
 carved into a hard smile, which she saw reflected 
 as in a trick mirror upon the face of Elvard 
 Rentgen. He understood. 
 
 Of little avail Sordello's frantic impotencies. 
 She saw through the rhetorical trickeries of 
 the music, weighed its cheap splendours, real 
 ized the mediocrity of this second-rate poet 
 turned symphonist. Image after image pressed 
 upon her brain, each more pessimistic, more 
 depressing than its predecessor. Alixe could 
 have wept. Her companion placed his hand 
 on her arm. His fingers burned ; she moved, 
 but she felt his will controlling her mood. With 
 high relief she heard the music end. There was 
 conventional applause. Alixe restlessly peered 
 into the auditorium. Again she saw opera-glasses 
 turned toward the box. " Our good friends," she 
 rather bitterly thought. Rentgen recognized 
 her mental turmoil. 
 
 " Don't worry," he said soothingly. " It will 
 be all right to-morrow morning. What I write 
 will make the fortune of the composition." He 
 did not utter this vaingloriously, but as a man 
 who stated simple truth. She gazed at him, her 
 timidity and nervousness returning in full tide. 
 
 " I know I am overwrought. I should be 
 thankful. But but, isn't it deception I 
 mean, will it be fair to conceal from Richard 
 the real condition of affairs ? " He took her 
 hand.
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 " Spoken like a true wife," he gayly exclaimed. 
 " My dear friend, there will be no deception. 
 Only encouragement, a little encouragement. 
 As for deceiving a composer, telling him that 
 he may not be so wonderful as he thinks 
 that's impossible. I know these star-shoulder 
 ing souls, these farmers of phantasms who exist 
 in a world by themselves. It would be a pity 
 to let in the cold air of reality anyhow Van 
 Kuyp has some talent." 
 
 Like lifting mists revealing the treacherous 
 borders of a masked pool, she felt this speech 
 with its ironic innuendo. She flushed, her 
 vanity irritated. Rentgen saw her eyes con 
 tract. 
 
 " Let us go when the symphony begins," she 
 begged, " I can't talk to any one in my present 
 bad humour ; and to hear Beethoven would 
 drive me mad now." 
 
 " I don't wonder," remarked her companion, 
 consolingly. Alixe winced. 
 
 The silver-cold fire of an undecided moon was 
 abroad in the sky and rumours of spring filled 
 the air. They parted at a fiacre. He told her 
 he would call the next afternoon, and she 
 nodded an unforgiving head. It was her turn 
 to be disagreeable. 
 
 In his music room, Van Kuyp read a volume 
 of verse. He did not hear his wife enter. It 
 pained her when she saw his serious face with 
 its undistinguished features and dogged ex 
 pression. No genius this, was her hasty ver- 
 S
 
 A MASTER OF COBWEBS 
 
 diet, as she quickly went to him and put a hand 
 on his head. It was her hand now that was 
 hot. He raised eyes, dolent with dreams. 
 
 " Well ? " he queried. 
 
 " You are a curious man ! " she said wonder- 
 ingly. "Aren't you interested in the news 
 about your symphonic poem ? " He smiled 
 the smile of the fatuous elect. " I imagine it 
 went all right," he languidly replied. " I heard 
 it at rehearsal yesterday I suppose Theleme 
 took the tempi too slow ! " 
 
 She sighed and asked : 
 
 " What are you reading a night like this ? " 
 His expression became animated. 
 
 "A volume of Celtic poetry I've found a 
 stunning idea for music. What a tone-poem it 
 will make ! Here it is. What colour, what 
 rhythms. It is called The Shadowy Horses. 
 ' I hear the shadowy horses, their long manes 
 a-shake' " 
 
 " Who gave you the poem ? " 
 
 " Oh, Rentgen, of course. Did you see him 
 to-night ? " 
 
 " You dear boy ! You must be tired to death. 
 Better rest. The critics will get you up early 
 enough." 
 
 Through interminable hours the mind of Alixe 
 revolved about a phrase she had picked up 
 from Elvard Rentgen: "Music is a trap for 
 weak souls; for the strong as the spinning of 
 cobwebs. , ."
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 II 
 
 It was pompous July and the Van Kuyps 
 were still in Paris. They lived near Passy 
 from her windows high in the air Alixe caught 
 the green at dawn as the sun lifted level rays. 
 Richard was writing his new tone-poem, which 
 the Societe Harmonique accepted provisionally 
 for the season following. Sordello had set the 
 town agog because of the exhaustive articles 
 by Rentgen it brought in its wake. He was a 
 critic who wrote brilliantly of music in the terms 
 of painting, of plastic arts in the technical 
 phraseology of music, and by him the drama 
 was discussed purely as literature. This de 
 liberate and delicate confusion of aesthetics 
 clouded the public mind. He described Sor 
 dello as a vast mural fresco, a Puvis de Cha- 
 vannes in tone, a symphonic drama wherein 
 agonized the shadowy JEschylean protagonist. 
 Even sculpture was rifled for analogies, and 
 Van Kuyp to his bewilderment found himself 
 called " The Rodin of Music " ; at other times, 
 " Richard Strauss II," or a " Tonal Browning " ; 
 finally, he was adjured to swerve not from the 
 path he had so wonderfully hewn for himself in 
 the virgin jungle of modern art, and begged to 
 resist the temptations of the music-drama. 
 
 Rentgen loathed the music of Wagner. 
 
 Wagner had abused Meyerbeer for doing what 
 
 he did himself writing operas stuffed with 
 
 spectacular effects. This man of the foot- 
 
 10
 
 A MASTER OF COBWEBS 
 
 lights destroyed all musical imagination with his 
 puppet shows, magic lanterns, Turkish bazaars, 
 where, to the booming of mystic bells, the lis 
 tener was drugged into opium-fed visions. 
 
 Under a tent, as at a fair, he assembled the 
 mangled masterpieces of Bach, Gluck, Beethoven, 
 Weber, Schubert, Schumann, Chopin, and to a 
 gullible public sold the songs of these music- 
 lords songs that should swim on high like 
 great swan-clouds cleaving skies blue and inac 
 cessible. And his music was operatic, after all, 
 grand opera saccharine with commonplace 
 melodies gorgeously attired nothing more. 
 Wagner, declared the indignant critic, was not 
 original. He popularized the noble ideas of the 
 masters, vulgarized and debased their dreams. 
 He never conceived a single new melody, but 
 substituted instead, sadly mauled and pinched 
 thematic fragments of Liszt, Berlioz, and Bee 
 thoven, combined with exaggerated fairy-tales, 
 clothed in showy tinsel and theatrical gauds, the 
 illusion being aided by panoramic scenery ; 
 scenery that acted in company with toads, 
 dragons, horses, snakes, crazy valkyrs, mer 
 maids, half-mad humans, gods, demons, dwarfs, 
 and giants. What else is all this but old-fash 
 ioned Italian opera with a new name ? What 
 else but an inartistic mixture of Scribe libretto 
 and Northern mythology ? Music-drama 
 fudge ! Making music that one can see is a 
 death-blow to a lofty idealization of the art. 
 
 Puzzled by the richness of Rentgen's vocabu- 
 ii
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 lary, by his want of logic, Alixe asked herself 
 many times whether she was wrong and her 
 husband right. She wished to be loyal. His de 
 votion to his work, his inspiration springing as 
 it did from poetic sources, counted for some 
 thing. Why not? All composers should read 
 the poets. It is a starting-point. Modern mu 
 sic leans heavily on drama and fiction. Richard 
 Strauss embroiders philosophical ideas, so why 
 should not Richard Van Kuyp go to Ireland, to 
 the one land where there is hope of a spiritual, 
 a poetic renascence ? Ireland ! The very name 
 evoked dreams ! 
 
 When Rentgen called at the Van Kuyps' it 
 was near the close of a warm afternoon. The 
 composer would not stir, despite the invitation 
 of the critic or the pleading of his wife. He 
 knew that the angel wings of inspiration had 
 been brushing his brow all the morning, and 
 such visits were too rare to be flouted. He sat 
 at his piano and in a composer's raucous varied 
 voice, imitated the imaginary timbres of orches 
 tral instruments. Sent forth, Mrs. Van Kuyp 
 and Rentgen slowly walked into the little Pare 
 of Auteuil, once the joy of the Goncourts. 
 
 " Musicians are as selfish as the sea," he 
 asserted, as they sat upon a bench of tepid iron. 
 She did not demur. The weather had exhausted 
 her patience ; she was young and fond of the 
 open air the woods made an irresistible picture 
 this day. The critic watched her changing, dis 
 satisfied face. 
 
 12
 
 A MASTER OF COBWEBS 
 
 " Shall we ride ? " he suddenly asked. Before 
 she could shake a negative head, he quickly 
 uttered the words that had been hovering in her 
 mind for hours. 
 
 " Or, shall we go to the Bois ? " She started. 
 " What an idea ! Go to the Bois without Rich 
 ard, without my husband ? " 
 
 "Why not? "he inquired, "it's not far away. 
 Send him a wire asking him to join us ; it will 
 do him good after his labours. Come, Madame 
 Van Kuyp, come Alixe, my child." He paused. 
 Her eyes expanded. "I'll go," she quietly an 
 nounced " that is, if you grant me a favour." 
 
 "A hundred! " he triumphantly cried. 
 
 Ill 
 
 To soothe her conscience, which began to 
 ring faint alarm-bells at sundown, Alixe sent sev 
 eral despatches to her husband, and then tried 
 a telephone ; but she was not successful. Her 
 mood shifted chilly, and they bored each other 
 immeasurably on the long promenade vibrating 
 with gypsy music and frivolous folk. 
 
 It was after seven o'clock as the sun slowly 
 swam down the sky-line. Decidedly their little 
 flight from the prison of stone was not offering 
 rich recompense to Alixe Van Kuyp and her 
 elderly companion. 
 
 " And now for the favour ! " he demanded, his 
 eyes contentedly resting upon the graceful ex 
 panse of his guest's figure.
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 She moved restlessly : " My dear Rentgen, I am 
 about to ask you a question, only a plain question. 
 That is the favour." He bowed incredulously. 
 
 " I must know the truth about Richard. It is 
 a serious matter, this composing of his. He 
 neglects his pupils most of them Americans 
 who come to Paris to study with him. Yet with 
 the reputation he has attained, due to you en 
 tirely " she waved away an interruption 
 " he refuses to write songs or piano music that 
 will sell. He is an incorrigible idealist and I 
 confess I am discouraged. What can be our 
 future ? " She drew the deep breath of one in 
 peril ; this plain talk devoid of all sham morti 
 fied her exceedingly. 
 
 She was thankful that he did not attempt to 
 play the role of fatherly adviser. His eyes were 
 quite sincere when he answered her : 
 
 " What you say, Alixe " the familiarity 
 brought with it no condescending reverberations 
 " has bothered me more than once. I shall 
 be just as frank on my side. No, your husband 
 has but little talent ; original talent, none. He is 
 mediocre wait ! " She started, her cheeks red 
 with the blood that fled her heart when she 
 heard this doleful news. " Wait ! There are 
 qualifications. In the first place, what do you 
 expect from an American ? " 
 
 " But you always write so glowingly of our 
 composers," she interjected. 
 
 " And," he went on as if she had not spoken, 
 " Van Kuyp is your typical countryman. He 
 14
 
 A MASTER OF COBWEBS 
 
 has studied in Germany. He has muddled his 
 brain with the music of a dozen different na 
 tions ; if he had had any individuality it would 
 have been submerged. His memory has killed 
 his imagination. He borrows his inspiration 
 from the poets, from Liszt, Wagner, Berlioz, 
 Richard Strauss. Anyhow, like all musicians of 
 his country, he is too painfully self-conscious of 
 his nationality." 
 
 " You, alone, are responsible for his present 
 ambitions," retorted the unhappy woman. 
 
 " Quite true, my dear friend. I acknowledge 
 it." ' 
 
 " And you say this to my face ? " 
 
 " Do you wish me to lie ? " She did not re 
 ply. After a grim pause she burst forth : 
 
 " Oh, why doesn't he compose an opera, and 
 make a popular name ? " 
 
 " Richard Wagner Number II !" There were 
 implications of sarcasm in this which greatly 
 displeased Mrs. Van Kuyp. They strolled on 
 slowly. It was a melodious summer night ; mauve 
 haze screened all but the exquisite large stars. 
 Soothed despite rebellion, Alixe told herself 
 sharply that in every duel with this man she 
 was worsted. He said things that scratched her 
 nerves ; yet she forgave. He had not the 
 slightest attraction for her ; nevertheless, when 
 he spoke, she listened, when he wrote, she read. 
 He ruled the husband through his music ; he 
 ruled her through her husband. And what did 
 he expect ? 
 
 15
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 They retraced their way. A fantastic bridge 
 spanning the brief marshland, frozen by the 
 moonlight, appealed to them. They crossed. 
 A coachman driving an open carriage hailed 
 confidentially. Alixe entered and with a dex 
 terous play of draperies usurped the back seat. 
 Rentgen made no sign. He had her in full 
 view, the moon streaking her disturbed features 
 with its unflattering pencil. 
 
 They started bravely, the horses running for 
 home ; but the rapid gait soon subsided into a 
 rhythmic trot. Rentgen spoke. She hardly 
 recognized his voice, so gently monotonous were 
 his phrases. 
 
 " Dear Alixe. It is a night for confessions. 
 You care for your husband, you are wrapped 
 up in his art work, you are solicitous of his fu 
 ture, of his fame. It is admirable. You are a 
 model wife for an artist. But tell me frankly, 
 doesn't it bore you to death ? Doesn't all this 
 talk of music, themes, orchestration, of the pub 
 lic, critics, musicians, conductors, get on your 
 nerves ? Is it any consolation for you to know 
 that Van Kuyp will be famous ? What is his 
 fame or his failure to you ? Where do you, 
 Alixe Van Kuyp, come in ? Why must your 
 charming woman's soul be sacrificed, warped to 
 this stunted tree of another's talent ? You are 
 silent. You say he is trying to make me deny 
 Richard ! You were never more mistaken. I 
 am interested in you both ; interested in you as 
 a noble woman stop ! I mean it. And in- 
 16
 
 A MASTER OF COBWEBS 
 
 terested in Richard well because he is my 
 own creation. . . ." 
 
 She watched him now with her heart in her 
 eyes ; he frightened her more with these low, 
 purring words, than if he declared open love. 
 
 " He is my own handiwork. I have created 
 him. I have fashioned his outlines, have 
 wound up the mechanism that moves him to 
 compose. Did you ever read that terrifying 
 thought of Yeats, the Irish poet ? I've for 
 gotten the story, but remember the idea : ' The 
 beautiful arts were sent into the world to over 
 throw nations, and, finally, life itself, sowing 
 everywhere unlimited desires, like torches 
 thrown into a burning city.' There 'like 
 torches thrown into a burning city ! ' Richard 
 Van Kuyp is one of my burning torches. In 
 the spectacle of his impuissance I find relief 
 from my own suffering." 
 
 The booming of the Tzigane band was no 
 longer heard only the horses' muffled foot 
 falls and the intermittent chromatic drone of 
 hidden distant tram-cars. She shivered and 
 shaded her face with her fan. There was some 
 thing remote from humanity in his speech. He 
 continued with increasing vivacity : 
 
 " Music is a burning torch. And music, like 
 ideas, can slay the brain. Wagner borrowed 
 his harmonic fire from the torch of Chopin 
 She broke in : 
 
 " Don't talk of Chopin ! Tell me more of 
 Van Kuyp. Why do you call him yours ? " 
 17
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 Her curiosity was become pain. It mastered 
 her prudence. 
 
 " In far-away Celtic legends there may be 
 found a lovely belief that our thoughts are 
 independent realities, that they go about in the 
 void seeking creatures to control. They are as 
 bodiless souls. When they descend into a 
 human being they possess his moods, in very 
 existence " 
 
 " And Richard ! " she muttered. His words 
 swayed her like strange music ; the country 
 through which they were passing was a blank ; 
 she could see but two luminous points the 
 nocturnal eyes of Elvard Rentgen, as he spun 
 his cobwebs in the moonshine. She did not 
 fear him ; nothing could frighten her now. One 
 desire held her. If it were unslaked, she felt 
 she would collapse. It was to know the truth, 
 to be told everything! He put restraining 
 fingers on her ungloved hand ; they seemed like 
 cold, fat spiders. Yet she was only curious, 
 with a curiosity that murdered the spirit within 
 her. 
 
 " To transfuse these shadows, my dear Alixe, 
 has been one of my delights, for I can project 
 my futile desires into another's soul. I am 
 denied the gift of music-making, so this is my 
 revenge on nature for bungling its job. If 
 Richard had genius, my intervention would be 
 superfluous. He has none. He is dull. You 
 must realize it. But since he has known me, 
 has felt my influence, has been subject to my 
 18
 
 A MASTER OF COBWEBS 
 
 volition, my sorcery, you may call it, " his 
 laugh was disagreeably conscious, " he has 
 developed the shadow of a great man. He will 
 seem a great composer. I shall make him think 
 he is one. I shall make the world believe it, 
 also. It is my fashion of squaring a life I hate. 
 But if I chose to withdraw " 
 
 The road they entered was black and full of 
 the buzzing shadows of hot night, but she was 
 oblivious to everything but his hallucinating 
 voice : 
 
 " And if you withdraw ? " Her mouth echoed 
 phrases without the complicity of her brain. 
 
 " If I do ah, these cobweb spinners ! 
 Good-by to Richard Van Kuyp and dreams of 
 glory." This note of harsh triumph snapped 
 his weaving words. 
 
 " I don't believe you or your boasts," re 
 marked Alixe, in her most conventionally amused 
 manner. " You are trying to scare me, and 
 with this hypnotic joke about Richard you have 
 only hypnotized yourself. I mean to tell Mr. 
 Van Kuyp every bit of our conversation. I'm 
 not frightened by your vampire tales. You 
 critics are only shadows of composers." 
 
 " Yes, but we make ordinary composers be 
 lieve they are great," he replied acridly. 
 
 " I'll tell this to Richard." 
 
 " He won't believe you." 
 
 " He shall he won't believe you ! Oh, 
 Rentgen, how can you invent such cruel things ? 
 Are you always so malicious ? What do you
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 mean? Come what do you expect?" She 
 closed her eyes, anticipating an avowal. Why 
 should a man seek to destroy her faith in her 
 husband, in love itself, if not for some selfish 
 purpose of his own ? But she was wrong, and 
 became vaguely alarmed at least if he had 
 offered his service and sympathy in exchange 
 for her friendship, she might have understood 
 his fantastic talk. Rentgen sourly reflected 
 despite epigrams, women never vary. For him 
 her sentiment was suburban. It strangled 
 poetry. But he said nothing, though she 
 imagined he looked depressed ; nor did he open 
 his mouth as the carriage traversed avenues 
 of processional poplars before arriving at her 
 door. She turned to him imploringly : 
 
 " You must come with me. I shall never be 
 able to go in alone, without an excuse. Don't 
 don't repeat to Richard what you said to me, 
 in joke, I am sure, about his music. Heavens ! 
 What will my husband think ? " There was de 
 spair in her voice, but hopefulness in her gait 
 and gesture, when they reached the ill-lighted 
 hall. 
 
 A night-lamp stood on the composer's study 
 table. The piano was open. He sat at the key 
 board, though not playing, as they hurriedly en 
 tered the room. 
 
 " You poor fellow ! You look worn out. Did 
 
 you think we had run away from you ? Did you 
 
 get the wires, the telephone messages ? Oh, why 
 
 did you keep us expecting you, Richard ! We 
 
 20
 
 A MASTER OF COBWEBS 
 
 have had a wonderful time and missed you so 
 much ! Such a talk with Rentgen ! And all 
 about you. Nicht wahr, Rentgen? He says 
 you are the only man in the world with a musi 
 cal future. Isn't that so, Rentgen ? Didn't you 
 say that Richard was the only man in whom you 
 took any interest ? Say what you said to me ! 
 I dare you ! " 
 
 The musician, aroused by this wordy assault, 
 looked from one to the other with his heavy 
 eyes, the eyes of an owl rudely disturbed. Alixe 
 almost danced her excitement. She hummed 
 shrilly and grasped Van Kuyp's arm in the gay 
 est rebounding humour. 
 
 " Why don't you speak, Maestro ? " 
 
 " I didn't join you because I was too busy at 
 my score. Listen, children ! I have sketched 
 the beginning of The Shadowy Horses. You 
 remember the Yeats poem, Rentgen ? Listen ! " 
 
 Furiously he attacked the instrument, from 
 which escaped accents of veritable torture ; a 
 delirium of tone followed, meagre melodies fight 
 ing for existence in the boiling madness of it all ; 
 it was the parody of a parody, the music of yes 
 terday masquerading as the music of to-morrow. 
 Alixe nervously watched the critic. He stood 
 at the end of the piano and morosely fumbled 
 his beard. Again a wave of anxious hatred, fol 
 lowed by forebodings, crowded her alert brain. 
 She desperately clutched her husband's shoulder ; 
 he finished in a burst of sheer pounding and 
 brutal roaring. Then she threw her arms about 
 21
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 him in an ecstasy of pride her confidence was 
 her only anchorage. 
 
 " There, Elvard Rentgen ! What did you tell 
 me ? I dare you to say that this music is not 
 marvellous, not original ! " Her victorious gaze, 
 in which floated indomitable faith, challenged 
 him, as she drew the head of her husband to her 
 protecting bosom. The warring of exasperated 
 eyes endured a moment ; to Alixe it seemed 
 eternity. Rentgen bowed and went away from 
 this castle of cobwebs, deeply stirred by the wife's 
 tender untruths. . . . She was the last dawn 
 illuminating his empty, sordid life, now a 
 burnt city of defaced dreams and blackened 
 torches. 
 
 22
 
 II 
 
 THE EIGHTH DEADLY SIN 
 
 Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the 
 field which the Lord God had made. Genesis. 
 
 THE SERMON 
 
 " AND the Seven Deadly Sins, beloved breth 
 ren, are : Pride, Covetousness, Lust, Anger, 
 Gluttony, Envy, Sloth. To these our wise 
 Mother, the Church, opposes the contrary vir 
 tues : Humility, Chastity, Meekness, Temper 
 ance, Brotherly Love, Diligence." The voice of 
 the preacher was clear and well modulated. It 
 penetrated to the remotest corner of the church. 
 Baldur, sitting near the pulpit, with its elaborate 
 traceries of marble, idly wondered why the sins 
 were, with few exceptions, words of one syllable, 
 while those of the virtues were all longer. Per 
 haps because it was easier to sin than to repent ! 
 The voice of the speaker deepened as he con 
 tinued : 
 
 " Now the Seven Deadly Arts are : Music, 
 Literature, Painting, Sculpture, Architecture, 
 Dancing, Acting. The mercy of God has luckily 
 purified these once pagan inventions, and trans- 
 
 2 3
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 formed them into saving instruments of grace. 
 Yet it behooves us to examine with the utmost 
 diligence the possible sources of evil latent in 
 each and every one of those arts. Then we 
 shall consider some of the special forms of sin 
 that may develop from them. St. Chrysostom 
 warned the faithful against the danger of the 
 Eighth Deadly Art Perfume. . . ." 
 
 His phrases, which began to fall into the 
 rhythmic drone of a Sunday sermon, lulled 
 Baldur to dreaming. Perfume that delicious 
 vocable ! And the contrast with what his own 
 nostrils reported to his consciousness made him 
 slightly shiver. It was on a Friday night in Lent 
 that, weary in flesh and spirit, his conscience 
 out of tune, he had entered the church and taken 
 the first vacant seat. Without, the air was slug 
 gish ; after leaving his club the idea of theatres 
 or calls had set his teeth on edge. He longed 
 to be alone, to weigh in the silence of his heart 
 the utter futility of life. Religion had never 
 been a part of his training as the only son of a 
 millionnaire, and if he preferred the Roman 
 Catholic ritual above all others, it was because the 
 appeal was to his aesthetic sense ; a Turkish 
 mosque, he assured his friends, produced the 
 same soothing impression gauze veils gently 
 waving and slowly obscuring the dulling realities 
 of everyday existence. This morbidezza of the 
 spirit the Mahometans call Kef ; the Christians, 
 pious ecstasy. 
 
 But now he could not plunge himself, despite 
 24
 
 THE EIGHTH DEADLY SIN 
 
 the faint odour of incense lingering in the atmos 
 phere, into the deepest pit of his personality. 
 At first he ascribed his restlessness to the sultry 
 weather, then to his abuse of tea and cigarettes, 
 perhaps it was the sharp odour of the average 
 congregation, that collective odour of humanity 
 encountered in church, theatre, or court-rooms. 
 The smell of poverty was mingled with the 
 heavy scents of fashionable women, who, in the 
 minority, made their presence felt by their showy 
 gowns, rustling movements, and attitudes of su 
 perior boredom. In a vast building like this 
 extremes touch with eagerness on the part of 
 the poor, to whom these furtive views of the 
 rich and indolent brought with them a bitter 
 consolation. 
 
 Baldur remarked these things as he leaned 
 back in his hard seat and barely listened to the 
 sermon, which poured forth as though the tap 
 would never be turned off again. And then a 
 delicate note of iris, most episcopal of perfumes, 
 emerged from the mass of odours musk, gar 
 lic, damp shoes, alcohol, shabby clothing, rubber, 
 pomade, cologne, rice-powder, tobacco, patchouli, 
 sachet, and a hundred other tintings of the 
 earthly symphony. The finely specialized ol 
 factory sense of the young man told him that it 
 was either a bishop or a beautiful woman who 
 imparted to the air the subtle, penetrating aroma 
 of iris. But it was neither ecclesiastic nor maid. 
 At his side was a short, rather thick-set woman 
 of vague age ; she might have been twenty-five 
 
 25
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 or forty. Her hair was cut in masculine fash 
 ion, her attire unattractive. As clearly as he 
 could distinguish her features he saw that she 
 was not good-looking. A stern mask it was, 
 though not hardened. He would not have 
 looked at such an ordinary physiognomy twice 
 if the iris had not signalled his peculiar sense. 
 There was no doubt that to her it was due. 
 Susceptible as he was to odours, Baldur was not 
 a ladies' man. He went into society because it 
 was his world ; and he attended in a perfunctory 
 manner to the enormous estate left him by his 
 father, bound up in a single trust company. 
 But his thoughts were always three thousand 
 miles away, in that delectable city of cities, Paris. 
 For Paris he suffered a painful nostalgia. There 
 he met his true brethren, while in New York he 
 felt an alien. He was one. The city, with its 
 high, narrow streets granite tunnels ; its rude 
 reverberations ; its colourless, toiling barbarians, 
 with their undistinguished physiognomies, their 
 uncouth indifference to art, he did not deny 
 that he loathed this nation, vibrating only in the 
 presence of money, sports, grimy ward politics, 
 while exhibiting a depressing snobbery to things 
 British. There was no nuance in its life or its 
 literature, he asserted. France was his patrie 
 psychique ; he would return there some day and 
 forever. . . . 
 
 The iris crept under his nostrils, and again he 
 regarded the woman. This time she faced him, 
 and he no longer wondered, for he saw her eyes. 
 26
 
 THE EIGHTH DEADLY SIN 
 
 With such eyes only a great soul could be im 
 prisoned in her brain. They were smoke-gray, 
 with long, dark lashes, and they did not seem 
 to focus perfectly at least there was enough 
 deflection to make their expression odd, withal 
 interesting, like the slow droop of Eleonora 
 Duse's magic eye. Though her features were 
 rigid, the woman's glance spoke to Baldur, spoke 
 eloquently. Her eyes were or was it the iris ? 
 symbols of a soul-state, of a rare emotion, not 
 of sex, nor yet sexless. The pupils seemed 
 powdered with a strange iridescence. He be 
 came more troubled than before. What did the 
 curious creature want of him ! She was neither 
 coquette nor cocotte, flirtation was not hinted by 
 her intense expression. He resumed his former 
 position, but her eyes made his shoulders burn, 
 as if they had sufficient power to bore through 
 them. He no longer paid any attention to his 
 surroundings. The sermon was like the sound 
 of far-away falling waters, the worshippers were 
 so many black marks. Of two things was he 
 aware the odour of iris and her eyes. 
 
 He knew that he was in an overwrought 
 mood. For some weeks this mood had been 
 descending upon his spirit, like a pall. He had 
 avoided music, pictures, the opera which he 
 never regarded as an art; even his favourite 
 poets he could not read. Nor did he degustate, 
 as was his daily wont, the supreme prose of 
 the French masters. The pleasures of robust 
 stomachs, gourmandizing and drinking, were de- 
 27
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 nied him by nature. He could not sip a glass 
 of wine, and for meat he entertained distaste. 
 His physique proved him to be of the neurotic 
 temperament he was very tall, very slim, of 
 an exceeding elegance, in dress a finical dandy ; 
 while his trim pointed blue-black beard and 
 dark, foreign eyes were the cause of his being 
 mistaken often for a Frenchman or a Spaniard 
 which illusion was not dissipated when he 
 chose to speak their several tongues. 
 
 Involuntarily, and to the ire of his neighbours, 
 he arose and indolently made his way down the 
 side aisle. When he reached the baize swing 
 ing doors, he saw the woman approaching him. 
 As if she had been an acquaintance of years, 
 she saluted him carelessly, and, accompanied by 
 the scandalized looks of many in the congrega 
 tion, the pair left the church, though not before 
 the preacher had sonorously quoted from the 
 Psalm, Domine ne in Furore, " For my loins 
 are filled with illusions ; and there is no health 
 in my flesh." 
 
 II 
 
 THE STANCE 
 
 Je cherche des parfums nouveaux, des fleurs plus larges, 
 des plaisirs indprouvds. FLAUBERT. 
 
 " It may be all a magnificent illusion, but " 
 he began. 
 
 " Everything is an illusion in this life, though 
 seldom magnificent," she answered. They slowly 
 28
 
 THE EIGHTH DEADLY SIN 
 
 walked up the avenue. The night was tepid ; 
 motor cars, looking like magnified beetles, with 
 bulging eyes of fire, went swiftly by. The pave 
 ments were almost deserted when they reached 
 the park. He felt as if hypnotized, and once, 
 rather meanly, was glad that no one saw him in 
 company of his dowdy companion. 
 
 " I wonder if you realize that we do not know 
 each other's name," he said. 
 
 " Oh, yes. You are Mr. Baldur. My name 
 is Mrs. Lilith Whistler." 
 
 " Mrs. Whistler. Not the medium ? " 
 
 " The medium as you call it. In reality I 
 am only a woman, happy, or unhappy, in the 
 possession of super-normal powers." 
 
 " Not supernatural, then ? " he interposed. 
 He was a sceptic who called himself agnostic. 
 The mystery of earth and heaven might be in 
 terpreted, but always in terms of science ; yet 
 he did not fancy the superior manner in which 
 this charlatan flouted the supernatural. He 
 had heard of her miracles and doubted them. 
 She gave a little laugh at his correction. 
 
 "What phrase-jugglers you men are! You 
 want all the splendours of the Infinite thrown in 
 with the price of admission ! I said super-normal, 
 because we know of nothing greater than nature. 
 Things that are off the beaten track of the 
 normal, across the frontiers, some call super 
 natural ; but it is their ignorance of the vast, 
 unexplored territory of the spirit which is only 
 the material masquerading in a different guise." 
 29
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 "But you go to church, to a Lenten ser 
 vice ?" It was as if he had known her for 
 years, and their unconventional behaviour never 
 crossed his mind. He did not even ask him 
 self where they were moving. 
 
 " I go to church to rest my nerves as do 
 many other people," she replied ; " I was inter 
 ested in the parallel of the Seven Deadly Sins 
 and the Seven Deadly Arts." 
 
 " You believe the arts are sinful ? " He was 
 curious. 
 
 " I don't believe in sin at all. A bad con 
 science is the result of poor digestion. Sins are 
 created so that we pay the poll-tax to eternity 
 pay it on this side of the ferry. Yet the arts 
 may become dangerous engines of destruction if 
 wrongfully employed. The Fathers of the early 
 Church, Ambrose and the rest, were right in 
 viewing them suspiciously." He spoke : 
 
 " The arts diabolic ! Then what of the par 
 ticular form of wizardry practised so success 
 fully by the celebrated Mrs. Whistler, one of 
 whose names is, according to the Talmud, that 
 of Adam's first wife ? " 
 
 " What do you know, my dear young man, of 
 diabolic arts ? " 
 
 " Only that I am walking with you near the 
 park on a dark night of April and I never saw 
 you before a half-hour ago. Isn't that magic 
 white, not black ? " 
 
 " Pray do not mock magic, either white or 
 black. Remember the fate of the serpents 
 
 3
 
 THE EIGHTH DEADLY SIN 
 
 manufactured by Pharaoh's magicians. They 
 were, need I tell you, speedily devoured by the 
 serpents of Moses and Aaron. Both parties did 
 not play fair in the game. If it was black magic 
 to transform a rod into a snake on the part of 
 Pharaoh's conjurers, was it any less reprehen 
 sible for the Hebrew magicians to play the same 
 trick ? It was prestidigitation for all concerned 
 only the side of the children of Israel was 
 espoused in the recital. Therefore, do not talk 
 of black or white magic. There is only one 
 true magic. And it is not slate-writing, toe-joint 
 snapping, fortune-telling, or the vending of 
 charms. Magic, too, is an art like other 
 arts. This is forgotten by the majority of its 
 practitioners. Hence the sordid vulgarity of the 
 average mind-reader and humbugging spiritualist 
 of the dark-chamber seance. Besides, the study 
 of the super-normal mind tells us of the mind in 
 health nature is shy in revealing her secrets." 
 
 They passed the lake and were turning toward 
 the east driveway. Suddenly she stopped and 
 under the faint starlight regarded her com 
 panion earnestly. He had not been without 
 adventures in his career Paris always provided 
 them in plenty ; but this encounter with a 
 homely woman piqued him. Her eye he felt 
 was upon him and her voice soothing. 
 
 "Mr. Baldur listen! Since Milton wrote 
 his great poem the English-speaking people are 
 all devil-worshippers, for Satan is the hero of 
 Paradise Lost. But I am no table-tipping me- 
 
 3 1
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 dium eager for your applause or your money. 
 I don't care for money. I think you know 
 enough of me through the newspapers to vouch 
 safe that. You are rich, and it is your chief 
 misery. Listen ! Whether you believe it or 
 not, you are very unhappy. Let me read your 
 horoscope. Your club life bores you ; you are 
 tired of our silly theatres ; no longer do you care 
 for Wagner's music. You are deracinated ; you 
 are unpatriotic. For that there is no excuse. 
 The arts are for you deadly. I am sure you 
 are a lover of literature. Yet what a curse it 
 has been for you ! When you see one of your 
 friends drinking wine, you call him a fool be 
 cause he is poisoning himself. But you you 
 poison your spirit with the honey of France, 
 of Scandinavia, of Russia. As for the society 
 of women " 
 
 " The Eternal Womanly ! " he sneered. 
 
 " The Eternal Simpleton, you mean. In that 
 swamp of pettiness, idiocy, and materialism, a 
 man of your nature could not long abide. Reli 
 gion it has not yet responded to your need. 
 And without faith your sins lose their savour. 
 The arts you don't know them all, the Seven 
 Deadly Arts and the One Beautiful Art ! " She 
 paused. Her voice had been as the sound of 
 delicate flutes. He was aflame. 
 
 "Is there, then, an eighth art?" he quickly 
 asked. 
 
 " Would you know it if you saw it ? " 
 
 " Of course. Where is it, what is it ? " 
 32
 
 THE EIGHTH DEADLY SIN 
 
 She laughed and took his arm. 
 
 " Why did you look at me in church ? " 
 
 " Because it was mere chance no, it may 
 have been the odour of iris. I am mad over per 
 fume. I think it a neglected art, degraded to the 
 function of anointment. I have often dreamed 
 of an art by which a dazzling and novel syn 
 thesis of fragrant perfumes would be invented 
 by some genius, some latter-day Rimmel or 
 Lubin whom we could hail as a peer of Chopin 
 or Richard Strauss two composers who have 
 expressed perfume in tone. Roinard in his Can- 
 tiques des Cantiques attempted a concordance 
 of tone, light, and odours. Yes it was the iris 
 that attracted me." 
 
 " But I have no iris about me. I have none 
 now," she simply replied. He faced her. 
 
 " No iris ? What ? " 
 
 " I tlwught iris," she added triumphantly, as 
 she guided him into one of the side streets off 
 Madison Avenue. He was astounded. She must 
 be a hypnotist, he said to himself. No sugges 
 tion of iris clung to her now. And he remem 
 bered that the odour disappeared after they left 
 the church. He held his peace until they arrived 
 before a brown-stone house of the ordinary kind 
 with an English basement. She took a key from 
 her pocket and, going down several steps, beck 
 oned to him. Baldur followed. His interest in 
 this modern Cassandra and her bizarre words 
 was too great for him to hesitate or to realize 
 that he would get himself into some dangerous 
 
 33
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 scrape. And was this truly the Mrs. Whistler 
 whose tricks of telepathy and other extraor 
 dinary antics had puzzled and angered the wise 
 men of two continents ? He did not have much 
 time for reflection. A grilled door opened, and 
 presently he was in a room furnished very much 
 like a physician's office. Electric bulbs, an open 
 grate, and two bookcases gave the apartment a 
 familiar, cheerful appearance. Baldur sat down 
 on a low chair, and Mrs. Whistler removed her 
 commonplace headgear. In the bright light she 
 was younger than he had imagined, and her head 
 a beautifully modelled one broad brows, very 
 full at the back, and the mask that of an emo 
 tional actress. Her smoke-coloured eyes were 
 most remarkable and her helmet of hair blue 
 black. 
 
 " And now that you are my guest at last, Mr. 
 Baldur, let me apologize for the exercise of my 
 art upon your responsive nerves ; " she made 
 this witch-burning admission as if she were 
 accounting for the absence of tea. To his relief 
 she offered him nothing. He had a cigarette 
 between his fingers, but he did not care to 
 smoke. She continued : 
 " For some time I have known you never 
 mind how ! For some time I have wished to 
 meet you. I am not an impostor, nor do I 
 desire to pose as the goddess of a new creed. 
 But you, Irving Baldur, are a man among men 
 who will appreciate what I may show you. You 
 love, you understand, perfumes. You have even 
 34
 
 THE EIGHTH DEADLY SIN 
 
 wished for a new art don't forget that there 
 are others in the world to whom the seven arts 
 have become a thrice-told tale, to whom the arts 
 have become too useful. All great art should 
 be useless. Yet architecture houses us ; sculp 
 ture flatters us ; painting imitates us ; dancing is 
 pure vanity ; literature and the drama, mere 
 vehicles for bread-earning; while music music, 
 the most useless art as it should have been is 
 in the hands of the speculators. Moreover 
 music is too sexual it reports in a more in 
 tense style the stories of our loves. Music is 
 the memory of love. What Prophet will enter 
 the temple of the modern arts and drive away 
 with his divine scourge the vile money-changers 
 who fatten therein ? " Her voice was shrill as 
 she paced the room. A very sibyl this, her 
 crest of hair agitated, her eyes sparkling with 
 wrath. He missed the Cumaean tripod. 
 
 " There is an art, Baldur, an art that was one 
 of the lost arts of Babylon until now, one based, 
 as are all the arts, on the senses. Perfume 
 the poor, neglected nose must have its revenge. 
 It has outlived the other senses in the aesthetic 
 field." 
 
 " What of the palate you have forgotten 
 that. Cookery, too, is a fine art," he ventured. 
 His smile irritated her. 
 
 " Yes, Frenchmen have invented symphonic 
 sauces, they say. But again, eating is a useful 
 art ; primarily it serves to nourish the body. 
 When man was wholly wild he is a mere bar- 
 
 35
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 barian to-day his sense of smell guarded him 
 from his foes, from the beasts, from a thousand 
 dangers. Civilization, with its charming odours 
 of decay, have you ever ventured to savour 
 New York ? cast into abeyance the keenest of 
 all the senses. Little wonder, then, that there 
 was no art of perfume like the arts of vision and 
 sound. I firmly believe the Hindoos, Egyptians, 
 and the Chinese knew of such an art. How 
 account for the power of theocracies ? How 
 else credit the tales of the saints who scattered 
 perfumes St. Francis de Paul, St. Joseph of 
 Cupertino, Venturini of Bergamo ? " 
 
 " But," he interrupted, " all this is interesting, 
 fascinating. What I wish to know is what form 
 your art may take. How marshal odours as mel 
 odies in a symphony, as colours on a canvas ? " 
 She made an impatient gesture. 
 
 " And how like an amateur you talk. Melody ! 
 When harmony is infinitely greater in music ! 
 Form ! When colour is infinitely greater than 
 line ! The most profound music gives only 
 the timbre melodies are for infantile people 
 without imagination, who believe in patterns. 
 Tone is the quality / wish on a canvas, not 
 anxious drawing. So it is with perfumes. I can 
 blend them into groups of lovely harmony; I 
 can give you single notes of delicious timbre 
 in a word, I can evoke an odour symphony which 
 will transport you. Memory is a supreme factor 
 in this art. Do not forget how the vaguest scent 
 will carry you back to your youthful dreamland. 
 36
 
 THE EIGHTH DEADLY SIN 
 
 It is also the secret of spiritual correspondences 
 it plays the great role of bridging space 
 between human beings." 
 
 " I sniff the air promise-crammed," he gayly 
 misquoted. " But when will you rewrite this 
 Apocalypse ? and how am I to know whether I 
 shall really enjoy this feast of perfume, if you can 
 simulate the odour of iris as you did an hour ago ? " 
 
 " I propose to show you an artificial paradise," 
 she firmly asserted. In the middle of the room 
 there was a round table, the top inlaid with 
 agate. On it a large blue bowl stood, and it 
 was empty. Mrs. Whistler went to a swinging 
 cabinet and took from it a dozen small phials. 
 " Now for the incantation," he jokingly said. 
 In her matter-of-fact manner she placed the 
 bottles on the table, and uncorking them, she 
 poured them slowly into the bowl. He broke 
 the silence : 
 
 " Isn't there any special form of hair-raising 
 invocation that goes with this dangerous opera 
 tion ? " 
 
 "Listen to this." Her eyes swimming with 
 fire, she intoned : 
 
 As I came through the desert thus it was, 
 As I came through the desert : Lo you there, 
 That hillock burning with a brazen glare ; 
 Those myriad dusky flames with points aglow 
 Which writhed and hissed and darted to and fro ; 
 A Sabbath of the serpents, heaped pell-mell 
 For Devil's roll-call and some fete in Hell : 
 Yet I strode on austere ; 
 No hope could have no fear. 
 
 37
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 He did not seem to hear. From out the bowl 
 there was stealing a perfume which overmastered 
 his will and led him captive to the lugubrious 
 glade of the Druids. . . . 
 
 Ill 
 THE CIRCUS OF CANDLES 
 
 Comme d'autres esprits voguent sur la musique, 
 Le mien, 6 mon amour ! nage sur ton parfum. 
 
 BAUDELAIRE. 
 
 He was not dreaming, for he saw the woman 
 at the bowl, saw her apartment. But the interior 
 of his brain was as melancholy as a lighted 
 cathedral. A mortal sadness encompassed him, 
 and his nerves were like taut violin strings. It 
 was within the walls of his skull, that he saw 
 his mundane surroundings did not disturb his 
 visions. And the waves of dolour swept over his 
 consciousness. A mingling of tuberoses, nar 
 cissus, attar of roses, and ambergris he detected 
 in the air as triste as a morbid nocturne of 
 Chopin. This was followed by a blending of 
 heliotrope, moss-rose, and hyacinth, together 
 with dainty touches of geranium. He dreamed of 
 Beethoven's manly music when whiffs of apple- 
 blossom, white rose, cedar, and balsam reached 
 him. Mozart passed roguishly by in strains 
 of scarlet pimpernel, mignonette, syringa, and 
 violets. Then the sky was darkened with Schu 
 mann's perverse harmonies as jasmine, laven- 
 
 38
 
 THE EIGHTH DEADLY SIN 
 
 der, and lime were sprayed over him. Music, 
 surely, was the art nearest akin to odour. A su 
 perb and subtle chord floated about him ; it was 
 composed of vervain, opoponax, and frangipane. 
 He could not conceive of a more unearthly triad. 
 It was music from Parsifal. Through the mists 
 that were gathering he savoured a fulminating 
 bouquet of patchouli, musk, bergamot, and he 
 recalled the music of Mascagni. Brahms strode 
 stolidly on in company with new-mown hay, 
 cologne, and sweet peas. Liszt was interpreted 
 as ylang-ylang, myrrh, and marechale ; Richard 
 Strauss, by wistaria, oil of cloves, chypre, poppy, 
 and crab-apple. 
 
 Suddenly there developed a terrific orches 
 tration of chromatic odours : ambrosia, cassia, 
 orange, peach-blossoms, and musk of Tonkin, 
 magnolia, eglantine, hortensia, lilac, saffron, be 
 gonia, peau d'Espagne, acacia, carnation, liban, 
 fleur de Takeoka, cypress, oil of almonds, ben 
 zoin, jacinth, rue, shrub, olea, clematis, the 
 hediosma of Jamaica, olive, vanilla, cinnamon, 
 petunia, lotus, frankincense, sorrel, neroli from 
 Japan, jonquil, verbena, spikenard, thyme, hys 
 sop, and decaying orchids. This quintessential 
 medley was as the sonorous blasts of Berlioz, re 
 pugnant and exquisite ; it swayed the soul of 
 Baldur as the wind sways the flame. There 
 were odours like winged dreams ; odours as 
 the plucked sounds of celestial harps ; odours 
 mystic and evil, corrupt and opulent; odours 
 recalling the sweet, dense smell of chloro- 
 
 39
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 form ; odours evil, angelic, and anonymous. 
 They painted painted by Satan ! upon his 
 cerebellum more than music music that merged 
 into picture ; and he was again in the glade of 
 the Druids. The huge scent-symphony dis 
 solved in a shower of black roses which covered 
 the ground ankle-deep. An antique temple of 
 exotic architecture had thrown open its bronze 
 doors, and out there surged and rustled a throng 
 of Bacchanalian beings who sported and shouted 
 around a terminal god, which, with smiling, 
 ironic lips, accepted their delirious homage. 
 White nymphs and brown displayed in choric 
 rhythms the dance of the Seven Deadly Sins, 
 and their goat-hoofed mates gave vertiginous 
 pursuit. At first the pagan gayety of the scene 
 fired the fancy of the solitary spectator; but 
 soon his nerves, disordered by the rout and 
 fatigued by the spoor of so many odours, warned 
 him that something disquieting was at hand. 
 He felt a nameless horror as the sinister bit 
 ter odour of honeysuckle, sandalwood, and 
 aloes echoed from the sacred grove. A score 
 of seductive young witches pranced in upon 
 their broomsticks, and without dismounting sur 
 rounded the garden god. A battalion of cen 
 taurs charged upon them. The vespertine hour 
 was nigh, and over this iron landscape there 
 floated the moon, an opal button in the sky. 
 Then to his shame and fear he saw that the 
 Satyr had vanished and in its place there reared 
 the Black Venus, the vile shape of ancient 
 40
 
 THE EIGHTH DEADLY SIN 
 
 Africa, and her face was the face of Lilith. 
 The screaming lovely witches capered in fan 
 tastic spirals, each sporting a lighted candle. It 
 was the diabolic Circus of the Candles, the in 
 fernal circus of the Witches' Sabbath. Rooted 
 to the ground, Baldur realized with fresh amaze 
 ment and vivid pain the fair beauty of Adam's 
 prehistoric wife, her luxurious blond hair, her 
 shapely shoulders, her stature of a goddess he 
 trembled, for she had turned her mordant gaze 
 in his direction. And he strove in vain to bring 
 back the comforting vision of the chamber. She 
 smiled, and the odours of sandal, coreopsis, 
 and aloes encircled his soul like the plaited 
 strands of her glorious hair. She was that other 
 Lilith, the only offspring of the old Serpent. On 
 what storied fresco, limned by what worshipper 
 of Satan, had these accursed lineaments, this 
 lithe, seductive figure, been shown ! Names of 
 Satanic painters, from Hell-fire Breughel to Ar 
 nold Bocklin, from Felicien Rops to Franz Stuck, 
 passed through the halls of Irving Baldur's 
 memory. 
 
 The clangour of the feast was become mad 
 dening. He heard the Venus ballet music from 
 Tannhauser entwined with the acridities of 
 aloes, sandal, and honeysuckle. Then the 
 aroma of pitch, sulphur, and assafoetida cruelly 
 strangled the other melodic emanations. Lilith, 
 disdaining the shelter of her nymphs and their 
 clowneries, stood forth in all the hideous majesty 
 of ^Enothea, the undulating priestess of the
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 Abominable Shape. His nerves macerated by 
 this sinful apparition, Baldur struggled to resist 
 her mute command. What was it? He saw 
 her wish streaming from her eyes. Despair ! 
 Despair ! Despair ! There is no hope for thee, 
 wretched earthworm ! No abode but the abys 
 mal House of Satan ! Despair, and you will be 
 welcomed ! By a violent act of volition, set in 
 motion by his ringers fumbling a small gold 
 cross he wore as a watch-guard, the heady fumes 
 of the orgy dissipated. . . . 
 
 He was sitting facing the bowl, and over it 
 with her calm, confidential gaze was the figure 
 of Lilith Whistler. 
 
 " Have I proved to you that perfume is the 
 art of arts?" she demanded. He rushed from 
 the room and was shaking the grilled gate in the 
 hallway like a caged maniac, when with a pity 
 ing smile she released him. He reached the 
 street at a bound. . . . 
 
 ..." the evil of perfume, I repeat, was one 
 against which the venerable Fathers of the 
 Church warned the faithful." The preacher's 
 voice had sagged to a monotone. Baldur lifted 
 his eyes in dismay. Near him sat the same 
 woman, and she still stared at him as if to rebuke 
 him for his abstraction. About her hovered the 
 odour of iris. Had it been only a disturbing 
 dream ? Intoxicated by his escape from dam 
 nation, from the last of the Deadly Arts, he 
 bowed his head in grateful prayer. What ec- 
 42
 
 THE EIGHTH DEADLY SIN 
 
 stasy to be once more in the arms of Mother 
 Church ! There, dipped in her lustral waters, 
 and there alone would he find solace for his 
 barren heart, pardon for his insane pride of in 
 tellect, and protection from the demons that 
 waylaid his sluggish soul. The sermon ended as 
 it began : 
 
 " And the Seven Deadly Sins, beloved breth 
 ren, are : Pride, Covetousness, Lust, Anger 
 Gluttony, Envy, Sloth. Oremus ! " 
 
 " Amen," fervently responded Baldur the 
 Immoralist. 
 
 43
 
 Ill 
 
 THE PURSE OF AHOLIBAH 
 
 Lo, this is that Aholibah 
 
 Whose name was blown among strange seas. . . . 
 
 SWINBURNE. 
 
 I 
 THE AVIARY 
 
 WHEN the last breakfast guests had gone the 
 waiters of the caf 6 began their most disagreeable 
 daily task. All the silver was assembled on 
 one of the long tables in an inner room, where, 
 as at a solemn conclave, the servants took their 
 seats, and, presided over by the major-domo of 
 the establishment, they polished the knives and 
 forks, spoons, and sugar-tongs, filled the salt 
 cellars, replenished the pepper-boxes and other 
 paraphernalia of the dining art. The gabble in 
 this close apartment was terrific. Joseph, the 
 maitre d'h6tel, rapped in vain a dozen times for 
 silence. The chef poked his head of a trucu 
 lent Gascon through the door and indulged in a 
 war of wit with a long fellow from Marseilles, 
 called the " mast " because he was very tall and 
 thin, and had cooked in the galley of a Mediter 
 ranean trading brig. From time to time one of 
 44
 
 THE PURSE OF AHOLIBAH 
 
 the piccolos, a fat little boy from the South, 
 carried in pitchers of flat beer, brewed in the 
 suburbs. As it was a hot day, he was kept 
 busy. The waiters had gone through a trying 
 morning; there were many strangers in Paris. 
 Outside, the Boulevard des Italiens, despite its 
 shade trees, broiled under a torrid July sun that 
 swam in a mercilessly blue sky. 
 
 The majority of the men were listening to 
 gossip about their colleagues in the Cafe Car 
 dinal across the way. Ambroise alone sat apart 
 and patted and smoothed the salt in its recep 
 tacles. He was a young man from some little 
 town in Alsace, a furious patriot, and the butt 
 of his companions for he was the latest comer 
 in the Cafe Riche. Though he told his family 
 name, Nettier, and declared that his father and 
 mother were of French blood, he was called 
 " the German." He was good-looking, very 
 blond, with big, innocent blue eyes ; and while 
 he was never molested personally, a short, 
 sharp tussle with a cook had proved him to be a 
 man of muscle, behind his back his walk was 
 mimicked, his precise attitudes were openly 
 bantered. But Ambroise stood this torture 
 gantlet equably. He had lived long enough 
 among Germans to copy their impassive manner 
 and, coupled with a natural contempt for his 
 fellow-monkeys in the cage, he knew that per 
 haps in a day a new man would receive all these 
 unwelcome attentions. Moreover, his work, 
 clear-cut, unobtrusive, and capable, pleased 
 
 45
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 M. Joseph. And when the patron himself dined 
 at the cafe, Ambroise was the garon selected 
 to wait upon him. Hence the jealousy of his 
 colleagues. Couple to this the fact that he was 
 reported miserly, and had saved a large sum 
 which were all sufficient reasons for his un 
 popularity. 
 
 As the afternoon wore on little airs began to 
 play in the tree-tops ; the street watering carts 
 had been assiduous, and before the terrace water 
 had been sprinkled by the piccolos so effectively 
 that at five o'clock, when the jaded stock-brokers, 
 journalists, and business men began to flock in, 
 each for his aperitif, the cafe was comparatively 
 cool. 
 
 A few women's frocks relieved the picture 
 with discreet or joyous shades of white and 
 pink. Ambroise was diligent and served his 
 regular customers, the men who grumbled if 
 any one occupied their favourite corners. Ab 
 sinthe nicely iced, dominoes, the evening papers 
 these he brought as he welcomed familiar faces. 
 But his thoughts were not his own, and his pose 
 when not in service was listless, even bored. 
 Would she return that evening with the same 
 crowd was the idea that had taken possession 
 of his brain. He was very timid in the presence 
 of women, and it diverted the waiters to see 
 him blush when he waited upon the gorgeous 
 birds that thronged the aviary at night, making 
 its walls echo with their chattering, quarrels, 
 laughter. This provincial, modest, sensitive, the 
 46
 
 THE PURSE OF AHOLIBAH 
 
 only child of old-fashioned parents, was stupe 
 fied and shocked in the presence of the over- 
 decorated and under-dressed creatures, daubed 
 like idols, who began to flock in the cafe", with 
 or without escorts, after eleven o'clock every 
 night in the year. He knew them all by name. 
 He knew their histories. He could detect at a 
 glance whether they were unhappy or merely 
 depressed by the rain, whether they drank cham 
 pagne from happiness or desperation. Notwith 
 standing his dreamy disposition his temperament 
 was ardent ; his was an unspoiled soul ; he felt 
 himself a sort of moral barometer for the mag 
 nificent and feline women who treated him as if 
 he were a wooden post when they were gossip 
 ing, harried him like an animal when they were 
 thirsty. He noted that they were always thirsty. 
 They smoked more than they ate, and whispered 
 more, if no men were present, than they smoked. 
 But then, men were seldom absent. 
 
 The night previous, Ambroise recalled the 
 fact, she had not come in with a different set. 
 This was not her custom, and he worried over 
 it. Protected by princes and financiers, she 
 nevertheless loved her liberty so much that one 
 seldom caught her in the same company twice 
 in succession. For this singular caprice Aholi- 
 bah, oftener called the Woman from Morocco, 
 because she had lived in Algiers, was the 
 despair of her circle. Why, argued the other 
 birds, why fly in the face of luck? To be 
 sure, she was still young, still beautiful, with 
 
 47
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 that sort of metallic beauty which reminded 
 Ambroise of some priceless bronze blackened 
 in the sun. She was meagre, diabolically 
 graceful, dark, with huge saucer-like eyes that 
 greedily drank in her surroundings. But her 
 lashes were long, and she could veil her glance 
 so that her brilliant face looked as if the shut 
 ters had been closed on her soul. Across her 
 brows a bar of blue-black marked the passage 
 of her eyebrows which sable line was matched 
 by her abundant hair, worn in overshadowing 
 clusters. She dressed winter and summer in 
 scarlet, and her stage name was Aholibah 
 bestowed upon her by some fantastic poet who 
 had not read Ezekiel, but Swinburne. It was 
 rumoured by her intimates that her real name 
 was Clotilde Durval, that her mother had been a 
 seamstress. . . . 
 
 With a sinking at the heart Ambroise saw 
 her enter in the company of the same gentle 
 man she had brought the previous evening. 
 The garc^on did not analyze this strange, jealous 
 feeling, for he was too busily employed in seat 
 ing his guests and relieving the man of his hat 
 and walking-stick. An insolent chap it was, 
 with his air of an assured conqueror and the 
 easy bearing of wealth. There was little dis 
 cussion as to the order a certain brand of 
 wine, iced beyond recognition for any normal 
 palate, was always served to Aholibah. She 
 loved " needles on her tongue," she asseverated 
 if any one offered her weaker stuff. That July 
 48
 
 THE PURSE OF AHOLIBAH 
 
 night she looked like a piratical craft that had 
 captured a sleek merchantman for prize. She 
 was all smoothness ; Ambroise alone detected 
 the retracted claws of the leopardess. She 
 blazed in the electric illumination, and her large 
 hat, with its swelling plumes, threw her dusky 
 features into shadow her eyes seemed far 
 away under its brim and glowed with unholy 
 phosphorescence. 
 
 While he arranged the details of the silver 
 wine-pail in the other room, the chef asked him 
 if the Princess Comet had arrived. Ambroise 
 almost snarled much to the astonishment of 
 the Gascon. And when the sommelier at 
 tempted to help him with the wine, he was 
 elbowed vigorously. Ambroise must have 
 been drinking too much, said the boys ; Joseph 
 rather curiously inspected his waiter as he made 
 his accustomed round in the cafe. But, pale as 
 usual, Ambroise stood near his table, his whole 
 bearing an intent and thoroughly professional 
 one. Joseph was satisfied and drove the chef 
 back to the kitchen. 
 
 The young Alsatian had never seen Aholibah 
 look so radiant. She was in high spirits, 
 and her pungent talk aroused her companion 
 from incipient moroseness. After midnight the 
 party grew some actresses from a near-by 
 theatre came in with their male friends, and 
 another waiter was detailed to the aid of Am 
 broise. But he stuck to the first-comers and 
 served so much wine to them that he had the 
 49
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 satisfaction of seeing Aholibah's disagreeable 
 protector collapse. She hardly noticed it, for 
 she was talking vivaciously to Madeleine about 
 the premiere of Donnay's comedy. Thrice Am- 
 broise sought to fill her glass ; but she repulsed 
 him. He was sad. Something told him that 
 Aholibah was farther away from him than ever; 
 was she on the eve of forming one of those alli 
 ances that would rob him finally of her presence ? 
 He eyed the sleeping man surely a monster, 
 a millionnaire,with the tastes of a brute. It was 
 all very trying to a man with fine nerves. Sev 
 eral times he caught Aholibah's eye upon him, 
 and he vaguely wondered if he had omitted any 
 thing or, had he betrayed his feelings ? In 
 Paris the waiter who shows that he has ears, or 
 eyes, or a heart, except in the exercise of his 
 functions, is lost. He is bound to be caught and 
 his telltale humanity scourged by instant dis 
 missal. So when those fathomless eyes glittered 
 in his direction, his knees trembled and a ball of 
 copper invaded his throat. He could barely 
 drag himself to her side and ask if he could help 
 her. A burst of impertinent laughter greeted 
 him, and Madeleine cried : 
 
 "Your blond gar^on seems smitten, Aholi 
 bah ! " When Ambroise heard this awful 
 phrase, his courage quite forsook him, and he 
 withdrew into the obscurity of the hall. So 
 white was he that the kindly Joseph asked 
 solicitously if he were ill. Ambroise shook 
 his head. The heat, he feebly explained, had
 
 THE PURSE OF AHOLIBAH 
 
 made his head giddy. Better drink some iced 
 mineral water, was suggested the other man 
 could look after the party ! But Ambroise 
 would not hear of this, and feeling once more 
 the beckoning gaze of Aholibah he marched 
 bravely to her and was rewarded by a tap on 
 the wrist. 
 
 " There, loiterer ! Go call a carriage. The 
 Prince is sleepy dear sheep ! " This last 
 was a tender apostrophe to her snoring friend. 
 Ambroise helped them into a fiacre. When it 
 drove away it was past two o'clock ; the house 
 had to be closed. He walked slowly home to 
 his little chamber on the Rue Puteaux, just off 
 the Batignolles. But he could not sleep until 
 the street-cleaners began the work of another 
 day. . . . The Woman from Morocco was 
 the scarlet colour of his troubled dreams. . . . 
 
 August had almost spent itself, and Aholibah 
 remained in the arid and flavourless town. Her 
 intimate friends had weeks earlier gone to 
 Trouville, to Dinard, to Ostende, to Hombourg, 
 even as far as Brighton ; but she lingered, seem 
 ingly from perversity. She came regularly to 
 the cafe about eleven, always in company with 
 her Prince, and was untiringly served by Am 
 broise. He was rewarded for his fidelity with 
 many valuable tips and latterly with gifts for 
 on being questioned he was forced to admit that 
 gratuities had to be shared with the other 
 waiters. He was so amiable, his smile so win- 
 Si
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 ning, his admiration so virginal, that Aholibah 
 kept him near her. Her Prince drank, sulked, 
 or grumbled as much as ever. He was bored 
 by the general heat and the dulness, yet made 
 no effort to escape either. One night they 
 entered after twelve o'clock. Aholibah was in 
 vicious humour and snapped at her garden. 
 Dog-like he waited upon her, an humble, devoted 
 helot. He overheard her say to her companion 
 that she must have lost the purse at the Folies- 
 Bergeres. 
 
 " Well, go to the Rue de la Paix to-morrow 
 and buy another," was the reply. 
 
 " I can't replace that purse. Besides, it was 
 a prized gift " 
 
 " From your sainted mother in heaven !" he 
 sneered. 
 
 Ambroise saw the windows of her eyes close 
 with a snap, and he moved away, fearing to be 
 present in the surely impending quarrel. He 
 remembered the purse. It was a long gold 
 affair, its tiny links crusted with precious pearls 
 emeralds, rubies, diamonds. And the top he 
 saw before him with ease, for its pattern was 
 odd a snake's head with jaws distended by a 
 large amethyst. Yes, it was unique, that purse. 
 And its value must have been bewildering for 
 any but the idle rich. Ah ! how he hated all 
 this money, coming from nowhere, pouring in 
 golden streams nowhere. He was not a revolu 
 tionist, not even a socialist, but there were 
 times when he could have taken the neck of the 
 52
 
 THE PURSE OF AHOLIBAH 
 
 Prince between his strong fingers and choked 
 out his worthless life. These attacks of envy 
 were short-lived he could not ascribe them to 
 the reading of the little hornet-like anarchist 
 sheet, Ptre Peinard, which the other waiters 
 lent him ; rather was it an excess of bile pro 
 voked by the coveted beauty of Aholibah. 
 
 She usurped his day dreams, his night reveries. 
 He never took a step without keeping her mem 
 ory in the foreground. When he closed his 
 eyes, he saw scarlet. When he opened them, 
 he felt her magnetic glance upon him, though 
 she was far from the cafe. His one idea 
 was to speak with her. His maddest wish 
 assumed the shape of a couple walking slowly 
 arm in arm through the Bois she was the 
 woman ! But this particular vision bordered 
 on delirium, and he rarely indulged in it. ... 
 He stooped to look under the chairs, under the 
 table, for the missing treasure. It was not to 
 be seen. Indolently the Prince watched him as 
 he peered all over the cafe, out on the terrace. 
 Aholibah was deeply preoccupied. She sipped 
 her wine without pleasure. Her brows were 
 thunderous. The cart-wheel hat was tipped 
 low over them. Several times Ambroise sought 
 her glance. He could have sworn that she 
 was regarding him steadily. So painful be 
 came the intensity of her eyes that he with 
 drew in confusion. His mind was made up 
 at last. 
 
 The next day was for him a free one. He 
 
 53
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 wandered up and down the Rue de la Paix 
 staring moodily into the jewellers' windows. 
 That night, though he could have stayed away 
 from the cafe", he returned at ten o'clock, and 
 luckily enough was needed. Joseph greeted him 
 effusively. The "mast," the thin fellow from 
 Marseilles, had gone home with a splitting 
 headache. Would Ambroise stay and serve 
 his usual table ? To his immense astonish 
 ment and joy he saw her enter alone. He 
 took her wraps and seated her on her favourite 
 divan near an electric fan. Then he stared 
 expectantly at the door. But her carriage had 
 driven away. Was a part of his dream coming 
 true ? He closed his eyes, and straightway saw 
 scarlet. Then he went for wine, without taking 
 her order. 
 
 Aholibah was preoccupied. She played with 
 the bracelet on her tawny left wrist. Occasion 
 ally she lifted her glass, or else tossed her hair 
 from her eyes. If any stranger ventured near 
 her, she began to hum insolently, or spoke ear 
 nestly with Ambroise. He was in the eleventh 
 heaven of the Persians. Two Ambroises ap 
 peared to be in him : one served his lady, spoke 
 with her ; the other from afar contemplated with 
 the ecstasy of a hasheesh eater his counterfeit 
 brother. It was an exquisite sensation. 
 
 "The purse has Mademoiselle " He 
 stammered. 
 
 " No," she crisply answered. 
 
 " Can it never be duplicated ? Perhaps " 
 54
 
 THE PURSE OF AHOLIBAH 
 
 " Never. It is impossible. It was made in 
 Africa." 
 
 "But but "he persisted. His bearing 
 was so peculiar that she bent upon him her 
 dynamic gaze. 
 
 " What's the matter with you this evening, 
 Ambroise ? Have you come into a successful 
 lottery ticket? Or She was suspiciously 
 looking at him. "Or you haven't found it?" 
 
 He nodded his head, his face beatific with 
 joy. He resembled the youthful Saint George 
 after slaying the dragon. She was startled. 
 Her eyes positively lightened ; he listened for 
 the attendant peal of thunder. 
 
 " Speak out, you booby. Cornichon ! Where 
 did you find it ? Let me see it at once." All 
 fire and imperiousness, she held out grasping 
 fingers. He shook. And then carefully he 
 drew from the inside pocket of his coat, the 
 purse. She snatched it. Yes it was her 
 purse. And yet there was something strange 
 about it. Had the stones been tampered with ? 
 She examined it searchingly. She boasted a 
 jeweller's knowledge of diamonds and rubies. 
 One of the stones had been transposed, that 
 she could have sworn. And how different the 
 expression of the serpent's eyes small car 
 buncles. No it was not her purse ! She 
 looked at Ambroise. He was paling and red 
 dening in rapid succession. 
 
 " It is not my purse ! How did this come 
 into your possession ? It is very valuable, 
 
 55
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 quite as valuable as mine. But the eyes of 
 my serpent were not so large I mean the 
 carbuncles. Ambroise look at me ! I com 
 mand you ! Where did you find this treasure 
 cher ami ! " Her seductive voice lingered 
 on the last words as if they were a morsel of 
 delicious fruit. He leaned heavily on the table 
 and closed his eyes to shut out her face but 
 he only saw scarlet. He heard scarlet. 
 
 "I I bought the thing because you 
 missed the other " He could get no further. 
 She smiled, showing her celebrated teeth. 
 
 " You bought the thing hein ? You must 
 be a prince in disguise Ambroise ! And I 
 have just lost my Prince ! Perhaps you 
 thought you audacious boy " 
 
 He kept his eyes closed. She was in a corner 
 of the room quite empty the other wait 
 ers were on the terrace. She weighed his ap 
 pearance and smiled mysteriously ; ' her smile, 
 her glance, and her scarlet gowns were her dra 
 matic assets. Then she spoke in a low voice 
 a contralto like the darker tones of an English 
 horn : 
 
 "I fancy I'll keep your thoughtful gift 
 Ambroise. And now, like a good boy, get a 
 fiacre for me ! " She went away, leaving him 
 standing in the middle of the room, a pillar of 
 burning ice. When Joseph spoke to him he did 
 not answer. Then they took him by the arm, 
 and he fell over in a seizure which, asserted the 
 practical head waiter, was caused by indigestion. 
 56
 
 THE PURSE OF AHOLIBAH 
 
 II 
 
 ACROSS THE STYX 
 
 It was raining on the Left Bank. The chill 
 of a November afternoon cut its way through 
 the doors of the Cafe La Source in the Boul' 
 Mich' and made shiver the groups of young 
 medical students who were reading or playing 
 dominos. Ambroise Nettier, older, thinner, 
 paler, waited carefully on his patrons. He had 
 been in the hospital with brain fever, and after 
 he was cured, one of the students secured him a 
 position at this caf6 in the Quartier. He had 
 been afraid to go back to the Cafe Riche ; Joseph 
 had harshly discharged him on that terrible night; 
 alone, without a home, without a penny, his 
 savings gone, his life insurance hypothecated, 
 it had been intended for the benefit of his parents, 
 his clothes, his very trunk gone, and plunged 
 in debt to his fellow-waiters, his brain had suc 
 cumbed to the shock. But Ambroise was young 
 and strong ; when he left the hospital he was 
 relieved to find that he no longer saw scarlet. 
 He was a healed man. He had intended to 
 seek for a place at the Cafe Cardinal, but it 
 was too near the Cafe Riche he might meet 
 old acquaintances, might be asked embarrassing 
 questions. So he gladly accepted his present 
 opportunity. 
 
 The dulness of the day waxed with its wan 
 ing. It was nearly six o'clock when the door 
 
 57
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 slowly opened and Aholibah entered. She was 
 alone. Her scarlet plumage was wet, and she 
 was painted like a Peruvian war-god. She did 
 not appear so brilliant a bird of paradise or 
 elsewhere as at the aviary across the water. 
 Yet her gaze was as forthright as ever. She 
 sat on a divan between two domino parties, and 
 was hardly noticed by the fanatics of that bony 
 diversion. Recognizing Ambroise, she made a 
 sign to him. It was some minutes before he 
 could reach her table ; he had other orders. 
 When he did, she said she wanted some absinthe. 
 He stared at her. Yes, absinthe she had dis 
 carded iced wines. The doctor told her that 
 cold wine was dangerous. He still stared. 
 Then she held up the purse. It was a mere 
 shell ; all the stones save the amethyst in the 
 mouth of the serpent were gone. She laughed 
 shrilly. He went for the drink. She lighted a 
 cigarette. . . . 
 
 Every night for six months she haunted the 
 cafe". She was always unattended, always in 
 excellent humour. She made few friends among 
 the students. Her scarlet dress grew shabbier. 
 Her gloves and boots were pitiful to Ambroise, 
 who recalled her former splendours, her outra 
 geous extravagances. Why had fortune flouted 
 her! Why had she let it, like water, escape 
 through her jewelled, indifferent ringers! He 
 made no inquiries. She vouchsafed none. They 
 were now on a different footing. Tantalizingly 
 she dangled the purse under his nose as he 
 58
 
 THE PURSE OF AHOLIBAH 
 
 brought her absinthe always this opalescent 
 absinthe. She drank it in the morning, in the 
 afternoon, at night. She seldom spoke save to 
 Ambroise. And he he no longer saw scarlet, 
 for the glorious tone of her hat and gown had 
 vanished. They were rusty red, a carroty tint. 
 Her face was like the mask of La Buveuse 
 d' Absinthe, by Felicien Rops; her eyes, black 
 wells of regard ; her hair without lustre, and 
 coarse as the mane of a horse. Aholibah no 
 longer manifested interest in the life of Paris. 
 She did not read or gossip. But she still had 
 money to spend. 
 
 The night he quarrelled with his new patron, 
 Ambroise was not well. All the day his head 
 had pained him. When he reached La Source, 
 the dame at the cashier's desk told him that he 
 was in for a scolding. He shrugged his thin 
 shoulders. He didn't care very much. Later 
 the prophesied event occurred. He had been 
 much too attentive to the solitary woman who 
 drank absinthe day and night. The patron 
 did not propose to see his establishment, 
 patronized as it was by the shining lights of 
 medicine ! 
 
 Ambroise changed his clothes and went away 
 without a word. He was weary of his existence, 
 and a friend who shared his wretched room in 
 the Rue Mouffetard had apprised him of a 
 vacant job at a livelier resort, the Cafe" Va- 
 chette, commonly known as the Cafe Rasta. 
 There he would earn more tips, though the 
 
 59
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 f 
 
 work would be more fatiguing. And the Mo 
 rocco Woman might not follow him. He hurried 
 away. 
 
 Ill 
 AVERNUS 
 
 She sat on a divan in the corner when he 
 entered the Vachette for the first time. He said 
 nothing, nor did he experience either a thrill of 
 pleasure or disgust The other waiters assured 
 him that she was an old customer, sometimes 
 better dressed, yet never without money. And 
 she was liberal. He took her usual order, but 
 did not speak to her, though she played with 
 the purse as if to tempt him it had become 
 for him a symbol of their lives. A quick glance 
 assured him that the amethyst had disappeared. 
 She was literally drinking his gift away in 
 absinthe. The spring passed, and Ambroise 
 did not regain his former health. His limbs 
 were leaden, his head always heavy. The alert 
 waiter was transformed. He took his orders 
 soberly, executed them soberly, he was still a 
 good routinier ; but his early enthusiasm was 
 absent. Something had gone from him that 
 night; as she went to her carriage with her 
 scornful, snapping, petulant Ca ! he felt that 
 his life was over. Aholibah watched like a cat 
 every night ; he was not on for day duty. She 
 never came to the Rasta before dark. The story 
 of her infatuation for the well-bred, melancholy 
 60
 
 THE PURSE OF AHOLIBAH 
 
 gargon was noised about ; but it did not endanger 
 his position, as at La Source. He paid little 
 attention to the jesting, and was scrupulously 
 exact in his work. But the sense of his double 
 personality began to worry him again. He did 
 not see scarlet as of old ; he noticed when his 
 eyes were closed that the apparition of a second 
 Ambroise swam into the field of his vision. And 
 he was positively certain that this spectre of 
 himself saw scarlet the attitude of his double 
 assured him of the fact. Simple-minded, igno 
 rant of cerebral disorders, loyal, and laborious, 
 Ambroise could not speak of these disquieting 
 things indeed, he only worked the more. . . . 
 At last, one night in late summer, she did not 
 appear. It was after a day when she had sung 
 more insolently than ever, drunk more than her 
 accustomed allowance, and had shown Ambroise 
 the purse the sockets of the serpent's eyes 
 untenanted by the beautiful carbuncles. Apa 
 thetic as he had become, he was surprised at her 
 absence. It was either caprice or serious ill 
 ness. She had dwindled to a skeleton, with 
 a maleficent smile. Her teeth were yellow, her 
 hands become claws, the scarlet of her clothes 
 a drab hue, the plumes on her hat gone. 
 Ambroise wondered. About midnight a mean- 
 looking fellow entered and asked for him. A 
 lady, a very ill lady, was in a coup6 at the 
 door. He hurried out. It was Aholibah. Her 
 eyes were glazed and her lips black and cracked. 
 She tried to croon, in a hoarse voice : 
 61
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 " I am the Woman of Morocco ! " But her 
 head fell on the window-sill of the carriage. 
 Ambroise lifted the weary head on his shoulder. 
 His eyes were so dry that they seemed thirsty. 
 The old glamour gripped him. The cabman 
 held the reins and waited ; it was an every-night 
 occurrence for him. The starlight could not 
 penetrate to the Boulevard through the harsh 
 electric glare; and the whirring of wheels and 
 laughter of the cafe's guests entered the soul 
 of Ambroise like steel nails. She opened her 
 eyes. 
 
 " I am that Aholibah ... a witness through 
 waste Asia . . . that the strong men and the 
 Captains knew . . ." This line of Swinburne's 
 was pronounced in the purest English. Am 
 broise did not understand. Then followed some 
 rapidly uttered jargon that might have been 
 Moorish. He soothed her, and softly passed his 
 hand over her rough and dishevelled hair. His 
 heart was bursting. She was after all his Aholi 
 bah, his first love. A crowd gathered. He 
 asked for a doctor. A dozen students ran in 
 a dozen different directions. The tired horse 
 stamped its feet impatiently, and once it whin 
 nied. The coachman lighted his pipe and 
 watched his dying fare. Some wag sang a 
 drunken lyric, and Ambroise repeated at in 
 tervals : 
 
 " Please not so close, Messieurs. She needs 
 air." Then she moved her head and mur 
 mured : 
 
 62
 
 THE PURSE OF AHOLIBAH 
 
 " Where's my Prince ? My Prince Am- 
 broise I have something " Her head fell 
 back on his shoulder with a rigid jerk. In her 
 clenched ringers he recognized his purse 
 smudged, torn, the serpent mouth gaping, the 
 eyes empty. . . . And for the last time Am- 
 broise saw scarlet saw scarlet double. His 
 two personalities had separated, never to merge 
 again.
 
 IV 
 REBELS OF THE MOON 
 
 " On my honour, friend," Zarathustra answered, " what 
 thou speakest of doth not exist : there is no devil nor hell. 
 Thy soul will be dead even sooner than thy body : hence 
 forth fear naught." 
 
 THE moon, a spiritual gray wafer, fainted in 
 the red wind of a summer morning as the two 
 men leaped a ditch soft with mud. The wall 
 was not high, the escape an easy one. Crouch 
 ing, their clothes the colour of clay, they trod 
 cautiously the trench, until opposite a wood 
 whose trees blackened the slow dawn. Then, 
 without a word, they ran across the road, and, 
 in a few minutes, were lost in the thick under 
 brush of the little forest. It was past four 
 o'clock and the dawn began to trill over the 
 rim of night; the east burst into stinging sun 
 rays, while the moving air awoke the birds and 
 sent scurrying around the smooth green park a 
 cloud of golden powdery dust. . . . 
 
 Arved and Quell stood in a secret glade and 
 looked at each other solemnly but only for 
 a moment. Laughter, unrestrained laughter, 
 frightened the squirrels and warned them that 
 they were still in danger. 
 64
 
 REBELS OF THE MOON 
 
 " Well, we've escaped this time," said the poet. 
 
 " Yes ; but how long ? " was the sardonic re 
 joinder of the painter. 
 
 " See here, Quell, you're a pessimist. You 
 are never satisfied ; which, I take it, is a neat 
 definition of pessimism." 
 
 " I don't propose to chop logic so early in the 
 morning," was the surly reply. " I'm cold and 
 nervous. Say, did you lift anything before we 
 got away ? " Arved smiled the significant smile 
 of a drinking man. 
 
 " Yes, I did. I waited until Doc McKracken 
 left his office, and then I sneaked this" The 
 severe lines in Quell's face began to swim to 
 gether. He reached out his hand, took the 
 flask, and then threw back his head. Arved 
 watched him with patient resignation. 
 
 " Hold on there ! Leave a dozen drops for a 
 poor maker of rhymes," he chuckled, and soon 
 was himself gurgling the liquor. 
 
 They arose, and after despairing glances at 
 their bespattered garments, trudged on. In an 
 hour, the pair had reached the edge of the for 
 est, and, as the sun sat high and warm, a rest 
 was agreed upon. But this time they did not 
 easily find a hiding-place. Fearing to venture 
 nearer the turnpike, hearing human sounds, they 
 finally retired from the clearing, and behind a 
 moss-etched rock discovered a cool resting-place 
 on the leafy floor. 
 
 At full length, hands under heads, brains 
 mellowed by brandy, the men summed up the 
 
 65
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 situation. Arved was the first to speak. He 
 was tall, blond, heavy of figure, and his beard 
 hung upon his chest. His dissatisfied eyes were 
 cynical when he rallied his companion. A man 
 of brains this, but careless as the grass. 
 
 " Quell, let us think this thing out carefully. 
 It is nearly six o'clock. At six o'clock the cells 
 will be unlocked, and then, well, McKracken 
 will damn our bones, for he gets a fat board fee 
 from my people, and the table is not so cursed 
 good at the Hermitage that he misses a margin 
 of profit! What will he do? Set the dogs 
 after us ? No, he daren't ; we're not convicts 
 we're only mad folk." He smiled good- 
 humouredly, though his white brow was dented 
 as if by harsh thoughts. 
 
 Quell's little bloodshot eyes stared up into a 
 narrow channel of foliage, at the end of which 
 was a splash of blue sky. He was mean-appear 
 ing, with a horselike head, his mustache twisted 
 into a savage curl. His forehead was abnormal 
 in breadth and the irritable flashes of fire in 
 his eyes told the story of a restless soul. The 
 nostrils expanded as he spoke : 
 
 " We're only mad folk, as you say ; neverthe 
 less, the Lord High Keeper will send his police 
 patrol wagon after us in a jiffy. He went to bed 
 dead full last night, so his humour won't be 
 any too sweet when he hears that several of his 
 boarders have vanished. He'll miss you more 
 than me; I'm not at the first table with you 
 swells." 
 
 66
 
 REBELS OF THE MOON 
 
 Quell ended his speech with so disagreeable 
 an inflection that Arved was astonished. He 
 looked around and spat at a beetle. 
 
 " What's wrong with you, my hearty ? I be 
 lieve you miss your soft iron couch. Or did you 
 leave it this morning left foot foremost ? Any 
 how, Quell, don't get on your ear. We'll push 
 to town as soon as it's twilight, and I know a 
 little crib near the river where we can have all 
 we want to eat and drink. Do you hear 
 drink ! " Quell made no answer. The other 
 continued : 
 
 " Besides, I don't see why you've turned 
 sulky simply because your family sent you up 
 to the Hermitage. It's no disgrace. In fact, 
 it steadies the nerves, and you can get plenty 
 of booze." 
 
 " If you have the price," snapped his friend. 
 
 " Money or no money, McKracken's asylum 
 no, it's bad taste to call it that; his retreat, 
 ah, there's the word ! is not so awful. I've 
 a theory that our keepers are crazy as loons; 
 though you can't blame them, watching us, as 
 they must, from six o'clock in the morning until 
 midnight. Say, why were you put away ? " 
 
 " Crazy, like yourself, I suppose." Quell 
 grinned. 
 
 " And now we're cured. We cured ourselves 
 by flight. How can they call us crazy when we 
 planned the job so neatly ? " 
 
 Arved began to be interested in the sound of 
 his own voice. He searched his pockets and 
 67
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 after some vain fumbling found a half package 
 of cigarettes. 
 
 " Take some and be happy, my boy. They 
 are boon-sticks indeed." Quell suddenly arose. 
 
 " Arved, what were you sent up for, may I 
 ask?" 
 
 The poet stretched his big legs, rolled over 
 on his back again, and scratching his tangled 
 beard, smoked the cigarette he had just lighted. 
 In the hot hum of the woods there was heard 
 the occasional dropping of pine cones as the 
 wind fanned lazy music from the leaves. They 
 could not see the sun ; its power was felt Per 
 spiration beaded their shiny faces and presently 
 they removed collars and coats, sitting at ease 
 in shirt-sleeves. . . . Arved's tongue began to 
 speed : 
 
 "Though I've only known you twenty-four 
 hours, my son, I feel impelled to tell you the 
 history of my happy life for happiness has 
 its histories, no matter what the poets say. But 
 the day is hot, our time limited. Wait until we 
 are recaptured, then I'll spin you a yarn." 
 
 " You expect to get caught for sure ? " 
 
 " I do. So do you. No need to argue 
 your face tells me that. But we'll have the 
 time of our life before they gather us in. Any 
 how, we'll want to go back. The whole world 
 is crazy, but ashamed to acknowledge it. We 
 are not. Pascal said men are so mad that he 
 who would not be is a madman of a new kind. 
 To escape ineffable dulness is the privilege of 
 68
 
 REBELS OF THE MOON 
 
 the lunatic ; the lunatic, who is the true aristo 
 crat of nature the unique man in a tower of 
 ivory, the elect, who, in samite robes, traverses 
 moody gardens. Really, I shudder at the idea 
 of ever living again in yonder stewpot of human 
 ity, with all its bad smells. To struggle with 
 the fools for their idiotic prizes is beyond me. 
 The lunatic asylum " 
 
 " Can't you find some other word ? " asked 
 Quell, dryly. 
 
 " is the best modern equivalent for the tub 
 of Diogenes he who was the first Solitary, the 
 first Individualist. To dream one's dreams, to 
 be alone " 
 
 " How about McKracken and the keepers ? " 
 
 " From the volatile intellects of madmen are 
 fashioned the truths of humanity. Mental re 
 pose is death. All our modern theocrats, poli 
 ticians, whose minds are sewers for the people, 
 and lawyers are corpses, their brains dead 
 from feeding on dead ideas. Motion is life 
 mad minds are always in motion." 
 
 " Let up there ! You talk like the doctor 
 chaps over at the crazy crib," interrupted Quell. 
 
 " Ah, if we could only arrange our dreams in 
 chapters as in a novel. Sometimes Nature 
 does it for us. There is really a beginning, 
 a development, a denouement. But, for the 
 most of us, life is a crooked road with weeds so 
 high that we can't see the turn of the path. 
 Now, my case I'm telling you my story after 
 all my case is a typical one of the artistic 
 69
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 sort. I wrote prose, verse, and dissipated with 
 true poetic regularity. It was after reading 
 Nietzsche that I decided to quit my stupid, sin 
 ful ways. Yes, you may smile ! It was Nietz 
 sche who converted me. I left the old crowd, 
 the old life in Paris, went to Brittany, studied 
 new rhythms, new forms, studied the moon ; 
 and then people began to touch their foreheads 
 knowingly. I was suspected simply because I 
 did not want to turn out sweet sonnets about 
 the pretty stars. Why, man, I have a star in 
 my stomach ! Every poet has. We are of the 
 same stuff as the stars. It was Marlowe who 
 said, 'A sound magician is a mighty god.' He 
 was wrong. Only the mentally unsound are 
 really wise. This the ancients knew. Even if 
 Gerard de Nerval did walk the boulevards troll 
 ing a lobster by a blue ribbon that is no 
 reason for judging him crazy. As he truly said, 
 ' Lobsters neither bark nor bite ; and they know 
 the secrets of the sea ! ' His dreams simply 
 overflowed into his daily existence. He had the 
 courage of his dreams. Do you remember his 
 declaring that the sun never appears in dreams ? 
 How true ! But the moon does, ' sexton of the 
 planets,' as the crazy poet Lenau called it the 
 moon which is the patron sky-saint of men with 
 brains. Ah, brains ! What unhappiness they 
 cause in this brainless world, a world rotten 
 with hypocrisy. A poet polishes words until 
 they glitter with beauty, charging them with 
 fulminating meaning straightway he is called 
 70
 
 REBELS OF THE MOON 
 
 mad by men who sweat and toil on the stock 
 exchange. Have you ever, my dear Quell, 
 watched those little, grotesque brokers on a 
 busy day ? No ? Well, you will say that no 
 lunatic grimacing beneath the horns of the moon 
 ever made such ludicrous, such useless, gestures. 
 And for what ? Money ! Money to spend as 
 idiotically as it is garnered. The world is crazy, 
 I tell you, crazy, to toil as it does. How much 
 cleverer are the apes who won't talk, because, 
 if they did, they would be forced to abandon 
 their lovely free life, put on ugly garments, and 
 work for a living. These animals, for which we 
 have such contempt, are freer than men ; they 
 are the Supermen of Nietzsche Nietzsche 
 whose brain mirrored both a Prometheus and 
 a Napoleon." Quell listened to this speech with 
 indifference. Arved continued : 
 
 " Nor was Nietzsche insane when he went to 
 the asylum. . His sanity was blinding in its 
 brilliancy ; he voluntarily renounced the world 
 of foolish faces and had himself locked away 
 where he would not hear its foolish clacking. 
 O Silence ! gift of the gods, deified by Car- 
 lyle in many volumes and praised by me in 
 many silly words ! My good fellow, society, 
 which is always hypocritical, has to build lunatic 
 asylums in self-defence. These polite jails keep 
 the world in countenance ; they give it a stand 
 ard. If you are behind the bars " 
 
 " Speak for yourself," growled Quell. 
 
 " Then the world knows that you are crazy
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 and that it is not. There is no other way of 
 telling the difference. So a conspiracy of fools, 
 lawyers, and doctors is formed. If you do not 
 live the life of the stupid : cheat, lie, steal, smirk, 
 eat, dance, and drink then you are crazy ! 
 That fact agreed upon, the hypocrites, who are 
 quite mad, but cunning enough to dissemble, 
 lock behind bolted doors those free souls, the 
 poets, painters, musicians artistic folk in gen 
 eral. They brand our gifts with fancy scientific 
 names, such as Megalomania, Paranoia, Folie 
 des grandeurs. Show me a genius and I'll show 
 you a madman according to the world's 
 notion." 
 
 " There you go again," cried Quell, arising to 
 his knees. " Genius, / believe, is a disease of 
 the nerves ; and I don't mind telling you that I 
 consider poets and musicians quite crazy." 
 
 Arved's eyes were blazing blue signals. 
 
 " But, my dear Quell, are not all men mad at 
 some time or another? Madly in love, re 
 ligiously mad, patriotically insane, and idiotic 
 on the subject of clothes, blood, social prece 
 dence, handsome persons, money ? And is it not 
 a sign of insanity when one man claims sanity 
 for his own particular art? Painting, I admit, 
 is " 
 
 " What the devil do you know about paint 
 ing ? " Quell roughly interposed; " you are a poet 
 and, pretending to love all creation, altruism, 
 I think your sentimental philosophers call it, 
 have the conceit to believe you bear a star in 
 72
 
 REBELS OF THE MOON 
 
 your stomach when it is only a craving for rum. 
 I've been through the game." 
 
 He began to pace the sward, chewing a 
 blade of grass. He spoke in hurried, staccato 
 phrases : 
 
 " Why was I put away ? Listen : I tried to 
 paint the sun, for I hate your moon and its 
 misty madness. To put this glorious furnace 
 on canvas is, as you will acknowledge, the task 
 of a god. It never came to me in my dreams, 
 so I wooed it by day. Above all, I wished to 
 express truth ; the sun is black. Think of an 
 ebon sun fringed with its dazzling photosphere ! 
 I tried to paint sun-rhythms, the rhythms of the 
 quivering sky, which is never still even when it 
 seems most immobile ; I tried to paint the 
 rhythms of the atmosphere, shivering as it is 
 with chords of sunlight and chromatic scales as 
 yet unpainted. Like Oswald Alving in Ibsen's 
 Ghosts, my last cry will be for 'the sun.' How 
 did my friends act ? What did the critics say ? 
 A black sun was too much for the world, though 
 astronomers have proven my theory correct. 
 The doctors swore I drank too much absinthe ; 
 the critics said a species of optical madness had 
 set in ; that I saw only the peripheral tints I 
 was yellow and blue crazy. Perhaps I was, 
 perhaps I am. So is the fellow crazy who in 
 vented wireless telegraphy ; so is the man off 
 his base who invents a folding bird cage. We 
 are all crazy, and the craziest gang are our 
 doctors at the Hermitage." He jerked his 
 
 73
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 thumb over his shoulder. Arved rolled his 
 handsome head acquiescingly. 
 
 " You poets and musicians are trying to com 
 pass the inane. You are trying to duplicate 
 your dreams, dreams without a hint of the sun. 
 The painter at least copies or interprets real life ; 
 while the composer dips his ringer in the air, 
 making endless sound-scrolls noises with long 
 tails and whirligig decorations like foolish fire 
 works though I think the art of the future 
 will be pyrotechnics. Mad, mad, I tell you ! 
 But whether mad or not matters little in our 
 land of freedom, where all men are born unequal, 
 where only the artists are sad. They are use 
 less beings, openly derided, and when one is 
 caught napping, doing something that offends 
 church or State or society, he is imprisoned. 
 Mad, you know ! No wonder anarchy is thriv 
 ing, no wonder every true artist is an anarch, 
 unavowed perhaps, yet an anarch, and an 
 atheist." 
 
 " Not so fast ! " interrupted Arved. " I'm an 
 anarchist, but I don't believe in blowing up in 
 nocent policemen. Neither do you, Quell. You 
 wouldn't hurt a bartender ! Give an anarchist 
 plenty to drink, and he sheds his anarchy like a 
 shirt. There are, I have noticed, three stages 
 in the career of a revolutionist : destruction, in 
 struction, construction. He begins the first at 
 twenty, at forty he is teaching, at sixty he be 
 lieves in society especially if he has money in 
 the bank." Quell regarded the speaker sourly. 
 74
 
 REBELS OF THE MOON 
 
 " You are a wonder, Arved. You fly off on a 
 wild tangent stimulated by the mere sound of 
 a word. Who said anything about dynamite- 
 anarchy ? There's another sort that men of 
 brains madmen if you will believe and in 
 directly teach. Emerson was one, though he 
 hardly knew it. Thoreau realized it for him, 
 however. Don't you remember his stern re 
 buke when Emerson visited him in Concord 
 jail : ' Henry, why art thou here ? ' meekly in 
 quired the mystic man. ' Ralph, why art thou 
 not here ? ' was the counter-question. Thoreau 
 had brave nerves. To live in peace in this ma 
 licious swamp of a world we must all wear iron 
 masks until we are carted off to the domino- 
 park ; pious people call it the cemetery. Now, 
 I'm going to sleep. I'm tired of all this jabber 
 ing. We are crazy for sure, or else we wouldn't 
 talk so much." 
 
 Arved grumbled, " Yes, I've noticed that 
 when a man in an asylum begins to suspect 
 his keepers of madness he's mighty near lunacy 
 himself." 
 
 " You have crazy blue eyes, Arved ! Where's 
 that flask I'm dry again ! Let's sleep." 
 
 They drained the bottle and were soon doz 
 ing, while about them buzzed the noon in all its 
 torrid splendour. 
 
 When they awoke it was solid night. They 
 yawned and damned the darkness, which smelt 
 like stale india-rubber, so Quell said. They 
 cursed life and the bitter taste in their mouths. 
 
 75
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 Quell spoke of his thirst in words that startled 
 the easy-going Arved, who confessed that if he 
 could rid himself of the wool in his throat, 
 he would be comparatively happy. Then they 
 stumbled along, bumping into trees, feeling with 
 outstretched arms, but finding nothing to guide 
 them save the few thin stars in the torn foliage 
 overhead. Without watches, they could catch 
 no idea of the hour. The night was far spent, 
 declared Arved ; he discovered that he was 
 very hungry. Suddenly, from the top of a 
 steep, slippery bank they pitched forward into 
 the highroad. 
 
 Arved put out his hand, searching for his com 
 rade. " Quell, Quell ! " he whispered. Quell 
 rose darkly beside him, a narrow lath of human 
 ity. Locking arms, both walked briskly until, 
 turning a sharp, short corner, they beheld, all 
 smiling in the night, a summer garden, well 
 lighted and full of gay people, chattering, 
 singing, eating, drinking happy ! The two 
 fugitives were stunned for a moment by such 
 a joyful prospect. Tears came slowly to their 
 eyes, yet they never relaxed their gait. Arriv 
 ing at an outlying table and seats, they bethought 
 themselves of their appearance, of money, of 
 other disquieting prospects ; but, sitting down, 
 they boldly called a waiter. 
 
 Luckily it was a country girl who timidly took 
 
 their order for beer and sandwiches. And they 
 
 drank eagerly, gobbling the food as soon as it 
 
 came, ordering more so noisily that they at- 
 
 76
 
 REBELS OF THE MOON 
 
 tracted attention. The beer made them brave. 
 As they poured down glass after glass, reckless 
 of the reckoning, insolent to the servant, they 
 began wrangling over the subject that had pos 
 sessed their waking hours. 
 
 " Look here, Quell ! " Arved exclaimed 
 crustily, " you said I had crazy blue eyes. 
 What about your own red ones ? Crazy ! Why, 
 they glow now like a rat's. Poets may be 
 music-mad, drunk with tone " 
 
 " And other things," sneered the painter. 
 
 " but at least their work is great when it 
 endures ; it does not fade away on rotten canvas." 
 
 " Now, I know you ought to be in the Brain- 
 College, Arved, where your friends could take 
 the little green car that goes by the grounds 
 and see you on Sunday afternoons if weather 
 permits." 
 
 His accent seemed deliberately insulting to 
 Arved, who, however, let it pass because of 
 their mutual plight. If they fell to fighting, 
 detection would ensue. So he answered in 
 placatory phrases : 
 
 " Yes, my friend, we both belong to the same 
 establishment, for we are men of genius. As 
 the cat said to Alice, ' We must be mad or else 
 we shouldn't be here.' I started to tell you why 
 my people thought I had better take the cure. 
 I loved the moon too much and loathed sun 
 light. If I had never tried to write lunar 
 poetry the tone quality of music combined 
 with the pictorial evocation of painting I 
 
 77
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 might be in the bosom of my family now in 
 stead of " 
 
 " Drinking with a crazy painter, eh ? " Quell 
 was very angry. He shouted for drinks so 
 rapidly that he alarmed the more prudent 
 Arved ; and as they were now the last guests, 
 the head waiter approached and curtly bade 
 them leave. In an instant he was dripping with 
 beer thrown at him glass and all by the 
 irate Quell. A whistle sounded, two other 
 waiters rushed out, and the battle began. 
 Arved, aroused by the sight of his friend on 
 the ground with three men hammering his 
 head, gave a roar like the trumpeting of an 
 elephant. A chair was smashed over a table, 
 and, swinging one-half of it, he made a for 
 midable onslaught. Two of the waiters were 
 knocked senseless and the leader's nose and 
 teeth crushed in by the rude cudgel. The 
 morose moon started up, a tragic hieroglyph 
 in the passionless sky. Quell, seeing its hated 
 disk, howled, his face aflame with exalta 
 tion. Then he leaped like a hoarsely panting 
 animal upon the poet ; a moment and they 
 were in the grass clawing each other. And 
 the moon foamed down upon them its magnetic 
 beams until darkness, caused by a coarse 
 blanket, enveloped, pinioned, smothered them. 
 When the light shone again, they were sitting 
 in a wagon, their legs tightly bound. . . . 
 
 They began singing. The attendant inter 
 rupted : 
 
 78
 
 REBELS OF THE MOON 
 
 "Will you fellows keep quiet ? How can a 
 man drive straight, listening to your cackle ? " 
 
 Arved touched his temple significantly and 
 nudged Quell. 
 
 " Another one of us. Another rebel of the 
 moon ! " 
 
 " Shut up or I'll gag you both ! " imperi 
 ously commanded the doctor, as the wheels 
 of the ambulance cut the pebbly road. They 
 were entering the asylum ; now they passed 
 the porter's lodge. In the jewelled light of a 
 senescent moon, his wife and little daughter 
 gazed at them curiously, without semblance 
 of pity or fear. Then, as if shot from the 
 same vocal spring-board, the voices of poet 
 and painter merged into crazy rhythmatic chant 
 ing :- 
 
 " Rebels of the moon, rebels of the moon ! 
 We are, we are, the rebels of the moon ! " 
 
 And the great gates closed behind them 
 with a brazen clangour metal gates of the 
 moon-rebels. 
 
 79
 
 V 
 
 THE SPIRAL ROAD 
 
 There can be nothing good, as we know it, nor any 
 thing evil, as we know it, in the eye of the Omnipresent 
 and the Omniscient. Oriental Proverb. 
 
 I 
 THE STRAND OF DREAMS 
 
 "I MUST see him if only for a minute. I 
 can't go back to the city after coming so far. 
 Please " but the girl's face disappeared and 
 the rickety door, which had been opened on a 
 chain, was slammed after this imperative speech, 
 and Gerald Shannon found himself staring exas- 
 peratedly at its rusty exterior. To have trav 
 elled on foot such a distance only to be turned 
 away like a beggar enraged him. Nor was the 
 prospect of returning over the path which had 
 brought him to Karospina's house a cheering 
 one. He turned and saw that a low, creeping 
 mist had obliterated every vestige of the trail 
 across the swamp lands. There was no sun, 
 and the twilight of a slow yellow day in late 
 September would soon, in complicity with the 
 fog, leave him totally adrift on this remote 
 strand he could hear the curving fall and hiss 
 80
 
 THE SPIRAL ROAD 
 
 of the breakers, the monotonous rumour of the 
 sea. So he was determined to face Karospina, 
 even if he had to force his way into the house. 
 
 Two hours earlier, at the little railway sta 
 tion, they had informed him that the road was 
 easy flatland for the greater part of the way. 
 He had offered money for a horse or even a 
 wheel ; but these were luxuries on this bleak, 
 poverty-ridden coast. As there was no alterna 
 tive, Gerald had walked rapidly since three 
 o'clock. And he had not been told the truth 
 about the road ; where the oozing, green, un 
 wholesome waters were not he stepped, some 
 times sinking over his ankles in the soft mud. 
 Not a sign of humanity served him for comfort 
 or compass. He had been assured that if he 
 kept his back to the sun he would reach his des 
 tination. And he did, but not without many 
 misgivings. It was the vision of a squat tower- 
 like building, almost hemmed in by a monster 
 gas reservoir, fantastic wooden galleries, and 
 the gigantic silhouettes of strange machinery, 
 that relieved his mind. But this house and its 
 surroundings soon repelled him. His reception 
 was the final disenchantment. 
 
 He played a lively tattoo with his blackthorn 
 stick on the panels of the door. For five min 
 utes this continued, interspersed with occasional 
 loud calls for Karospina. At last the siege was 
 raised. After preliminary unboltings, unbar- 
 rings, and the rattling of the chain, Gerald saw 
 before him a middle-aged man with a smooth 
 81
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 face and closely shaven head, who quietly asked 
 his name and business. 
 
 " I have a letter for you, Mr. Karospina if 
 you are that gentleman and as I have put my 
 self to much trouble in getting to you, I think I 
 deserve a little consideration." 
 
 " A letter, my worthy sir ! And for me ? 
 Who told you to come here ? How do you 
 know my name ? " This angered the young man. 
 
 " It is from Prince K. The Prince. Now 
 are you satisfied ? " he added, as his questioner 
 turned red and then paled as if the news were 
 too startling for his nerves. 
 
 " Come in, come in ! " he cried. " Mila, Mila, 
 here is a guest. Fetch tea to the laboratory." 
 He literally dragged Shannon within doors and 
 led him across a stone corridor to a large room, 
 but not before he had bolted and barred the en 
 trance to his mysterious fortress. Seeing the 
 other's look of quiet amusement, he laughed 
 himself : 
 
 " Wolves, my dear sir, wolves, human wolves, 
 prowl on the beach at night, and while I have 
 no treasures, it is well to be on the safe side. 
 Mila, Mila, the tea, the tea." There was a pas 
 sionate intensity in his utterance that attracted 
 Gerald from his survey of the chamber. He 
 saw that in the light Karospina was a much 
 older man than he had at first supposed. But 
 the broad shoulders, the thick chest, and short, 
 powerful figure and bullet head belied his years. 
 Incredulously his visitor asked himself if this 
 82
 
 THE SPIRAL ROAD 
 
 were the wonderful, the celebrated Karospina, 
 chemist, revolutionary, mystic, nobleman, and 
 millionnaire. A Russian, he knew that yet he 
 looked more like the monk one sees depicted on 
 the canvases of the early Flemish painters. His 
 high, wide brow and deep-set, dark eyes pro 
 claimed the thinker; and because of his phy 
 sique, he might have posed as a prize-fighter. 
 
 He took the letter and read it as the door 
 opened and the girl came in with the tea. She 
 wore her hair braided in two big plaits which 
 hung between her shoulders, and her bold, care 
 less glance from eyes sea-blue made the Irish 
 man forget his host and the rigours of the 
 afternoon. A Russian beauty, with bare, plump 
 arms, and dressed in peasant costume; but a 
 patrician ! Her fair skin and blond hair filled 
 him with admiration. What the devil ! he 
 thought, and came near saying it aloud. 
 
 " My niece, Princess Mila Georgovics, Mr. 
 Shannon." Gerald acknowledged the introduc 
 tion with his deepest bow. He was dazzled. 
 He had come to this dreary place to talk 
 politics. But now this was out of the ques 
 tion. And he began explaining to the Princess ; 
 Mila he had fancied was some slattern wait 
 ing on the old fanatic of a prince. He told 
 Mila this in a few words, and soon the pair 
 laughed and chatted. In the meantime Karo 
 spina, who had finished the letter, began to pace 
 the apartment. Apparently he had forgotten 
 the others. 
 
 83
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 "Tea, tea, where's the tea?" he presently 
 shouted. As they drank, he said : " The prince 
 asks an impossibility, Mr. Shannon. Say to 
 him, no, simply no ; he will understand, and so 
 will you, I hope. I'm done with all militant 
 movements. I'm converted to the peace party. 
 What's the use of liberty to people who won't 
 know what to do with it when they get it? 
 Tolstoy is right. Let the peasant be shown how 
 to save his soul that and a little to eat and 
 drink and a roof are all he needs in this life." 
 
 Gerald was startled. He had expected to find 
 an " advanced " leader of the Bakounine type. 
 Instead, a man of the " vegetarian " order, as 
 he had heard them called, who talked religion 
 instead of dynamite ; and after all the bother 
 of bringing the letter down to this remote 
 country ! Decidedly the princess was more 
 enjoyable than a reformed anarchist. She was 
 gazing at him seriously now, her society manner 
 gone. Her nose, rather large for the harmony 
 of her face, palpitated with eagerness. Evidently, 
 thought Gerald, the young lady is the real rev 
 olutionist in this curious household. He also 
 ventured to say so to her, but she did not meet 
 his smiling declaration. Her uncle, irritated by 
 his interrupted discourse, exclaimed : 
 
 " Never mind what the Princess Mila thinks, 
 Mr. Shannon. Women change their minds. 
 The chief matter just now is that you cannot go 
 away to-night. You would lose your way, per 
 haps be drowned. Can you sleep on a hard 
 84
 
 THE SPIRAL ROAD 
 
 bed ? " He was assured by Gerald that, if he 
 had been turned away, he would have slept in 
 an outhouse, even under one of those wind 
 mills he saw in such number on the strand. 
 Karospina smiled. 
 
 "Hardly there that is, if you expected to 
 awaken." Then he left the room, saying that 
 some one must see to the supper. His niece 
 burst into laughter. Gerald joined in. 
 
 " He's always like that, fussy, nervous, but 
 with a heart of gold, Mr. Mr. Shannon. 
 Thank you. It's an Irish name, is it not ? And 
 you look like an Irishman ; a soldier, too, I 
 fancy ! " 
 
 Gerald blushed. " A soldier in the cause of 
 humanity," he answered, " but no longer a hire 
 ling in the uniform of kings." He felt so 
 foolish after this brave bit of rhetoric that he 
 kept his eyes on the floor. In an instant she 
 was at his side. 
 
 "Give me your hand comrade!" she said, 
 with a peculiar intonation. " Oh ! if you only 
 knew how I longed to meet the right men. 
 Uncle is a convert no, hardly a backslider ; 
 but he swears by the regenerating process in 
 stead of violence. Formerly the cleverest living 
 chemist, he now oh ! I shame to say it he 
 now indulges in firework displays instead of 
 manufacturing bombs with which to execute 
 tyrants." She slowly dropped his hand and her 
 eyes wore a clairvoyant expression. He was 
 astounded. 
 
 85
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 - " Fireworks ! Doesn't the prince hold by 
 his old faith he, a pupil of Bakounine, Net- 
 schajew, and Kropotkin ? " Just then the prince 
 came in, bearing a tray. He seemed happy. 
 
 " Here, sit down, dear sir, and partake of a 
 few things. We live so far from civilization 
 that we seldom get a good chicken. But eggs 
 I can offer you, eggs and ham, cooked by me 
 on an electric machine." 
 
 " You have no servants ? " Gerald ventured. 
 
 " Not one. I can't trust them near my 
 toys. The princess plays Chopin mazourkas 
 after she makes the beds in the morning, and in 
 the afternoon she is my assistant in the labora 
 tory." Again the young man looked about him. 
 If the room was a laboratory, where were the 
 retorts, the oven, the phials, the jars, the usual 
 apparatus of a modern chemist? He saw 
 nothing, except an old-fashioned electric fan and 
 a few dusty books. The fireworks were those 
 overgrown wheels and gaunt windmills and gas- 
 house the secret of the prince's self-banishment 
 to this dreary coast ? What dreams did he seek 
 to incarnate on this strand, in this queer tower, 
 locked away from the world with a charming 
 princess a fairy princess whose heart beat 
 with love for the oppressed, in whose hand he 
 might some time see the blazing torch of free 
 dom ? He, himself, was enveloped by the hyp 
 notism of the place. Mila spoke : 
 
 " I fear I must leave you. I am studying to 
 night and I go early to rest. Pray dine as 
 86
 
 THE SPIRAL ROAD 
 
 well as you can, with such a chef." She smiled 
 mischievously at her uncle, courtesied in peas 
 ant fashion to the bewildered Gerald, who put 
 out his hand, fain to touch hers, and disap 
 peared. The prince gazed inquiringly at the 
 young man. 
 
 " Revolutionists soon become friends, do they 
 not ? The Princess Mila is part Russian, part 
 Roumanian, my sister married a Roumanian, 
 hence her implacable political attitude. I 
 can't lead her back 'to civilized thinking. She 
 sees war in the moon, sun, and stars. And I I 
 have forsworn violence. Ah ! if I could only 
 make the prince change. Bakounine's death 
 had no effect ; Netschajew's fate did not move 
 him; nor was Illowski's mad attempt to burn 
 down Paris with his incendiary symphony an 
 example to our prince that those who take up 
 the sword perish by the sword. Ah, Tolstoy, 
 dear Leon Nikolaievitch, you showed me the 
 true way to master the world by love and not 
 by hate! Until I read but there, it's late. 
 Come with me to your room. You may smoke 
 and sleep when you will. In the morning I 
 will show you my toys." They shook hands 
 formally and parted. 
 
 His bed was hard, and his room cheerless, 
 but anything, even a haymow, rather than 
 walking back to the station. After he went to 
 his bed, he rehearsed the day's doings from the 
 three hours' ride in the train to the tower. How 
 weary he was! Hark some one played the 
 
 87
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 piano ! A Chopin mazourka ! It was the prin 
 cess. Mila ! How lovely her touch ! . . . Mila ! 
 What a lovely name ! A sleeping princess. A 
 prince with such a sleepy head. How the girl 
 could play . . . along the spiral road he saw 
 the music glow in enigmatic figures of fire. . . . 
 
 II 
 THE PANACEA OF CORUSCATION 
 
 He seemed to be uttering her name when he 
 awoke. It was daylight ; the sun poured its rays 
 over his face, and he asked himself how he could 
 have fallen asleep leaving the lamp burning on 
 the table near his bed. He must have slept 
 long, for he felt rested, cheerful happy. As 
 he dressed he speculated whether it was the 
 sunshine, or the prospect of going back to life, 
 or or Did he wish to return so soon? 
 He wondered what Mila was doing. Then he 
 went into the stone corridor and coughed as a 
 hint that he was up. Not a sound but the per 
 sistent fall at a distance of some heavy metallic 
 substance. It must be Karospina in his work 
 shop, at his rockets, pinwheels, torpedoes, and 
 firecrackers. What a singular change in a 
 bloodthirsty revolutionist. And how childish ! 
 Had he squandered his millions on futile experi- 
 mentings ? What his object, what his scheme, for 
 the amelioration of mankind's woes ? Gerald's 
 stomach warned him that coffee and rolls were 
 88
 
 THE SPIRAL ROAD 
 
 far dearer to him than the downfall of tyranny's 
 bastions, and impatiently he began whistling. 
 The rhythmic thud never ceased. He noticed 
 an open door at the back of the house, and he 
 went out, his long legs carrying him about the 
 yard, toward the beach. The air was glorious, 
 a soft breeze blowing landward from the ocean. 
 He almost forgot his hunger in the face of such 
 a spectacle. The breakers were racing in, and 
 after crumbling, they scudded, a film of green, 
 crested by cottony white, across the hard sand 
 to the young man's feet. He felt exhilarated. 
 And his hunger returned. Then Mila's voice 
 sounded near him. She carried a basket and 
 fairly ran in her eagerness. 
 
 " Mr. Shannon, Mr. Shannon, good Prince 
 Gerald " he was amazed; where could she 
 have heard his Christian name? "your break 
 fast. Wait don't swim the seas to New York 
 for it. Here it is." She opened the basket and 
 handed him a jug of coffee and showed him the 
 rolls inside. Without the slightest embarrass 
 ment he thanked her and drank his coffee, 
 walking ; he ate the bread, and felt, as he ex 
 pressed it, like leading a forlorn hope. They 
 went on, the cutting sunshine and sparkling 
 breeze alluring them to vague distances. It was 
 long after midday when they marched back at a 
 slower pace, Gerald swinging the basket like a 
 light-hearted boy, instead of the desperado he 
 fancied himself. 
 
 Entering the house, Mila hunted up some cold 
 89
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 meat, and with fresh tea and stale bread they 
 were contented. The formidable pyrotechnist 
 did not appear, and so the young people enjoyed 
 the day in each other's company. She conducted 
 him like a river through the lands of sociology, 
 Dostoifewsky, and Chopin. She played, but made 
 him sit in the hall, for the piano was in her pri 
 vate room. And then they began to exchange 
 confidences. It was dusk before the prince re 
 turned, in the attire of a workingman, his face 
 and hands covered with soot and grease. A 
 hard day's labour, he said, and did not seem sur 
 prised to see Shannon. 
 
 After supper he asked Gerald if he would 
 smoke a pipe with him in his laboratory. Mila 
 must have bored him enough by this time ! They 
 lighted their pipes ; but Mila refused to be sent 
 away. She sat down beside her uncle and put 
 her elbows on the table white, strong arms she 
 had, and Gerald only took his eyes from their 
 pleasing contemplation to lift them to hers. He 
 was fast losing what little prudence he had ; he 
 was a Celt, and he felt that he had known Mila 
 for a century. 
 
 "Young man," said Prince Karospina, sharply, 
 " you have the message I gave you last night ! 
 Well and you will say no, to my beloved friend 
 K., without knowing why. And you will think 
 that you have been dealing with a man whose 
 hard head has turned to the mush of human 
 kindness, an altruist. Ah! I know how you 
 fellows despise the word. But what have Kro- 
 90
 
 THE SPIRAL ROAD 
 
 potkin, Elisee Reclus, Jean Grave, or the rest 
 accomplished ? To build up, not to tear down, 
 should be the object of the scientific anarch. 
 Stop ! You need not say the earth has to be 
 levelled and ploughed before sowing the seed. 
 That suits turnip fields, not the garden of human 
 ity. Educate the downtrodden into liberty, is 
 my message, not the slaughtering of monarchs. 
 How am I going to go about it ? Ah ! that's 
 my affair, my dear sir. After I read a certain 
 book by Tolstoy, I realized that art was as potent 
 an agent for mischief as the knout. Music 
 music is rooted in sex; it works miracles of 
 evil " 
 
 " Now, uncle, I won't hear a word against 
 Chopin," said Mila, looking toward Gerald for 
 approval. 
 
 " Music, Mila, in the hands of evil men is an 
 instrument dangerous to religion, to civilization. 
 What of Illowski and his crazy attack on Paris 
 and St. Petersburg ? You remember, Shannon! 
 Leave Wagner out of the question there is 
 no fusion of the arts in his music drama only 
 bad verse, foolish librettos, dealing with mon 
 sters and gods, and indifferent scene-painting. 
 Moreover, this new music is not understood by 
 the world. Even if the whole of mankind could 
 be assembled on the roof of the world and at a 
 preconcerted signal made to howl the Marseil 
 laise, it would not be educated to the heights I 
 imagine. Stage plays Shakespeare has no 
 message for our days ; Ibsen is an anarchist 
 
 9 1
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 he believes in placing the torpedo under the 
 social ark. Painting it is an affair for state 
 galleries and the cabinets of wealthy amateurs. 
 Literature is a dead art every one writes and 
 reads and no one understands. Religion ! Ah ! 
 Yes, religion ; the world will be a blackened cin 
 der or cometary gas before the love of God is 
 stamped from its heart. But religion and art 
 must go hand in hand. Divorced, art has fallen 
 into the Slough of Despond ; else has been 
 transformed into an acrid poison wherewith 
 men's souls are destroyed as if by a virulent 
 absinthe. United with religion, art is purified. 
 All art sprang from religion. All great art, from 
 a Greek statue to a Gothic cathedral, from a 
 Bach fugue to Michael Angelo, was religious. 
 Therefore, if we are to reach the hearts of the 
 people, we must make art the handmaid of reli 
 gion." He stopped for breath. Gerald inter 
 posed : 
 
 " But, dear prince, you say ' art.' What art 
 painting, sculpture, architecture, music, poetry, 
 drama ? " 
 
 " One art," harshly cried the now excited man, 
 as he pounded the table with his hard fist. " One 
 art, my art, the fusion of all the arts. I, Prince 
 Igorovitch Karospina, tell you that I have dis 
 covered the secret of the arts never dreamed of 
 by Wagner and his futile, painted music on a 
 painted stage ; I have gone, not to art, but to 
 nature colour, fire, the elements. The eye is 
 keener than the ear, vision is easier compre- 
 92
 
 THE SPIRAL ROAD 
 
 bended than tone. Ah ! I have you interested 
 at last" 
 
 He began walking as if to overtake a missing 
 idea. His niece watched him cynically. 
 
 " I fear you are boring Mr. Shannon," she said 
 in her most birdlike accents. Her uncle turned 
 on her. 
 
 " I don't care if I am. Go to bed ! I am 
 nearing the climax of a lifetime, and I feel that 
 I must talk to a sympathetic ear. You are not 
 bored, dear friend. I have pondered this mat 
 ter for more than thirty years. I have studied 
 all the arts painting particularly ; and with 
 colour, with colourful design I mean to teach 
 mankind the great lessons of the masters and 
 of religion." 
 
 " Ah, you will exhibit in large halls, panoramic 
 pictures, I suppose," interrupted Shannon. 
 
 " Nothing of the sort," was the testy reply. 
 " For thousands of years the world has been 
 gazing upon dead stones and canvases, reading 
 dead words. Dead all, I tell you, all of these 
 arts. And painting is only in two dimensions 
 a poor copy of nature. The theatre has 
 its possibilities, but is too restricted in space. 
 Music is alive. It moves ; but its message is 
 not articulate to all. I want an art that will be 
 understood and admired at a glance by the world 
 from pole to pole. I want an art that will 
 live and move and tell a noble tale. I want an 
 art that will appeal to the eye by its colouring 
 and the soul by its beautiful designs. Where is 
 
 93
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 that legend-laden art? Hitherto it has not 
 existed. I have found it. I have tracked it 
 down until I am the master who by a touch can 
 liberate elemental forces, which will not destroy, 
 like those of Illowski's, but will elevate the soul 
 and make mankind one great nation, one loving 
 brotherhood. Ah ! to open once more those 
 doors of faith closed by the imperious dogmas 
 of science open them upon a lovely land of 
 mystery. Mankind must have mystery. And 
 beyond each mystery lies another. This will 
 be our new religion." 
 
 Gerald had caught the enthusiasm of this 
 swelling prologue and rose, his face alight with 
 curiosity. 
 
 " And that art is is ? " he stammered. 
 
 " That art is pyrotechny." It was too much 
 for the young man's nerves, and he fell back 
 in his chair, purple with suppressed laughter. 
 Angrily darting at him and catching his left 
 shoulder in a vicelike grip, Karospina growled: 
 
 "You fool, how dare you mock something you 
 know nothing of? " He shook his guest roughly. 
 
 " Uncle, uncle, be patient ! Tell Mr. Shan 
 non, and he, too, will become a believer. I 
 believe in you. I believe in him, Mr. Shannon. 
 Don't sneer! Tell him, uncle." Mila's words, 
 almost imploring in their tone, calmed the infuri 
 ated inventor, who left the room. He reentered 
 in a moment, his head dripping, and he was 
 grinning broadly. 
 
 " Whenever I encounter a refractory pattern 
 94
 
 THE SPIRAL ROAD 
 
 in my fireworks as you call them I am com 
 pelled to throw a bucket of water over it to 
 quench its too ardent spirits. I have just done 
 the same to my own head, dear Mr. Shannon, 
 and I ask your pardon for my rudeness. Get 
 some fresh tea, Mila, strong tea, Mila." Pipes 
 were relighted and the conversation resumed. 
 
 " I forgot in my obsession, in what Jacob 
 Boehme calls ' the shudder of divine excite 
 ment,' that I was talking to one of the unini 
 tiated. I suppose you think by pyrotechny I 
 mean the old-fashioned methods of set pieces, 
 ghastly portraits in fire, big, spouting wheels, 
 rockets, war scenes from contemporary history, 
 seaside stuff, badly done and flowery squibs. 
 My boy, all that, still admired by our country 
 cousins, is the very infancy of my art. In 
 China, where nearly everything was invented 
 ages ago, in China I learned the first principles, 
 also the possibilities of the art of fireworks ; 
 yes, call it by its humble title. In China I have 
 seen surprising things at night. Pagodas blown 
 across the sky, an army of elephants in pursuit, 
 and all bathed in the most divine hues imag 
 inable. But their art suffers from convention. 
 They accomplish miracles considering the medium 
 they work in largely gunpowder. And their 
 art has no meaning, no message, no moral princi 
 ple, no soul. Years ago I discovered all the aids 
 necessary to the pyrotechnist. I am not a 
 chemist for nothing. If I can paint a fair imita 
 tion of a Claude Monet on canvas, I can also 
 
 95
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 produce for you a colourless gas which, when 
 handled by a virtuoso, produces astonishing 
 illusions. In the open air, against the dark 
 background of the horizon, I can show you the 
 luminous dots planewise of the Impressionists ; 
 or I can give you the broad, sabrelike brushwork 
 of Velasquez, or the imperial tintings of Titian. 
 I can paint pictures on the sky. I can produce 
 blazing symphonies. I will prove to you that 
 colour is also music. This sounds as if I were 
 a victim to that lesion of the brain called 
 'coloured-audition.' Perhaps! Not Helmholtz 
 or Chevreul can tell me anything new in the 
 science of optics. I am the possessor of the 
 rainbow secrets for somewhere in Iceland, a 
 runic legend runs, there is a region vast as night, 
 where all the rainbows worn out or to be used 
 drift about in their vapoury limbo. I have 
 the key to this land of dreams. Over the earth 
 I shall float my rainbows of art like a flock of 
 angels. With them I propose to dazzle the eyes 
 of mankind, to arouse sleeping souls. From 
 the chords of the combined arts I shall extort 
 nobler cadences, nobler rhythms, for men to live 
 by, for men to die for ! " 
 
 Shannon was impressed. Through the smoke 
 of his host's discourse he discovered genuine 
 fire. The philosopher took his hand and led 
 him to the window. 
 
 "Stand there a moment! " he adjured. Mila 
 joined him and after turning the lamp to a pin- 
 head of light, their shoulders touching for the 
 96
 
 THE SPIRAL ROAD 
 
 window was narrow they peered into the night. 
 They were on the side of the water. Suddenly 
 Gerald exclaimed : 
 
 "What's that light out at sea far out? It 
 looks like the moon ! " 
 
 " It is the sun," coolly replied his companion. 
 They saw arise from the waters a majestic, 
 glowing sphere of light, apparently the size 
 of the sun. It flooded the country with its 
 glare, and after sailing nearly in front of the 
 house it shrank into a scarlet cross not larger 
 than a man's hand. Then in a shower of 
 sparks it ceased, its absence making the black 
 ness almost corporeal. Instinctively the hands 
 of the two indulged in a long pressure, and Mila 
 quickly adjusted the lamp. But Gerald still 
 stood at the window a prey to astonishment, 
 terror, stupefaction. 
 
 Karospina entered. His face was slightly 
 flushed and in his eyes there burned the sombre 
 fire of the fanatic. Triumphantly he regarded 
 his young friend. 
 
 "That was only a little superfluous gas 
 nothing I cared to show you. Read the news 
 papers to-morrow, and you will learn that a big 
 meteor burst off the north coast the night before, 
 and fell into the sea." Then he moved closer 
 and whispered : 
 
 "The time is at hand. Within three weeks 
 not later than the middle of October I 
 shall make my first public test. 'Thus saith 
 the Lord God to the mountains and to the 
 
 97
 
 hills, to the rivers and to the valleys : Behold, 
 I, even I, will bring a sword upon you, and I 
 will destroy your high places.' " 
 
 His voice rose in passion, his face worked in 
 anger, and he shook his clenched fists at an 
 imaginary universe. So this man of peace was 
 a destroyer, after all ! Gerald aroused him. 
 Again he asked pardon. Mila was nowhere 
 to be seen, and with a sinking at the heart 
 new to his buoyant temperament, Gerald bade 
 the magician good night. It was arranged that 
 he would leave the next day, for, like Milton, 
 he was haunted by "the ghost of a linen 
 decency." But that night he did not sleep, 
 and no sound of music came to his ears from 
 Mila's chamber. Once he tried to open his 
 window. It was nailed down. 
 
 A gray day greeted his tired eyes. In an 
 hour he was bidding his friends good-by and 
 thanking them for their hospitality. He had 
 hoped that Mila would accompany him a few 
 steps on his long journey, but she made no sign 
 beyond a despairing look at her uncle, who was 
 surly, as if he had felt the reaction from too 
 prolonged a debauch of the spirit. Gerald lit 
 his pipe, kissed the hand of Mila with em 
 phasis, and parted from them. He had not 
 gone a hundred yards before he heard soft 
 footsteps tracking him. He turned and was 
 disappointed to see that it was only Karospina, 
 who came up to him, breathing heavily, and 
 in his catlike eyes the fixed expression of 
 98
 
 THE SPIRAL ROAD 
 
 monomania. He stuttered, waving his arms 
 aloft. 
 
 "The time is at hand and the end of all 
 things shall be accomplished. You shall return 
 for the great night. You shall hear of it in the 
 world. Tell K. that I said no ! He must be 
 with us at the transfiguration of all things, when 
 mankind shall go up the spiral road of per 
 fection." 
 
 Gerald Shannon fairly ran to escape knowing 
 more about the universal panacea. And when 
 he turned for the last time the sea and tower 
 and man were blotted out by wavering mists of 
 silver. 
 
 Ill 
 THE FIERY CHARIOT 
 
 The young man soon heard of Karospina's 
 project. A week before the event the news 
 papers began describing the experiments of 
 the new Russian wonder-worker, but treated 
 the matter with calm journalistic obliviousness 
 to any but its most superficial aspects. A 
 scientific pyrotechnist was a novelty, particu 
 larly as the experimen tings were to be given 
 with the aid of a newly discovered gas. Strange 
 rumours of human levitations, of flying machines 
 seen after dark at unearthly heights, were 
 printed. This millionnaire, who had expended 
 fortunes in trying to accomplish what Maxim 
 
 99
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 and Langley had failed in achieving, was a good 
 peg upon which to hang thrilling gossip. He 
 promised to convince the doubting ones that at 
 last man would come into the empire of the 
 air, and by means of fireworks. In search 
 ing carefully all the published reports Gerald 
 was relieved not to encounter the name of 
 Mila. 
 
 That celebrated afternoon he found himself, 
 after the distressingly crowded cars, in company 
 with many thousands, all clamouring and jos 
 tling on the road to the tower. This time there 
 were vehicles and horses, though not in any 
 degree commensurate with the crowd ; but the 
 high tax imposed by the speculators gave him 
 an opportunity of securing a seat with a few 
 others in a carriage drawn by four horses. 
 Gingerly they made their way down the narrow 
 road time was not gained, for the packed mass 
 of humans refused to separate. Fuming at the 
 delay, he was forced to console himself with 
 smoking and listening to the stories told of 
 Karospina and his miracles. They were exag 
 gerated. Karospina here, Karospina there 
 the name of this modern magician was hummed 
 everywhere in the brisk October air. A little 
 man who occupied the seat with Shannon in 
 formed him that he knew some one who had 
 worked for Karospina. He declared that it was 
 no uncommon sight for the conjurer he was 
 usually called by that name to float like a 
 furled flag over his house when the sun had set. 
 
 100
 
 THE SPIRAL ROAD 
 
 Also he had been seen driving in the sky a 
 span of three fiery horses in a fiery chariot 
 across the waters of the bay, while sitting by 
 his side was the star-crowned Woman of the 
 Apocalypse clothed with the sun and the moon 
 under her feet. Gerald held his counsel ; but 
 the grandeur of the spectacle he had witnessed 
 still shook his soul if he had not been the 
 victim of a hallucination ! The journey seemed 
 endless. 
 
 At last the strand came into view with the 
 squat tower, the rusting machinery, and the res 
 ervoir back of the house. There were, however, 
 changes in the scene. Within a quarter of a 
 mile of the beach tents were set and booths 
 erected. Seemingly all the city had rushed to 
 this place, and the plain, with its swampy sur 
 faces, was dotted by masses of noisy men and 
 women. Gerald, finding that approach to the 
 house was impossible from the land side, made 
 a wide detour, and on reaching the shore he was 
 gratified to find it empty. The local constabu 
 lary, powerless to fight off the mob near the 
 house, had devoted their energies to clearing the 
 space about the gas retorts. After much bother, 
 and only by telling his name, did he pass the 
 police cordon. Once inside, he rushed to the 
 back door and found, oh ! great luck Mila. 
 Dressed in white, to his taste she was angelic. 
 He had great difficulty in keeping his arms 
 pinioned to his side; but his eyes shone with 
 the truth beating at the bars of his bosom, and 
 101
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 Mila knew it. He felt this and was light-headed 
 in his happiness. 
 
 They greeted. Mila's face wore a serious 
 expression. 
 
 " I'm very glad you have come down. I think 
 uncle will be glad also. I am happy to see you 
 again; I have missed you these past weeks. 
 But my happiness is nothing just now, Gerald ! 
 [He started.] My uncle, you must speak with 
 him. From brooding so much over the Holy 
 Scriptures, and the natural excitement of his dis 
 coveries they are so extraordinary, dear friend, 
 that he means always to keep them to himself, 
 for he rightly believes that the governments of 
 the world would employ them for wicked pur 
 poses, war, the destruction of weaker nations 
 he has become overwrought. You may not know 
 it, he has a very strong, sane head on his 
 shoulders ; but this scheme for lifting up the 
 masses, I suspect, may upset his own equilib 
 rium. And his constant study of the Apoca 
 lypse and the Hebraic revelations it has filled 
 him with strange notions. Understand me : a 
 man who can swim in the air like a fish in the 
 sea is apt to become unstrung. He has begun 
 to identify himself with the prophets. He in 
 sists on showing biblical pictures, worse still, 
 appearing in them himself." 
 
 " How ' appearing in them ' ? " asked Gerald, 
 wonderingly. 
 
 " In actual person. I, too, have promised to 
 go with him." 
 
 102
 
 THE SPIRAL ROAD 
 
 " In a transparency of fire, you mean ? Isn't 
 it dangerous ? " She hung her head. 
 
 " No, in mid air, in a fiery chariot," she mur 
 mured. 
 
 " The Woman of the Apocalypse ! " he cried. 
 " Oh ! Princess Mila, dearest Mila Georgovics, 
 promise me that you will not risk such a crazy 
 experiment." Gerald pressed his fingers to his 
 throbbing temples. 
 
 " It is no experiment at all," she said, in al 
 most inaudible tones ; " last night we flew over 
 the house" He stared at her, his hands trem 
 bling, and no longer able to play the incredulous. 
 
 " But, dear friend, I fear one other thing ; the 
 gas which uncle has discovered is so tenuous 
 that it is a million times lighter than air ; but it 
 is ever at a terrible tension I mean it is dan 
 gerous if not carefully treated. Last summer, 
 one afternoon, a valve broke and a large quan 
 tity escaped from the reservoir, luckily on the 
 ocean side. It caused a storm and water-spouts, 
 and destroyed a few vessels. The coruscating 
 gas creates a vacuum into which the air rushes 
 with incredible velocity. So promise me that 
 while we are flying you will stay with the police 
 at the gas machines and keep off the crowd. 
 Promise ! " 
 
 " But I shan't permit you to go up with this 
 renegade to the revolutionary cause " he began 
 impetuously. She put warning fingers to her 
 lips. In the white flowing robes of an antique 
 priest, Karospina came out to them and took 
 103
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 Gerald by the hand. He was abstracted and 
 haggard, and his eyes glared about him. He 
 chanted in a monotone : 
 
 " The time is at hand. Soon you will see the 
 Angels of the Seals. I shall show the multi 
 tude Death on the Pale Horse and the vision of 
 Ezekiel. And you shall behold the star called 
 Wormwood, the great star of the third angel, 
 which shall fall like a burning lamp upon the 
 waters and turn them bitter. And at the last 
 you will see the chariot of Elijah caught up to 
 heaven in a fiery whirlwind. In it will be seated 
 the Princess Mila we, the conquerors of the 
 wicked world." 
 
 " Yes, but only as an image, an illusion," 
 ejaculated the unhappy lover, "not in reality." 
 
 " As she is," imperiously answered Karospina, 
 and seizing Mila by the arm, said, " Come ! " 
 She threw a kiss to Gerald and in her eyes 
 were tears. He saw them and could have 
 wept himself. He followed the sacrificial pair 
 as far as the reservoir, muttering warnings in 
 which were mixed the fates of Phaethon and 
 Simon Magus that heretic who mimicked the 
 miracles of the apostles. 
 
 It was now dark ; the order to extinguish all 
 lights on the moor had been obeyed. Only a 
 panting sound as if from a wilderness of fright 
 ened animals betrayed the presence of thou 
 sands. As long as the sun shone there had 
 been a babel of sound ; at the disappearance of 
 104
 
 THE SPIRAL ROAD 
 
 our parent planet, a hushed awe had fallen with 
 the night. Gone the rude joking and wrangling, 
 the crying of children, and the shrill laughter 
 of the women. A bitter breeze swept across 
 from the waters, and the stars were mere twin 
 kling points. 
 
 Then from the vault of heaven darted a ribbon 
 of emerald fire. It became a luminous spiral 
 when it touched the sea of glass, which was like 
 unto a floor of crystal. This was the sign of 
 Karospina's undertaking, his symbol of the road 
 to moral perfection. Gerald recalled Whistler's 
 pyrotechnical extravaganzas. Following this 
 came a pale moon which emerged from the 
 north ; a second, a third, a fourth, started up 
 from the points of the compass, and after wab 
 bling in the wind like gigantic balloons, merged 
 overhead in an indescribable disk which assumed 
 the features of Michael Angelo's Moses. Here 
 is a new technique, indeed, thought Gerald; yet 
 he could not detect its moral values. 
 
 A golden landscape was projected on land 
 and sea. A central aisle of waters, paved by 
 the golden rays of a lyric sun high overhead, 
 was embellished on either side by the marmoreal 
 splendours of stately palaces. An ilex inclined 
 its graceful head to its liquid image ; men moved 
 the blocks that made famous in the mouth of 
 the world Queen Dido's Carthage. Clouds of 
 pearl-coloured smoke encircled the enchanting 
 picture. And the galleys came and went in 
 this symphonic, glittering spectacle.
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 "Turner would have died of envy," said 
 Gerald aloud. There was a remarkable vibra 
 tion of life, not as he had seen it in mechanical 
 bioscopes, but the vivid life of earth and sun 
 shine. 
 
 The scenes that succeeded were many : epi 
 sodes from profane and sacred histories ; simu 
 lacra of the great saints. A war between giants 
 and pygmies was shown with all its accompany 
 ing horrors. The firmament dripped crimson. 
 The four cryptic creatures of Ezekiel's vision 
 came out of the north, a great cloud of " infold 
 ing fire " and the colour was amber. A cyclopean 
 and dazzling staircase thronged by moving 
 angelic shapes, harping mute harps, stretched 
 from sea to sky, melting into the milky way like 
 the tail of a starry serpent. Followed the 
 opening of the dread prophetic seals ; but, after 
 an angel had descended from heaven, his face as 
 the sun and at his feet pillars of fire, the people, 
 prostrate like stalks of corn beaten by a tempest, 
 worshipped in fear. These things were super 
 natural. The heavens were displaying the glory 
 of God. 
 
 Not knowing whether the signs in the skies 
 might be construed as blasphemous, and lost 
 in fathomless admiration for the marvellous 
 power of the wizard, Gerald sought to get closer 
 to Karospina and Mila. But wedged in by 
 uniformed men, and the darkness thick as an 
 Egyptian plague, he despairingly awaited the 
 apotheosis. His eyes were sated by the mira- 
 106
 
 THE SPIRAL ROAD 
 
 cles of harmonies noiseless harmonies. It 
 was a new art, and one for the peoples of the 
 earth. Never had the hues of the universe been 
 so assembled, grouped, and modulated. And 
 the human eye, adapting itself to the new syn 
 thesis of arabesque and rhythm, evoked order 
 and symbolism from these novel chords of colour. 
 There were solemn mountains of opalescent fire 
 which burst and faded into flaming colonnades, 
 and in an enchanting turquoise effervescence 
 became starry spears and scimiters and spar 
 kling shields, and finally the whole mass would 
 reunite and evaporate into brilliant violet auroras 
 or seven-tailed, vermilion-coloured comets. There 
 were gleaming rainbows of unknown tints 
 strange scales of chromatic pigments ; " a fiery 
 snow without wind ; " and once a sun, twice the 
 size of our own, fell into the ocean ; and Gerald 
 could have sworn that he felt a wave of heated 
 air as if from a furnace ; that he heard a seeth 
 ing sound, as if white-hot metal had come in 
 contact with icy water. Consumed by anxiety 
 for Mila's safety, he wished that these soundless 
 girandoles, this apocalypse of architectural fire 
 and weaving flame, would end. 
 
 He had not long to wait. A shrewd hissing 
 apprised him that something unusual was about 
 to occur. Like the flight of a great rocket a 
 black object quickly mounted to the zenith. It 
 did not become visible for several seconds ; 
 Gerald's nerves crisped with apprehension. 
 The apparition was an incandescent chariot ; 
 107
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 in it sat Karospina, and beside him oh ! the 
 agony of her lover Mila Georgovics. As the 
 fiery horses swooped down, he could see her face 
 in a radiant nimbus of meteors, which encircled 
 the equipage. Karospina proudly directed its 
 course over the azure route, and once he passed 
 Gerald at a dangerously low curve earthward, 
 shouting : 
 
 " The Spiral ! The Spiral ! " 
 
 It was his last utterance ; possibly through 
 some flaw in the mechanism, the chariot zig 
 zagged and then drove straight upon the reser 
 voir. To the reverberation of smashed steel 
 and blinding f ulguration the big sphere was split 
 open and Mila with Karospina vanished in the 
 nocturnal gulf. 
 
 Gerald, stunned by the catastrophe, threw 
 himself down, expecting a mighty explosion ; 
 the ebon darkness was appalling after the scin 
 tillating rain of fire. But the liberated gas in the 
 guise of an elongated cloud had rushed seaward, 
 and there gathering density and strength, as 
 sumed the shape of a terrific funnel, an inky 
 spiral, its gyrating sides streaked with intermit 
 tent flashes. Its volcanic roaring and rapid 
 return to land was a signal for vain flight the 
 miserable lover knew it to be the flamboyant ether 
 of the pyromaniac transformed into a trumpet 
 ing tornado. And he hoped that it would not 
 spare him, as this phantasm twirled and ululated 
 in the heavens, a grim portent of the iron wrath 
 of the Almighty. In a twinkling it had passed 
 1 08
 
 THE SPIRAL ROAD 
 
 him, high in the dome of heaven, only to erase 
 in a fabulous blast the moaning multitude. And 
 prone upon the strand between the stormy waters 
 and the field of muddy dead, Gerald Shannon 
 prayed for a second cataclysm which might 
 bring oblivion to him alone. 
 
 109
 
 VI 
 A MOCK SUN 
 
 Where are the sins of yester-year? 
 I 
 
 THE grating of the carriage wheels awoke 
 her from the dream which had lightly brushed 
 away the night and the vision of the Arc de 
 Triomphe looming into the mystery of sky 
 and stars, its monumental flanks sprawling across 
 the Place de 1'Etoile. She heard her name called 
 by Mrs. Sheldam as their coachman guided his 
 horses through the gateway of the Princesse de 
 Lancovani's palace. 
 
 " Now, Ermentrude ! Wake up, dear ; we 
 are there," said Mrs. Sheldam, in her kind, drawl 
 ing tones. Mr. Sheldam sighed and threw away 
 the un lighted cigar he had bitten during the ride 
 along the Champs Elysees. Whatever the even 
 ing meant for his wife and niece, he saw little 
 entertainment in store for himself ; he did not 
 speak French very well, he disliked music and 
 " tall talk " ; all together he wished himself at the 
 Grand Hdtel, where he would be sure to meet 
 some jolly Americans. Their carriage had 
 no
 
 A MOCK SUN 
 
 halted in front of a spacious marble stairway, 
 lined on either side with palms, and though it 
 was a June night, the glass doors were closed. 
 
 Ermentrude's heart was in her throat, not 
 because of the splendour, to which she was ac 
 customed ; but it was to be her first meeting 
 with a noble dame, whose name was historic, at 
 whose feet the poets of the Second Empire had 
 prostrated themselves, passionately plucking 
 their lyres ; the friend of Liszt, Wagner, Ber 
 lioz, of Manet, Degas, Monet; the new school 
 
 this wonderful old woman knew them all, 
 from Goncourt and Flaubert to Daudet and 
 Maupassant. Had she not, Ermentrude remem 
 bered as she divested herself of her cloak, sent 
 a famous romancer out of the house because 
 he spoke slightingly of the Pope ? Had she not 
 cut the emperor dead when she saw him with a 
 lady not his empress ? What a night this would 
 be in the American girl's orderly existence ! 
 And he was to be there, he had promised the 
 princess. 
 
 Her heart was overflowing when she was 
 graciously received by the great lady who stood 
 in the centre of a group at the back of the draw 
 ing-room a lofty apartment in white and gold, 
 the panels painted by Baudry, the furniture 
 purest Empire. She noted the height and ma 
 jestic bearing of this cousin of kings, noted the 
 aquiline nose drooped over a contracted mouth 
 
 which could assume most winning curves, 
 withal shaded by suspicious down, that echoed 
 
 in
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 in hue her inky eyebrows. The eyes of the 
 princess were small and green and her glance 
 penetrating. Her white hair rolled imperially 
 from a high, narrow forehead. 
 
 Ermentrude bore herself with the utmost 
 composure. She adored the Old World, adored 
 genius, but after all she was an Adams of New 
 Hampshire, her sister the wife of a former am 
 bassador. It was more curiosity than gaucherie 
 that prompted her to hold the hand offered 
 her and scrutinize the features as if to evoke 
 from the significant, etched wrinkles the tre 
 mendous past of this hostess. The princess 
 was pleased. 
 
 " Ah, Miss Adams," she said, in idiomatic 
 English, "you have candid eyes. You make 
 me feel like telling stories when you gaze at 
 me so appealingly. Don't be shocked" 
 the girl had coloured " perhaps I shall, after 
 a while." 
 
 Mr. Sheldam had slipped into a corner be 
 hind a very broad table and under the shaded 
 lamps examined some engravings. Mrs. Shel 
 dam talked in hesitating French to the Marquis 
 de Potachre, an old fellow of venerable and bur 
 lesque appearance. His fierce little white mus 
 taches were curled ceilingward, but his voice was 
 as timid as honey. He flourished his wizened 
 hand toward Miss Adams. 
 
 " Charming ! Delightful ! She has some 
 thing English in her insouciant pose, and is 
 wholly American in her cerebral quality. And 
 112
 
 A MOCK SUN 
 
 what colouring, what gorgeous brown hair ! What 
 a race, madame, is yours ! " 
 
 Mrs. Sheldam began to explain that the 
 Adams stock was famous, but the marquis did 
 not heed her. He peered at her niece through 
 a gold-rimmed monocle. The princess had left 
 the group near the table and with two young 
 men slowly moved down the salon. Miss Adams 
 was immediately surrounded by some antiquated 
 gentlemen wearing orders, who paid her compli 
 ments in the manner of the eighteenth century. 
 She answered them with composure, for she was 
 sure of her French, sure of herself the prin 
 cess had not annihilated her. Her aunt, accom 
 panied by the marquis, crossed to her, and the 
 old nobleman amused her with his saturnine re 
 marks. 
 
 "Time was," he said, "when one met here 
 the cream of Parisian wit and fashion : the great 
 Flaubert, a noisy fellow at times, I vow; Dumas 
 fils; Cabanel, Gerdme, Duran; ever-winning Car- 
 olus ah, what men ! Now we get Polish 
 pianists, crazy Belgians, anarchistic poets, and 
 Neo-impressionists. I have warned the princess 
 again and again." 
 
 "B/cassef" interrupted the lady herself. 
 " Monsieur Rajewski has consented to play a 
 Chopin nocturne. And here are my two paint 
 ers, Miss Adams Messieurs Bla and Maugre. 
 They hate each other like the Jesuits and Jan- 
 senists of the good old days of Pascal." 
 
 " She likes to display her learning," grumbled
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 the marquis to Mrs. Sheldam. " That younger 
 man, Bla, swears by divided tones; his neigh 
 bour, Maugre, paints in dots. One is always to 
 be recognized a half-mile away by his vibrating 
 waterscapes he calls them Symphonies of the 
 Wet ; the other goes in for turkeys in the grass, 
 fowls that are cobalt-blue daubs, with grass a 
 scarlet. It's awful on the optic nerves. Poin- 
 tillisme, Maugre names his stuff. Now, give 
 me Corot " 
 
 " Hush, hush ! " came in energetic sibilants 
 from the princess, who rapped with her Japanese 
 walking-stick for silence. Mr. Sheldam woke 
 up and fumbled the pictures as Rajewski, slowly 
 bending his gold-dust aureole until it almost 
 grazed the keyboard, began with deliberate ac 
 cents a nocturne. Miss Adams knew his play 
 ing well, but its poetry was not for her this 
 evening ; rather did the veiled tones of the in 
 strument form a misty background to the human 
 tableau. So must Chopin have woven his magic 
 last century, and in a salon like this the wax 
 candles burning with majestic steadiness in the 
 sculptured sconces; the huge fireplace, monu 
 mental in design, with its dull brass garnishing ; 
 the subdued richness of the decoration into which 
 fitted, as figures in a frame, the various guests. 
 Even the waxed floor seemed to take on new re 
 verberations as the pianoforte sounded the sweet 
 despair of the Pole. To her dismay Ermentrude 
 caught herself drifting away from the moment's 
 hazy charm to thoughts of her poet. It annoyed 
 114
 
 A MOCK SUN 
 
 her, she sharply reminded herself, that she could 
 not absolutely saturate herself with the music 
 and the manifold souvenirs of the old hotel; 
 perhaps this may have been the spell of Rajew- 
 ski's playing. . . . 
 
 The music ceased. A dry voice whispered 
 in her ear : 
 
 " Great artist, that chap Rajewski. Had to 
 leave Russia once because he wouldn't play the 
 Russian national hymn for the Czar. Bless me, 
 but he was almost sent to Siberia and in irons 
 too. Told me here in this very room that he 
 was much frightened. They lighted fires in Po 
 land to honour his patriotism. He acknow 
 ledged that he would have played twenty national 
 hymns, but he couldn't remember the Russian 
 one, or never knew it anyhow, he was christ 
 ened a patriot, and all by a slip of the memory. 
 Now, that's luck, isn't it ? " 
 
 She began to dislike this cynical old man 
 with his depreciating tales of genius. She knew 
 that her idols often tottered on clay feet, but she 
 hated to be reminded of that disagreeable real 
 ity. She went to Monsieur Rajewski and 
 thanked him prettily in her cool new voice, 
 and again the princess nodded approval. 
 
 " She is chic, your little girl," she confided in 
 her deep tones to Mrs. Sheldam, whose tired New 
 England face almost beamed at the compliment. 
 
 "We were in Hamburg at the Zoological 
 Garden ; I always go to see animals," de 
 claimed the princess, in the midst of a thick
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 silence. " For you know, my friends, one stud 
 ies humanity there in the raw. Well, I dragged 
 our party to the large monkey cage, and we 
 enjoyed ourselves immensely ! And what do 
 you think we saw ! A genuine novelty. Some 
 mischievous sailor had given an overgrown ape 
 a mirror, and the poor wretch spent its time 
 staring at its image, neglecting its food and 
 snarling at its companions. The beast would 
 catch the reflection of another ape in the glass 
 and quickly bound to a more remote perch. 
 The keeper told me that for a week his charge 
 had barely eaten. It slept with the mirror held 
 tightly in its paws. Now, what did the mirror 
 mean to the animal ! I believe " here she be 
 came very vivacious "I really believe that 
 it was developing self-consciousness, and in time 
 it would become human. On our way back from 
 Heligoland, where we were entertained on the 
 emperor's yacht at the naval manoeuvres, we paid 
 another visit to our monkey house. The poor, 
 misguided brute had died of starvation. It had 
 become so vain, so egotistical, so superior, that 
 it refused food and wasted away in a corner, 
 gazing at itself, a hairy Narcissus, or rather the 
 perfect type of your modern Superman, who 
 contemplates his ego until his brain sickens and 
 he dies quite mad." 
 
 Every one laughed. Mrs. Sheldam wondered 
 what a Superman was, and Ermentrude felt an 
 noyed. Zarathustra was another of her gods, 
 and this brusquely related anecdote did not seem 
 116
 
 A MOCK SUN 
 
 to her very spirituelle. But she had not formu 
 lated an answer when she heard a name an 
 nounced, a name that set her heart beating. At 
 last ! The poet had kept his word. She was 
 to meet in the flesh the man whose too few 
 books were her bibles of art, of philosophy, of 
 all that stood for aspiration toward a lovely ideal 
 in a dull, matter-of-fact world. 
 
 " Now," said the princess, as if smiling at 
 some hidden joke, "now you will meet my 
 Superman." And she led the young American 
 girl to Octave Keroulan and his wife, and, after 
 greeting them in her masculine manner, she 
 burst forth : 
 
 " Dear poet ! here is one of your adorers 
 from overseas. Guard your husband well, 
 Madame Lys." 
 
 So he was married. Well, that was not such 
 a shocking fact. Nor was Madame Keroulan 
 either a very tall, slim, English-looking blonde, 
 who dressed modishly and evidently knew that 
 she was the wife of a famous man. Ermentrude 
 found her insipid ; she had studied her face first 
 before comparing the mental photograph of the 
 poet with the original. Nor did she feel, with 
 unconscious sex rivalry, any sense of inferiority 
 to the wife of her admired one. He was nearly 
 forty, but he looked older ; gray hairs tinged 
 his finely modelled head. His face was shaven, 
 and with the bulging brow and full jaw he was 
 more of the German or Belgian than French. 
 Black hair thrown off his broad forehead ac- 
 117
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 cented this resemblance ; a composer rather 
 than a prose-poet and dramatist, was the rapid 
 verdict of Ermentrude. She was not disap 
 pointed, though she had expected a more fragile 
 type. The weaver of moonshine, of mystic 
 phrases, of sweet gestures and veiled sonorities 
 should not have worn the guise of one who ate 
 three meals a day and slept soundly after his 
 mellow incantations. Yet she was not inherit 
 ing, as she did, a modicum of sense from her 
 father disappointed. 
 
 The conversation did not move more briskly 
 with the entrance of the KeYoulans. The mar 
 quis sullenly gossiped with Mr. Sheldam ; the 
 princess withdrew herself to the far end of the 
 room with her two painters. Rajewski was 
 going to a soiree, he informed them, where he 
 would play before a new picture by Carriere, as 
 it was slowly undraped ; no one less in rank 
 than a duchess would be present! A little 
 stiffly, Ermentrude Adams assured the Kerou- 
 lans of her pleasure in meeting them. The poet 
 took it as a matter of course, simply, without a 
 suspicion of posed grandeur. Ermentrude saw 
 this with satisfaction. If he had clay feet, 
 and he must have them ; all men do, at least 
 he wore his genius with a sense of its responsi 
 bility. She held tightly her hands and leaned 
 back, awaiting the precious moment when the 
 oracle would speak, when this modern magician 
 of art would display his cunning. But he was 
 fatuously commonplace in his remarks. 
 118
 
 A MOCK SUN 
 
 " I have often told Madame Keroulan that 
 my successes in Europe do not appeal to me as 
 those in far-away America. Dear America 
 how it must enjoy a breath of real literature ! " 
 
 Mrs. Sheldam sat up primly, and Ermentrude 
 was vastly amused. With a flash of fun she 
 replied : 
 
 " Yes, America does, Monsieur Keroulan. We 
 have so many Europeans over there now that our 
 standard has fallen off from the days of Emer 
 son and Whitman. And didn't America give 
 Europe Poe ? " She knew that this boast had 
 the ring of the amateur, but it pleased her to 
 see how it startled him. 
 
 " America is the Great Bribe," he pursued. 
 " You have no artists in New York." 
 
 " Nor have we New Yorkers," the girl retorted. 
 " The original writing natives live in Europe." 
 
 He looked puzzled, but did not stop. " You 
 have depressed literature to the point of publi 
 cation," he solemnly asserted. This was too 
 much and she laughed in mockery. Husband 
 and wife joined her, while Mrs. Sheldam trem 
 bled at the audacity of her niece whose irony 
 was as much lost on her as it was on the poet. 
 
 " But you publish plays and books, do you 
 not ? " Ermentrude na'fvely asked. 
 
 Madame Keroulan interposed in icy tones : 
 
 " Mademoiselle Adams misunderstands. Mon 
 sieur Keroulan is the Grand Disdainer. Like 
 his bosom friend, Monsieur Mallarme, he cares 
 little for the Philistine public " 
 119
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 He interrupted her : " Lys, dear friend, you 
 must not bore Miss Adams with my theories of 
 art and life. She has read me " 
 
 Ermentrude gave him a grateful glance. He 
 seemed, despite his self-consciousness, a great 
 man how great she could not exactly define. 
 His eyes two black diamonds full of golden 
 reflections, the eyes of a conqueror, a seer 
 began to burn little bright spots into her con 
 sciousness, and, selfishly, she admitted, she 
 wished the two women would go away and 
 leave her to interrogate her idol in peace. 
 There were so many things to ask him, so 
 many difficult passages in The Golden Glaze 
 and Hesitations, above all in that great dra 
 matic poem, The Voices, which she had wit 
 nessed in Paris, with its mystic atmosphere of 
 pity and terror. She would never forget her 
 complex feelings, when at a Paris theatre, she 
 saw slowly file before her in a Dream-Masque 
 the wraith-like figures of the poet, their voices 
 their only corporeal gift. Picture had dissolved 
 into picture, and in the vapours of these croon 
 ing enchantments she heard voices of various 
 timbres enunciating in monosyllables the wis 
 dom of the ages, the poetry of the future. This 
 play was, for her, and for Paris, too, the last 
 word in dramatic art, the supreme nuance of 
 beauty. Everything had been accomplished : 
 Shakespeare, Moliere, Ibsen; yet here was a 
 new evocation, a fresh peep at untrodden paths. 
 In bliss that almost dissolved her being, the 
 120
 
 A MOCK SUN 
 
 emotional American girl reached her hotel, 
 where she tried to sleep. When her aunt told 
 her of the invitation tendered by the princess, a 
 rare one socially, she was in the ninth heaven 
 of the Swedenborgians. Any place to meet 
 Octave Keroulan ! 
 
 And now he sat near her signalling, she knew, 
 her sympathies, and as the fates would have it 
 two dragons, her aunt and his wife, guarded the 
 gateway to the precious garden of his imagina 
 tion. She could have cried aloud her chagrin. 
 Such an inestimable treasure was genius that to 
 see it under lock and key invited indignation. 
 The time was running on, and her great man 
 had said nothing. He could, if he wished, give 
 her a million extraordinary glimpses of the earth 
 and the air and the waters below them, for his 
 eyes were mirrors of his marvellous and many- 
 coloured soul ; but what chance had he with a 
 conjugal iceberg on one side, a cloud of smoke 
 poor Aunt Sheldam on the other ! She felt 
 in her fine, rhapsodic way like a young priestess 
 before the altar, ready to touch with a live coal 
 the lips of the gods, but withheld by a malig 
 nant power. For the first time in her life 
 Ermentrude Adams, delicately nurtured in a 
 social hothouse, realized in wrath the major 
 tyranny of caste. 
 
 The evening wore away. Mrs. Sheldam 
 aroused her husband as she cast a horrified 
 glance at the classic prints he had been study 
 ing. The princess dismissed her two impres- 
 121
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 sionists and came over to the poet. She, too 
 plainly, did not care for his wife, and as the 
 party broke up there was a sense of relief, 
 though Ermentrude could not conceal her dis 
 satisfaction. Her joy was sincere when Madame 
 K^roulan asked Miss Adams and her aunt to 
 call. It was slightly gelid, the invitation, though 
 accepted immediately by Ermentrude. The 
 convenances could look out for themselves ; she 
 would not go back to America without an 
 interview. The princess raised her hand 
 mockingly. 
 
 " What, I go to one of your conferences ! Not 
 I, cher poete. Keep your mysteries for your 
 youthful disciples." She looked at Ermentrude, 
 who did not lower her eyes she was trium 
 phant now. Perhaps he might say something 
 before they parted. He did not, but the prin 
 cess did. 
 
 " Beware, young America, of my Superman ! 
 You remember the story of the ape with the 
 mirror ! " 
 
 Ermentrude flushed with mortification. This 
 princess was decidely rude at times. But she 
 kept her temper and thanked the lady for a 
 unique evening. Her exquisite youth and grace 
 pleased the terrible old woman, who then varied 
 her warning. 
 
 " Beware," she called out in comical accents as 
 they slowly descended the naked marble stair 
 case, " of the Sleeping Princess ! " 
 
 The American girl looked over her shoulder. 
 122
 
 A MOCK SUN 
 
 " I don't think your Superman has a mirror at 
 all." 
 
 " Yes, but his princess holds one for him ! " 
 was the jesting reply. 
 
 The carriage door slammed. They rolled 
 homeward, and Ermentrude suffered from a 
 desperate sense of the unachieved. The prin 
 cess had been impertinent, the Keroulans rather 
 banal. Mrs. Sheldam watched her charge's face 
 in the intermittent lights of the Rue de Rivoli. 
 
 " I think your poet a bore," she essayed. 
 Then she shook her husband they had reached 
 their hotel. 
 
 II 
 
 It was the garden of a poet, she declared, as, 
 with the Keroulans and her aunt, Ermentrude 
 sat and slowly fanned herself, watching the 
 Bois de Boulogne, which foamed like a cascade 
 of green opposite this pretty little house in 
 Neuilly. The day was warm and the drive, 
 despite the shaded, watered avenues, a dusty, 
 fatiguing one. Mrs. Sheldam had, doubtfully, 
 it is true, suggested the bourgeois comfort of 
 the Metropolitan!, but she was frowned on by 
 her enthusiastic niece. What ! ride under 
 ground in such weather? So they arrived at 
 the poet's not in the best of humour, for Mrs. 
 Sheldam had quietly chidden her charge on the 
 score of her " flightiness." These foreign ce 
 lebrities were well enough in their way, but ! 
 123
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 And now Ermentrude, instead of looking Octave 
 Ke"roulan in the face, preferred the vista of the 
 pale blue sky, awash with a scattered, fleecy 
 white cloud, the rolling edges of which echoed 
 the dazzling sunshine. The garden was not 
 large, its few trees were of ample girth, and their 
 shadows most satisfying to eyes weary of the 
 city's bright, hard surfaces. There were no 
 sentimental plaster casts to disturb the soft har 
 monies of this walled-in retreat, and if Ermen 
 trude preferred to regard with obstinacy unusual 
 in her mobile temperament the picture of Paris 
 below them, it was because she felt that Kerou- 
 lan was literally staring at her. 
 
 A few moments after their arrival and with 
 the advent of tea, he had accomplished what 
 she had fervently wished for the night she had 
 met him he succeeded, by several easy moves, 
 in isolating her from her aunt, and, notwith 
 standing her admiration, her desire to tap with 
 her knuckles the metal of her idol and listen for 
 a ring of hollo wness, she was alarmed. Yet, 
 perversely, she knew that he would not exhibit 
 his paces before his wife naturally a disinter 
 ested spectator or before her aunt, who was 
 hardly " intimate " enough. The long-desired 
 hour found her disquieted. She did not have 
 many moments to analyze these mixed emotions, 
 for he spoke, and his voice was agreeably modu 
 lated. 
 
 "You, indeed, honour the poor poet's abode 
 with your youth and your responsive soul, Miss 
 124
 
 A MOCK SUN 
 
 Adams. I thank you, though my gratitude will 
 seem as poor as my hospitality." She looked 
 at him now, a little fluttered. "You bring to 
 me across seas the homage of a fresh nation, a 
 fresh nature." She beat a mental retreat at 
 these calm, confident phrases ; what could he 
 know of her homage ? " And if Amiel has said, 
 ' Un paysage est un etat de 1'ame,' I may amend 
 it by calling my soul a state of landscape, since 
 it has been visited by your image." This was 
 more reassuring, if exuberant. 
 
 " Man is mere inert matter when born, but 
 his soul is his own work. Hence, I assert : 
 the Creator of man is man." Now she felt 
 at ease. This wisdom, hewn from the vast 
 quarry of his genius, she had encountered be 
 fore in his Golden Glaze, that book which had 
 built temples of worship in America wherein 
 men and women sought and found the pabulum 
 for living beautifully. He was " talking " his 
 book. Why not ? It was certainly delightful 
 plagiarism ! 
 
 " You know, dear young lady," he continued, 
 and his eyes, with their contracting and expand 
 ing disks, held her attention like a clear flame, 
 " do you know that my plays, my books, are but 
 the drama of my conscience exteriorized ? Out 
 of the reservoirs of my soul I draw my inspira 
 tion. I have an aesthetic horror of evidence; 
 like Renan, I loathe the deadly heresy of affir 
 mation ; I have the certitude of doubt, for are 
 we poets not the lovers of the truth decorated ? 
 125
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 When I built my lordly palace of art, it was not 
 with the ugly durability of marble. No; like 
 the Mohammedan who constructed his mosque 
 and mingled with the cement sweet-smelling 
 musk, so I dreamed my mosque into existence 
 with music wedded to philosophy. Music and 
 philosophy are the twin edges of my sword. 
 Ah ! you smile and ask, Where is Woman in 
 this sanctuary? She is not barred, I assure 
 you. My music is Woman. Beauty is a 
 promise of happiness, Stendhal says. I go 
 further : Life the woman one has ; Art 
 the woman one loves ! " 
 
 She was startled. Her aunt and Madame 
 Keroulan had retired to the end of the gar 
 den, and only a big bee, brumming overhead, 
 was near. He had arisen with the pontifical 
 air of a man who has a weighty gospel to 
 expound. He encircled with his potent per 
 sonality the imagination of his listener ; the 
 hypnotic quality of his written word was car 
 ried leagues farther in effect by his trained, 
 soothing voice. Flattered, no longer fright 
 ened, her nerves deliciously assaulted by this 
 coloured rhetoric, Ermentrude yielded her intel 
 lectual assent. She did not comprehend. She 
 felt only the rhythms of his speech, as sound 
 swallowed sense. He held her captive with a 
 pause, and his eloquent eyes they were of an 
 extraordinary lustre completed the subjuga 
 tion of her will. 
 
 " Only kissed hands are white," he murmured, 
 126
 
 A MOCK SUN 
 
 and suddenly she felt a velvety kiss on her left 
 hand. Ermentrude did not pretend to follow 
 the words of her aunt and Madame Keroulan 
 as they stopped before a bed of June roses. 
 Nor did she remember how she reached the 
 pair. The one vivid reality of her life was the 
 cruel act of her idol. She was not conscious of 
 blushing, nor did she feel that she had grown 
 pale. His wife treated her with impartial in 
 difference, at times a smile crossing her face, 
 with its implication to Ermentrude of selfish 
 reserves. But this hateful smile cut her to the 
 soul one more prisoner at his chariot wheels, 
 it proclaimed ! Keroulan was as unconcerned 
 as if he had written a poetic line. He had 
 expected more of an outburst, more of a rebuff ; 
 the absolute snapping of the web he had spun 
 surprised him. His choicest music had been 
 spread for the eternal banquet, but the invited 
 one tarried. Very well ! If not to-day, to-mor 
 row ! He repeated a verse of Verlaine, and 
 with his wife dutifully at his side bowed to the 
 two Americans and told them of the pleasure ex 
 perienced. Ermentrude, her candid eyes now 
 reproachful and suspicious, did not flinch as she 
 took his hand it seemed to melt in hers 
 but her farewell was conventional. In the 
 street, before they seated themselves in their 
 carriage, Mrs. Sheldam shook her head. 
 
 " Oh, my dear ! What a woman ! What a 
 man ! I have suck a story to tell you. No 
 wonder you admire these people. The wife is 
 127
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 a genius isn't she handsome ? but the man 
 he is an angel ! " 
 
 " I didn't see his wings, auntie," was the curt 
 reply. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The Sheldams always stayed at the same 
 hdtel during their annual visits to Paris. It 
 was an old-fashioned house with an entrance in 
 the Rue Saint-Honore and another in the Rue de 
 Rivoli. The girl sat on a small balcony from 
 which she could view the Tuileries Gardens 
 without turning her head ; while looking farther 
 westward she saw the Place de la Concorde, its 
 windy spaces a chessboard for rapid vehicles, 
 whose wheels, wet from the watered streets, 
 ground out silvery fire in the sun-rays of this 
 gay June afternoon. Where the Avenue des 
 Champs Elys6es began, a powdery haze envel 
 oped the equipages, overblown with their sum 
 mer toilets, all speeding to Longchamps. It 
 was racing day, and Ermentrude, feigning a 
 headache, had insisted that her uncle and aunt 
 go to the meeting. It would amuse them, she 
 knew, and she wished to be alone. Nearly a 
 week had passed since the visit to Neuilly, and 
 she had been afraid to ask her aunt what 
 Madame Kdroulan had imparted to her afraid 
 and also too proud. Her sensibility had been 
 grievously wounded by the plainly expressed 
 feelings of Octave Keroulan. She had re- 
 128
 
 A MOCK SUN 
 
 viewed without prejudice his behaviour, and 
 she could not set down to mere Latin gallantry 
 either his words or his action. No, there was 
 too much intensity in both, ah, how she re 
 belled at the brutal disillusionment ! and 
 there were, she argued, method and sequence 
 in his approach and attack. If she had been 
 the average coquetting creature, the offence 
 might not have been so mortal. But, so she 
 told herself again and again, as if to frighten 
 away lurking darker thoughts, ready to spring 
 out and devour her good resolutions, she had 
 worshipped her idol with reservations. His 
 poetry, his philosophy, were so inextricably 
 blended that they smote her nerves like the 
 impact of some bright perfume, some sharp 
 chord of modern music. Dangerously she had 
 filed at her emotions in the service of culture and 
 she was now paying the penalty for her ardent 
 confidence. His ideas, vocal with golden mean 
 ings, were never meant to be translated into the 
 vernacular of life, never to be transposed from 
 higher to lower levels ; this base betrayal of his 
 ideals she felt Keroulan had committed. Had 
 he not said that love should be like " un baiser 
 sur un miroir"? Was he, after all, what the 
 princess had called him ? And was he only a 
 mock sun swimming in a firmament of glories 
 which he could have outshone ? 
 
 A servant knocked and, not receiving a re 
 sponse, entered with a letter. The superscrip 
 tion was strange. She opened and read : 
 129
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 DEAR AND TENDER CHILD : I know you were angry 
 with me when we parted. I am awaiting here below 
 your answer to come to you and bare my heart. Say 
 yes ! 
 
 " Is the gentleman downstairs ? " she asked. 
 The servant bowed. The blood in her head 
 buzzing, she nodded, and the man disappeared. 
 Standing there in the bright summer light, Er- 
 mentrude Adams saw her face in the oval glass, 
 above the fireplace, saw its pallor, the strained 
 expression of the eyes, and like a drowning 
 person she made a swift inventory of her life, 
 and, with the insane hope of one about to be 
 swallowed up by the waters, she grasped at a 
 solitary straw. Let him come ; she would have 
 an explanation from him ! The torture of doubt 
 might then be brought to an end. . . . 
 
 Some one glided into the apartment Turn 
 ing quickly, Ermentrude recognized Madame 
 KeVoulan. Before she could orient herself 
 that lady took her by both hands, and uttering 
 apologetic words, forced the amazed girl into 
 a chair. 
 
 " Don't be frightened, dear young lady. I 
 am not here to judge, but to explain. Yes, I 
 know my husband loves you. But do not be 
 lieve in him. He is a terrific man." This word 
 she emphasized as if doubtful of its meaning. 
 " Ah, if you but knew the inferno of my exist 
 ence ! There are so many like you stop, do 
 not leave ! You are not to blame. I, Lillias 
 Keroulan, do not censure your action. My hus- 
 130
 
 A MOCK SUN 
 
 band is an evil man and a charlatan. Hear me 
 out ! He has only the gift of words. He steals 
 all his profundities of art from dead philoso 
 phers. He is not a genuine poet. He is not a 
 dramatist. I swear to you that he is now the 
 butt of artistic Paris. The Princesse de Lan- 
 covani made him she is another of his sort. 
 He was the mode ; now he is desperate because 
 his day has passed. He knows you are rich. 
 He desires your money, not you. I discovered 
 that he was coming here this day. Oh, I am 
 cleverer than he. I followed. Here I am to 
 save you from him and from yourself he 
 is not now below in the salon." 
 
 " Please go away ! " indignantly answered 
 Ermentrude. She was furious at this horrible, 
 plain-spoken, jealous creature. Save her from 
 herself as if ever she had wavered ! The dis 
 interested adoration she had entertained for the 
 great artist what a hideous ending was this! 
 The tall, blond woman with the narrow, light 
 blue eyes watched the girl. How could any one 
 call her handsome, Ermentrude wondered ! Then 
 her visitor noticed the crumpled letter on the 
 table. With a gesture of triumph she secured 
 it and smiling her superior smile she left, clos 
 ing the door softly behind her. 
 
 Only kissed hands are white ! Ermentrude 
 threw herself on the couch, her cheeks burning, 
 her heart tugging in her bosom like a ship im 
 patient at its anchorage. And was this the sor 
 did end of a beautiful dream ? . . .
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 " Do you know, dearest, we have had such 
 news ! " exclaimed Mrs. Sheldam as she entered, 
 and so charged with her happiness that she 
 did not notice the drawn features of her niece. 
 " Charlie, Charlie will be here some time next 
 week. He arrives at Havre. He has just 
 cabled his father. Let us go down to meet the 
 boy." Charlie was the only son of the Sheldams 
 and fonder of his cousin than she dare tell her 
 self. She burst into tears, which greatly pleased 
 her aunt. 
 
 In the train, eight days later, Ermentrude sat 
 speechless in company with her aunt and uncle. 
 But as the train approached Havre she remem 
 bered something. 
 
 "Aunt Clara," she bravely asked, "do you 
 recall the afternoon we spent at the Keroulans' ? 
 What did Madame Keroulan tell you then ? 
 Is it a secret?" She held tightly clenched 
 in her hand the arm-rest at the side of the 
 compartment. 
 
 " Oh, dear, no ! The madame was very chatty, 
 very communicative. It's funny I've not told you 
 before. She confessed that she was the happiest 
 woman on earth ; not only was she married to a 
 grand genius, for the life of me I can't see 
 where that comes in ! but he was a good man 
 into the bargain. It appears that his life is made 
 weary by women who pester him with their at 
 tentions. Even our princess yes, the princess ; 
 isn't it shocking ? was a perfect nuisance until 
 Mr. Keroulan assured her that, though he owed 
 132
 
 A MOCK SUN 
 
 much of his success in the world to her, yet he 
 would never betray the trust reposed in him by 
 his wife. What's the matter, dear, does the 
 motion of the car affect you ? It does rock ! 
 And he shows her all the letters he gets from 
 silly women admirers oh, these foreign women 
 and their queer ways ! And he tells her the way 
 they make up to him when he meets them in 
 society." 
 
 Ermentrude shivered. The princess also ! 
 And with all her warning about the Super 
 man ! Now she understood. Then she took 
 the hand of Mrs. Sheldam, and, stroking it, 
 whispered : 
 
 "Auntie, I'm so glad I am going to Havre, 
 going to see Charlie soon." The lids of her 
 eyes were wet. Mrs. Sheldam had never been 
 so motherly. 
 
 " You are a darling ! " she answered, as she 
 squeezed Ermentrude's arm. " But there is 
 some one who doesn't seem to care much for 
 Havre." She pointed out Mr. Sheldam, who, 
 oblivious of picturesque Normandy through 
 which the train was speeding, slept serenely. 
 Ermentrude envied him his repose. He had 
 never stared into the maddening mirror which 
 turned poets into Supermen and sometimes 
 monsters. Had she herself not gazed into this 
 distorting glass ? The tune of her life had never 
 sounded so discouragingly faint and inutile. 
 Perhaps she did not posses the higher quali 
 ties that could extort from a nature so rich and
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 various as Octave Ke>oulan's its noblest music ! 
 Perhaps his wife had told the truth to Mrs. 
 Sheldam and had lied to her! And then, 
 through a merciful mist of tears, Ermentrude 
 saw Havre, saw her future. 
 
 134
 
 VII 
 ANTICHRIST 
 
 To wring from man's tongue the denial of his existence 
 is proof of Satan's greatest power. PERE RAVIGNAN. 
 
 THE most learned man and the most lovable 
 it has been my good fortune to know is Mon- 
 signor Anatole O'Bourke alas ! I should write, 
 was, for his noble soul is gathered to God. I met 
 him in Paris, when I was a music student. He 
 sat next to me at a Pasdeloup concert in the 
 Cirque d'Hiver, how many years ago I do not 
 care to say. A casual exclamation betrayed my 
 nationality, and during the intermission we drifted 
 into easy conversation. Within five minutes he 
 held me enthralled, did this big-souled, large- 
 brained Irishman from the County Tipperary. 
 We discussed the programme a new sym 
 phonic poem by Rimski-Korsakoff, Sadko, had 
 been alternately hissed and cheered and I 
 soon learned that my companion mourned a 
 French mother and rejoiced in the loving pres 
 ence of a very Celtic father. From the former 
 he must have inherited his vigorous, logical in 
 tellect ; the latter had evidently endowed him 
 with a robust, jovial temperament, coupled with 
 a wonderful perception of things mystical. 
 
 135
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 After the concert we walked slowly along the 
 line of the boulevards. It was early May, and 
 the wheel of green which we traversed, together 
 with the brilliant picture made by the crowds, 
 put us both in a happy temper. It was not 
 long before Monsignor heard the confession of 
 my ideals. He smiled quickly when I raved of 
 music, but the moment I drifted into the theme 
 of mysticism the transposition is ever an easy 
 one I saw his interest leap to meet mine. 
 
 " So, you have read St. John of the Cross ? " 
 I nodded my head. 
 
 " And St. Teresa, that marvellous woman ? 
 The Americans puzzle me," he continued. 
 " You are the most practical people on the 
 globe and yet the most idealistic. When I hear 
 of a new religion, I am morally certain that it is 
 evolved in America." 
 
 "A new religion!" I started. This phrase 
 had often assailed me, both in print and in the 
 depths of my imagination. He divined my 
 thought ah ! he was a wonder-worker in the 
 way he noted a passing nuance. 
 
 "When we wear out the old one, it will be 
 time for a new religion," he blandly announced ; 
 " you Americans, because of your new mechani 
 cal inventions, fancy you have free entry into 
 the domain of the spiritual. But come, my dear 
 young friend. Here is my h6tel. Can't I invite 
 you to dinner?" We had reached the Boule 
 vard Malsherbe and, as I was miles out of my 
 course, I consented. The priest fascinated me 
 136
 
 ANTICHRIST 
 
 with his erudition, which swam lightly on the 
 crest of his talk. He was, so I discovered dur 
 ing the evening, particularly well versed in the 
 mystical writers, in the writings of the Kabbal- 
 ists and the books of the inspired Northman, 
 Swedenborg. As we sat drinking our coffee at 
 one of the little tables in the spacious courtyard, 
 I revived the motive of a new religion. 
 
 " Monsignor, have you ever speculated on the 
 possible appearance of a second Mahomet, a sec 
 ond Buddha? What if, from some Asiatic jungle, 
 there sallied out upon Europe a terrible ape- 
 god, a Mongolian with exotic eyes and the mag 
 netism of a religious madman " 
 
 " You are speaking of Antichrist ? " he calmly 
 questioned. 
 
 "Antichrist! Do you really believe in the 
 Devil's Messiah ? " 
 
 " Believe, man ! why, I have seen him." 
 
 I leaned back in my chair, wondering whether 
 I should laugh or look solemn. He noted my 
 indecision, and his eyes twinkled they were 
 the blue-gray of the Irish, the eyes of a seer or 
 an amiable ironist. 
 
 " Listen ! but first let us get some strong 
 cigars. Gargon ! " As we smoked our pana- 
 telas he related this history : 
 
 "You ask me if I believe in an Antichrist, 
 thereby betraying your slender knowledge of 
 the Scriptures you will pardon the liberty! 
 I may refer you not only to John's Epistles, to
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 the revelations of the dreamer of Patmos, but 
 to so many learned doctors of the faith that it 
 would take a week merely to enumerate the 
 titles of their works all bearing on the mysterious 
 subject. Our Holy Mother the Church has 
 held aloof from any doctrinal pronouncements. 
 The Antichrist has been predicted for the past 
 thousand years. I recall as a boy poring over 
 the map of the world which a friend of my 
 mother had left with her. This lady my father 
 called ' the angel with the moulting wings,' be 
 cause she was always in an ecstatic tremor over 
 the second coming of the Messiah. She would 
 go to the housetop at least once every six months, 
 and there, with a band of pious deluded geese 
 dressed in white flowing robes, would inspect 
 the firmament for favourable signs. Nothing 
 ever happened, as we know, yet the predictions 
 sown about the borders of that strange-looking 
 chart have in a measure come true. 
 
 " There were the grimmest and most resound 
 ing quotations from the Apocalypse. ' Babylon 
 is fallen, is fallen ! ' hummed in my ears for 
 many a day. And the pale horse also haunted 
 me. What would I have given to hear the 
 music of that 'voice from heaven, as the voice 
 of many waters, and as the voice of great thun 
 der.' I mean the ' harpers harping with their 
 harps ' the ' new song before the throne, before 
 the four beasts and the elders.' It is recorded 
 that ' no man could learn that song but the hun 
 dred and forty and four thousand, which were 
 138
 
 ANTICHRIST 
 
 redeemed from the earth.' That is a goodly 
 multitude. Let us hope we shall be of it. 
 Learned Sir Thomas Browne asked what songs 
 the sirens sang. I prefer to hear that wonder 
 ful ' harped ' song. 
 
 " But I wander. The fault lies in that won 
 drous map of the world, with its pictured hordes 
 of Russians sweeping down upon Europe and 
 America like a plague of locusts, the wicked 
 unbaptized Antichrist at the head of them, wav 
 ing a cross held in reversed fashion. Don't ask 
 me the meaning of this crazy symbolism. The 
 sect to which my mother's friend belonged 
 God bless her, for she was a dear weak-minded 
 lady must have set great store by these signs. 
 I admit that as a boy they scared me. Sitting 
 here now, after forty years, I can still see those 
 cryptograms. However, to my tale. About 
 ten years ago I was in Paris, and in my capacity 
 as Monsignor I had to attend a significant gath 
 ering at the embassy of the Russian ambassador 
 in this city of light." He waved his left hand, 
 from which I caught the purple fire of amethyst. 
 
 " It was a notable affair, and I don't mind 
 telling you now that it was largely political. I 
 had just returned from a secret mission at Rome, 
 and I was forced to mingle with diplomatic peo 
 ple. Prince Wronsky was the representative 
 of the Czar at that time in France, a charming 
 man with a flavour of diablerie in his speech. 
 He was a fervent Greek Catholic, like most of 
 his countrymen, and it pleased him to fence mis-
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 chievously with me on the various dogmas of 
 our respective faiths. He called himself the 
 Catholic ; I was only a Roman Catholic. I told 
 him I was satisfied. 
 
 " On this particular night he was rather agi 
 tated when I made my salutations. He whis 
 pered to me that madame the princess had that 
 very day presented him with a son and heir. 
 Naturally I congratulated him. His restless 
 ness increased as the evening wore on. At last 
 he beckoned to me we were very old friends 
 to follow him into his library. There he 
 hesitated. 
 
 " ' I want you to do me a favour, an odd one ; 
 but as you are known to me so long I venture 
 to ask it. Do go upstairs and see my boy ' 
 His tone was that of entreaty. I smiled. 
 
 " ' Dear prince, I am, as a priest, hardly a 
 judge of children. But if you wish it is there 
 anything wrong with the little chap's health ? ' 
 
 " ' God forbid ! ' he ejaculated and piously 
 crossed himself. We went to the first ttage 
 of his palace he was gorgeously housed 
 and there he said : 
 
 " ' Madame is in another wing of our apart 
 ments go in here the child is attended by 
 the nurse.' With that he pushed me through a 
 swinging door and left me standing in a semi- 
 lighted chamber. I was very near ill temper, I 
 assure you, for my position was embarrassing. 
 The room was large and heavily hung with 
 tapestries. A nurse, a hag, a witch, a dark old 
 140
 
 ANTICHRIST 
 
 gypsy creature, came over to me and asked me, 
 in Russian : 
 
 " ' Do you wish to see his Royal Highness the 
 King of Earth and Heaven ? ' Thinking she 
 was some stupid moujik's wife, I nodded my 
 head seriously, though amused by the exalted 
 titles. She put up a thin hand and I tiptoed to 
 a cradle of gold and ivory it certainly seemed 
 so to my inexperienced eyes the nurse parted 
 the curtains, and there I saw I saw but my 
 son, you will think I exaggerate I saw the 
 most exquisite baby in the universe. You laugh at 
 an old bachelor's rhapsody ! In reality I don't 
 care much for children. But that child, that 
 supreme morsel of humanity, was too much 
 for me. I stood and stared and stood and 
 stared, and all the while the tiny angel was 
 smiling in my eyes, oh ! such a celestial smile. 
 From his large blue eyes, like flowers, he smiled 
 into my very soul. I was chained to the floor 
 as if by lead. Every fibre of my soul, heart, and 
 brain went out to that little wanderer from the 
 infinite. It was a pathetic face, full of sup 
 pressed sorrow Dieu ! but he was older than 
 his father. I found my mind beginning to 
 wander as if hypnotized. I tried to divert my 
 gaze, but in vain. Some subtle emanation from 
 this extraordinary child entered my being, and 
 then, as if a curtain were being slowly lowered, 
 a mist encompassed my soul ; I was ceding, I 
 felt, the immortal part of me to another, and all 
 the time I was smiling at the baby and the baby 
 141
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 smiling back. I remember his long blond hair, 
 parted in the middle and falling over his shoul 
 ders ; but even that remarkable trait for an in 
 fant a few hours old did not puzzle me, for my 
 sanity was surely being undermined by the per 
 sistent gaze of the boy. I vaguely recall passing 
 my hand across my breast as if to stop the crevice 
 through which my personality was filtering; I 
 was certain that my soul was about to be stolen 
 by that damnable child. Then the nurse dropped 
 something, and my thoughts came back, they 
 were surely on the road to hell, for they were red 
 and flaming when I got hold of them, and the 
 spell, or whatever it was, snapped. 
 
 " I looked up and noticed the woman mali 
 ciously smiling if it had been in the days of 
 the inquisition, I would have sent her to the 
 faggots, for she was a hell-hag. The child had 
 fallen back in his cradle as if the effort of hold 
 ing my attention had exhausted him. Then it 
 struck me that there was something unholy about 
 this affair, and I resolutely strode to the crib and 
 seized the baby. 
 
 " ' What changeling is this ? ' I demanded in 
 a loud voice, for the being that twisted in my 
 grip was two or two hundred years old. 
 
 '"Lay him down, you monster ! ' clamoured the 
 nurse, as I held the squirming bundle by both 
 hands. It was a task and I'm very strong. 
 A superhuman strength waged against my mus 
 cles ; but I was an old football half-back at the 
 university, so I conquered the poor little devil. 
 142
 
 ANTICHRIST 
 
 It moaned like a querulous old man ; the nurse, 
 throwing her weight upon me, forced me to let 
 go my hold. As I did so the baby turned on 
 its face, its dainty robe split wide open, and to 
 my horror I saw on its back, between its angel 
 ically white shoulders, burnt in as if by branding 
 irons, the crucifix and upside down ! " 
 
 I shuddered. I knew. He lowered his voice 
 and spoke in detached phrases. 
 
 " It was oh ! that I live to say it it was 
 the dreaded Antichrist yes, this Russian baby 
 it was predicted that he would be born in 
 Russia I trembled so that my robes waved 
 in an invisible wind. The reversed cross the 
 mark of the beast the sign by which we are 
 to know the Human Satan the last opponent 
 of Christianity. I confess that I was discom 
 posed at the sight of this little fiend, for it 
 meant that the red star, the baleful star of the 
 north, would rise in the black heavens and bloody 
 war spread among the nations of the earth. It 
 also meant that doomsday was not far off, and, 
 good Christian as I believe myself to be, a shiver 
 ran down my spine at the idea of Gabriel's 
 trump and the resurrection of the dead. Yes, 
 I shan't deny it so material are the sons of 
 men, I among them ! And the very thought of 
 Judgment Day and its blasting horrors withered 
 my heart. Still something had to be done, proph 
 ecy or no prophecy. To fulfil the letter of the 
 law this infernal visitor was let loose from hell. 
 There was one way, so I grasped " 
 143
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 " Great God, Monsignor, you didn't strangle 
 the demon ? " I cried. 
 
 " No, no something better. I rushed over 
 to a marble wash-basin and seized a ewer of 
 water, and, going back to the crib, despite the 
 frantic remonstrances of the old sorceress, I 
 baptized the Antichrist in the name of the 
 Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. 
 Before my eyes I saw the inverted cross van 
 ish. Then I soundly spanked the presumptuous 
 youngster and, running down the staircase, I 
 sought the prince and said to him : 
 
 " ' Your boy is now a Roman, not a Greek 
 Catholic. We are quits ! ' " 
 
 The idea of a spanked Antichrist disconso 
 lately roaming the earth, unwilling to return to 
 his fiery home for fear of a scolding, his guns 
 of evil spiked, his virus innocuous, his mission 
 of spiritual destruction a failure for what could 
 a baptized devil's child do but pray and repent ? 
 all this dawned upon me, and I burst into 
 laughter, the worthy Monsignor discreetly par 
 ticipating. His bizarre recital proved to me that, 
 despite his Gallic first name, Monsignor Anatole 
 O'Bourke hailed from the County Tipperary. 
 
 144
 
 VIII 
 THE ETERNAL DUEL 
 
 What is the sorriest thing that enters Hell ? 
 
 D. G. ROSSETTI, Vain Virtues. 
 
 THE face set him to a strange wondering ; he 
 sat at the coffin and watched it. His wife's face 
 it was, and above the sorrow of irrevocable part 
 ing floated the thought that she did not look 
 happy as she lay in her bed of death. Monross 
 had seen but two dead faces before, those of his 
 father and mother. Both had worn upon the 
 mask which death models an expression of 
 relief. But this face, the face of his wife, of 
 the woman with whom he had lived how 
 many years ! He asked himself why he shud 
 dered when he looked down at it, shuddered and 
 also flushed with indignation. Had she ever 
 been happy ? How many times had she not 
 voiced her feelings in the unequivocal language 
 of love ! Yet she seemed so hideously unhappy 
 as she stretched before him in her white robes of 
 death. Why ? What secret was this disclosed 
 at the twelfth hour of life, on the very brink of 
 the grave ? Did death, then, hold the solution 
 to the enigma of the conquering Sphinx ! 
 
 Monross, master of psychology, tormented by
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 visions of perfection, a victim to the devouring 
 illusion of the artist, Monross asked himself 
 with chagrin if he had missed the key in which 
 had sounded the symphony of this woman's life. 
 This woman ! His wife ! A female creature, 
 long-haired, smiling, loquacious though reti 
 cent enough when her real self should have 
 flashed out signals of recognition at him this 
 wife, the Rhoda he had called day and night 
 what had she been ? 
 
 She had understood him, had realized his no 
 bility of ideal, his gifts, his occasional grandeur 
 of soul, like all artistic men he was desultory 
 in the manifestation of his talent, and had read 
 aloud to him those poems written for another 
 woman in the pitch-hot passion of his youth 
 before he had met her. To her he had been 
 always, so he told himself, a cavalier in his de 
 votion. Without wealth, he had kept the soles 
 of her little feet from touching the sidewalks of 
 life. Upon her dainty person he had draped 
 lovely garments. Why then, he wondered, the 
 vindictive expression etched, as if in aqua fortis, 
 upon her carved features ? 
 
 Some Old World superstition held him captive 
 as he gazed. Death is the grand revealer, he 
 thought ; death alone stamps upon the crumbling 
 canvas of mortality the truth. Rhoda was dead. 
 Yet her face was alive for the first time. He 
 saw its truth ; and he shuddered, for he also dis 
 cerned the hate that had lurked a life long in its 
 devious and smiling expressions expressions 
 146
 
 THE ETERNAL DUEL 
 
 like a set of scenery pushed on and off as the 
 order of the play demanded. Oh, the mis 
 ery of it all ! He, Monross, poet, lover, egoist, 
 husband, to be confronted by this damnable 
 defiance, this early-born hate! What had he 
 done ! And in the brain cells of the man there 
 awakened a processional fleet of pictures : Rhoda 
 wooed ; Rhoda dazzled ; Rhoda won ; Rhoda 
 smiling before the altar ; Rhoda resigned upon 
 that other altar; Rhoda, wife, mother; and 
 Rhoda dead ! 
 
 But Rhoda loved again he looked at the 
 face. The brow was virginally placid, the droop 
 ing, bitter mouth alone telling the unhappy hus 
 band a story he had never before suspected. 
 Rhoda! Was it possible this tiny exquisite 
 creature had harboured rancour in her soul for 
 the man who had adored her because she had 
 adored him ? Rhoda ! The shell of his egoism 
 fell away from him. He saw the implacable 
 resentment of this tender girl who, her married 
 life long, had loathed the captain that had in 
 vaded the citadel of her soul, and conqueror-like 
 had filched her virgin zone. The woman seem 
 ingly stared at the man through lids closed in 
 death the woman, the sex that ages ago had 
 feared the barbarian who dragged her to his 
 cave, where he subdued her, making her bake 
 his bread and bear his children. 
 
 In a wide heaven of surmise Monross read 
 the confirmation of his suspicions of the eter 
 nal duel between the man and the woman ; knew 
 
 147
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 that Rhoda hated him most when most she trem 
 bled at his master bidding. And now Rhoda 
 lay dead in her lyre-shaped coffin, saying these 
 ironic things to her husband, when it was too 
 late for repentance, too early for eternity. 
 
 148
 
 IX 
 
 THE ENCHANTED YODLER 
 A MARIENBAD ELEGY 
 
 I 
 
 THE remorseless rain had washed anew the 
 face of the dark blue sky that domed Marien- 
 bad and its curved chain of hills. Hugh Krayne 
 threw open his window and, leaning out, ex 
 claimed, as he eagerly inhaled the soft air of an 
 early May morning : 
 
 " At last ! And high time ! " For nine days 
 he had waded through the wet streets, heavily 
 leaping the raging gutters and stopping before 
 the door of every optician to scrutinize the ba 
 rometer. And there are many in this pretty 
 Bohemian health resort, where bad weather 
 means bad temper, with enforced confinement in 
 dismal lodgings or stuffy restaurations, or last 
 resort of the bored the promenade under the 
 colonnade, while the band plays as human be 
 ings shuffle ponderously over the cold stones 
 and stare at each other in sullen desperation. 
 
 But this day was a glorious one ; in high 
 spirits the Englishman left the house on the 
 Oberkreuzbrunnenstrasse and moved slowly to- 
 149
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 ward the springs. He was not thirty, but looked 
 much older, for his weight was excessive. An 
 easy-going temperament, a good appetite, a well- 
 filled purse, and a conscience that never dis 
 turbed his night's slumber contributed to this 
 making of flesh. He waddled, despite his great 
 height, and was sufficiently sensitive to enjoy 
 Marienbad as much for its fat visitors as for its 
 curative virtues. Here at least he was not re 
 markable, while in London or Paris people 
 looked at him sourly when he occupied a stall 
 at the theatre or a seat in a cafe. Not only had 
 he elbow room in Marienbad, but he felt small, 
 positively meagre, in comparison with the prize 
 specimens he saw painfully progressing about 
 the shaded walks or purring like obese engines 
 up the sloping roads to the Riibezahl, the Eger- 
 lander, the Panorama, or the distant Podhorn. 
 
 The park of the Kreuzbrunnen was crowded, 
 though the hour of six had just been signalled 
 from a dozen clocks in the vicinity. The crowd, 
 gathered from the four quarters of the globe, 
 was in holiday humour, as, glass in hand, it 
 fell into line, until each received the water 
 doled out by uniformed officials. Occasionally 
 a dispute as to precedence would take place 
 when the serpentine procession filed up the 
 steps of the old-fashioned belvedere ; but quar 
 rels were as rare as a lean man. A fat crowd is 
 always good-tempered, irritable as may be its 
 individual members. Hugh Krayne kept in 
 position, while two women shoved him about as 
 
 150
 
 THE ENCHANTED YODLER 
 
 if he were a bale of hay. He heard them abus 
 ing him in Bohemian, a language of which he 
 did not know more than a few words ; their in 
 tonations told him that they heartily disliked his 
 presence. Yet he could not give way ; it would 
 not have been Marienbad etiquette. At last he 
 reached the spring and received his usual low 
 bow from the man who turned the polished 
 wheel the fellow had an eye tuned for gratui 
 ties. With the water in his glass three-fourths 
 cold and one-fourth warm, a small napkin in his 
 left hand, the Englishman moved with the jaunty 
 grace of a young elephant down the smooth ter 
 raced esplanade that has made Marienbad so 
 celebrated. The sun was riding high, and the 
 tender green of the trees, the flashing of the 
 fountains, and the music of the band all caused 
 Hugh to feel happy. He had lost nearly a 
 pound since his arrival the week before, and he 
 had three more weeks to stay. What might not 
 happen ! 
 
 Just where the promenade twists under the 
 shaded alleys that lead to the Ferdinandsbrunnen, 
 he saw four women holding hands. They were 
 dressed in Tyrolean fashion pleated skirts, 
 short enough to show white, plump stockings, 
 feet in slippers, upon the head huge caps, 
 starched and balloony ; their massive white 
 necks, well exposed, were encircled by collars 
 that came low on bodices elaborately embroid 
 ered. Behind them marched several burly 
 chaps, in all the bravery of the Austrian Tyrol
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 the green alpine hat, with the feather at the 
 back, the short gray jacket, the bare knees, and 
 the homespun stockings. Krayne regarded curi 
 ously this strolling band of singers. Their faces 
 seemed familiar to him, and he rapidly recalled 
 souvenirs of Salzburg and an open-air concert. 
 But this morning there was something that 
 arrested his attention in the group. It was a 
 girl of eighteen or twenty, with a brilliant com 
 plexion, large blue eyes, and a robust, shapely 
 figure. As she passed she gave him such an 
 imploring look, such an appealing look, that all 
 his chivalric instincts rushed into the field of his 
 consciousness. He awkwardly dropped his tum 
 bler. He turned around, half expecting to see 
 the big child still looking at him. Instead he 
 gazed upon the athletic backs of her male com 
 panions and to the unpleasant accompaniment 
 of hearty feminine laughter. Were these women 
 laughing at him ? No fool like a fat one, he 
 merrily thought, as he bought a new glass at 
 a bazaar, which a grinning, monkey-faced crea 
 ture sold him at the regular price redoubled. 
 
 Before his meagre breakfast of one egg and a 
 dry rusk, Krayne endeavoured to evoke the fea 
 tures of the pretty creature who had so strongly 
 attracted him. He saw a tangle of black hair, 
 a glance that touched his heart with its pathos, a 
 pair of soft, parted red lips, and dazzling teeth. 
 It was an impression sufficiently powerful to 
 keep him company all the forenoon. Fat men, 
 he reasoned on the steep pass that conducts to
 
 THE ENCHANTED YODLER 
 
 the Caf6 Forstwarte, are always sentimental, by 
 no means always amiable, and, as a rule, subject 
 to sudden fancies. Ten years of his sentimental 
 education had been sown with adventures that 
 had begun well, caprices that had no satisfactory 
 endings. He had fallen in love with the girl 
 who played Chopin on the piano, the girl who 
 played Mendelssohn on the violin, the girl who 
 played Goltermann on the violoncello. Then 
 followed girls who painted, poetized, botanized, 
 and hammered metal. Once an exception 
 he had succumbed to the charms of an actress 
 who essayed characters in the dumps Ibsen 
 soubrettes, Strindberg servants, and Maxim 
 Gorky tramps. Yet he had, somehow or other, 
 emerged heart whole from his adventures among 
 those masterpieces of the cosmos women. 
 
 Certainly this might be another romance 
 added to the long list of his sentimental frac 
 tures. He ate his dinner, the one satisfactory 
 meal of the day allowed him by a cruel doctor, 
 with the utmost deliberation. He had walked 
 three hours during the morning, and now, under 
 the spacious balconies of the Forstwarte, he knew 
 that his beef and spinach would be none the 
 worse for a small bottle of very dry, light Vos- 
 lauer. Besides, his physician had not actually 
 forbidden him a little liquid at the midday meal. 
 Just before bedtime he was entitled so his 
 dietetic schedule told him to one glass of 
 Pilsner beer. Not so bad, after all, this banting 
 at Marienbad, he reflected. Anyhow, it was 
 
 153
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 better than the existence of those fellows at sea 
 shore and mountain, who gorged and guzzled 
 their summer away. Then he tried to remember 
 among his London club friends any who were 
 as heavy as he, but he could not. Idly smoking, 
 he regarded the piazzas, with their tables and 
 groups of obese humanity, eating, drinking, and 
 buzzing little fat flies, he thought, as he drew 
 his waistcoat in, feeling quite haughty and slender. 
 He read on a placard that the " Prager Bava 
 rian Sextet" would give a "grand" concert at 
 the Hotel Bellevue this very afternoon. "Ah 
 ha! " said Krayne aloud, "that's the girl I saw! " 
 Then he wasted several hours more loitering 
 about the beautiful park on the Kaiserstrasse 
 and looking in the shop windows at views of 
 Marienbad on postal cards, at yellow-covered 
 French, German, and Russian novels, at pictures 
 of kings, queens, and actresses. He also visited 
 the houses wherein Goethe, Chopin, and Wagner 
 had dwelt. It was four o'clock when he entered 
 the garden of the Bellevue establishment and 
 secured a table. The waiter at his request re 
 moved the other chairs, so he had a nook to him 
 self. Not a very large crowd was scattered 
 around ; visitors at Marienbad do not care to 
 pay for their diversions. In a few minutes, 
 after a march had been banged from a wretched 
 piano were pianos ever tuned on the Continent, 
 he wondered ? the sextet appeared, looking as 
 it did in the morning, and sang an Austrian 
 melody, a capella. It was not very interesting. 
 
 154
 
 THE ENCHANTED YODLER 
 
 The women stood in front and yelled with a 
 hearty will; the men roared in the background. 
 Krayne saw his young lady, holding her apron 
 by the sides, her head thrown back, her mouth 
 well opened ; but he could not distinguish her 
 individual voice. How pretty she was! He sipped 
 his coffee. Then came a zither solo that abomi 
 nable instrument of plucked wires, with its quiver 
 of a love-sick clock about to run down ; this 
 parody of an aeolian harp always annoyed 
 Krayne, and he was glad when the man finished. 
 A stout soprano in a velvet bodice, her arms 
 bare and brawny, the arms of a lass accustomed 
 to ploughing and digging potatoes, sang some 
 thing about turtle doves. She was odious. Odi 
 ous, too, was her companion, in a duo through 
 which they screamed and rumbled "Verlassen 
 bin i." At last she came out and he saw by the 
 programme that her name was Roselein Gich. 
 What an odd name, what an attractive girl ! He 
 finished his coffee and frantically signalled his 
 waitress. It was against the doctor's orders to 
 take more than one cup, and then the sugar! 
 Hang the doctor, he cried, and drank a second cup. 
 
 She sang. Her voice was an unusually heavy, 
 rich contralto. That she was not an accom 
 plished artiste he knew. He did not haunt opera 
 houses for naught, and, like all fat men who 
 wear red ties in the forenoon, he was a trifle 
 dogmatic in his criticism. The young woman 
 had the making of an opera singer. What a 
 Fricka, Brangaene, Ortrud, Sieglinde, Erda, this 
 
 155
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 clever girl might become ! She was musical, she 
 was dramatic in temperament he let his imagi 
 nation run away with him. She only sang an 
 Oberbayerische yodel, and, while her voice was 
 not very high, she contrived a falsetto that made 
 her English listener shiver. This yodel seemed 
 to him as thrilling as the "Ho yo to ho!" of Brunn- 
 hilde as she rushes over the rocky road to Val- 
 hall. La la liriti! La la lirita ! Hallali ! chirped 
 Roselein, with a final flourish that positively 
 enthralled Hugh Krayne. He applauded, beat 
 ing with his stick upon the table, his face flushed 
 by emotion. Decidedly this girl was worth the 
 visit to Marienbad. 
 
 And he noted with delight that Fraulein Gich 
 had left the stage. Basket in hand, she went from 
 table to table, selling pictures and programmes 
 and collecting admission fees. At last he would 
 be able to speak with the enchantress, for he 
 prided himself on the purity of his German. 
 Smiling until she reached his table, she sud 
 denly became serious when she saw this big 
 Englishman in the plaid suit and red necktie. 
 Again he felt the imploring glance, the soft lips 
 parted in childish supplication. It was too much 
 for his nerves. He tossed into her basket a 
 gold piece, grabbed at random some pictures, 
 and as her beseeching expression deepened, 
 her eyes moist with wonder and gratitude, he 
 tugged at a ring on his corpulent finger, and, 
 wrenching it free, presented it to her with a 
 well-turned phrase, adding : 
 156
 
 THE ENCHANTED YODLER 
 
 " Thou hast the making of a great singer in 
 thee, Fraulein Roselein. I wish I could help 
 thee to fame ! " 
 
 The girl gave him an incredulous stare, then 
 reddening, the muscles on her full neck stand 
 ing out, she ran like a hare back to her com 
 panions. Evidently he had made an impression. 
 The honest folk about him who witnessed the 
 little encounter fairly brimmed over with gossip. 
 The stout basso moved slowly to Krayne, who 
 braced himself for trouble. Now for it ! he 
 whispered to himself, and grasped his walking- 
 stick firmly. But, hat in hand, his visitor, a 
 handsome blond man, approached and thanked 
 Hugh for his generosity. He was a lover of 
 music, the yodler assured him, and his wife and 
 himself felt grateful for the interest he displayed 
 in Fraulein Roselein, his wife's sister. Yes, she 
 had a remarkable voice. What a pity but 
 wouldn't the gentleman attend the concert to be 
 given that evening up at the Caf6 Aim ? It 
 was, to be sure, rather far, the cafe, but the 
 moon would be up and if he could find his way 
 there he might do the company the honour of 
 coming back with them. 
 
 The Fraulein would sing a lot for him 
 Bohemian, Tyrolean, French, and German songs. 
 Ah, she was versatile ! The man did not speak 
 like a peasant, and seemed a shrewd, pleasant 
 fellow. Hugh Krayne, in excellent though 
 formal German, assured the other of his pleas 
 ure and accepted the invitation. Then he looked 
 
 157
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 over at Roselein, who stood on the stage, and as 
 he did so she waved a crimson handkerchief at 
 him as a friendly sign. He took off his hat, 
 touched significantly his own tie to indicate a 
 reciprocity of sentiment, and all aglow he ordered 
 a third cup of coffee. 
 
 The cure could take care of itself. Man lebt 
 nur einmal ! 
 
 II 
 
 On his way to the Aim he met the fattest 
 man in Marienbad, a former chef of the German 
 emperor, and gave him a friendly salute. He 
 liked to see this monster, who made the scales 
 groan at six hundred pounds, more than double 
 his own weight, for it put him at ease with him 
 self. But this evening he felt uncomfortable. 
 What if he were to reach such a climax in adi 
 posity ! What if in the years to come he should 
 be compelled, as was the unfortunate man from 
 Berlin, to sit on a chair every five minutes, a 
 chair carried by an impudent boy ! What 
 here his heart sank if the Fraulein should 
 mock his size ! He walked so rapidly at this 
 idea that other victims of rotundity stopped to 
 look at his tall figure and nodded approval. 
 Ach ! Marienbad was wonderful ! 
 
 After he had found a seat at the Aim next to 
 the low wall, across which he could see a vast 
 stretch of undulating country, lighted by a moon 
 that seemed to swing like a silver hoop in the 
 
 158
 
 THE ENCHANTED YODLER 
 
 sky, Krayne ordered Pilsner. He was fatigued 
 by the hilly scramble and he was thirsty. Oh, 
 the lovely thirst of Marienbad who that hath 
 not been within thy hospitable gates he knoweth 
 it not ! The magic of the night was making of 
 him a poet. He could see his Tyrolean friends 
 behind the glass partition of the little hall. There 
 would they sing, not in the open. It was nearly 
 the same, for presently the windows were raised 
 and their voices came floating out to him, the 
 bourdon of Roselein's organ easily distinguish 
 able. Love had sharpened his ears. He drained 
 his glass and sent for another. He felt that he 
 was tumbling down an abyss of passion and that 
 nothing in the world could save him. 
 
 The intermission ! He stood up to attract the 
 attention of Herr Johan Prager. Roselein saw 
 him and at once neared him, but without the 
 basket. This delicacy pleased Krayne very 
 much. It showed him that he was not on the 
 same footing as the public. He made the girl 
 take a seat, and though he felt the eyes of the 
 crowd upon him, he was not in the least con 
 cerned. London was far away and the season 
 was too young for the annual rush of his com 
 patriots. Would the Fraulein take something ? 
 She accepted coffee, which she drank from a 
 long glass with plenty of milk and sugar. She 
 again gazed at him with such a resigned expres 
 sion that he felt his starched cuffs grow warm 
 from their contiguity to his leaping pulses. 
 
 " Yes, Fraulein," he said, employing the famil- 
 
 159
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 iar du, " thou hast overcome me. Why not ac 
 cept my offer ? " Was this the prudent Hugh 
 Krayne talking ? She smiled sweetly and shook 
 her head. Her voice was delicious in colour and 
 intonation, nor did it betray humble origin. 
 
 " I fear, dear sir, that what you offer is im 
 possible. My sister, the soprano, would never 
 hear of such a thing. My brother, her hus 
 band, would not allow it. And I owe them my 
 living, my education. How could I repay them 
 if I left them now ? " she hesitated. 
 
 " Simply enough. You would be a singer at 
 the opera some day, and take them all to live 
 with you. Is there no other reason ? " He 
 recollected with a vivid sense of the disagree 
 able the lively antics of a lithe youth in the 
 company, who, at the close of the concert, exe 
 cuted with diabolic dexterity what they called a 
 Schuhplattltanz. This dance had glued Krayne's 
 attention, for Roselein was the young tenor 
 singer's partner. With their wooden sabots 
 they clattered and sang, waving wildly their 
 arms or else making frantic passages of pre 
 tended love and coquetry. It upset the Eng 
 lishman to see the impudence of this common 
 peasant fellow grasping Roselein by the waist, 
 as he whirled her about in the boorish dance. 
 Hence the clause to his question. She endured 
 his inquiring gaze, as she simply answered : 
 
 " No, there is no other reason." She put her 
 hand on the arm of her companion and the lights 
 suddenly became misty, for he was of an apo- 
 160
 
 THE ENCHANTED YODLER 
 
 plectic tendency. They talked of music, of the 
 opera in Vienna and Prague. She was born in 
 Bavaria, not more than a day's ride from Marien- 
 bad. You could almost see her country from 
 the top of the Podhornberg, in the direction of 
 the Franconian Mountains, not far from Bay- 
 reuth. The place was called Schnabelwaid, and 
 it was very high, very windy. Since her tenth 
 year she had been singing yes, even in the 
 chorus at the Vienna opera, with her sister 
 and brother. They were no common yodlers. 
 They could sing all the music of the day. The 
 yodling was part of their business, as was the 
 costume. Later, when she had enough saved, 
 she would study in Vienna for grand opera ! 
 
 He was enraptured. How romantic it all 
 was ! A free-born maiden he was certain she 
 was reared in some old castle wandering about 
 earning money for her musical education. What 
 a picture for a painter ! What a story for a nov 
 elist ! They were interrupted. The dancer, a 
 young man with a heavy shock of hair growing 
 low on his forehead, under which twinkled beady 
 black eyes, had been sent to tell Fraulein Rose- 
 lein that her colleagues were waiting for her. 
 With a courtesy she went away. Krayne now 
 thoroughly hated the dancer. 
 
 It was long after eleven when the concert was 
 over and the party started on its homeward trip. 
 Krayne and Roselein walked behind the others, 
 and soon the darkness and the narrowness of 
 the road forced him to tread after the girl. The 
 161
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 moon's rays at intervals pierced the foliage, mak 
 ing lacelike patches of light in the gloom. At 
 times they skirted the edges of a circular clear 
 ing and saw the high pines fringing the south 
 ern horizon ; overhead the heavens were almost 
 black, except where great streams of stars swept 
 in irregular bands. It was a glorious sight, 
 Krayne told Roselein too sublime to be dis 
 tracted by mere mortal love-making, he mentally 
 added. Nevertheless he was glad when they 
 were again in the woods ; he could barely distin 
 guish the girl ahead of him, but her outline made 
 his heart beat faster. Once, as they neared the 
 town, he helped her down a declivity into the 
 roadway, and he could not help squeezing her 
 hand. The pressure was returned. He boldly 
 placed her arm within his, and they at last 
 reached the streets, but not before, panting with 
 mingled fright and emotion, he solemnly kissed 
 her. She did not appear surprised. 
 
 " Call me Rosie thou ! " she murmured, and 
 her naivete brought the ready tears to his eyes. 
 They made a rendezvous for the next morning 
 on the Promenade Platz. The only thing he did 
 not like was the scowling face of the dancer 
 when he said good night to the others under the 
 electric lights of the Kreuzbrunnen. He was 
 correct, then, in his premonition. 
 
 That night Hugh Krayne dreamed he was a 
 
 very skeleton for thinness not an unusual 
 
 vision of fat men and also a Tyrolean yodler, 
 
 displaying himself before a huge audience of 
 
 162
 
 THE ENCHANTED YODLER 
 
 gigantic human beings, who laughed so loudly 
 that he could not open his lips to frame the fa 
 miliar words of his song. In the despair of a 
 frantic nightmare, his face streaming with an 
 guished tears, he forced his voice : 
 
 La, la, liriti! La, la, larita ! Hallali ! Then 
 he awoke in triumph. Was he not a yodler? 
 
 Ill 
 
 He told her of his dream and strange ambi 
 tion. She did not discourage him. It could be 
 settled easily enough. Why not join the com 
 pany and take a few lessons ? " With such a 
 teacher?" he had exclaimed, and his gesture 
 was so impassioned that the promenaders, with 
 their shining morning goblets of water, were ar 
 rested by the spectacle. Wonderful, wonderful 
 Marienbad ! was the general comment ! But 
 Krayne was past ridicule. He already saw Rb'se- 
 lein his bride. He saw himself a yodler. The 
 cure ? Ay, there was the rub. He laid bare 
 his heart. She aided him with her cool advice. 
 She was very sensible. Her brother-in-law and 
 her sister would welcome him in their household, 
 for he was a lover of music and his intentions 
 were honourable. Of course, he sighed, of course, 
 and fingered his red tie. Why not, she argued, 
 remain at Marienbad for three weeks more and 
 complete his cure ? Anyhow, he was not so 
 stout! She looked up at him archly. Again 
 he saw mist. 
 
 163
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 That settled it. For another three weeks he 
 lived in a cloud of expectation, of severe training, 
 long walks, dieting, and Turkish baths. No man 
 worked harder. And he was rewarded by see 
 ing his flesh melt away a pound or two daily. 
 When the company returned after its itinerary 
 in the neighbourhood Rosie was surprised to 
 meet a man who did not weigh much over two 
 hundred pounds, healthy, vigorous, and at least 
 five years younger in appearance. She was very 
 much touched. So was her sister. There was 
 a family consultation, and despite the surly op 
 position of the dancer, Hugh Krayne was wel 
 comed as a member of the Prager Bavarian 
 Sextette company. Forgetting the future he 
 had arranged for Rosie, he began his vocal les 
 sons immediately. 
 
 In July he sang for the first time in public at 
 Eger. He was extremely frightened, but as it 
 was only a duo he managed fairly well. Then 
 he sang at Tepl, this time alone. His voice 
 broke badly in the yodel and he was jeered by 
 a rude audience. He had grown very much 
 thinner. His doctor warned him against con 
 tinuing the waters, and advised rice, potatoes, 
 and ale, but he did not listen. He now paid the 
 bills of the company while travelling. Rosie 
 had confessed with tears that they were fear 
 fully poor. From that time he handed her his 
 purse. He even placated the jealous dancer 
 with a gold watch and a box of hair pomade. 
 Ah ! how he loathed the fellow's curly locks, his 
 164
 
 THE ENCHANTED YODLER 
 
 greasy familiarities ! Rosie told him this acro 
 bat was necessary in the company until he could 
 be replaced. Already Hugh she called him 
 " U " could yodel better. Some day he might, 
 when thinner, dance better. Perhaps -again 
 that appealing glance, the corner of her lips 
 faintly touched by the mysterious smile of a 
 Monna Lisa. Krayne redoubled his arduous 
 training, practised yodling in the forests, danced 
 jigs on the pine-needles, and doubled his allow 
 ance of the waters. 
 
 They went to Carlsbad. He yodled. He was 
 applauded. The dancer was in a fine rage. Al 
 though Krayne had asked Rosie to buy a first- 
 class compartment on the railroad trip over and 
 back, they went in a third-class car. Prager de 
 clared that it was good enough for him, and he 
 didn't wish to spoil his troupe ! His wife now 
 held the purse-strings, as Rosie was too en 
 grossed with her art and Hugh too absorbed in 
 his love to notice such mere sublunary matters. 
 The girl had promised nothing positive for the 
 future. She kept him on the brittle edge of 
 nervous expectation. The opposition of the 
 dancer had been successfully met by threats of 
 dismissal; Hugh continued to lose flesh and 
 gain in vocal and pedal agility. 
 
 He danced for the first time at Konigswart, 
 not far from the chateau of the Metternichs. 
 It was August. So great was the applause that 
 the younger dancer was discharged. He left 
 with muttered threats of vengeance. The next 
 165
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 day Krayne turned over all his business affairs 
 to the able hand of Frau Prager ; he lived only 
 for Rosie and his art. . . . 
 
 September was at hand. The weather was 
 so warm and clear, that the king of England 
 deferred his departure for a few days. One 
 afternoon, just before the leaves began to brown 
 on the hills, there was a concert at the gar 
 den of the Hotel Bellevue. The royal party 
 attended. The yodling was much praised, 
 especially that of a good-looking young woman 
 and her escort, a very tall man of cadaverous 
 aspect, his shanks like the wooden stilts of the 
 shepherds on the Bordeaux Landes. His face, 
 preternaturally emaciated and fatigued, opened 
 to emit an amazing yodel. When the Schuh- 
 plattltanz was reached he surprised the audience 
 by an extraordinary exhibition. He threw his 
 long legs about like billiard cues, while his arms 
 flapped as do windmills in a hard gale. He was 
 pointed out as a celebrity once a monster 
 Englishman, who had taken the Kur ; who was 
 in love, but so poor that he could not marry. 
 The girl with him was certain to make a success 
 in grand opera some day. Yes, Marienbad was 
 proud of Krayne. He was one of her show 
 sons, a witness to her curative powers. Proud 
 also of the Bavarian Prager Sextette. Herr 
 Prager was reputed a rich man. . . . 
 
 The night of that concert Marienbad saw the 
 last of the Bavarian sextette, which at midnight, 
 joined by its old dancer with the tenor voice, 
 166
 
 THE ENCHANTED YODLER 
 
 left in a third-class carriage for Vienna. Hugh 
 Krayne, not possessing enough to pay his pas 
 sage, had not been invited ; nor was he informed 
 of the sudden departure until a day later. . . . 
 
 On the road to the Aim, of moonlight nights, 
 toiling visitors catch glimpses of a human, 
 almost a skeleton, dressed in rags, his head 
 bare as his feet, about his neck a flaming crim 
 son handkerchief. He is known to Marien- 
 baders as "The Man Who Stayed Too Long." 
 He never addresses passers-by ; but as they lose 
 sight of him they hear the woods resound with 
 his elegiac howl : 
 
 La la liriti ! La la lirita ! Hallali ! 
 
 167
 
 X 
 
 THE THIRD KINGDOM 
 I 
 
 A DOUBTER 
 
 BROTHER HYZLO sat in his cell and read. 
 The gentle stillness of a rare spring morning 
 enveloped him with its benison. And the clear 
 light fell upon the large pages of a book in his 
 hand, the window through which it streamed 
 was the one link between the young recluse and 
 the life of the world. From it he could see the 
 roofs of the city beneath him ; when he so 
 wished, he might, without straining his gaze, 
 distinguish the Pantheon at the end of that tri 
 umphal avenue which spanned the Seine and had 
 once evoked for him visions of antique splendour. 
 But Brother Hyzlo no longer cared for mundane 
 delights. His doubting soul was the battle-field 
 over which he ranged day and night searching 
 for diabolic opponents. Exterior existence had 
 become for him a shadow ; the only life worth 
 living was that of the spirit. 
 
 In his book that fresh spring morning he 
 read as if in the flare of a passing meteor these 
 disquieting words : 
 
 168
 
 THE THIRD KINGDOM 
 
 " How were it if, some day or night, a demon 
 stole after thee into thy most solitary solitude, 
 and said to thee : ' This life, as thou livest it 
 now, and hast lived it, thou shalt have to live 
 over again, and not once but innumerable times ; 
 and there will be nothing new in it, but every 
 pain and every pleasure and every thought and 
 sigh, and everything in thy life, the great and 
 the unspeakably petty alike, must come again to 
 thee, and all in the same series and succession ; 
 this spider, too, and this moonlight betwixt the 
 trees and this moment likewise and I myself. 
 The eternal sand-glass of time is always turned 
 again, and thou with it, thou atom of dust ' ? 
 Wouldst thou not cast thyself down and with 
 gnashing of teeth curse the demon who thus 
 spoke ? Or, hast thou ever experienced the 
 tremendous moment in which thou wouldst 
 answer him : ' Thou art a god and never heard 
 I anything more divine ' ? " 
 
 The book slipped from his hands. " Why 
 not?" he murmured, " why not? There is no 
 such thing as chance. The law of probabilities 
 is not a mere fancy, but an austere need. Mat 
 ter is ever in evolution. Energy alone is inde 
 structible. Radium has revealed this to us. 
 In eternity when the Infinite throws the dice, 
 double-sixes are sure to come up more than 
 once. Miracles ? But why miraculous ? In 
 finity of necessity must repeat itself, and then I, 
 sitting here now, will sit here again, sit and 
 doubt the goodness of God, ay, doubt His 
 169
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 existence. . . . How horrible ! " He paused 
 in the whirl of his thoughts. 
 
 " Yet how beautiful, for if the eternal recur 
 rence be truth, then must the great drama of the 
 Redemption be repeated. Then will our foes 
 be convinced of Christianity and its reality. 
 But shall we be conscious in that far-off time of 
 our anterior existence ? Ah ! hideous, coiling 
 doubt. What a demon is this Nietzsche to 
 set whirring in the brains of poor, suffering 
 humanity such torturing questions ! Better, far 
 better for the world to live and not to think. 
 Thought is a disease, a morbid secretion of the 
 brain-cells. Ah ! materialist that I am, I can 
 no longer think without remembering the ideas 
 of Cabanis, that gross atheist. Why am I pun 
 ished so ? What crimes have I committed in a 
 previous existence Karma, again ! that I 
 must perforce study the writings of impious 
 men? Yet I submitted myself as a candidate 
 for the task, to save my brethren in Christ from 
 soiling their hearts. Heaven preserve me from 
 the blight of spiritual pride, but I believe that 
 I am now a scapegoat for the offences of my 
 fellow-monks, and, thus, may redeem my own 
 wretched soul. Ah ! Nietzsche Antichrist." 
 
 He arose and threw the volume across his 
 cell. Then going to the window regarded with 
 humid gaze the world that sprawled below him 
 in the voluptuous sunshine. But so sternly was 
 the inner eye fixed on the things of the spirit 
 that he soon turned away from the delectable 
 170
 
 THE THIRD KINGDOM 
 
 picture, and as he did so his glance rested upon 
 a crucifix. He started, his perturbed imagina 
 tion again touched. 
 
 " What if Nietzsche were right ? The first 
 Christian, the only Christian, died on the cross, 
 he has said. What an arraignment of our pre 
 cious faith, Jesus Christ, our Lord God ! What 
 sweet names are Thine ! How could Nietzsche 
 not feel the music of that Hebrew-Greek com 
 bination ? Perhaps he did ; perhaps he masked 
 * a profound love behind his hatred. Jesus our 
 Lord ! Hebrew-Greek. But why Greek ? 
 Why . . . ?" Another pause in this sequestered 
 chamber where the buzzing of an insect could 
 assume a thunderous roar. " The eternal return. 
 Why should Christ return ? Must the earth be 
 saved again and again and a billion times again ? 
 Awful thought of a God descending to a horrible 
 death to cleanse the nameless myriads from sins 
 which they seek ever as flies treacle. More 
 ghastly still is the thought that the atheist Scan 
 dinavian put into the mouth of his Julian the 
 Apostate : When our Christ is not saving this 
 earth from eternal damnation then he may be 
 visiting remote planets or inaccessible stars, 
 where coloured double suns of blinding brilliancy 
 revolve terrifically in twin harness. There, too, 
 are souls to be rescued. What a grand idea ! 
 It is Ibsen's, as is the interpretation of the Third 
 Kingdom. It should have been Nietzsche's. 
 Why this antinomianism ? Why this eternal 
 conflict of evil and good, of night and day, of 
 171
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 sweet and sour, of God and devil, of Ormuzd 
 and Ahriman ? " 
 
 The exotic names transposed his thoughts to 
 another avenue. If Christ is to come again, and 
 the holy word explicitly states that He will, why 
 not Buddha? Why not Brahma ? Why not . . . ? 
 Again a hiatus. This time something snapped 
 in his head. He sank back in his chair. Buddha ! 
 Was there ever a Buddha ? And if there was 
 not, was there ever such a personality as Christ's ? 
 Scholar that he was he knew that myth-building 
 was a pastime for the Asiatic imagination, great, 
 impure, mysterious Asia Asia the mother of 
 all religions, the cradle of the human race. To 
 deny the objective existence of Christ would set 
 at rest all his doubts, one overwhelming doubt 
 swallowing the minor doubts. He had never 
 speculated at length upon the Christ legend, for 
 did not Renan, yes, that silky heretic, believe in 
 the personality of Jesus, believe and lovingly 
 portray it? The Nietzsche doctrine of the 
 eternal recurrence had so worked upon his 
 sensitive mental apparatus that he could have 
 almost denied the existence of Christ rather 
 than deny that our universe repeats itself in 
 finitely. Eternity is a wheel, earthly events are 
 the spokes of this whirring wheel. It was the 
 seeming waste of divine material that shocked 
 his nerves. One crucifixion yes ; but two or 
 two quintillions and infinitely more ! 
 
 Brother Hyzlo stared at the crucifix. Was it 
 only a symbol, as some learned blasphemers 
 172
 
 THE THIRD KINGDOM 
 
 averred ? The human figure so painfully ex 
 tended upon it was a God, a God who de 
 scended from high heaven to become a shield 
 between the wrath of His Father and humanity. 
 Why ? Why should the God who created us 
 grow angry with our shortcomings ? We are 
 His handiwork. Are we then to blame for our 
 imperfections ? Is not Jesus, instead of a medi 
 ator, rather a votive offering to the wounded 
 vanity of the great Jehovah ? Was not Prome 
 theus a light broke in upon Hyzlo. Prome 
 theus, a myth, Buddha a myth. All myths. 
 There were other virgin-born saviours. Krishna, 
 Mithra, Buddha. Vishnu had not one but nine 
 incarnations. Christianity bears alarming resem 
 blances to Mithraism. Mithra, too, was born 
 in a cave. The dates of Christ's birth and death 
 may be astronomical : the winter and vernal 
 equinoxes. But the conflict of the authorities 
 regarding these dates is mortifying. The four 
 gospels are in reality four witnesses warring 
 against each other. They were selected hap 
 hazard at a human council. They were not com 
 posed until the latter part of the second century, 
 and the synoptic gospels are compilations from 
 unknown writers, while the fourth gospel is a 
 much later work. And how colourless, imitative, 
 is the New when compared to the Old Testa 
 ment, echoing with the antiphonal thunders 
 of Jehovah and his stern-mouthed Prophets ! 
 The passage in Josephus touching on Christ 
 is now known to have been interpolated. 
 
 173
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 Authentic history does not record the existence 
 of Christ. Not one of his contemporaries men 
 tions him. That tremendous drama in Galilee 
 was not even commented upon by the Romans, a 
 nation keen to notice any deviation from normal 
 history. The Jewish records are doubtful, writ 
 ten centuries after His supposed death. And 
 they are malicious. What cannot happen in two 
 centuries ? Hyzlo reflected sadly upon Moslem- 
 ism, upon Mormonism, upon the vagaries of a 
 strange American sect at whose head was said 
 to be a female pope. 
 
 The similarity of circumstances in the lives of 
 Buddha and Christ also annoyed him. Both 
 were born of virgins, both renounced the world, 
 both were saviours. There were the same temp 
 tations, the same happenings ; prophecies, mira 
 cles, celestial rejoicings, a false disciple, the 
 seven beatitudes a reflection of the Oriental 
 wisdom an expiatory death and resurrection. 
 The entire machinery of the Christian church, 
 its saints, martyrs, festivals, ritual, and philoso 
 phies are borrowed from the mythologies of the 
 pagans. Sun-worship is the beginning of all 
 religions. To the genius of the epileptic Paul, 
 or Saul, founders of religions are always epi- 
 lepts, a half Greek and disciple of the Pharisee 
 Gamaliel, who saw visions and put to the sword 
 his enemies, to Paul, called a saint, a man of 
 overwhelming personal force, to this cruel anar 
 chist, relentless, half-mad fanatic and his theo 
 logical doctrines we owe the preservation and 
 
 174
 
 THE THIRD KINGDOM 
 
 power of the Christian Church. At first the 
 Christians were the miserable offscourings of 
 society, slaves, criminals, and lunatics. They 
 burrowed in the Catacombs, they fastened them 
 selves upon a decaying and magnificent civiliza 
 tion like the parasites they were. A series of 
 political catastrophes, a popular uprising against 
 the rotten emperors of decadent Rome, and the 
 wide growth of the socialist idea these things 
 and an unscrupulous man, Constantine the 
 Great, put the Christians firmly in the saddle. 
 And soon came cataracts of blood. If the tales 
 of the imperial persecutions are true, then hath 
 Christianity been revenged a million fold ; where 
 her skirt has trailed there has been the cruel 
 stain of slaughter. It must not be forgotten, too, 
 that immorality of the grossest sort was promised 
 the deluded sectarians, compared with which 
 the Mahometan paradise is spiritual. And the 
 end of the world was predicted at the end of 
 every century, and finally relegated to the mil 
 lennial celebration of Christianity's birth. When, 
 in 1000 A.D., this catastrophe did not occur, the 
 faith received its first great shock. 
 
 He summoned to his memory a cloud of wit 
 nesses, all contradictory. Josephus was barred. 
 Philo Judaeus, who was living near the centre of 
 things, an observer on the scent of the spiritual, 
 a man acquainted with the writings of Rabbi 
 Hillel, and the father of Neoplatonism never 
 mentions Jesus, nor does he speak of any reli 
 gious uprising in Judea. The passage in Virgil, 
 
 175
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 which has through the doubtful testimony of 
 monkish writers been construed into a prophecy 
 of a forthcoming Messiah, Hyzlo, who was a 
 scholar, knew to have been addressed to a son 
 of Virgil's intimate friend. Tacitus, too, has 
 been interpolated. Seneca's ideal man is not 
 Jesus, for Jesus is Osiris, Horus, Krishna, 
 Mithra, Hercules, Adonis, think of this beauti 
 ful young god's death ! Buddha. Such a mock 
 trial and death could not have taken place under 
 the Roman or Jewish laws. The sacraments 
 derive from the Greeks, from the Indians the 
 mysteries of Ceres and Bacchus, from the Haoma 
 sacrifice of the Persians, originally Brahmanic. 
 The Trinity, was it not a relic of that ineradi 
 cable desire for polytheism implanted in the 
 human bosom ? Was the crucifixion but a 
 memory of those darker cults and blood sacri 
 fices of Asia, and also of the expiating goats sent 
 out into the wilderness ? What became of that 
 Hosanna-shouting crowd which welcomed Christ 
 on Palm Sunday ? And there never were such 
 places as Gethsemane and Calvary. Alas ! the 
 Son of Man had indeed no spot to lay his head. 
 And why had He made no sign when on earth ! 
 Brother Hyzlo wept bitter tears. 
 
 But he wiped them away as he considered the 
 similarity of the massacre of the Innocents in 
 Judea and the massacre of the male children 
 ordered by the wicked Indian Rajah of Madura, 
 who feared the Krishna, just conceived by divine 
 agency. Yes, the chronicles were full of these 
 176
 
 THE THIRD KINGDOM 
 
 gods born of virgins, of crucifixions, he could 
 remember sixteen, of these solar myths. He 
 caught tripping in a thousand cases the transla 
 tions of our holy books. The Ox and Ass legend 
 at the Nativity he realized was the Pseudo-Mat 
 thew's description to Habakkuk of the literal 
 presence : " In the midst of two animals thou 
 shalt be known ; " which is a mistranslated 
 Hebrew text in the Prayer ascribed to Habak 
 kuk. It got into the Greek Septuagint version 
 of the Prophet made by Egyptian Jews before 
 1 50 B.C. It should read, "in the midst of the 
 years," not " animals." " Ah ! " cried Hyzlo, " in 
 this as in important cardinal doctrines have the 
 faithful ben the slaves of the learned and un 
 scrupulous pious forgers. Even the notorious 
 Apollonius of Tyana imitated the miracles of 
 Christ all of them. And what of that wicked 
 wizard, Simon Magus ? 
 
 The very repetition of these miracles in all 
 races, at all epochs, pointed to the doctrine of 
 recurrence. But back of all the negations, back 
 of the inexpugnable proof that no such man 
 or God as Christ existed, or was known to his 
 contemporaries, Jewish and Roman, there must 
 have been some legend which had crystallized 
 into a mighty religion. Was He an agitator 
 who preferred His obscurity that His glory 
 might be all the greater ? There -must have 
 been a beginning to the myth ; behind the gos 
 pels though they are obviously imitated from 
 the older testaments, imitated and diluted 
 177
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 were unknown writings; previous to these there 
 was word of mouth and and . . . ? 
 
 The day had advanced, the sun was very 
 warm. A shaft of light fell upon the cold stone 
 floor, and in its fiery particles darted myriads of 
 motes. Hyzlo followed their spiral flights, think 
 ing all the while of humanity which flashes from 
 out the dark void, plays madly in the light, only 
 to vanish into the unknown night. His gaze 
 was held by the smoothness of the flagging at 
 his feet. Then it became transformed into 
 marble, the walls of his cell widened, and he 
 closed his eyes, so blinding were the long lad 
 ders of light. . . . 
 
 f 
 II 
 
 TWO DREAMERS 
 
 He opened them . . . the harbour with its 
 army of galleys and pleasure craft lay in the 
 burning sunshine, its surface a sapphire blue. 
 Overhead the sky echoed this tone, which mod 
 ulated into deeper notes of purple on the far 
 away hills whose tops were wreathed in mist. 
 Under his sandalled feet was marble, back of 
 him were the gleaming spires and towers of the 
 great city, and at his left was a mountain of 
 shining marble, the Pharos. 
 
 " Alexandria ? " he called out as he was jostled 
 by a melon-seller, and startled by the fluted 
 invitations of a young girl an antique statue 
 come to life. 
 
 178
 
 THE THIRD KINGDOM 
 
 " Of course it is Alexandria," replied a deep, 
 harsh voice at his elbow. He turned. It was 
 his friend Philo. 
 
 " You have at last emerged from your day 
 dream, Hyzlo ! I thought, as our bark clove the 
 water, that you were enjoying visions." And it 
 seemed to Hyzlo that he had just awakened from 
 a bizarre dream of a monastic cell, to more beau 
 tiful sights and shapes and sounds. The pair 
 now traversed the quay, past the signal masts, 
 the fortified towers, pushing through the throng 
 of sailors, courtesans, philosophers, fruitsellers, 
 soldiers, beggars, and idle rich toward the spa 
 cious city. Past the palace to the wall of the 
 Canal, along the banks of the Royal Port, they 
 finally struck into a broad, deserted avenue. At 
 its head was a garden wall. Philo introduced 
 himself and his companion through a low door 
 and presently they were both in an apartment 
 full of parchments, glittering brass and gold 
 instruments all reposing on a wide, long table. 
 
 " Hyzlo," said the Jewish philosopher, in his 
 slightly accented Greek, " I have long promised 
 you that I would reveal to you my secret, my 
 life work. I am downcast by sadness. Rome 
 is full of warring cults, Greek, African, Baby 
 lonian, Buddhistic ; the writings of the great 
 teachers, the masters, Heraclitus, Zeno, Anaxag- 
 oras, Plato, Socrates, Epictetus, Seneca, are over 
 laid with heretical emendations. The religion of 
 my fellow-countrymen is a fiery furnace, Jerusa 
 lem a den of warring thieves. The rulers of earth 
 179
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 are weary and turn a deaf ear on their peoples. 
 The time is ripe for revolt. Sick of the accursed 
 luxury and debauchery, fearful of the threatening 
 barbarians from Asia and the boreal regions, who 
 are hemming the civilized world, waiting like 
 vultures for the first sign of weakness to destroy 
 everything, the slaves in revolt all these im 
 pending terrors assure me that the end of the 
 old order is at hand. But what will become of 
 the new if there is no central belief to steady 
 the ensanguined hands of furious mobs ? For 
 years I have bethought me of a drama, a gigan 
 tic world-drama which shall embody all the 
 myths of mankind, all the noblest thoughts of 
 the philosophers. I shall take the Buddha 
 myth, surely the supreme myth, and transpose 
 its characters to Jerusalem. A humble Jew 
 shall be my Buddha. He shall be my revenge 
 on our conquerors ; for my people have been 
 trampled upon by the insolent Romans, and 
 who knows a Jewish God, a crucified God, 
 may be worshipped in the stead of Jupiter and 
 his vile pantheon of gods and goddesses ! One 
 God, the son of Jahveh who comes upon earth 
 to save mankind, is crucified and killed, is resur 
 rected and like Elijah is caught up to heaven in 
 a fiery chariot. But you know the usual style 
 of these Asiatic legends ! They are all alike ; 
 a virgin birth, a miraculous life, and transfigura 
 tion. That sums up myths from Adonis to 
 Krishna, from Krishna to Buddha ; though 
 Monotheism comes from the Hebrews, the 
 1 80
 
 THE THIRD KINGDOM 
 
 Trinity from the Indians, and the logos was 
 developed by Plato. Where I am original is 
 that I make my hero a Jew the Jews are still 
 half-cracked enough to believe in the coming of 
 a Messiah. And to compass a fine dramatic 
 moment I have introduced an incident I once 
 witnessed in Alexandria at the landing of King 
 Agrippa, when the populace dressed up a vaga 
 bond named Karabas as a mock king and stuck 
 upon his head papyrus leaves for a crown, in 
 his hand a reed for a sceptre, and then saluted 
 him as king. I shall make my Jew-God seized 
 by the Jews, his own blood and kin, given over 
 to the Romans, mocked, reviled, and set aside 
 for some thief who shall be called Karabas. 
 Then, rejected, he shall be crucified, he a god 
 born of a virgin, by the very people who are 
 looking for their Messiah. He is their Messiah ; 
 yet they know it not. They shall never know it. 
 That shall be their tragedy, the tragedy of my 
 race, which, notwithstanding the prophecies, 
 turned its back upon the Messiah because he 
 came not clothed in the purple of royalty. Is 
 that not a magnificent idea for a drama ? " 
 
 " Excellent," answered Hyzlo, in a critical 
 tone ; " but continue ! " 
 
 " You seem without enthusiasm, Hyzlo. I 
 tell you that ^schylus, Sophocles, or Euripides 
 never conceived a story more infinitely dramatic 
 or pathetic, or thanks to my Hebraic blood 
 so suffused with tragic irony. I shall make a 
 very effective tableau at the death ; on some 
 181
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 forbidding stony hill near Jerusalem I shall plant 
 my crucified hero, and near him a converted 
 courtesan ah! what a master of the theatre 
 I am ! in company with a handful of faithful 
 disciples. The others have run away to save 
 their cowardly skins in the tumult. The mobs 
 that hailed him as King of the Jews now taunt 
 him, after the manner of all mobs. His early 
 life I shall borrow outright from the Buddha 
 legends. He shall be born of a virgin ; he shall 
 live in the desert; as a child he shall confute 
 learned doctors in the temple ; and later in the 
 desert he shall be tempted by a demon. All 
 this is at hand. My chief point is the philoso 
 phies in which I shall submerge my characters. 
 
 " My hero shall be the logos of Heraclitus 
 with the superadded authority of the Hebrew 
 high priest. You may recall the fact that I 
 greatly admire the Essenes and their system. 
 My deity is a pure essence ; not Jehovah the 
 protector or avenger. The logos, or mediator, 
 I have borrowed from the writings of the Greek 
 philosophers. This logos returns to the bosom 
 of God after the sacrifice. Greek philosophy 
 combined with Hebraic moral principles ! Ah ! 
 it is grand synthesis; Seneca with his conception 
 of a perfected humanity, Lucretius, Manlius 
 who called, rightfully too, Epicurus a god 
 and Heraclitus with the first idea of a logos : all 
 these ancient ideas I have worked into my 
 romantic play, including the old cult of the 
 Trinities ; the Buddhistic : Buddha, Dharma, 
 182
 
 THE THIRD KINGDOM 
 
 and Saingha ; the Chinese : Heaven, Earth, and 
 Emperor ; the Babylonian : Ea, the father, 
 Marduk, the son, and the Fire God, Gibil, who is 
 also the Paraclete. So my philosophy is merely 
 a continuation and modification of that taught by 
 Heraclitus and Plato, but with a Jewish back 
 ground for mine is the only moral nation. The 
 wisdom of the Rabbis, their Monotheism and 
 ethics, are all there." His eyes were ablaze. 
 
 " You are very erudite, Philo Judaeus ! " ex 
 claimed his listener; "but, tell me, is there no 
 actual foundation for your Jewish god ? " Hyzlo 
 eagerly awaited a reply, though he could not 
 account for this curiosity. 
 
 "Yes," answered Philo, lightly, "there is, I 
 freely acknowledge, a slight foundation. Some 
 years ago in Jerusalem they arrested a poverty- 
 stricken fanatic, the son of a Jewess. His father 
 was said to have been an indigent and aged car 
 penter. This Joshua, or leshua, was driven out 
 of Jerusalem, and he took refuge among a lot of 
 poor fishermen on Lake Gennesareth. There he 
 joined a sect called the Baptists, because their 
 founder, a socialist named loakanaan, poured 
 water on the heads of the converted. leshua 
 never married and was suspected of idolatrous 
 practices, which he had absorbed from hermits 
 of the Egyptian Thebai'd. Josephus, a wise 
 friend and companion of my youth, wrote me 
 these details. He said that leshua disappeared 
 after his mad attempt to take Jerusalem by 
 storm, riding as is depicted the Bona Dea 
 
 183
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 on the back of a humble animal. Yet, if you 
 wish to appeal to the common folk, make your 
 hero a deposed king or divinity, who walks 
 familiarly among the poor, as walked the gods 
 at the dawn of time with the daughters of men. 
 I depict my protagonist as a half-cracked Jew. 
 I call him lesus Christos after Krishna ; and 
 this poor man's god proposes to redeem the 
 world, to place the lowly in the seats of the 
 mighty he is an Anarchos, as they would say 
 in Athens. He promises the Kingdom of God 
 to those who follow him ; but only a few do. 
 He is the friend of outcasts, prostitutes, crimi 
 nals. And though he does not triumph on earth, 
 nevertheless he is the spiritual ruler of earth ; 
 he is the Son of the Trinity which comprises the 
 Father and Holy Ghost. The contending forces 
 to my hero will be incarnated by Pontius Pilatus, 
 the Roman governor, and Judas of Kerioth, a very 
 dangerous and powerful Hebrew politician a 
 man of very liberal ideas, one who believed in 
 the supremacy of the West. What a glorious 
 play it will make ! I have named it The Third 
 Kingdom, Hyzlo. What a glorious idea it is, 
 Hyzlo the greatest drama the world has ever 
 witnessed ! " 
 
 III 
 THE DOVE 
 
 " The greatest drama the world has ever 
 witnessed "... mumbled his disciple. . . . 
 184
 
 THE THIRD KINGDOM 
 
 The sun still shone on the cold stone flagging, 
 and upon the wall facing him hung the crucifix. 
 But the motes no longer danced merrily in the 
 light. Evening was setting in apace, and 
 Hyzlo, accepting one dream as equal in veracity 
 with the other, crossed to the embrasure and, 
 his elbows on the sill, watched the sun looking 
 like a sulphur-coloured cymbal sink behind the 
 sky-line. He was still in the same attitude when 
 the blue of the heavens ah! but not that gor 
 geous, hard Alexandrian blue melted into pea 
 cock and cool saffron hues. He mused aloud : 
 " By the very nature of his mental organs 
 man can never grasp reality. It is always the 
 sensation, never the real thing, he feels. The 
 metaphysicians are right. We can never know 
 the actual world outside of ourselves. We are 
 imprisoned in a dream cage ; the globe itself 
 is a cage of echoes. Science, instead of con 
 tradicting religion, has but affirmed its truths. 
 Matter is radiant energy matter is electric 
 phenomenon. The germ-plasma from which we 
 stem the red clay of Genesis is eternal. 
 The individual is sacrificed to the species. The 
 species never dies. And how beautifully logical 
 is the order of our ancestry as demonstrated by 
 the science of embryology. Fish, batrachians, 
 reptiles, mammals ; in which latter are included 
 the marsupials as well as lemurs, primates, 
 Man. And after what struggles Man assumed 
 an erect position and looked into the eyes of 
 his mate ! After Man ? Nietzsche preaches 
 
 185
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 that man is a link between the primate and Super 
 man ; Superman the angels ! But intelli 
 gence in man may be an accident caused by 
 over-nutrition, the brain developing from rich 
 phosphors. If this were so how would fall 
 to earth our house of pride ! Are we so close 
 to the animal ? But Quinton proves that after 
 man in the zoological series comes the bird. 
 Birds half reptiles, half angels. Angels ! Do 
 evolution and revelation meet here on common 
 ground ? Or was Joachim, the Abbot of Flores, 
 inspired when he wrote of the Third Kingdom, 
 that Kingdom in which the empire of the flesh is 
 swallowed up in the empire of the spirit ; that 
 Third Kingdom in which the twin-natured shall 
 reign, as Ibsen declares ; the Messiah neither 
 Emperor nor Redeemer, but the Emperor-God. 
 The slime shall become sap and the sap become 
 spirit ! From gorilla to God ! Man in the 
 coming Third Kingdom may say : " I, too, am 
 a god." But is this not blasphemous ? And 
 after the wheel of the universe has again 
 revolved, will I see, as foresaw Nietzsche, the 
 selfsame spider, the same moonlight ? There 
 is nothing new under the sun, says Ecclesiastes. 
 Wretched man is never to know the entire truth 
 but will be always at daggers drawn with his 
 destiny. After classic Paganism came romantic 
 Christianity ; after the romantic will the pendu 
 lum swing back or alas ! is there coming 
 another horde of atheists with a new Attila at 
 their head ? " 
 
 186
 
 He threw himself before the crucifix and 
 sobbed. 
 
 " Lord Jesus, Our Christ ! Thou art the real 
 Christ and not the fiction of that supersubtle 
 Greek-Jewish and boastful philosopher in Alex 
 andria ! Make for me, O God, a sign! Give 
 me back in all its purity my faith ; faith, noblest 
 gift of all ! Oh ! to hear once more the thrill 
 ing of the harps divine, whereon the dawn plays, 
 those precursors of the Eternal Harmony! Gloria 
 in Excelsis." He remained prostrate, his heart 
 no longer battered by doubts and swimming in 
 blissful love for his crucified God. The celestial 
 hurricane subsided in his bosom ; he arose and 
 again interrogated the heavens. The stars in 
 the profound splendours of the sky stared at 
 him like the naked eyes of houris. Suddenly a 
 vast white cloud sailed over the edge of the 
 horizon and as it approached his habitation 
 assumed the shape of a monstrous dove, its 
 fleecy wings moving in solemn rhythms. In the 
 resurgence of his hopes this apparition was the 
 coveted sign from the Almighty. 
 
 And flat upon the floor of his cell, his face 
 abased in the dust, Hyzlo worshipped in epilep 
 tic frenzy, crying aloud, after the manner of the 
 sad-tongued Preacher : 
 
 "The thing that hath been, it is that which 
 shall be ! " 
 
 187
 
 XI 
 THE HAUNTED HARPSICHORD 
 
 [In the Style of Mock-Mediaeval Fiction] 
 
 I TOLD Michael to look sharply to his horse. 
 It was dusk; a few bits of torn clouds, unre 
 solved modulations of nebulous lace, trembled 
 over the pink pit in the west, wherein had sunk 
 the sun ; and one evening star, silver pointed, 
 told the tale of another spent day. 
 
 Michael was surly, I was impatient, and the 
 groom, who lagged in the rear, whistled softly ; 
 but I knew that both men were tired and hungry, 
 and so were the horses. The road, hard and free 
 from dust, echoed the resilient hoof-falls of our 
 beasts. The early evening was finely cool, for 
 it was the month of September. We had lost 
 our way. Green fields on either side, and be 
 fore us the path declined down a steep slope, 
 that lost itself in huddled foliage. 
 
 Michael spoke up : 
 
 " We are astray. I knew this damnable ex 
 cursion would lead to no good." 
 
 I gently chided him. " Pooh, you braggart ! 
 Even Arnold, who rides a brute a world too wide 
 for him, has not uttered a complaint. Brave 
 Michael, if her ladyship heard you now ! " 
 188
 
 THE HAUNTED HARPSICHORD 
 
 His face grew hard as he muttered : 
 
 " Her ladyship ! may all the saints in the 
 calendar watch over her ladyship ! But I wish 
 she had never taken you at your hot-headed 
 word. Then we would not have launched upon 
 this madcap adventure." 
 
 I grew stern. " Her ladyship, I bid you re 
 member, my worthy man, is our mistress, and it 
 ill behooves you to question her commands, 
 especially in the presence of a groom." 
 
 Michael growled, and then the sudden turn 
 in the road startled our horses on a gallop, and 
 for a quarter of an hour we thrashed our way 
 ahead in the twilight. We had entered a small 
 thicket when an ejaculation from Arnold who 
 had been riding abreast brought us all up to 
 a sharp standstill. 
 
 "There's a light," said the groom, in a most 
 tranquil manner, pointing his heavy crop stick 
 to the left. How we had missed seeing the inn 
 from the crest of the hill was strange. A hun 
 dred yards away stood a low, red-tiled house, 
 with lights burning downstairs, and an unmis 
 takable air of hostlery for man and beast. We 
 veered at once in our course, and in a few min 
 utes were hallooing for the host or the hostler. 
 
 " Now I hope that you are satisfied, my 
 friend," I said exultantly to Michael, who only 
 grunted as he swung off his animal. Arnold 
 followed, and soon we were chatting with an 
 amiable old man in a white cap and apron, who 
 had run out of the house when we shouted. 
 189
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 " Amboise ? " he answered me when I told 
 him of our destination. "Amboise; why, sirrah, 
 you are a good five leagues from Amboise ! 
 Step within and remain here for the night. I 
 have plenty of convenience for you and your 
 suite." 
 
 I glanced at Michael, but he was busily em 
 ployed in loosening his pistols from the holster, 
 and Arnold, in company with a lame man, led 
 the horses to the stable. There was little use 
 in vain regrets. The other had the start of the 
 half-day, and surely we could go no further that 
 night. I gritted my teeth as the little fat land 
 lord led us into the house. 
 
 In half an hour we were smoking our pipes 
 before a lively fire the night had grown chilly 
 and enjoying silent recollections of a round 
 of beef and several bottles of fortifying burgundy. 
 
 Our groom had gone to bed, and I soon saw 
 that I could get nothing out of Michael for the 
 present. He stared moodily into the fire. I 
 noticed that his pistols were handy. The host 
 came in and asked my permission to join us. He 
 felt lonely, he explained, for he was a widower, 
 and his only son was away in the world some 
 where. I was very glad to ease myself with 
 gossip ; my heart was not quite at peace with 
 this expedition of ours. I knew what her lady 
 ship asked of us was much, so much that only 
 a bold spirit and a thirst for the unknown could 
 pardon the folly of the chase. 
 
 I bade the innkeeper to take a seat at the fire, 
 190
 
 THE HAUNTED HARPSICHORD 
 
 and soon we fell to chatting like ladies' maids. 
 He was a Norman and curious as a cat. He 
 opened his inquiries delicately. 
 
 " You have ridden far and fast to-day, my sir. 
 Your horses were all but done for. Yet there 
 is no cloud of war in the sky and you are too 
 far from Paris to be honourable envoys. I hope 
 you like our country ? " 
 
 I dodged his tentative attempt at prying by 
 asking him a question myself. 
 
 " You don't seem to have many guests, good 
 host ? Yet do I hardly wonder at it. You are 
 all but swallowed up in the green and too far 
 from the main travelled road." 
 
 The little man sighed and said in sad accents : 
 " Too true, yet the Scarlet Dragon was once a 
 thriving place, a fine money-breeding house. 
 Before my son went away 
 
 I interrupted him. " Your son, what is he, 
 and where is he now ? " 
 
 The other became visibly agitated and puffed 
 at his pipe some minutes before replying. 
 
 " Alas ! worthy sir," he said at last in a lower 
 key, " my son dare not return here for reasons 
 I cannot divulge. Indeed, this was no cheerful 
 house for the boy. He had his ambitions and 
 he left me to pursue them." 
 
 " What does he do, this youngster ? " inter 
 rupted Michael, in his gruffest tones. The 
 landlord started. 
 
 " Indeed, good sir, I could not tell you, for 
 I know not myself." 
 
 191
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 " Humph ! " grunted my sullen companion ; 
 but I observed his suspicious little eyes fixed 
 persistently on the man of the inn. 
 
 I turned the talk, which had threatened to 
 languish. The old man did not relish the ques 
 tions about his son, and began deploring the 
 poor crops. At this juncture an indefinable 
 feeling that we were losing time in stopping at 
 this lonely place came over me. I am not 
 superstitious, but I swear that I felt ill at ease 
 and confused in my plans. 
 
 On bended knee I had sworn to my lady that 
 I would bring back to her the fugitive un 
 harmed, and I would never return to her empty- 
 handed, confessing failure. Michael's queer 
 behaviour disconcerted me. From the outset of 
 the chase he had turned sour and inaccessible, 
 and now he was so ill-tempered that I feared he 
 would pick a quarrel at the slightest provocation 
 with our host. 
 
 With a strange sinking at the heart I asked 
 about our horses. 
 
 " They will be attended to, my sirs ; my ser 
 vant is a good boy. He is handy, although he 
 can't get about lively, for he was thrown in a 
 turnip field from our only donkey." 
 
 I was in no mood for this sort of chatter and 
 quizzed the fellow as to our beds. 
 
 "We must be off early in the morning; we 
 have important business to transact at Amboise 
 before the sun sets to-morrow," I testily re 
 marked. 
 
 192
 
 THE HAUNTED HARPSICHORD 
 
 "At Amboise h'm, h'm ! Well, I don't 
 mind telling you that you can reach Amboise 
 by stroke of noon ; and so you have business at 
 Amboise, eh ? " 
 
 I saw Michael's brow lower at this whee 
 dling little man's question, and answered rather 
 hastily and imprudently : 
 
 " Yes, business, my good man, important 
 business, as you will see when we return 
 this road to-morrow night with the prize we 
 are after." 
 
 Michael jumped up and cried " Damnation ! " 
 and I at once saw my mistake. The landlord's 
 manner instantly altered. He looked at me tri 
 umphantly and said : 
 
 " Beds, beds ! but, my honoured sirs, I have 
 no beds in the house. I forgot to tell you that 
 no guest has been upstairs in years, for certain 
 reasons. Indeed, sirs, I am so embarrassed ! I 
 should have told you at once I have only a day 
 trade. My regular customers would not dare to 
 stop here over night, as the house," here a 
 cunning, even sinister, look spread over the 
 fellow's fat' face "the house bears an evil 
 reputation." 
 
 Michael started and crossed himself, but not 
 I. I suspected some deep devilry and deter 
 mined to discover it. 
 
 " So ho ? Haunted, eh ? Well, ghosts and 
 old women's stories shan't make me budge until 
 dawn. Go fetch more wine and open it here, 
 mine host of the Scarlet Dragon," I roared. 
 
 193
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 The little man was nonplussed, hesitated a 
 moment, and then trotted off. 
 
 I saw that Michael was at last aroused. 
 
 " What diabolical fooling is this ? If the place 
 is haunted, I'm off." 
 
 " I'm damned if I am," I said quite bravely, 
 and more wine appeared. We both sat down. 
 
 The air had become nipping, and the blaze 
 on the hearth was reassuring. Besides, the 
 wind was querulous, and I didn't fancy a ride 
 at midnight, even if my lady's quest were an 
 urgent one. 
 
 Michael held his peace as the wine was 
 poured out, and I insisted on the landlord drink 
 ing with us. We finished two bottles, and I sent 
 for more. I foresaw that sleep was out of the 
 question, and so determined to make a night of it. 
 
 " Touching upon this ghost," I began, when 
 the other bade me in God's name not to jest. 
 There were some things, he said, not to be 
 broached in honest Christian company. 
 
 " A fig for your scruples ! " I cried, emptying 
 my glass ; my head was hot and I felt bold. " A 
 fig, I say, for your bogie-man nonsense ! Tell 
 me at what time doth this phantom choose to 
 show itself." The landlord shivered and drew 
 his seat closer to the fire. 
 
 "Oh, sir, do not jest! What I tell you is no 
 matter for rude laughter. Begging your pardon 
 for my offer, if you will be patient, I will relate 
 to you the story, and how my misfortune came 
 from this awful visitant." 
 194
 
 THE HAUNTED HARPSICHORD 
 
 Even Michael seemed placated, and after I 
 nodded my head in token of assent the landlord 
 related to us this story : 
 
 Once upon a time, sirs, when the great and 
 good Louis, sixteenth of his name, was King of 
 France, this domain was the property of the 
 Duke of Langlois. The duke was proud and 
 rich, and prouder and haughtier was his duchess, 
 who was born Berri. Ah ! they were mighty 
 folk then, before the Revolution came with its 
 sharp axes to clip off their heads. This inn was 
 the stable of the chateau, which stood off yonder 
 in the woods. Alas ! nothing remains of it to 
 day but a few blackened foundations, for it was 
 burned to the earth by the red devils in '93. 
 But at the time I speak of, the chateau was a 
 big, rich palace, full of gay folk ; all the nobility 
 came there, and the duchess ruled the land. 
 
 She was crazy for music, and to such lengths 
 did she go in her madness that she even invited 
 as her guests celebrated composers and singers. 
 The duke was old-fashioned and hated those 
 crazy people who lived only to hum and strum. 
 He would have none of them, and quarrels with 
 his duchess were of daily occurrence. Indeed, 
 sirs, so bad did it become that he swore that 
 he would leave the house if Messire Gluck, or 
 Messire Piccini, or any of the other strolling 
 vagabonds so the duke called them entered 
 his chateau. And he kept his word, did the 
 duke. The Chevalier Gluck, a fine, shapely
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 man, was invited down by the duchess and 
 amused her and her guests by playing his won 
 derful tunes on the beautiful harpsichord in the 
 great salon. 
 
 The duke would have none of this nonsense 
 and went to Paris, where he amused himself 
 gambling and throwing gold into his mistresses' 
 laps. The duchess kept right on, and then the 
 gossips of the neighbourhood began to wag their 
 busy tongues. The lady of the chateau was 
 getting very fine pleasure from the company of 
 the handsome Austrian chevalier. It was whis 
 pered that the Queen Marie Antoinette had 
 looked with favourable eyes upon the composer, 
 and, furthermore, had lent him certain moneys 
 to further his schemes for reforming the stage. 
 
 Reform, forsooth ! all he cared for was the 
 company of the duchess, and he vowed that he 
 could make better music at the chateau than up 
 in noisy Paris. On a fine afternoon it is said that 
 it was no uncommon sight to see the chevalier, 
 all togged up in his bravest court costume, sword 
 and all, sitting at his harpsichord, playing ravish 
 ing music. This was out in the pretty little park 
 back of the chateau, and the duchess would sit 
 at Gluck's side and pour out champagne for 
 him. All this may have been idle talk, but at 
 last the duke got wind of the rumours, and one 
 night he surprised the pair playing a duo at the 
 harpsichord, and stabbed them both dead. 
 
 Since then the chateau was burned down, but 
 the place has been haunted. I, myself, good 
 196
 
 THE HAUNTED HARPSICHORD 
 
 gentlemen, have heard ghostly music, and I 
 swear to you 
 
 " Oh, my God, listen, listen ! " 
 
 " What pagan nonsense ! " blurted out Michael. 
 
 I cautioned silence, and we all listened. The 
 old man had slid off his chair, and his face was 
 chalky white. Michael's ugly mouth was half 
 opened in his black beard, and I confess that I 
 felt rather chilly. 
 
 Music, faint, tinkling, we certainly heard. It 
 came with the wind in little sobs, and then silence 
 settled upon us. 
 
 " It's the Chevalier Gluck, and he is playing to 
 his duchess out in the fields. See, I will open the 
 door and show you," whispered the fat landlord. 
 
 He went slowly to the door, and we followed 
 him breathlessly. The door was pushed open, 
 and we peered out. The wind was still high, 
 and the moon rode among rolling boulders of 
 yellow, fleecy clouds. 
 
 "There, there, over yonder, look; Mother of 
 Christ, look at the ghost ! " the old man pointed 
 a shaking hand. 
 
 Just then the moonlight was blackened by a 
 big cloud, and we heard the tinkling music of a 
 harpsichord again, but could see naught. The 
 sounds were plainer now, and presently resolved 
 into the rhythmic accents of a gavotte. But it 
 seemed far away and very plaintive ! 
 
 " Hark," said Michael, in a hoarse voice. 
 " That's the gavotte from Pagliacci. Listen ! 
 Don't you remember it ? " 
 197
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 " Pshaw ! " I said roughly, for my nerves were 
 all astir. " It's the Alceste music of Gluck." 
 
 " Look, look, gentlemen ! " called our host, 
 and as the moon glowed again in the blue we 
 saw at the edge of the forest a white figure, saw 
 it, I swear, although it vanished at once and the 
 music ceased. I started to follow, but Michael 
 and the old man seized my arms, the door was 
 closed with a crash, and we found ourselves 
 staring blankly into the fire, all feeling a bit 
 shaken up. 
 
 It was Michael's turn to speak. " You may 
 do what you please, but I stay here for the night, 
 no sleep for me," and he placed his pistols on his 
 knee. 
 
 I looked at the landlord and I thought I saw 
 an expression of disappointment on his face, but 
 I was not sure. He made some excuse about 
 being tired and went out of the room. We spent 
 the rest of the night in gloomy silence. We did 
 not speak five words, for I saw that conversation 
 only irritated my companion. 
 
 At dawn we walked into the sweet air and 
 I called loudly for Arnold, who looked sleepy 
 and out of sorts when he appeared. The fat old 
 man came to see us off and smilingly accepted 
 the silver I put into his hand for our night's 
 reckoning. 
 
 " Au revoir, my old friend," I said as I pressed 
 
 the unnecessary spur into my horse's flank. " Au 
 
 revoir, and look out for the ghost of the gallant 
 
 Chevalier Gluck. Tell him, with my compli- 
 
 198
 
 THE HAUNTED HARPSICHORD 
 
 ments, not to play such latter-day tunes as the 
 gavotte from Pagliacci." 
 
 " Oh, I'll tell him, you may be sure," said he, 
 quite dryly. 
 
 We saluted and dashed down the road to 
 Amboise, where we hoped to capture our rare 
 prize. 
 
 We had ridden about a mile when a dog at 
 tempted to cross our path. We all but ran the 
 poor brute down. 
 
 " Why, it's lame ! " exclaimed Arnold. 
 
 " Oh, if it were but a lame man, instead of a 
 dog ! " fervently said the groom, who was in the 
 secret of our quest. 
 
 A horrid oath rang out on the smoky morn 
 ing air. Michael, his wicked eyes bulging 
 fiercely, his thick neck swollen with rage, was 
 cursing like the army in Flanders, as related by 
 dear old Uncle Toby. 
 
 " Lame man ! why, oddsbodkins, that hostler 
 was lame ! Oh, fooled, by God ! cheated, fooled, 
 swindled and tricked by that scamp and scullion 
 of the inn ! Oh, we've been nicely swindled by 
 an old wives' tale of a ghost ! " 
 
 I stared in sheer amazement at Michael, won 
 dering if the strangely spent night had upset his 
 reason. He could only splutter out between his 
 awful curses : 
 
 " Gluck, the rascal, the ghost, the man we're 
 
 after ! That harpsichord the lying knave 
 
 that tune I swear it wasn't Gluck oh, the 
 
 rascal has escaped again ! The ghost story 
 
 199
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 the villain was told to scare us out of the house 
 to put us off the track. A thousand devils 
 chase the scamp ! " And Michael let his head 
 drop on the pommel of his saddle as he fairly 
 groaned in the bitterness of defeat. 
 
 I had just begun a dignified rebuke, for 
 Michael's language was inexcusable, when it 
 flashed upon me that we had been, indeed, 
 duped. 
 
 "Ah," I cried, in my fury, "of course we 
 were taken in ! Of course his son was the 
 lame hostler, the very prize we expected to 
 bag ! O Lord ! what will we say to my lady ? 
 We are precious sharp ! I ought to have known 
 better. That stuff he told us ! Langlois, pshaw, 
 Berri pouf ! A Berri never married a Lang 
 lois, and I might have remembered that Gluck 
 wasn't assassinated by a jealous duke. What 
 shall we do ? " 
 
 We all stood in the middle of the road, gaz 
 ing stupidly at the lame dog that gave us the 
 clue. Then Arnold timidly suggested : 
 
 " Hadn't we better go back to the inn ? " 
 
 Instantly our horses' heads were turned and 
 we galloped madly back on our old tracks. 
 Not a word was uttered until we reined up in 
 front of the lonely house, which looked more 
 haunted by daylight than it did the night 
 before. 
 
 " What did I tell you ? " suddenly cried 
 Michael. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " I asked. 
 200
 
 THE HAUNTED HARPSICHORD 
 
 " Over there, you blind bat! " he said, coarsely 
 and impatiently ; and pulling out his pistol he 
 fired thrice, and a low, melodious sound followed 
 the reports of his weapon. When the smoke 
 cleared away I saw that he had hit an old 
 harpsichord which stood against a tree, facing 
 the house. 
 
 " The ghost ! " we yelled, and then we laughed 
 consumedly. But the shots that winged the old- 
 fashioned instrument had a greater result. The 
 fat host appeared on the edge of the forest, and 
 he waved a large napkin as a flag of truce. With 
 him was the lame hostler. 
 
 " Mercy, gentlemen, mercy, we beseech you ! " 
 he cried, and we soon surrounded both and bound 
 them securely. 
 
 " You will pay dearly for the trick you put 
 upon us, my man," said Michael, grimly, and, 
 walking our horses, we went by easy stages 
 toward the castle, towing our prisoners along. 
 
 When I fetched the lame man to my lady, her 
 face glowed with joy, and her Parisian eyes grew 
 brilliant with victory. 
 
 " So you tried to escape ? " she cruelly asked 
 of the poor, cowering wretch. " You will never 
 get another chance, I'll warrant me. Go, let 
 the servants put you to work in the large music 
 room first. Begin with the grands, then follow 
 with the uprights. Thank you, gentlemen both, 
 for the courage and finesse you displayed in this 
 desperate quest. I'll see that you are both suit 
 ably rewarded." I fancied that Michael regarded 
 201
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 me sardonically, but he held his peace about the 
 night's adventures. 
 
 We had indeed reason to feel flattered at the 
 success of the dangerous expedition. Had we 
 not captured, more by sheer good luck than 
 strategy, the only piano-tuner in mediaeval 
 France ? 
 
 202
 
 XII 
 
 THE TRAGIC WALL 
 
 I 
 
 BY THE DARK POOL 
 
 IT was not so high, the wall, as massive, not 
 so old as moss-covered. After Rudolph C6t, 
 the painter, had achieved celebrity with his 
 historical canvas, The Death of the Antique 
 World, now in the Louvre, he bought the 
 estate of Chalfontaine, which lies at the junc 
 tion of two highroads : one leading to Ecouen, 
 the other to Villiers-le-Bel. Almost touching 
 the end of the park on the Ecouen side there 
 is a little lake, hardly larger than a pool, and 
 because of its melancholy aspect sorrowful 
 willows hem it about, drooping into stagnant 
 waters Monsieur C6t had christened the spot : 
 The Dark Tarn of Auber. He was a fanatical 
 lover of Poe, reading him in the Baudelaire 
 translation, and openly avowing his preference 
 for the French version of the great American's 
 tales. That he could speak only five words of 
 English did not deter his associates from con 
 sidering him a profound critic of literature. 
 
 After his death his property and invested 
 203
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 wealth passed into the hands of his youthful 
 widow, a charming lady, a native of Burgundy, 
 and if gossip did not lie a former model of 
 the artist ; indeed, some went so far as to assert 
 that her face could be seen in her late husband's 
 masterpiece the figure of a young Greek slave 
 attired as a joyous bacchante. But her friends 
 always denied this. Her dignified bearing, sin 
 cere sorrow for her dead husband, and her 
 motherly solicitude for her daughter left no 
 doubt as to the value of all petty talk. It was 
 her custom of summer evenings to walk to the 
 pool, and with her daughter Berenice she would 
 sit on the broad wall and watch the moon rise, 
 or acknowledge the respectful salutations of the 
 country folk with their bran-speckled faces. In 
 those days Villiers-le-Bel was a dull town a half- 
 hour from Paris on the Northern Railway, and 
 about two miles from the station. 
 
 The widow was not long without offers. 
 Her usual answer was to point out the tiny 
 Berenice, playing in the garden with her nurse. 
 Then a landscape painter, one of the Barbizon 
 group, appeared, and, as a former associate of 
 Rudolph C6t, and a man of means and position, 
 his suit was successful. To the astonishment 
 of Villiers-le-Bel, Madame Valerie C6t became 
 Madame Theophile Mineur; on the day of the 
 wedding little Berenice named after a particu 
 larly uncanny heroine of Foe's by his relentless 
 French admirer scratched the long features of 
 her stepfather. The entire town accepted this 
 204
 
 THE TRAGIC WALL 
 
 as a distressing omen and it was not deceived ; 
 Berenice Cot grew up in the likeness of a deter 
 mined young lady whose mother weakly endured 
 her tyranny, whose new father secretly feared 
 her. 
 
 At the age of eighteen she had refused nearly 
 all the young painters between Ecouen and 
 Domaine de Vallieres ; and had spent several 
 summers in England, and four years at a Lau 
 sanne school. She feared neither man nor 
 mouse, and once, when she saw a famous Polish 
 pianist walking on his terrace at Morges, she 
 took him by the hand, asked for a lock of his 
 hair, and was not refused by the amiable vir 
 tuoso. After that Berenice was the acknowl 
 edged leader of her class. The teachers trembled 
 before her sparkling, wrathful black eyes. At 
 home she ruled the household, and as she was 
 an heiress no one dared to contradict her. Her 
 contempt for her stepfather was only matched 
 by her impatience in the company of young 
 men. She pretended so her intimates said 
 to loathe them. "Frivolous idiots" was her 
 mildest form of reproof when an ambitious boy 
 would trench upon her pet art theories or at 
 tempt to flirt. She called her mother " the 
 lamb " and her stepfather " the parrot " he 
 had a long curved nose; all together she was 
 very unlike the pattern French girl. Her 
 favourite lounging place was the wall, and after 
 she had draped it with a scarlet shawl and 
 perched herself upon it, she was only too happy 
 205
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 to worry any unfortunate man who presented 
 himself. 
 
 The night Hubert Falcroft called at Chalf on- 
 tame Mademoiselle Elise Evergonde told him 
 that her cousin, Madame Mineur, and Berenice 
 had gone in the direction of the pool. He had 
 walked over from the station, preferring the 
 open air to the stuffy train. So a few vigor 
 ous steps brought to his view mother and daugh 
 ter as they slowly moved, encircling each other's 
 waist. The painter paused and noted the gen 
 eral loveliness of the picture; the setting sun 
 had splashed the blue basin overhead with deli 
 cate pinks, and in the fretted edges of some 
 high floating cloud-fleece there was a glint of fire. 
 The smooth grass parquet swept gracefully 
 to the semicircle of dark green trees, against 
 the foliage of which the virginal white of the 
 gowns was transposed to an ivory tone by the 
 blue and green keys in sky and forest. 
 
 " By Jove ! " he exclaimed, " paint in the fore 
 ground a few peacocks languidly dragging their 
 gorgeous tails, and you have a Watteau or a 
 Fragonard no, a Monticelli! Only, Mon- 
 ticelli would have made the peacocks the cen 
 tral motive with the women and trees as an 
 arabesque." 
 
 He was a portraitist who solemnly believed in 
 the principle of decoration character must take 
 its chances when he painted. Falcroft was suc 
 cessful with women's heads, which he was fond 
 of depicting in misty shadows framed by luxuri- 
 206
 
 THE TRAGIC WALL 
 
 ous accessories. They called him the Master 
 of Chiffon, at Julien's ; when he threw over 
 board his old friends and joined the new crowd, 
 their indignation was great His title now was 
 the Ribbon Impressionist, and at the last salon 
 of the Independents, Falcroft had the mortifica 
 tion of seeing a battalion of his former com 
 panions at anchor in front of his picture, The 
 Lady with the Cat, which they reviled for at 
 least an hour. He was an American who had 
 lived his life long in France, and only showed 
 race in his nervous, brilliant technic and his 
 fondness for -bizarre subjects. . . . 
 
 He had not stood many minutes when a young 
 voice saluted him : 
 
 " Ah, Monsieur Falcroft. Come, come quickly. 
 Mamma is delighted to see you ! " His mental 
 picture was decomposed by the repeated wav 
 ing of the famous shawl, which only came into 
 view as Berenice turned. Hubert regretted that 
 she had not worn it the peacocks could have 
 been exchanged for its vivid note of scarlet. 
 Pretending not to have heard her speech, he 
 gravely saluted the mother and daughter. But 
 Berenice was unabashed. 
 
 " Mamma was wondering if you would visit 
 us to-night, Monsieur Falcroft, when I saw you 
 staring at us as if we were ghosts." A burst 
 of malicious laughter followed. 
 
 " Berenice, Berenice," remonstrated her 
 mother, " when will you cease such tasteless 
 remarks ! " She blushed in her pretty matronly 
 207
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 fashion and put her hand on her daughter's 
 mouth. 
 
 " Don't mind her, Madame Mineur! I like to 
 meet a French girl with a little unconventionality. 
 Berenice reminds me now of an English girl " 
 
 " Or one of your own countrywomen ! " inter 
 rupted Berenice; "and please Miss, after 
 this, I am a grown young lady." He joined 
 in the merriment. She was not to be resisted 
 and he wished no, he did not wish but he 
 thought, that if he were younger, what gay days 
 he might have. Yet he admired her mother 
 much more. Elaine Cot-Mineur was an old- 
 fashioned woman, gentle, reserved, and at the 
 age when her beauty had a rare autumnal 
 quality the very apex of its perfection ; in 
 a few years, in a year, perhaps, the change 
 would come and crabbed winter set in. He 
 particularly admired the oval of her face, her 
 soft brown eyes, and the harmonious contour of 
 her head. He saw her instantly with a painter's 
 imagination filmy lace must modulate about 
 her head like a dreamy aureole; across her 
 figure a scarf of yellow silk ; in her hands he 
 would paint a crystal vase, and in the vase one 
 rose with a heart of sulphur. And her eyes 
 would gaze as if she saw the symbol of her 
 age the days slipping away like ropes of 
 sand from her grasp. He could make a fasci 
 nating portrait he thought, and he said so. 
 Instantly another peal of irritating laughter 
 came from Berenice : 
 208
 
 THE TRAGIC WALL 
 
 " Don't tell papa. He is so jealous of the 
 portrait he tried to make of mamma last sum 
 mer. You never saw it ! It's awful. It's hid 
 away behind a lot of canvases in the atelier. It 
 looks like a Cezanne still-life. I'll show it to 
 you sometime." Her mother revealed annoy 
 ance by compressing her lips. Falcroft said 
 nothing. They had skirted the pool in single 
 file, for the path was narrow and the denseness 
 of the trees caused a partial obscurity. When 
 they reached the wall, the moon was rising in the 
 eastern sky. 
 
 "L'keure exquise" murmured Madame Mi- 
 neur. Berenice wandered down the road and 
 Hubert helped her mother to the wall, where he 
 sat beside her and looked at her. He was a big, 
 muscular man with shaven cheeks, dark eyes, 
 and plenty of tumbled hair, in which flecks of 
 gray were showing. He had been a classmate 
 of Theophile Mineur, for whose talents or per 
 sonality he had never betrayed much liking. 
 But one day at a dejetiner, which had prolonged 
 itself until evening, Mineur insisted on his old 
 friend the Burgundy was old, too accompa 
 nying him to Villiers-le-Bel, and not without a 
 motive. He knew Falcroft to be rich, and he 
 would not be sorry to see his capricious and 
 mischievous stepdaughter well settled. But 
 Falcroft immediately paid court to Madame 
 Mineur, and Berenice had to content herself 
 with watching him and making fun to her step 
 father of the American painter's height and ges- 
 209
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 tures. The visit had been repeated. Berenice 
 was amused by a dinner en ville and a theatre 
 party, and then Hubert Falcroft became a friend 
 of the household. When Mineur was away 
 painting, the visits were not interrupted. 
 
 " Listen," said Madame Mineur ; " I wish to 
 speak with you seriously, my dear friend." She 
 made a movement as if to place her hand on his 
 shoulder, but his expression his face was in 
 the light caused her to transfer her plump 
 ringers to her coiffure, which she touched dex 
 terously. Hubert was disappointed. 
 
 "I am listening," he answered; "is it a ser 
 mon, or consent to that portrait ? Come, give 
 in Elaine." He had never called her by this 
 name before, and he anxiously awaited the result. 
 But she did not relax her grave attitude. 
 
 " You must know, Monsieur Falcroft, what 
 anxieties we undergo about Berenice. She is 
 too wild for a French girl, too wild for her 
 age " 
 
 " Oh, let her enjoy her youth," he interrupted. 
 
 " Alas ! that youth will be soon a thing of the 
 past," she sighed. " Berenice is past eighteen, 
 and her father and I must consider her future. 
 Figure to yourself she dislikes young men, eli 
 gible or not, and you are the only man she 
 tolerates." 
 
 " And I am hopelessly ineligible," he laugh 
 ingly said. 
 
 "Why? " asked the mother, quietly. 
 
 " Why ! Do you know that I am nearing 
 210
 
 THE TRAGIC WALL 
 
 forty ? Do you see the pepper and salt in my 
 hair? After one passes twoscore it is time to 
 think of the past, not of the future. I am over 
 the brow of the hill ; I see the easy decline of 
 the road it doesn't seem as long as when I 
 climbed the other half." He smiled, threw back 
 his strong shoulders, and inhaled a huge breath 
 of air. 
 
 "Truly you are childish," she said; "you are 
 at the best part of your life, of your career. 
 Yes, Theophile, my husband, who is so chary 
 in his praise, said that you would go far if you 
 cared." Her low, warm voice, with its pleading 
 inflections, thrilled him. He took her by the 
 wrist. 
 
 " And would it please yoti, if I went far ? " 
 She trembled. 
 
 " Not too far, dear friend remember Bere 
 nice." 
 
 " I remember no one but you," he impatiently 
 answered; and relaxing his hold, he moved so 
 that the moonlight shone on her face. She was 
 pale. In her eyes there were fright and hope, 
 decision and delight. He admired her more 
 than ever. 
 
 " Let me paint you, Elaine, these next few 
 weeks. It will be a surprise for Mineur. And 
 I shall have something to cherish. Never mind 
 about Berenice. She is a child. I am a middle- 
 aged man. Between us is the wall of the 
 years. Never should it be climbed. While 
 you" 
 
 211
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 " Be careful Hubert Theophile is your 
 friend." 
 
 " He is not. I never cared for him. He 
 dragged me out here after he had been drinking 
 too much, and when I saw you I could not stay 
 away. Hear me I insist! Berenice is nice, 
 but the wall is too high for her to climb ; it 
 might prove a " 
 
 " How do you know the wall is too steep for 
 Berenice ? " the girl cried as she scaled the top 
 with apish agility, where, after a few mocking 
 steps in the moonlight, she sank down breathless 
 beside Hubert, and laughed so loudly that her 
 mother was fearful of hysteria. 
 
 " Berenice ! Berenice ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " Oh, Berenice is all right, mamma. Master 
 Hubert, I want you to paint my portrait before 
 papa returns that's to be in four weeks, isn't 
 it?" The elder pair regarded her discon- 
 certedly. 
 
 " Oh, you needn't look so dismal. I'll not tell 
 tales out of school. Hubert and mamma flirt 
 ing! What a glorious jest! Isn't life a jest, 
 Hubert ? Let's make a bargain ! If you paint 
 mamma, you paint me, also. Then you see 
 papa will not be jealous, and and " She 
 was near tears her mother felt, and she leaned 
 over Hubert and took the girl's hand. She 
 grazed the long fingers of the painter, who at 
 once caught both feminine hands in his. 
 
 " Now I have you both," he boasted, and was 
 shocked by a vicious tap on the cheek Bere- 
 212
 
 THE TRAGIC WALL 
 
 nice in rage pulled her left hand free. Silence 
 ensued. Hubert prudently began to roll another 
 cigarette, and Madame Mineur retreated out of 
 the moonlight, while Berenice turned her back 
 and soon began to hum. The artist spoke first : 
 
 " See here, you silly Berenice, turn around ! 
 I want to talk to you like a Dutch uncle as 
 we say in the United States. Of course I'll 
 paint you. But I begin with your mother. And 
 if you wish me to like you better than ever, don't 
 say such things as you did. It hurts your 
 mother." His voice dropped into its deepest 
 bass. She faced him, and he saw the glitter of 
 wet eyelashes. She was charming, with her 
 hair in disorder, her eyes two burning points of 
 fire. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, mamma ; I beg your 
 pardon, Hubert. I'll be good the rest of this 
 evening. Isn't it lovely ? " She sniffed in the 
 breeze with dilating nostrils, and the wild look of 
 her set him to wondering how such a gentle 
 mother could have such a gypsy daughter. Per 
 haps it was the father yes, the old man had 
 been an Apache in his youth according to the 
 slang of the studios. 
 
 " But you must paint me as I wish, not as 
 you will," resumed Berenice. " I hate conven 
 tional portraits. Papa Mineur chills me with 
 his cabinet pictures of haughty society ladies, 
 their faces as stiff as their starched gowns." 
 
 " Oh, Berenice, will you never say polite 
 things of your father ? " 
 213
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 " Never," she defiantly replied. " He wouldn't 
 believe me if I did. No, Hubert, I want to pose 
 as Ophelia. Oh, don't laugh, please! " They 
 could not help it, and she leaped to the grass 
 and called out : 
 
 " I don't mean a theatrical Ophelia, singing 
 songs and spilling flowers ; I mean Ophelia 
 drowned " she threw herself on the sward, 
 her arms crossed on her bosom, and in the 
 moonlight they could see her eyes closed as if 
 by death. 
 
 " Help me down, Hubert. That girl will go 
 mad some day." He reached the earth and he 
 gave her a hand. Berenice had arisen. Sulkily 
 she said : 
 
 " Shall I step into the Dark Tarn of Auber 
 and float for you ? I'll make a realistic picture, 
 my Master Painter who paints without imag 
 ination." And then she darted into the shrub 
 bery and was lost to view. Without further 
 speech the two regained the path and returned 
 to the house. 
 
 II 
 THE CRIMSON SPLASH 
 
 When Eloise was asked by Berenice how long 
 Monsieur Mineur would remain away on his tour, 
 she did not reply. Rather, she put a question her 
 self : why this sudden solicitude about the little- 
 loved stepfather. Berenice jokingly answered 
 214
 
 THE TRAGIC WALL 
 
 that she thought of slipping away to Switzer 
 land for a vacance on her own account. Eloise. 
 who was not agreeable looking, viewed her 
 charge suspiciously. 
 
 " Young lady, you are too deep for me. But 
 you'll bear watching," she grimly confessed. 
 Berenice skipped about her teasingly. 
 
 " I know something, but I won't tell, unless 
 you tell." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Will you tell?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " When is he coming back, and where is he 
 now ? " she insisted. 
 
 " Your father, you half-crazy child, expects to 
 return in a month by the first of June. And if 
 you wish to wire or write him, let me know." 
 
 " Now I won't tell you my secret," and she 
 was off like a gale of wind. Eloise shook her 
 head and wondered. 
 
 In the atelier Hubert painted. Elaine sat on a 
 dais, her hands folded in her lap ; about her head 
 twisted nun's-veiling gave her the old-fashioned 
 quality of a Cosway miniature the very effect 
 he had sought. It was to be a " pretty " affair, 
 this picture, with its subdued lighting, the face 
 being the only target he aimed at ; all the rest, 
 the suave background, the gauzy draperies, he 
 would brush in suggest rather than state. 
 
 " I'll paint her soul, that sensitive soul of 
 hers which tremulously peeps out of her eyes," 
 he thought. Elaine was a patient subject. She 
 215
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 took the pose naturally and scarcely breathed 
 during the weary sittings. He recalled the 
 early gossip and sought to evoke her as a pro 
 fessional model. But he gave up in despair. 
 She was hopelessly "ladylike," and to inter 
 pret her adequately, only the decorative pat 
 terns of earlier men Mignard, Van Loo, 
 Nattier, Largilliere would translate her native 
 delicacy. 
 
 For nearly four weeks he had laboured on the 
 face, painting it in with meticulous touches only 
 to rub it out with savage disgust. To transcribe 
 those tranquil, liquid eyes, their expression more 
 nai've than her daughter's this had proved too 
 difficult a problem for the usually facile tech 
 nique of Falcroft. Give him a brilliant virtuoso 
 theme and he could handle it with some of the 
 sweep and splendour of the early Carolus Duran 
 or the brutal elegance of the later Boldini. But 
 Madame Mineur was a pastoral. She did not 
 express nervous gesture. She was seldom 
 dynamic. To "do " her in dots like \ho,pointil- 
 listes or in touches after the manner of the 
 earlier impressionists would be ridiculous. Her 
 abiding charm was her repose. She brought to 
 him the quiet values of an eighteenth-century 
 eclogue he saw her as a divinely artificial 
 shepherdess watching an unreal flock, while 
 the haze of decorative atmosphere would en 
 velop her, with not a vestige of real life on the 
 canvas. Yet he knew her as a natural, lovable 
 woman, a mother who had suffered and would 
 216
 
 THE TRAGIC WALL 
 
 suffer because of her love for her only child. 
 It was a paradox, like many other paradoxes of 
 art. 
 
 The daughter ah ! perhaps she might bet 
 ter suit his style. She was admirable in her 
 madcap carelessness and exotic colouring. De 
 cidedly he would paint her when this picture 
 was finished if it ever would be. 
 
 Berenice avoided entering the studio during 
 these sittings. She no longer jested with her 
 mother about the picture, and with Hubert she 
 preserved such an air of dignity that he fancied 
 he had offended her. He usually came to Vil- 
 liers-le-Bel on an early train three or four times 
 a week and remained at Chalfontaine until ten 
 o'clock. Never but once had a severe storm 
 forced him to stay overnight. Since the episode 
 on the wall he had not attempted any further 
 advances. He felt happy in the company of 
 Elaine, and gazing into her large eyes rested his 
 spirit. It was true he no longer played with 
 ease the role of a soul-hunter. His youth had 
 been troubled by many adventures, many foolish 
 ones, and now he felt a calm in the midway of 
 his life and that desire for domestic ease which 
 sooner or later overtakes all men. He fancied 
 himself painting Elaine on just such tranquil 
 summer afternoons under a soft light. And oh ! 
 the joys of long walks, discreet gossip, and din 
 ners at a well-served table with a few chosen 
 friends. Was he, after all, longing for the flesh- 
 pots of the philistine he, Hubert Falcroft, who 
 217
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 had patrolled the boulevards like other sportsmen 
 of midnight ! 
 
 At last the picture began to glow with that 
 inner light he had so patiently pursued. Elaine 
 Mineur looked at him from the canvas with 
 veiled sweetness, a smile almost enigmatic lurk 
 ing about her lips. Deepen a few lines and her 
 expression would be one of contented sleekness. 
 That Hubert had missed by a stroke. It was 
 in her eyes that her chief glory abided. They 
 were pathetic without resignation, liquid without 
 humidity, indescribable in colouring and form. 
 Their full cup and the accents which experience 
 had graven under them were something he had 
 never dreamed of realizing. It was a Cosway ; 
 but a Cosway broadened and without a hint of 
 genteel namby-pamby or overelaborate finesse. 
 Hubert was fairly satisfied. Madame Mineur 
 had little to say. During the sittings she sel 
 dom spoke, and if their eyes met, the richness 
 of her glance was a compensation for her lack 
 of loquacity. Hubert did not complain. He 
 was in no hurry. To be under the same roof 
 with this adorable woman was all that he asked. 
 
 The day after he had finished his picture, he 
 returned to Chalfontaine for the midday break 
 fast. Berenice was absent in her room with 
 a headache, her mother explained. The weather 
 was sultry. He questioned Elaine during 
 the meal. Had Berenice's temper improved ? 
 They passed out to the balcony where their 
 coffee was served, and when he lighted his cig- 
 218
 
 arette, Madame Mineur begged to be excused. 
 She had promised Cousin Eloise to pay some 
 calls. He strolled over the lawn, watching the 
 hummocks of white clouds which piled up in 
 architectural masses across the southern sky. 
 Then he remembered the portrait and mounted 
 to the atelier. As he put his hand on the knob 
 of the door he thought he heard some one weep 
 ing. Suddenly the door was pulled from his 
 grasp and Berenice appeared. Her hair hung 
 on her shoulders. She was in a white dressing- 
 gown. Her face was red and her eyes swollen. 
 She did not attempt to move. Affectionately 
 Hubert caught her in his arms and asked about 
 her headache. 
 
 " It is better," she answered in scarcely audible 
 accents. 
 
 " Why, you poor child ! I hope you are not 
 going to be ill ! Have you been racing in the 
 sun without your hat ? " 
 
 " No. I haven't been out of doors since yes 
 terday." 
 
 "What's the matter, little Berenice? Has 
 some one been cross with her ? " She pushed 
 him from her violently. 
 
 " Hubert Falcroft, when you treat me as a 
 woman and not as a child 
 
 " But I am treating you as a woman," he said. 
 Her dark face became tragic. She had emerged 
 from girlhood in a few hours. And as he held 
 her closer some perverse spirit entered into his 
 soul. Her vibrating youth and beauty forced 
 219
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 him to gaze into her blazing eyes until he saw 
 the pupils contract. 
 
 " Let me go ! " she panted. " Let me free ! I 
 am not a doll. Go to your portrait and worship 
 it. Let me free ! " 
 
 " And what if I do not ? " Something of her 
 rebellious feeling filled his veins. He felt 
 younger, stronger, fiercer. He put his arms 
 about her neck and, after a silent battle, kissed 
 her. Then she pushed by him and disappeared. 
 He could see nothing, after the shock of the 
 adventure, for some moments, and the semi-ob 
 scurity of the atelier was grateful to his eyes. 
 A picture stood on the easel, but it was not, he 
 fancied, the portrait. He went to the centre of 
 the room where hung the cords that controlled 
 the curtains covering the glass roof. Then in 
 the flood of light he barely recognized the head 
 of Elaine. It was on the easel, and with a 
 sharp pain at his heart he saw across the face 
 a big crimson splash. 
 
 Ill 
 MOON-RAYS 
 
 The dewy brightness of tangled blush roses 
 had faded in the vague twilight ; through the 
 aisles of the little wood leading to the pool the 
 light timidly flickered as Hubert and Elaine 
 walked with the hesitating steps of perplexed 
 220
 
 THE TRAGIC WALL 
 
 persons. They had not spoken since they left 
 the house there in a few hurried words he 
 told her of the accident and noted with sorrow 
 the look of anguish in her eyes. Without 
 knowing why, they went in the direction of the 
 wall. 
 
 There was no moon when they reached the 
 highroad. It would rise later, Elaine said in 
 her low, slightly monotonous voice. Hubert 
 was so stunned by the memory of his ruined 
 picture that he forgot his earlier encounter with 
 Berenice that is, in describing it he had failed 
 to minutely record his behaviour. But in the 
 cool evening air his conscience became alive and 
 he guiltily wondered whether he dare tell his 
 misconduct no, imprudence ? Why not ? She 
 regarded him as a possible husband for Berenice 
 but how embarrassing ! He made up his mind 
 to say nothing ; when the morrow came he would 
 write Elaine the truth and bid her good-by. 
 He could not in honour continue to visit this 
 home where resided the woman he loved with 
 a jealous daughter. Why jealous ? What a 
 puzzle, and what an absurd one ! He helped 
 Elaine to a seat on the wall and sat near her. 
 For several minutes neither spoke. They were 
 again facing the pool, which looked in the dusk 
 like a cracked mirror. 
 
 " It is not clear yet to me," murmured Elaine. 
 
 "That the unfortunate child has always been 
 
 more or less morbid and sick-brained, I have 
 
 been aware. The world, marriage, and active 
 
 221
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 existence will mend all that, I hope. I fear she 
 is a little spoilt and selfish. And she doesn't 
 love me very much. She has inherited all her 
 father's passion for Foe's tales. My dear 
 friend, she is jealous that's the only solution 
 of this shocking act. She disliked the idea of 
 my portrait from the start. You remember 
 on this spot hardly a month ago she challenged 
 you to paint her as the drowned Ophelia ! and 
 all her teasing about Monsieur Mineur and his 
 jealousy, and " 
 
 " Our flirtation," added Hubert, sadly. 
 
 " Oh, pray do not say such a thing ! She is 
 so hot-headed, so fond of you. Yes, I saw it 
 from the beginning, and your talk about the in 
 surmountable wall of middle-age did not deceive 
 me. I only hope that will not be a tragic wall for 
 her, for you or for me. . . ." 
 
 Her words trailed into a mere whisper. He 
 put his hand over hers and again they were 
 silent. About them the green of the forest had 
 been transformed by the growing night into 
 great clumps of velvety darkness and the vault 
 overhead was empty of stars. June airs fanned 
 their discontent into mild despair, and simulta 
 neously they dreamed of another life, of a har 
 monious existence far from Paris, into which the 
 phantom of Theophile Mineur would never 
 intrude. Yet they made no demonstration of 
 their affection they would have been happy 
 to sit and dream on this moon-haunted wall, near 
 this nocturnal pool, forever. Hubert pictured 
 222
 
 THE TRAGIC WALL 
 
 Berenice in her room, behind bolted doors, lying 
 across the bed weeping, or else staring in sullen 
 repentance at the white ceiling. Why had she 
 indulged in such vandalism ? The portrait was 
 utterly destroyed by the flaring smear laid on 
 with a brush in the hand of an enraged young 
 animal. What sort of a woman might not de 
 velop from this tempestuous girl ! He knew that 
 he had mortally offended her by his rudeness. 
 But it was after, not before, the cruel treatment 
 of his beloved work. Yet, how like a man had 
 been his rapid succumbing to transitory tempta 
 tion ! For it was transitory of that he was 
 sure. The woman he loved, with a reverent love, 
 was next to him, and if his pulse did not beat as 
 furiously at this moment as earlier in the day, 
 why all the better. He was through forever 
 with his boyish recklessness. 
 
 "Another peculiar thing," broke in Elaine, as 
 if she had been thinking aloud, " is that Berenice 
 has been pestering Eloise for her father's 
 address." 
 
 " Her father's address ? " echoed her com 
 panion. 
 
 " Yes ; but whether she wrote to him Eloise 
 could not say." 
 
 " Why should she write to him ? She dislikes 
 him dislikes him almost as much " he was 
 about to pronounce his own name. She caught 
 him up. 
 
 " Yes, that is the singular part of this singular 
 affair. She felt slighted because you painted 
 223
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 my portrait before hers. I confess I have had 
 my misgivings. You should have been more 
 considerate of her feelings, Hubert, my friend." 
 She paused and sighed. For him the sigh was 
 a spark that blew up the magazine of his firmest 
 resolves. He had been touching her hands 
 fraternally. His arm embraced her so that she 
 could not escape, as this middle-aged man told his 
 passion with the ardour of an enamoured youth. 
 "You dare not tell me you do not care for 
 me! Elaine let us reason. I loved you 
 since the first moment I met you. It is folly to 
 talk of Mineur and my friendship for him. I 
 dislike, I despise him. It is folly to talk of 
 Berenice and her childish pranks. What if she 
 did cruelly spoil my work, oitr work ! She will 
 get over it. Girls always do get over these 
 things. Let us accept conditions as they are. 
 Say you love me a little bit and I'll be con 
 tent to remain at your side, a friend, always that. 
 I'll paint you again much more beautifully 
 than before." He was hoarse from the intensity 
 of his feelings. The moon had risen and tipped 
 with its silver brush the tops of the trees. 
 " And my husband ? And Berenice ? " 
 " Let things remain as they are." He pressed 
 her to him. A crackling in the underbrush and 
 a faint plash in the lake startled them asunder. 
 They listened with ears that seemed like beating 
 hearts. There was no movement ; only a night 
 bird plaintively piped in the distance and a clock 
 struck the quarter. 
 
 224
 
 THE TRAGIC WALL 
 
 Elaine, now thoroughly frightened, tried to 
 get down from the wall. Hubert restrained 
 her, and as they stood thus, a moaning like the 
 wind in autumnal leaves reached them. The 
 moon-rays began to touch the water, and sud 
 denly a nimbus of light formed about a floating 
 face in the pool. The luminous path broadened, 
 and to their horror they saw Berenice, her hair 
 outspread, her arms crossed on her young bosom, 
 lying in the little lake. Elaine screamed : 
 
 " My God ! My God ! It is Berenice ! 
 Berenice, I am punished for my wickedness to 
 you ! " Hubert, stunned by the vision, did not 
 stir, as the almost fainting mother gripped his 
 neck. 
 
 And then the eyes of the whimsical girl 
 opened. A malicious smile distorted her pretty 
 face. Slowly she arose, a dripping ghost in 
 white, and pointing her long, thin fingers in the 
 direction of the Ecouen road she mockingly 
 cried : 
 
 "There is some one to see your portrait at 
 last, dear Master Painter." And saying this 
 she vanished in the gloom, instantly followed by 
 her agitated mother. 
 
 Hubert turned toward the wall, and upon 
 it he recognized the stepfather of Berenice. 
 After staring at each other like two moon 
 struck wights, the American spoke : 
 
 " I swear that I, alone, am to blame for 
 this " The other wore the grin of a malevo 
 lent satyr. His voice was thick. 
 225
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 "Why apologize, Hubert? You know that 
 it has been my devoted wish that you marry 
 Berenice." He swayed on his perch. Hubert's 
 brain was in a fog. 
 
 " Berenice ! " said he. 
 
 " Yes Berenice. Why not ? She loves 
 you." 
 
 " Then you Madame Mineur " stam 
 mered Hubert. The Frenchman placed his 
 finger on his nose and slyly whispered : 
 
 " Don't be afraid ! I'll not tell my wife that 
 I caught Berenice with you alone in the park 
 you Don Juan! Now to the portrait I must 
 see that masterpiece of yours. Berenice wrote 
 me about it." He nodded his head sleepily. 
 
 " Berenice wrote you about it ! " was the 
 mechanical reply. 
 
 " I'll join you and we'll go to the house." 
 He tried to step down, but rolled over at 
 Hubert's feet. 
 
 "What a joke is this champagne," he growled 
 as he was lifted to his tottering legs. " We had 
 a glorious time this afternoon before I left 
 Paris. Hurrah ! You're to be my son-in-law. 
 And, my boy, I don't envy you that's the 
 truth. With such a little demon for a wife 
 I pity you, pity you hurrah ! " 
 
 " I am more to be despised," muttered Hubert 
 Falcroft, as they moved away from the peaceful 
 moonlit wall. 
 
 226
 
 XIII 
 A SENTIMENTAL REBELLION 
 
 I came not to send peace, but a sword. ... I am come 
 to send fire on the earth. 
 
 HER living room was a material projection of 
 Yetta Silverman's soul. The apartment, on the 
 north side of Tompkins Square, was small, 
 sunny, and comfortable. From its windows in 
 spring and summer she could see the boys and 
 girls playing around the big, bare park, and 
 when her eyes grew tired of the street she rested 
 them on her beloved books and pictures. On 
 one wall hung the portraits of Herzen, Bakou- 
 nine and Kropotkin the Father, Son, and Holy 
 Ghost of the anarchistic movement, as she 
 piously called them. Other images of the propa 
 ganda were scattered over the walls : Netscha- 
 jew the St. Paul of the Nihilists Ravachol, 
 Octave Mirbeau, Jean Grave, Reclus, Spies, 
 Parsons, Engels, and Lingg the last four vic 
 tims of the Haymarket affair, and the Fenians, 
 Allen, Larkin, and O'Brien, the Manchester 
 martyrs. Among the philosophers, poets, and 
 artists were Schopenhauer, Tolstoy, Max Stirner 
 227
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 a rare drawing Ibsen, Thoreau, Emerson 
 the great American individualists Beethoven, 
 Zola, Richard Strauss, Carlyle, Nietzsche, Gorky, 
 Walt Whitman, Dostoiewsky, Mazzini, Rodin, 
 Constantin Meunier, Shelley, Turge"nieff, Ber 
 nard Shaw, and finally the kindly face and in 
 tellectual head of the lawyer who so zealously 
 defended the Chicago anarchists. This diversi 
 fied group, together with much revolutionary 
 literature, poems, pamphlets, the works of 
 Proudhon, Songs Before Sunrise, by Swinburne, 
 and a beautiful etching of Makart's proletarian 
 Christ, completed, with an old square pianoforte, 
 the ensemble of an individual room, a room 
 that expressed, as her admirers said, the strong, 
 suffering soul of Yetta Silverman, Russian 
 anarchist, agitator, and exile. 
 
 " Come in," she cried out in her sharp, though 
 not unpleasant, voice. A thin young man entered. 
 She clapped her hands. 
 
 " Oh, so you changed your mind ! " He looked 
 at her over his glasses with his weak, blue eyes, 
 the white of which predominated. Simply 
 dressed, he nevertheless gave the impression of 
 superior social station. He was of the New 
 England theological-seminary type narrow- 
 chested, gaunt as to visage, by temperament 
 drawn to theology, or, in default of religious 
 belief, an ardent enthusiast in sociology. The 
 contracted temples, uncertain gaze, and absence 
 of fulness beneath the eyes betrayed the un 
 imaginative man. Art was a sealed book to 
 228
 
 A SENTIMENTAL REBELLION 
 
 him, though taxation fairly fired his suspicious 
 soul. He was nervous because he was dyspep 
 tic, and at one time of his career he mistook 
 stomach trouble for a call to the pulpit. And 
 he was a millionnaire more times than he took 
 the trouble to count. 
 
 " Yes," he timidly replied, " I did change my 
 wavering mind as you call that deficient organ 
 of mine and so I returned. I hope I don't 
 disturb you ! " 
 
 " No, not yet. I am sitting with my hands 
 folded in my lap, like the women of your class 
 ladies, you call them." She accented the 
 title, without bitterness. A cursory estimate of 
 her appearance would have placed her in the 
 profession of a trained nurse, or perhaps in the 
 remotest analysis, a sewing woman of superior 
 tastes. She was small, wiry, her head too large 
 for her body ; but the abounding nervous vital 
 ity, the harsh fire that burned in her large brown 
 eyes, and the firm mouth would have attracted 
 the attention of the most careless. Her mask, 
 with its high Slavic cheek-bones and sharp 
 Jewish nose, proclaimed her a magnetic woman. 
 In her quarter on the far East Side the children 
 called her "Aunt Yetta." She was a sister of 
 charity in the guise of a revolutionist. 
 
 "You sit but you think, and my ladies never 
 think," he answered, in his boyish voice. He 
 seemed proud to be so near this distinguished 
 creature. Had she not been sent to Siberia, 
 driven out of France and Germany, and arrested 
 229
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 in New York for her incendiary speeches ? She 
 possessed the most extraordinary power over an 
 audience. Once, at Cooper Union, Arthur had 
 seen her control a crazy mob bent on destroying 
 the building because a few stupid police had in 
 terfered with the meeting. Among her brethren 
 Yetta Silverman was classed with Louise Michel, 
 Sophia Perowskaia, and Vera Zassoulitch, those 
 valiant women, true guardian angels, veritable 
 martyrs to the cause. He thought of them as 
 he watched the delicate-looking young woman 
 before him. 
 
 Arthur was too chilly of blood to fall in love 
 with her ; his admiration was purely cerebral. 
 He was unlucky enough to have had for a father 
 a shrewd, visionary man, that curious combina 
 tion of merchant and dreamer once to be found 
 in New England. A follower of Fourier, a 
 friend of Emerson, the elder Wyartz had gone 
 to Brook Farm and had left it in a few months. 
 Dollars, not dreams, was his true ambition. But 
 he registered his dissatisfaction with this futile 
 attempt by christening his only son, Arthur 
 Schopenhauer ; it was old Wyartz's way of get 
 ting even with the ideal. Obsessed from the 
 age of spelling by his pessimistic middle name, 
 the boy had grown up in a cloudy compromise 
 of rebellion and the church. For a few years 
 he vacillated ; he went to Harvard, studied the 
 Higher Criticism, made a trip abroad, wrote a 
 little book recording the contending impulses of 
 his pale, harassed soul Oscillations was the 
 230
 
 A SENTIMENTAL REBELLION 
 
 title and returned to Boston a mild anarch. 
 Emerson the mystic, transposed to the key of 
 France, sometimes makes bizarre music. 
 
 She arose and, walking over to him, put her 
 hand nonchalantly on his shoulder. 
 
 "Arthur, comrade, what do you mean to do 
 with yourself come, what will all this enthu 
 siasm bring forth ? " He fumbled his glasses 
 with his thumb and index finger a character 
 istic gesture and nervously regarded her be 
 fore answering. Then he smiled at his idea. 
 
 "We might marry and fight the great fight 
 together like the Jenkins crowd." 
 
 " Marry ! " she exclaimed her guttural Rus 
 sian accent manifested itself when she became 
 excited " marry ! You are only a baby, 
 Arthur Schopenhauer Wyartz Herrgott, this 
 child bears such a name ! and while I am sure 
 the thin Yankee blood of the Jenkins family 
 needed a Jewish wife, and a Slav, I am not that 
 way of thinking for myself. I am married to the 
 revolution." Her eyes dwelt with reverence on 
 her new Christian saints, those Christs of the gut 
 ter, who had sacrificed their lives in the modern 
 arena for the idea of liberty, who were thrown 
 to the wild beasts and slaughtered by the latter- 
 day pagans of wealth, and barbarians in purple. 
 He followed her glance. It lashed him to 
 jerky enthusiasm. 
 
 " I am not joking," he earnestly asserted, " so 
 pardon my rashness. Only believe in my sin 
 cerity. I am no anarch on paper. I am de- 
 231
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 voted to your cause and to you, Yetta, to my 
 last heart's blood. Do you need my wealth ? It 
 is yours. You can work miracles with millions 
 in America. Take it all." 
 
 " It's not money we need, but men," she an 
 swered darkly. " Your millions, which came to 
 you innocently enough, represent the misery of 
 how many ? Let the multi-millionnaires give 
 away their money to found theological colleges 
 and libraries my party will have none of it. 
 Its men are armed by the ideas that we prefer. 
 I don't blame the rich or the political tyrants 
 the mob has to be educated, the unhappy pro 
 letarians, who have so long submitted to the 
 crack of the whip that they wouldn't know what 
 to do with their freedom if they had it. All 
 mobs believe alike in filth and fire, whether an 
 tique slaves free for their day's Saturnalia, or the 
 Paris crowds of '93. Their ideas of happiness 
 are pillage, bloodshed, drunkenness, revenge. 
 Every popular uprising sinks the people deeper 
 in their misery. Every bomb thrown discredits 
 the cause of liberty." 
 
 Astonished by this concession, Arthur won 
 dered how she had ever earned her reputation 
 as the Russian " Red Virgin," as an unequivocal 
 terrorist. Thus he had heard her hailed at all 
 the meetings which she addressed. But she did 
 not notice his perturbation, she was following 
 another train. 
 
 " You Americans do not love money as much 
 as the Europeans who hoard it away, who wor- 
 232
 
 A SENTIMENTAL REBELLION 
 
 ship it on their naked knees ; but you do some 
 thing worse you love it for the sake of the 
 sport, a cruel sport for the poor. You go into 
 speculation as the English go after big game. 
 It is a sport. This sport involves food and 
 you gamble with wheat and meat for counters, 
 while starving men and women pay for the game. 
 America is yet rich enough to afford this sport, 
 but some day it will become crowded like Eu 
 rope, and then, beware ! Wasn't it James Hin- 
 ton who said that ' Overthrowing society means 
 an inverted pyramid getting straight ' ? 
 
 "And America," she continued, "bribes us 
 with the gilded sentimental phrases of Rousseau, 
 Mirabeau, and Thomas Paine woven into your 
 national constitution, with its presumptuous dec 
 laration that all men are born free and equal 
 shades of Darwin and Nietzsche ! and that 
 universal suffrage is a panacea for all evils. In 
 no country boasting itself Christian is there a 
 system so artfully devised for keeping the poor 
 free and unequal, no country where so-called 
 public opinion, as expressed in the press, is used 
 to club the majority into submission. And you 
 are all proud of this liberty a liberty at which 
 the despised serf in Russia or the man of the 
 street in London sneers there is to-day more 
 individual liberty in England and Germany than 
 in the United States. Don't smile ! I can prove 
 it. As for France or Italy they are a hun 
 dred years ahead of you in municipal government. 
 But I shan't talk blue-books at you, Arthur ! " 
 
 2 33
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 " Why not, why not ? " he quickly interposed. 
 " You always impress me by your easy handling 
 of facts. And why won't my money be of use 
 to the social revolution ? " Scornfully she started 
 up again and began walking. 
 
 "Why ? Because convictions can't be bought 
 with cash ! Why ! Because philanthropy is the 
 most selfish of vices. You may do good here and 
 there but you do more harm. You create more 
 paupers, you fine gentlemen, with your Mission 
 houses and your Settlement workers ! You are 
 trying to cover the ugly sores with a plaster of 
 greenbacks. It won't heal the sickness it 
 won't heal it, I tell you." Her eyes were flam 
 ing and she stamped the floor passionately. 
 
 " We workers on the East Side have a name for 
 you million naires. We call you the White Mice. 
 You have pretty words and white lies, pretty ways 
 and false smiles. Lies ! lies ! lies ! You are 
 only giving back, with the aid of your superficial 
 fine ladies, the money stolen from the true money 
 earners. You have discovered the Ghetto you 
 and the impertinent newspaper men. And like 
 the reporters you come down to use us for ' copy.' 
 You live here in comfort among us and then go 
 away, write a book about our wretchedness and 
 pose as altruistic heroes in your own silly set. 
 How I loathe that word altruism! As if the 
 sacrifice of your personality does not always lead 
 to self-deception, to hypocrisy ! It is an excuse 
 for the busybody-rich to advertise their charities. 
 If they were as many armed as Briareus or the 
 234
 
 A SENTIMENTAL REBELLION 
 
 octopus, their charity would be known to each 
 and every hand on their arms. These senti 
 mental anarchs ! They even marry our girls 
 and carry them off to coddle their conscience 
 with gilded gingerbread. Yet they would turn 
 their backs on Christ if he came to Hester 
 Street Christ, the first modern anarch, a de- 
 structionist, a proletarian who preached fire 
 and sword for the evil rich of his times. Nowa 
 days he would be sent to Blackwell's Island for 
 six months as a disturber of the peace or for 
 healing without a license from the County Medi 
 cal Association ! " 
 
 " Like Johann Most," he ventured. She 
 blazed at the name. 
 
 " No jokes, please. Most, too, has suffered. 
 But I am no worshipper of bombs and beer." 
 This made him laugh, but as the laugh was not 
 echoed he stared about him. 
 
 " But Yetta, we must begin somewhere. I 
 wish to become to become something like 
 you. 
 
 She interrupted him roughly : 
 
 " To become you an anarch ! You are a 
 sentimental rebel because your stomach is not 
 strong enough for the gourmands who waste 
 their time at your clubs. If your nerves were 
 sound you might make a speech. But the New 
 England conscience of your forefathers they 
 were nearly all clergymen, weren't they ? has 
 ruined your strength. The best thing you can 
 do, my boy, is to enter a seminary and later go 
 
 235
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 to China as a missionary ; else turn literary and 
 edit an American edition of Who's Who in 
 Hell ! But leave our East Side alone. Do you 
 know what New York reminds me of? Its 
 centre is a strip of green and gold between 
 two smouldering red rivers of fire the East 
 and West Sides. If they ever spill over the 
 banks, all the little parasites of greater para 
 sites, the lawyers, brokers, bankers, journalists, 
 ecclesiastics, and middle men, will be devoured. 
 Oh, what a glorious day ! And oh, that ter 
 rible night when we marched behind the black 
 flag and muffled drums down Broadway, that 
 night in 1887 when the four martyrs were mur 
 dered, the hero Lingg having killed himself. 
 What would you have done in those awful 
 times ? " 
 
 "Try me," he muttered, as he pulled down 
 his cuffs, " try me ! " 
 
 " Very well, I'll try you. Like Carlo Cafiero, 
 the rich Italian anarch, you must give your money 
 to us every cent of it. Come with me to-night. 
 I address a meeting of the brethren at Schwab's 
 place you know, the saloon across the street, 
 off the square. We can eat our supper there, 
 and then " 
 
 "Try me," he reiterated, and his voice was 
 hoarse with emotion, his pulse painfully irregular. 
 
 II 
 
 Notwithstanding his vows of heroism, Arthur 
 could not force himself to like the establishment 
 236
 
 A SENTIMENTAL REBELLION 
 
 of Schwab, where the meeting was to take 
 place. It was a beer-saloon, not one of those 
 mock-mediaeval uptown palaces, but a long 
 room with a low ceiling, gaslit and shabby. 
 The tables and chairs of hard, coarse wood were 
 greasy napkins and table-cloths were not to 
 be mentioned, else would the brethren suspect 
 the presence of an aristocrat. At the upper end, 
 beyond the little black bar, there was a plat 
 form, upon it a table, a pianoforte, and a stool. 
 Still he managed to conceal his repugnance to 
 all these uninviting things and he sipped his 
 diluted Rhine wine, ate his sandwich an 
 unpalatable one under the watchful eyes of his 
 companion. By eight o'clock the room was 
 jammed with working-people, all talking and in 
 a half dozen tongues. Occasionally Yetta left 
 him to join a group, and where she went silence 
 fell. She was the oracle of the crowd. At 
 nine o'clock Arthur's head ached. He had 
 smoked all his Turkish cigarettes, the odour of 
 which caused some surprise there was a 
 capitalist present and they knew him. Only 
 Yetta prevented disagreeable comment. The 
 men, who belonged to the proletarian class, were 
 poorly dressed and intelligent ; the women wore 
 shawls on their heads and smoked bad cigarettes. 
 The saloon did not smell nice, Arthur thought. 
 He had offered Yetta one of his imported cig 
 arettes, but she lighted a horrible weed and 
 blew the smoke in his face. 
 
 At ten o'clock he wished himself away. But 
 
 237
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 a short, stout man with a lopsided face showing 
 through his tangled beard, stood up and said in 
 German : 
 
 " All who are not our friends, please leave the 
 house." 
 
 No one stirred. The patron went from group 
 to group saluting his customers and eying 
 those who were not. Whether any password 
 or signal was given Arthur could not say. 
 When the blond, good-natured Schwab reached 
 him, Yetta whispered in his ear. The host 
 beamed on the young American and gave him a 
 friendly poke in the back ; Arthur felt as if he 
 had been knighted. He said this to Yetta, but 
 her attention was elsewhere. The doors and 
 windows were quickly shut and bolted. She 
 nudged his elbow for they were sitting six at 
 the table, much to his disgust; the other four 
 drank noisily and he followed her to the top 
 of the room. A babble broke out as they moved 
 along. 
 
 "It's Yetta's new catch. Yetta's rich fel 
 low. Wait until she gets through with him 
 poor devil." These broken phrases made him 
 shiver, especially as Yetta's expression, at first 
 enigmatic, was now openly sardonic. What did 
 she mean ? Was she only tormenting him ? 
 Was this to be his test, his trial ? His head was 
 almost splitting, for the heat was great and the 
 air bad. Again he wished himself home. 
 
 They reached the platform. "Jump up, 
 Arthur, and help me," she commanded. He 
 238
 
 A SENTIMENTAL REBELLION 
 
 did so. But his discomfiture only grew apace 
 with the increased heat the dingy ceiling 
 crushed him and the rows in front, the en 
 tire floor seemed transformed to eyes, malicious 
 eyes. She told him to sit down at the piano 
 and play the Marseillaise. Then standing be 
 fore the table she drew from her bosom a 
 scarlet flag, and accompanied by the enthusias 
 tic shoutings she led the singing. Arthur at 
 the keyboard felt exalted. Forgotten the pains 
 of a moment before. He hammered the keys 
 vigorously, extorting from the battered instru 
 ment a series of curious croakings. Some of the 
 keys did not "speak," some gave forth a brazen 
 clangour from the rusty wires. No one cared. 
 The singing stopped with the last verse. 
 
 " Now La Ravachole for our French breth 
 ren." This combination of revolutionary lyrics 
 Ca Ira and Carmagnole was chanted fer 
 vidly. Then came for the benefit of the German 
 the stirring measures from the Scotch-German 
 John Henry Mackay's Sturm : 
 
 Das ist der Kampf, den allnachtlich 
 Bevor das Dunkel zerrinnt, 
 Einsam und gramvoll auskampt 
 Des Jahrhunderts verlorenes Kind. 
 
 Yetta waved her long and beautifully shaped 
 hands they were her solitary vanity. The 
 audience became still. She addressed them at 
 first in deliberate tones, and Arthur noted that 
 the interest was genuine he wondered how 
 2 39
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 long his fat-witted club friends could endure or 
 appreciate the easy manner in which Yetta 
 Silverman quoted from great thinkers, and 
 sprinkled these quotations with her own biting 
 observations. 
 
 " Richard Wagner who loved humanity 
 when he wrote Siegfried and regretted that 
 love in Parsifal ! 
 
 " Richard Wagner who loved ice-cream 
 more than Dresden's freedom Wagner : the 
 Swiss family bell-ringer of '48 ! 
 
 " To Max Stirner, Ibsen, and Richard Strauss 
 belongs the twentieth century ! 
 
 " Nietzsche the anarch of aristocrats ! 
 
 "Karl Marx or the selfish Jew socialist! 
 
 " Lassalle the Jew comedian of liberty ! 
 
 " Bernard Shaw the clever Celt who would 
 sacrifice socialism for an epigram. 
 
 " Curse all socialists! " she suddenly screamed. 
 
 Arthur, entranced by the playful manner with 
 which she disposed of friend and foe, was aghast 
 at this outbreak. He saw another Yetta. Her 
 face was ugly and revengeful. She sawed the 
 air with her thin arms. 
 
 "Repeat after me," she adjured her hearers, 
 " the Catechism of Sergei Netschajew, but begin 
 with Herzen's noble motto : ' Long live chaos 
 and destruction ! ' ' 
 
 " Long live chaos and destruction ! " was 
 heartily roared. 
 
 The terrific catechism of the apostle Netscha 
 jew made Arthur shake with alternate woe and 
 240
 
 A SENTIMENTAL REBELLION 
 
 wrath. It was bloody-minded beyond descrip 
 tion. Like a diabolic litany boomed the ques 
 tions and answers : 
 
 " Day and night we must have but one thought 
 inexorable destruction." And Arthur recalled 
 how this pupil of Bakounine had with the assist 
 ance of Pryow and Nicolajew beguiled a certain 
 suspected friend, Ivanow, into a lonely garden 
 and killed him, throwing the body into a lake. 
 After that Netschajew disappeared, though occa 
 sionally showing himself in Switzerland and Eng 
 land. Finally, in 1872, he was nabbed by the 
 Russian government, sent to Siberia, and ! 
 
 UgJi ! thought Arthur, what a people, what an 
 ending ! And Yetta why did she now so 
 openly proclaim destruction as the only pallia 
 tive for social crime when she had so eloquently 
 disclaimed earlier in the day the propaganda by 
 force, by dagger, and dynamite ? He had 
 hardly asked himself the question when there 
 came a fierce rapping of wooden clubs at door 
 and window. Instantly a brooding hush like 
 that which precedes a hurricane fell upon the 
 gathering. But Yetta did not long remain 
 silent. 
 
 " Quick, Arthur, play the Star-Spangled 
 Banner! It's the police. I want to save 
 these poor souls " she added, with a gulp in 
 her throat; "quick, you idiot, the Star-Spangled 
 Banner." But Arthur was almost fainting. 
 His fingers fell listlessly on the keys, and they 
 were too weak to make a sound. The police ! 
 241
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 he moaned, as the knocking deepened into bang 
 ing and shouting. What a scandal! What a 
 disgrace ! He could never face his own world 
 after this! To be caught with a lot of crazy 
 anarchists in a den like this ! Smash, went 
 the outside door ! And the newspapers ! They 
 would laugh him out of town. He, Arthur 
 Schopenhauer Wyartz, the Amateur Anarch! 
 He saw the hideous headlines. Why, the very 
 daily in which some of his fortune was invested 
 would be the first to mock him most ! 
 
 The assault outside increased. He leaped to 
 the floor, where Yetta was surrounded by an ex 
 cited crowd. He plucked her sleeve. She gazed 
 at him disdainfully. 
 
 " For God's sake, Yetta, get me out of this 
 this awful scrape. My mother, my sisters the 
 disgrace ! " She laughed bitterly. 
 
 " You poor chicken among hawks ! But I'll 
 help you follow me." He reached the cellar 
 stairs, and she showed him a way by which he 
 could walk safely into the alley, thence to the 
 street back of their building. He shook her 
 hand with the intensity of a man in the clutches 
 of the ague. 
 
 " But you why don't you go with me ? " he 
 asked, his teeth chattering. 
 
 The brittle sound of glass breaking was heard. 
 She answered, as she took his feverish hand : 
 
 " Because, you brave revolutionist, I must stick 
 to my colours. Farewell ! " And remounting 
 the stairs, she saw the bluecoats awaiting her. 
 242
 
 A SENTIMENTAL REBELLION 
 
 " I hope the police will catch him anyhow," 
 she said. It was her one relapse into feminin 
 ity, and as she quietly surrendered she did not 
 regret it. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Old Koschinsky's store on the avenue was 
 the joy of the neighbourhood. For hours, their 
 smeary faces flattened against the glass, the 
 children watched the tireless antics of the re 
 volving squirrels; the pouter pigeons expand 
 their breasts into feathered balloons; the gold 
 fish, as they stolidly swam, their little mouths 
 open, their eyes following the queer human 
 animals imprisoned on the other side of the 
 plate-glass window. Canary birds by the hun 
 dreds made the shop a trying one for sensitive 
 ears. There were no monkeys. Koschinsky, 
 whose heart was as soft as butter, though he was 
 a formidable revolutionist so he swore over at 
 Schwab's declared that monkeys were made 
 in the image of tyrannical humans. He would 
 have none of them. Parrots ? There were 
 enough of the breed around him, he told the 
 gossiping women, who, with their scheitels, 
 curved noses, and shining eyes, lent to the 
 quarter its Oriental quality. 
 
 It was in Koschinsky's place that Arthur first 
 
 encountered Yetta. He was always prowling 
 
 about the East Side in search of sociological 
 
 prey, and the modest little woman with her 
 
 243
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 intelligent and determined face attracted him 
 strongly. They fell into easy conversation near 
 a cage of canaries, and the acquaintance soon 
 bloomed into a friendship. A week after the 
 raid on Schwab's, Arthur, very haggard and 
 nervous, wandered into Koschinsky's. The old 
 man greeted him : 
 
 "Hu! So you've just come down from the 
 Island ! Well how did you like it up there ? 
 Plenty water eh?" The sarcasm was too 
 plain, and the young man, mumbling some sort 
 of an answer, turned to go. 
 
 " Hold on there ! " said Koschinsky. " I 
 expect a very fine bird soon. You'd better 
 wait. It was here only last night ; and the 
 bird asked whether you had been in." Arthur 
 started. 
 
 " For me ? Miss Silverman ? " 
 
 " I said a bird," was the dogged reply. And 
 then Yetta walked up to Arthur and asked : 
 
 "Where have you been? Why haven't you 
 called ? " He blushed. 
 
 " I was ashamed." 
 
 "Because you were so, so frightened, that 
 night ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " But nothing came of the affair. The police 
 could get no evidence. We had no flags " 
 
 "That scarlet one I saw you with what of 
 it ? " She smiled. 
 
 " Did you look in your pockets when you got 
 home ? I stuffed the flag in one of them while 
 
 244
 
 A SENTIMENTAL REBELLION 
 
 we were downstairs." He burst into genteel 
 laughter. 
 
 " No, I threw off my clothes in such disgust 
 that night that I vowed I would never get into 
 them again. I gave the suit to my valet." 
 
 "Your valet," she gravely returned; "he may 
 become one of us." 
 
 " Fancy, when I reached the house I went 
 up in a hansom, for I was bareheaded my 
 mother was giving the biggest kind of a ball. 
 I had no end of trouble trying to sneak in 
 unobserved." 
 
 She regarded him steadily. " Isn't it strange," 
 she went on, " how the bull-dog police of this 
 town persecute us and they should be sym 
 pathetic. They had to leave their own island 
 because of tyranny. Yet as soon as they step 
 on this soil they feel themselves self-constituted 
 tyrants. Something of the sort happened with 
 your own ancestors " she looked at him 
 archly " the Pilgrim Fathers were not very 
 tolerant to the Quakers, the Jews, Catholics, or 
 any sect not their own. Now you do not seem to 
 have inherited that ear-slicing temperament " 
 
 " Oh, stop, Yetta ! Don't make any more 
 fun of me. I confess I am cowardly I hate 
 rows and scandals " 
 
 " ' What shall it profit a man if he gains the 
 whole world and loses his liberty ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, I know. But this was such a nasty 
 little affair. The newspapers would have driven 
 me crazy." 
 
 245
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 " But suppose, for the sake of argument," she 
 said, " that the row would not have appeared in 
 the newspapers what then ? " 
 
 " What do you mean ? By Jove, there was 
 nothing in the papers, now that I come to think 
 of it. I went the next morning out to Tuxedo 
 and forgot what do you mean by this mys 
 tery, Yetta ? " 
 
 " I mean this suppose, for the sake of fur 
 ther argument, I should tell you that there was 
 no row, no police, no arrests ! " He gasped. 
 
 " O-h, what an ass I made of myself. So that 
 was your trial! And I failed. Oh, Yetta, 
 Yetta what shall I say?" The girl softened. 
 She took both his hands in her shapely ones 
 and murmured : 
 
 " Dear little boy, I treated you roughly. For 
 give me ! There was a real descent by the police 
 it was no deception. That's why I asked 
 you to play the Star-Spangled Banner " 
 
 " Excuse me, Yetta ; but why did you do that ? 
 Why didn't you meet the police defiantly chant 
 ing the Marseillaise ? That would have been 
 braver more like the true anarchist." She 
 held down her head. 
 
 "Because because those poor folks I 
 wanted to spare them as much trouble with the 
 police as possible," she said in her lowest tones. 
 
 "And why," he pursued triumphantly, "why 
 did you preach bombs after assuring me that 
 reform must come through the spiritual propa 
 ganda ? " She quickly replied : 
 246
 
 A SENTIMENTAL REBELLION 
 
 " Because our most dangerous foe was in the 
 audience. You know. The man with the beard 
 who first spoke. He has often denounced me as 
 lukewarm ; and then you know words are not 
 as potent as deeds with the proletarians. One 
 assassination is of more value than all the phi 
 losophy of Tolstoy. And that old wind-bag sat 
 near us and watched us watched me. That's 
 why I let myself go " she was blushing now, 
 and old Koschinsky nearly dropped a bird-cage 
 in his astonishment. 
 
 "Yetta, Yetta!" Arthur insisted, "wind-bag, 
 you call your comrade ? Were you not, just for 
 a few minutes, in the same category ? " Again 
 she was silent. 
 
 " I feel now," he ejaculated, as he came 
 very close to her, " that we must get outside 
 of these verbal entanglements. I want you 
 to become my wife." His heart sank as he 
 thought of his mother's impassive, high-bred air 
 with such a figure for a Fifth Avenue bride ! 
 The girl looked into his weak blue eyes with 
 their area of saucer-like whiteness. She shook 
 her stubborn head. 
 
 " I shall never marry. I do not believe in 
 such an institution. It degrades women, makes 
 tyrants of men. No, Arthur I am fond of 
 you, perhaps " she paused, " so fond that I 
 might enter into any relation but marriage, 
 that never ! " 
 
 " And I tell you, Yetta, anarchy or no anarchy, 
 I could never respect the woman if she were 
 247
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 not mine legally. In America we do these 
 things differently "he was not allowed to 
 finish. 
 
 She glared at him, then she strode to the 
 shop door and opened it. 
 
 " Farewell to you, Mr. Arthur Schopenhauer 
 Wyartz, amateur anarchist. Better go back to 
 your mother and sisters ! Mein Gott, Schopen 
 hauer, too ! " He put his Alpine hat on his be 
 wildered head and without a word went out. 
 She did not look after him, but walked over to 
 the old bird-fancier and sat on his leather-topped 
 stool. Presently she rested her elbows on her 
 knees and propped her chin with her gloveless 
 hands. Her eyes were red. Koschinsky peeped 
 at her arid shook his head. 
 
 " Yetta you know what I think! Yetta, 
 the boy was right ! You shouldn't have asked 
 him for the Star-Spangled Banner ! The Mar 
 seillaise would have been better." 
 
 " I don't care," she viciously retorted. 
 
 " I know, I know. But a nice boy so well 
 fixed." 
 
 " I don't care," she insisted. " I'm married 
 to the revolution." 
 
 "Yah, yah! the revolution, Yetta " he 
 pushed his lean, brown forefinger into the cage 
 of an enraged canary " the revolution ! Yes, 
 Yetta Silverman, the revolution ! " She sighed. 
 
 248
 
 XIV 
 
 HALL OF THE MISSING FOOT 
 STEPS 
 
 So I saw in my dream that the man began to run. 
 
 Pilgrim 's Progress, 
 
 As the first-class carriage rolled languidly 
 out of Balak's only railway station on a sultry 
 February evening, Pobloff, the composer, was 
 not sorry. 
 
 " I wish it were Persia instead of Ramboul," 
 he reflected. Luga, his wife, he had left weep 
 ing at the station ; but since the day she disap 
 peared with his orchestra for twenty-four hours, 
 Pobloff's affection had gradually cooled ; he was 
 leaving the capital without a pang on a month's 
 leave of absence a delicate courtesy of the 
 king's extended to a brother ruler, though a 
 semi-barbarous one, the khedive of Ramboul. 
 
 Pobloff was not sad nor was he jubilantly 
 glad. The journey was an easy one; a night 
 and day and the next night would see him, God 
 willing, he crossed himself, in the semi-tropi 
 cal city of Nirgiz. From Balak to Nirgiz, from 
 southeastern Europe to Asia Minor ! 
 
 The heir-apparent was said to be a music- 
 249
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 loving lad, very much under the cunning thumb 
 of his grim old aunt, who, rumour averred, wore 
 a black beard, and was the scourge of her little 
 kingdom. All that might be changed when the 
 prince would reach his majority ; his failing 
 health and morbid melancholy had frightened 
 the grand vizier, and the king of Balakia had 
 been petitioned to send Pobloff, the composer, 
 designer of inimitable musical masques, Pobloff, 
 the irresistible interpreter of Chopin, to the aid 
 of the ailing youth. 
 
 So this middle-aged David left his nest to go 
 harp for a Saul yet in his adolescence. What 
 his duties were to be Pobloff had not the slight 
 est idea. He had received no special instruc 
 tions ; a member of the royal household bore 
 him the official mandate and a purse fat enough 
 to soothe his wife's feelings. After appointing 
 his first violin conductor of the Balakian Orches 
 tra during his absence, the fussy, stout, good- 
 natured Russian (he was born at Kiew, 1865, the 
 biographical dictionaries say) secured a sleeping 
 compartment on the Ramboul express, from the 
 windows of which he contemplated with some 
 satisfaction the flat land that gradually faded 
 in the mists of night as the train tore its way 
 noisily over a rude road-bed. 
 
 II 
 
 Pobloff slept. He usually snored ; but this 
 evening he was too fatigued. He heard not the 
 sudden stoppages at lonely way stations where 
 250
 
 hoarse voices and a lantern represented the life 
 of the place ; he did not heed the engine as it 
 thirstily sucked water from a tank in the heart 
 of the Karpakians ; and he was surprised, 
 pleased, proud, when a hot February sun, 
 shining through his window, awoke him. 
 
 It was six o'clock of a fine morning, and the 
 train was toiling up a precipitous grade to the 
 spine of the mountain, where the down-slope 
 would begin and air-brakes rule. Pobloff looked 
 about him. He scratched his long nose, a char 
 acteristic gesture, and began wondering when 
 coffee would be ready. He pressed the bell. 
 The guard entered, a miserable bandit who 
 bravely wore his peaked hat with green plumes 
 a la Tyrol. He spoke four tongues and many 
 dialects ; Pobloff calculated his monthly salary 
 at forty roubles. 
 
 " No, Excellency, the coffee will be hot and re 
 freshing at Kerb, where we arrive about seven." 
 He cleared his throat, put out his hand, bowed 
 low, and disappeared. The composer grumbled. 
 Kerb ! not until that wretched eyrie in the 
 clouds ! And such coffee ! No matter. Pob 
 loff never felt in robuster health ; his irritable 
 nerves were calmed by a sound night's sleep. 
 The air was fresher than down in the malarial 
 valley, where stood the shining towers of Balak ; 
 he could see them pinked by the morning sun 
 and low on the horizon. All together he was 
 glad. . . . 
 
 Hello, this must be Kerb ! A moment later 
 
 251
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 Pobloff bellowed for the guard ; he had shat 
 tered the electric annunciator by his violence. 
 Then, not waiting to be served, he ran into 
 the vestibule, and soon was on the station 
 platform, inhaling huge drafts of air into 
 his big chest. Ah ! It was glorious up there. 
 What surprised him was the number of human 
 beings clambering over the steps, running and 
 gabbling like a lot of animals let loose from 
 their cages. The engineer beside his quivering 
 machine enjoyed his morning coffee. And there 
 were many turbaned pagans and some veiled 
 women mixed with the crowd. 
 
 The sparkling of bright colours and bizarre 
 costumes did not disturb Pobloff, who had lived 
 too long, on anonymous borders, where Jew, 
 Christian, Turk, Slav, African, and outlandish 
 folk generally melted into a civilization which 
 still puzzled ethnologists. 
 
 A negro, gorgeously clad, guarding closely a 
 slim female, draped from head to foot in vir 
 ginal white, attracted the musician. The man's 
 face was monstrous in its suggestion of evil, and 
 furthermore shocking, because his nose was a 
 gaping hole. Evidently a scimiter had per 
 formed this surgical operation, Pobloff mused. 
 
 The giant's eyes offended him, they so stared, 
 and threateningly. 
 
 Pobloff was not a coward. After his adven 
 ture in Balak, he feared neither man nor devil, 
 and he insolently returned the black fellow's 
 gaze. They stood about a buffet and drank 
 252
 
 HALL OF THE MISSING FOOTSTEPS 
 
 coffee. The young woman her outlines were 
 girlish did not touch anything; she turned 
 her face in Pobloff 's direction, so he fancied, and 
 spoke at intervals to her attendant. 
 
 " I must be a queer-looking bird to this Turk 
 and her keeper probably some Georgian 
 going to a rich Mussulman's harem in company 
 with his eunuch," Pobloff repeated to himself. 
 
 A gong was banged. Before its strident 
 vibrations had ceased troubling the thin morning 
 air, the train began to move slowly out of Kerb. 
 Pobloff again was glad. 
 
 He remained on the rear platform of his car 
 as long as the white station, beginning to blister 
 under a tropical sun, was in sight. Then he 
 sought his compartment. His amazement and 
 rage were- great when he found the two 
 window seats occupied by the negro and the 
 mysterious creature. Pobloff's bag was tum 
 bled in a corner, his overcoat, hat, and umbrella 
 tossed to the other end of the room. The big 
 black man bared his teeth smilingly, the 
 shrouded girl shrank back as if in fear. 
 
 "Well, I'll be !" began the composer. 
 
 Then he leaned over and pushed the button, the 
 veins in his forehead like whipcords, his throat 
 parched with wrath. But to no avail the bell 
 was broken. Pobloff's first impulse was to take 
 the smiling Ethiopian by the neck and pitch 
 him out. There were several reasons why he 
 did not : the giant looked dangerous ; he plainly 
 carried a brace of pistols, and at least one dag- 
 
 253
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 ger, the jewelled handle of which flashed over 
 his glaring sash of many tints. And then the 
 lady Pobloff was very gallant, too gallant, his 
 wife said. The bell would not ring ! What 
 was he to do ? He soon made up his mind, 
 supple Slav that he was. With a muttered 
 apology he sank back and closed his eyes in 
 polite despair. 
 
 His consternation was overwhelming when a 
 voice addressed him in Russian, a contralto 
 voice of some indefinable timbre, the voice of 
 a female, yet not without epicene intonations. 
 His eyes immediately opened. From her gauze 
 veiling the young woman spoke : 
 
 " We are sorry to derange you. The guard 
 made a mistake. Pardon ! " The tone was 
 slightly condescending, as if the goddess behind 
 the cloud had deigned to notice a mere mortal. 
 Her attendant was smiling, and to Pobloff his 
 grin resembled a newly sliced watermelon. But 
 her voice filled him with ecstasy. His ear, as 
 sensitive as the eye of a Claude Monet, noted 
 every infinitesimal variation in tone-colour, and 
 each shade was a symbol for the fantastic im 
 agination of this poetic composer. The girlish 
 voice affected him strangely. It pierced his soul 
 like a poniard. It made his spine chilly. It 
 evoked visions of white women languorously 
 moving in processional attitudes beneath the 
 chaste rays of an implacable moon. The voice 
 modulated into crisp morning inflections : 
 
 "You are going far, Excellency?" She knew 
 254
 
 HALL OF THE MISSING FOOTSTEPS 
 
 him ! And the slave who grinned and grinned 
 and never spoke what was he ? She seemed 
 to follow Pobloff' s thought. 
 
 " Hamet is dumb. His tongue was cut at the 
 same time he lost his nose. It all happened at 
 the siege of Yerkutz." 
 
 Pobloff at last found words. 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " he said sympathetically, and 
 then forgot all about the mutilated one. "You 
 are welcome to this compartment," he assured 
 her in his oiliest manner. " What surprises me 
 is that I did not see your Serene Highness when 
 we left Balak." She started at the title that 
 he bestowed upon her, and he inwardly chuckled. 
 Clever dog, Pobloff, clever dog ! Her eyes 
 were brilliant despite obstructing veils. 
 
 " I was en route to Balak yesterday, but my 
 servant became ill and I stopped over night at 
 Kerb." Pobloff was entranced. She was un 
 doubtedly a young dame of noble birth and 
 her freedom, the freedom of a European woman, 
 delighted him. It also puzzled. 
 
 " How is it ? " he asked. 
 
 But they had begun that fearful descent, at 
 once the despair and delight of engineers. The 
 mountain fell away rapidly as the long, clumsy 
 train raced down its flank at a breakneck pace. 
 Pobloff shivered and clutched the arms of his 
 seat. He saw nothing but deep blue sky and 
 the tall top of an occasional tree. The racket 
 was terrific, the heat depressing. She sat in 
 her corner, apparently sleeping, while the giant 
 
 255
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 smiled, always smiled, never removing his ugly 
 eyes from the perspiring countenance of Pobloff . 
 
 As they neared earth's level, midday was over. 
 Pobloff hungered. Before he could go in search 
 of the ever absent guard, the woman suddenly 
 sat up, clapped her hands, and said something ; 
 but whether it was Turkish, Roumanian, or 
 Greek, he couldn't distinguish. A hamper was 
 hauled from under the seat by the servant, and 
 to his joy Pobloff saw white rolls, grapes, wine, 
 figs, and cheese. He bowed and began eat 
 ing. The others looked at him and for a mo 
 ment he could have sworn he heard faint 
 laughter. 
 
 "I am so hungry," he said apologetically. 
 " And you, Serenity, won't you join me ? " He 
 offered her fruit. It was declined with a short 
 nod. He was dying to smoke, and, behold ! 
 priceless Turkish tobacco was thrust into his 
 willing hand. He rolled a stout cigarette, 
 lighted it. Then a sigh reached his ears. " The 
 lady smokes," he thought, and slyly chuckled. 
 
 A sound of something tearing was heard, and 
 a pair of beautiful hands reached for the tobacco. 
 In a few moments the slender fingers were press 
 ing a cigarette ; the slave lighted a wax fusee ; 
 the lady took it, put the cigarette in a rent of 
 her veil, and a second volume of odorous vapour 
 arose. Pobloff leaned back, stupefied. A 
 Mohammedan woman smoking in a Trans-Cau 
 casian railway carriage before a Frank ! Stu 
 pendous ! He felt unaccountably gay. 
 256
 
 " This is joyful," he said aloud. She smoked 
 fervently. " Western manners are certainly in 
 vading the East," he continued, hoping to hear 
 again that voice of marvellous resonance. She 
 smoked. "Why, even Turkish women have 
 been known to study music in Paris." 
 
 " I am not a Turk," she said in her deepest 
 chest tones. 
 
 " Pardon ! A Russian, perhaps ? Your ac 
 cent is perfect. I am a Russian." She did 
 not reply. 
 
 The day declined, and there was no more 
 conversation. As the train devoured leagues 
 of swampy territory, villages were passed. 
 The journey's end was nearing. Soon mead 
 ows were seen surrounding magnificent villas. 
 A wide, shallow river was crossed, the Oxal; 
 Pobloff knew by his pocket map that Nirgiz 
 was nigh. And for the first time in twenty- 
 four hours he sorrowed. Despite his broad 
 invitations and unmistakable hints, he could 
 not trap his travelling companion into an avowal 
 of her identity, of her destination. Nothing 
 could be coaxed from the giant, and it was with 
 a sinking heart Pobloff was very sentimental 
 that he saw the lights of Nirgiz ; a few min 
 utes later the train entered the Oriental station. 
 In the heat, the clamour of half a thousand voices, 
 yelling unknown jargons, his resolution to keep 
 his companions in view went for naught. Beset 
 by jabbering porters, he did not have an oppor 
 tunity to say farewell to the veiled lady ; with 
 
 257
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 her escort she had disappeared when the car 
 stopped and without a word of thanks ! Pob- 
 loff was wretched. 
 
 Ill 
 
 It was past nine o'clock as he roamed the 
 vast garden surrounding the Palace of a Thou 
 sand Sounds thus named because of the tiny 
 bells tinkling about its marble dome. He had 
 eaten an unsatisfying meal in a small antecham 
 ber, waited upon by a stupid servant. And worse 
 still, the food was ill cooked. On presenting his 
 credentials, earlier in the evening, the grand 
 vizier, a sneaky-appearing man, had welcomed 
 him coldly, telling him that her Serene Highness 
 was too exhausted to receive so late in the day ; 
 she had granted too many audiences that after 
 noon. 
 
 " And the prince ? " he queried. The prince 
 was away hunting by moonlight, and could not 
 be seen for at least a day. In the interim, Pob- 
 loff was told to make himself at home, as became 
 such a distinguished composer and artistic pleni 
 potentiary of Balakia's king. Then he was 
 bowed out of the chamber, down the low mala 
 chite staircase, into his supper room. It was all 
 very disturbing to a man of Pobloff's equable 
 disposition. 
 
 He thought of Luga, his little wife, his dove ; 
 but not long. She did not appeal to his heart 
 of hearts ; she was a coquette. Pobloff sighed. 
 258
 
 HALL OF THE MISSING FOOTSTEPS 
 
 He was midway in his mortal life, a dangerous 
 period for susceptible manhood. He lifted moist 
 eyes to the stars ; the night was delicious. He 
 rested upon a cushioned couch of stone. About 
 him the moonlight painted the trees, until 
 they seemed like liquefied ermine ; the palace 
 arose in pyramidal surges of marble to the 
 sky, meeting the moonbeams as if in friendly 
 defiance, and casting them back to heaven with 
 triumphant reflections. And the stillness, pro 
 found as the tomb, was punctuated by glancing 
 fireflies. Pobloff hummed melodiously. 
 
 "A night to make music," whispered a deep, 
 sweet voice. Before he could rise, his heart 
 bounding as if stung to its centre, a woman, 
 swathed in white, sat beside him, touched him, 
 put such a pressure upon his shoulder that his 
 blood began to stir. It was she. He stumbled 
 in his speech. She laughed, and he ground his 
 teeth, for this alone saved him from foolishness, 
 from mad behaviour. 
 
 " Maestro you could make music this lovely 
 night ? " Pobloff started. 
 
 " In God's name, who are you, and what are 
 you doing here ? Where did you go this even 
 ing ? I missed you. Ah ! unhappy man that I 
 am, you will drive me crazy ! " 
 
 She did not smile now, but pressed close to 
 him. 
 
 " I am a prisoner like yourself," she replied 
 simply. 
 
 " A prisoner ! How a prisoner ? I am not a 
 
 259
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 prisoner, but an envoy from my king to the sick 
 princeling." 
 
 She sighed. 
 
 " The poor, mad prince," she said, " he is in 
 need of your medicine, sadly. He sent for me 
 a year ago, and I am now his prisoner for 
 life." 
 
 " But I saw you on the train, a day's journey 
 hence," interrupted the musician. 
 
 " Yes, I had escaped, and was being taken 
 back by black Hamet when we met." 
 
 Pobloff whistled. So the mystery was dis 
 closed. A little white slave from the seraglio 
 of this embryo tyrant had flown the cage ! No 
 wonder she was watched, little surprise that she 
 did not care to eat. He straightened himself, 
 the hair on his round head like porcupine quills. 
 
 " My dear young lady," he exclaimed in 
 accents paternal, "leave all to me. If you do 
 not wish to stay in this place, you may rely on 
 me. When I see this same young man, he 
 must be a nice sprig of royalty ! I propose 
 to tell him what I think of him." Pobloff threw 
 out his chest and snorted with pride. Again he 
 fancied that he heard suppressed laughter. He 
 darted glances in every direction, but the fall of 
 distant waters smote upon his ears like the cre 
 puscular music of Chopin. His companion shook 
 with ill-suppressed emotion. It was some time 
 before she could speak. 
 
 " Pobloff," she begged, in her dangerous con 
 tralto, a contralto like the medium register of a 
 260
 
 HALL OF THE MISSING FOOTSTEPS 
 
 clarinet, "Pobloff, let me adjure you to be care 
 ful. Your coming here has caused political 
 disturbances. The aunt of the prince hates 
 music .as much as he adores it. She is no party 
 to your invitation. So be on your guard. Even 
 now there may be spies in the shrubbery." She 
 put her hand on his arm. It was too much. In 
 an instant, despite her feeble struggle, the ar 
 dent musician grasped the creature that had 
 tantalized him since morning, and kissed her 
 a dozen times. His head whirled. Pobloff ! 
 Pobloff ! a voice cried in his brain and only 
 yesterday you left your Luga, your pretty pigeon, 
 your wife ! 
 
 The girl was dragged away from him. In the 
 moonshine he saw the grinning Hamet, suspi 
 ciously observing him. The runaway stood up 
 and pressed Pobloff s hand desperately, uttering 
 the cry of her forlorn heart : 
 
 " Don't play in the great hall ; don't play in 
 that accursed place. You will be asked, but 
 refuse. Make any excuse, but do not set foot 
 on its ebon floors." 
 
 He was so confused by the strangeness of 
 this adventure, so confused by the admonition 
 of the unknown when he saw her white dra 
 peries disappear, that his jaw fell and his 
 courage wavered. A moment later two oddly 
 caparisoned soldiers, bearing lights, approached, 
 and in the name of her Highness invited him 
 make midnight music in the Palace of a Thou 
 sand Sounds. 
 
 261
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 IV 
 
 Seated before a Steinway grand pianoforte, 
 an instrument that found its way to this far 
 away province through the caprice of some ar 
 tistic potentate, Pobloff nervously preluded. 
 Notwithstanding the warning of the girl, he 
 had allowed himself to be convoyed to the great 
 Hall of Ebony, and there, quite alone, he sat 
 waiting for some cue to begin. None came. 
 He glanced curiously about him. For all the 
 signs of humanity he might as well have been 
 on the heights of Kerb, out among its thorny 
 groves, or in its immemorial forests. He pre 
 luded as he gazed around. He could see, by the 
 dim light of two flambeaux set in gold sconces, 
 column after column of blackness receding into 
 inky depths of darkness. A fringe of light en 
 circled his instrument, and beside him was a gal 
 lery, so vast that it became a gulf of the infinite 
 at a hundred paces. Now, Pobloff was a brave 
 man. He believed that once upon a time he 
 had peered into strange crevices of space ; what 
 novelty could existence hold for him after that 
 shuddering experience ? Again he looked into 
 the tenebrous recesses of the hall. He saw noth 
 ing, heard nothing. 
 
 His fingers went their own way over the key 
 board. Finally, following some latent impulse, 
 they began to shape the opening measures of 
 Chopin's Second Ballade, the one of the enig 
 matic tonalities, sometimes called TJie Lake 
 262
 
 HALL OF THE MISSING FOOTSTEPS 
 
 of the Mermaids. It began with the chant 
 ing, childish refrain, a Lithuanian fairy-tale of 
 old, and as its na'ive, drowsy, lulling measures 
 
 the voices of wicked, wooing sirens sang 
 and sank in recurrent rhythms, Pobloff heard 
 
 this time he was sure the regular rever 
 beration of distant footsteps. It was as if the 
 monotonous beat of the music were duplicated in 
 some sounding mirror, some mirror that magnified 
 hideously, hideously mimicked the melody. Yet 
 these footfalls murmured as a sea-shell. Every 
 phrase stood out before the pianist, exquisitely 
 clear ; his brain had only once before harboured 
 such an exalted mood. There was the expecta 
 tion of great things coming to pass ; dim rumours 
 of an apocalyptic future, when the glory that 
 never was on sea or land should rend the veil 
 of the visible and make clear all that obscures 
 and darkens. The transfiguration which in 
 forms the soul of one taken down in epileptic 
 seizure possessed him. Every cranny of his 
 being was flooded with overmastering light 
 and the faint sound of footsteps marking sin 
 ister time to his music, drew closer, closer. 
 
 Shaking off an insane desire to join his voice 
 in the immortal choiring of the Cherubim, Pob 
 loff dashed into the passionate storm-scream of 
 the music, and like a pack of phantom blood 
 hounds the footsteps pressed him in the race. 
 He played as run men from starving wolves in 
 Siberian wastes. To stop would mean God ! 
 what would it mean ? These were no mortal 
 263
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 steps that crowded upon his sonorous trail. 
 His fingers flew over the keys as he finished 
 the scurrying tempests of tone. Again the first 
 swaying refrain, and Pobloff heard the invisible 
 multitude of feet pause in the night, as if wait 
 ing the moment when the Ballade would cease. 
 He quivered ; the surprises and terrors were 
 telling upon his well-seasoned nerves. 
 
 Still he sped on, fearing the tremendous out 
 burst at the close, where Chopin throws over 
 board his soul, and with blood-red sails signals 
 the hellish Willis, the Lamias of the lake, to 
 his side. Ah, if Pobloff could but thus portion 
 his soul as hostage to the infernal host that now 
 hemmed him in on all sides ! Riding over the 
 black and white rocks of his keyboard, he felt 
 as if in the clutches of an unknown force. He 
 discerned death in the distance death and the 
 unknown horror and was powerless to resist. 
 Still the galloping of unseen feet, horrible, naked 
 flesh, that clattered and scraped the earth ; the 
 panting, hoarse and subdued, of a mighty pack, 
 whose thirst for destruction, for revenge, was 
 unslaked. And always the same trampling of 
 human feet ! Were they human ? Did not 
 resilient bones tell the tale of brutes viler than 
 men ? The glimmering lights seemed cowed, 
 as they sobbed in vacuity and slowly expired. 
 
 Pobloff no longer asked himself what it meant; 
 
 he was become a maniac, pursued by deathless 
 
 devils. He could have flown to the end of the 
 
 universe in this Ballade ; but, at last, his heart 
 
 264
 
 HALL OF THE MISSING FOOTSTEPS 
 
 cracking, head bursting, face livid, overtaken 
 by the Footsteps of the Missing, he smashed 
 both fists upon the keys and fell forward 
 despairingly. . . . 
 
 . . . The gigantic, noseless negro, the grand 
 vizier himself, sternly regarded the prince, who 
 stood, torch in hand, near the shattered piano 
 forte. The dumb spoke : 
 
 " Let us hope, Exalted Highness, that your 
 masquerades and mystifications are over for 
 ever. To-day's prankish sport may put us to 
 trouble for a satisfactory explanation." He 
 waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the 
 prostrate composer. " And hasheesh some 
 times maddens for a lifetime ! " He lightly 
 touched the drugged Pobloff with his enor 
 mous foot. 
 
 The youthful runaway ashamedly lowered his 
 head in reality he adored music with all the 
 fulness of his cruel, faunlike nature. 
 
 265
 
 XV 
 
 THE CURSORY LIGHT 
 
 To this day Pinton could never explain why 
 he looked out of that pantry window. He had 
 reached his home in a hungry condition. He 
 was tired and dead broke, so he had resolved 
 to forage. He had listened for two or three, 
 perhaps five, minutes in the hall of his boarding- 
 house; then he went, soft-footed, to Mrs. Hal- 
 lam's pantry on the second floor. He was sure 
 that it was open, he was equally sure that it con 
 tained something edible on its hospitable shelves. 
 Ah ! who has not his bread at midnight stolen, 
 ye heavenly powers, ye know him not ! 
 
 Pinton, however, knew one thing, and that 
 was a ravenous desire to sink his teeth into pie, 
 custard, or even bread. He felt with large, 
 eager hands along the wall on the pantry side. 
 With feverish joy he touched the knob a 
 friendly knob, despite its cold, distant glaze 
 of the door he sought. 
 
 Pinton gave a tug, and then his heart stopped 
 beating. The door was locked. Something like 
 a curse, something like a prayer, rose to his lips, 
 and his arms fell helplessly to his side. 
 
 Mrs. Hallam, realizing that it was Saturday 
 266
 
 THE CURSORY LIGHT 
 
 night the predatory night of the week had 
 secured her pastry, her confitures, her celebrated 
 desserts; and so poor Pinton, all his sweet teeth 
 furiously aching, his mouth watering, stood on 
 the hither side of Paradise, a baffled peri in 
 pantaloons ! 
 
 After a pause, full of pain and troublous pre 
 visions of a restless, discontented night, Pinton 
 grew angry and pulled at the knob of the door, 
 thinking, perhaps, that it might abate a jot of 
 its dignified resistance. It remained immovable, 
 grimly antagonistic, until his fingers grew hot 
 and cold as they touched a bit of cold metal. 
 
 The key in the lock ! In a second it was 
 turned, and the hungry one was within and rest 
 lessly searching and fumbling for food. He 
 felt along the lower shelves and met apples, 
 oranges, and sealed bottles containing ruined, 
 otherwise miscalled preserved, fruit. He knelt 
 on the dresser and explored the upper shelf. 
 Ah, here was richness indeed ! Pies, pies, cakes, 
 pies, frosted cakes, cakes sweating golden, fruity 
 promises, and cakes as icy as the hand of charity. 
 Pinton was happy, glutton that he was, and he 
 soon filled the pockets of his overcoat. What 
 Mrs. Hallam might say in the morning he cared 
 not. Let the galled jade wince, his breakfast 
 appetite would be unwrung ; and then he started 
 violently, lost his balance, and almost fell to the 
 floor. 
 
 Opposite him was the window of the pantry, 
 which faced the wall of the next house. Pinton 
 267
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 had never been in the pantry by daylight, so he 
 was rudely shocked by the glance of a light a 
 cursory, moving light It showed him a window 
 in the other house and a pair of stairs. It flick 
 ered about an old baluster and a rusty carpet, it 
 came from below, it mounted upward and was 
 lost to view. 
 
 The burglar of pies, the ravisher of cakes, 
 was almost shocked by this unexpected light. 
 He watched it dancing fantastically on the dis 
 coloured wall of the house ; he wondered ill at 
 ease if it would flash in his face. His sur 
 mise was realized, for a streak of illumination 
 reached the narrow chamber in which he cowered, 
 and then he was certain some one was looking 
 at him. He never budged, for he was too 
 frightened. Suddenly the light vanished and a 
 head was dimly silhouetted in the window op 
 posite. It nodded to Pinton. Pinton stared 
 stupidly, and the head disappeared. The hun 
 gry man, his appetite now gone, was numb and 
 terrified. 
 
 What did it mean, who was the man ? A 
 detective, or a friend of Mrs. Hallam's in a coign 
 from which the plunderers of her pantry could 
 be noted ? Beady repentance stood out on 
 Pinton's forehead. 
 
 And the light came back. This time it was 
 intelligible, for it was a lantern in the hand of 
 a young man of about thirty. His face was open 
 and smiling. He wore his hair rather long for 
 an American, and it was blond and curling. 
 268
 
 THE CURSORY LIGHT 
 
 He surveyed Pinton for a moment, then he 
 said, in a most agreeable voice : 
 
 " What luck, old pal ? " 
 
 Pinton dropped his pies, slammed the win 
 dow, and got to his bedroom as fast as his ner 
 vous legs could carry him. He undressed in a 
 nightmare, and did not sleep until the early 
 summer sun shot hot shafts of heat into his 
 chamber. 
 
 With a shamed Sabbath face he arose, dressed, 
 and descended to his morning meal. Mrs. Hal- 
 lam was sitting in orotund silence, but seemed 
 in good humour. She asked him casually if 
 he had enjoyed his Saturday evening, and quite 
 as casually damned the wandering cats that 
 had played havoc in her pantry. She remarked 
 that leaving windows open was a poor practice, 
 even if hospitable in appearance, and nervous 
 Mr. Pinton drank his coffee in silent assent and 
 then hurried off to the church where he trod the 
 organ pedals for a small salary's sake. 
 
 The following Friday was rehearsal night, 
 and the organist left his choir in a bad humour. 
 His contralto had not attended, and as she was 
 the only artiste and the only good-looking girl 
 of the lot, Pinton took it into his head to be 
 come jealous. She had not paid the slightest 
 attention to him, so he could not attribute her 
 absence to a personal slight ; but he felt 
 aggrieved and vaguely irritated. 
 
 Pinton's musicianship was not profound. He 
 had begun life as an organ salesman. He ma- 
 269
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 nipulated the cabinet organ for impossible cus 
 tomers in Wisconsin, and he came to New York 
 because he was offered a better chance. 
 
 The inevitable church position occurred. 
 Then came Zundel voluntaries and hard pedal 
 practice. At last Mendelssohn's organ sonatas 
 were reached and with them a call organists, 
 like pastors, have calls to a fashionable church. 
 The salary was fair and Mr. Pinton grew side- 
 whiskers. 
 
 He heard Paderewski play Chopin, and be 
 came a crazy lover of the piano. He hired a 
 small upright and studied finger exercises. He 
 consulted a thousand books on technic, and in the 
 meantime could not play Czerny's velocity studies. 
 
 He grew thin, and sought the advice of many 
 pianists. He soon found that pressing your 
 foot on the swell and pulling couplers for tone 
 colour were not the slightest use in piano play 
 ing. Subtle finger pressures, the unloosening 
 of the muscles, the delicate art of nuance, the 
 art unfelt by many organists, all were demanded 
 of the pianist, and Pinton almost despaired. 
 
 He grew contemptuous of the king of instru 
 ments as he essayed the C major invention of 
 Bach. He sneered at stops and pedals, and 
 believed, in his foolish way, that all polyphony 
 was bound within the boards of the Well-Tem 
 pered Clavichord. Then the new alto came to 
 the choir, and Pinton it being springtide, 
 when the blood is in the joyful mood thought 
 that he was in love. He was really athirst. 
 270
 
 THE CURSORY LIGHT 
 
 This Friday evening he was genuinely dis 
 appointed and thirsty. He turned with a sink 
 ing heart and parched throat into Pop Pusch's 
 dearly beloved resort. Earlier in his life he 
 had often solaced himself with the free lunch 
 that John, the melancholy waiter, had dispensed. 
 Pinton's mind was a prey to many emotions as 
 he entered the famous old place. He sat down 
 before a brown table and clamoured for amber 
 beer. 
 
 He was not alone at the table. As Pinton 
 put the glass of Pilsner to his lips he met the 
 gaze of two sardonic eyes. He could not finish 
 his glass. He returned the look of the other 
 man and then arose, with a nervous jerk that 
 almost upset the table. 
 
 " Sit down, old pal ; don't be crazy. I'll never 
 say a word. Sit down, you fool ; don't you see 
 people are looking at you ? " 
 
 The voice was low, kindly in intonation, but 
 it went through Pinton like a saw biting its way 
 into wood. 
 
 He sat down all in a heap. He knew the 
 eyes ; he knew the voice. It was the owner of 
 the dark lantern the mysterious man in the 
 other house of that last Saturday night. Pinton 
 felt as if he were about to become ill. 
 
 " Lord, but you are a nervous one ! " said the 
 other, most reassuringly. " Sit still and I'll 
 order brandy. It will settle your stomach." 
 
 That brought Pinton to his senses at once. 
 
 " No, no, I'll be all right in a moment," he 
 271
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 said rather huskily. " I never drink spirits. 
 Thank you, all the same." 
 
 " Don't mention it," said the man, and he 
 tossed off his Wiirzburger. Each man stealth 
 ily regarded the other. Pinton saw the stranger 
 of the lantern and staircase. Close by he was 
 handsome and engaging. His hair was worn 
 like a violin virtuoso's, and his hands were 
 white, delicate, and well cared for. He spoke 
 first. 
 
 "How did you make out on that job? I 
 don't fancy there was much in it. Boarding- 
 houses, you know ! " 
 
 Pinton, every particle of colour leaving his 
 flabby face, asked : 
 
 "What job?" 
 
 The stranger looked at him keenly and went 
 on rather ironically : 
 
 "You are the most nervous duck I ever ran 
 across. When I saw you last your pocket was 
 full of the silver plate of that pantry, and I can 
 thank you for a fright myself, for when I saw 
 you, I was just getting ready to crack a neat 
 little crib. Say ! why didn't you flash your 
 glim at me or make some friendly signal at 
 least ? You popped out of sight like a prairie 
 rabbit when a coyote heaves in view." 
 
 Pinton felt the ground heave beneath him. 
 What possible job could the man mean ? What 
 was a " glim," and what did the fellow suggest 
 by silver plate? Then it struck him all of a 
 sudden. Heavens ! he was taken for a burglar 
 272
 
 THE CURSORY LIGHT 
 
 by a burglar. His presence in the pie pantry 
 had been misinterpreted by a cracksman ; and 
 he, the harmless organist of Dr. Bulgerly's 
 church, was claimed as the associate of a dan 
 gerous, perhaps notorious, thief. Pinton's cup 
 of woe overflowed. 
 
 He arose, put on his hat, and started to go. 
 The young man grasped his arm, and said in a 
 most conciliatory fashion : 
 
 " Perhaps I have hurt your sensitive nature. 
 It was far from my intention to do so. I saluted 
 you at first in the coarse, conventional manner 
 which is expected by members of our ancient and 
 honourable craft, and if I have offended you, 
 I humbly beg your pardon." 
 
 His accent was that of a cultivated gentleman. 
 Pinton, somewhat assured, dropped back in his 
 seat, and, John passing by just then, more beer 
 was ordered. 
 
 " Hear me before you condemn me," said the 
 odd young man. " My name is Blastion and I 
 am a burglar by profession. When I saw you 
 the other night, at work on the premises next 
 door to me, I was struck by your refined face. 
 I said to myself : ' At last the profession is being 
 recruited by gentlemen, men of culture, men of 
 refinement. At last a profitable, withal risky, 
 pursuit is being dignified, nay, graced, by the 
 proper sort of person.' And I saluted you in a 
 happy, haphazard fashion, and then you flew the 
 coop. Pardon my relapse into the vernacular." 
 
 Pinton felt that it was time to speak. 
 273
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 " Pardon me, if I interrupt you, Mr. Blastion ; 
 but I fear we are not meeting on equal ground. 
 You take me for a for a man of your profes 
 sion. Indeed, sir, you are mistaken. When 
 you discovered me last Saturday night I was in 
 the pantry of Mrs. Hallam, my boarding-house 
 keeper, searching for pie. I am not a burglar 
 pardon my harsh expression ; I am, instead, 
 an organist by profession." 
 
 The pallor of the burglar's countenance testi 
 fied to the gravity of his feeling. He stared 
 and blushed, looked apprehensively at the various 
 groups of domino players in the back room, then, 
 pulling himself together, he beckoned to melan 
 choly John, and said : 
 
 "Johann, two more beers, please. Yes?" 
 
 Pinton became interested. There was some 
 thing appealing in the signal the man flashed 
 from his eyes when he realized that he had un 
 bosomed himself to a perfect stranger, and not 
 to a member of his beloved guild. The organist 
 put his hand on the man's arm and said faint 
 memories of flatulent discourses from the Rev 
 erend Bulgerly coming to his aid : " Be not 
 alarmed, my friend. I will not betray you. I 
 am a musician, but I respect art ever, even 
 when it reveals itself in manifold guises." 
 
 Pinton felt that he was a man of address, a 
 fellow of some wit ; his confidential and rather 
 patronizing pose moved his companion, who 
 slyly grimaced. 
 
 " So you are an organist and not a member of 
 274
 
 THE CURSORY LIGHT 
 
 the noble Knights of the Centrebit and Jimmy ? " 
 he asked rather sarcastically. 
 
 " Yes," admitted Pinton, " I am an organist, 
 and an organist who would fain become a pian 
 ist." The other started. 
 
 " I am a pianist myself, and yet I cannot say 
 that I would like to play the organ." 
 
 " You are a pianist ? " said Pinton, in a 
 puzzled voice. 
 
 "Well, why not? I studied in Paris, and I 
 suppose my piano technic stood me in good stead 
 in my newer profession. Just look at my hands 
 if you doubt my word." 
 
 Aghast, the organist examined the shapely 
 hands before him. Without peradventure of a 
 doubt they were those of a pianist, an expert 
 pianist, and one who had studied assiduously. 
 He was stupefied. A burglar and a pianist! 
 What next ? 
 
 Mr. Blastion continued his edifying remarks : 
 " Yes, I studied very hard. I was born in the 
 Southwest, and went to Paris quite young. I had 
 good fingers and was deft at sleight-of-hand 
 tricks. I could steal a handkerchief from a 
 rabbi which is saying volumes and I played 
 all the Chopin etudes before I was fifteen. At 
 twenty-one I knew twenty-five concertos from 
 memory, and my great piece was the Don Juan 
 Fantasy. Oh, I was a wonder! When Liszt 
 paid his last visit to Paris I played before him 
 at the warerooms of the Pleyels. 
 
 "Monsieur Theodore Ritter was anxious for his 
 
 275
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 old master to hear such a pupil. I assure you 
 there must be some congenital twist of evil in me, 
 for I couldn't for the life of me forbear picking 
 the old fellow's pockets and lifting his watch. 
 
 Now don't look scandalized, Mr. eh ? Oh ! 
 
 thank you very much, Mr. Pinton. If you are born 
 that way, all the punishments and preachments 
 excuse the alliteration will not stand in your 
 way as a warning. I have done time I mean 
 I have served several terms of imprisonment, 
 but luckily not for a long period. I suffered 
 most by my incarceration in not having a piano. 
 Not even a dumb keyboard was allowed, and I 
 practised the Jackson finger exercises in the air 
 and thus kept my fingers limber. On Saturdays 
 the warden allowed me, as a special favour, to 
 practise on the cabinet organ an odious in 
 strument so as to enable me to play on Sun 
 days in chapel. Of course no practice was 
 needed for the wretched music we poor devils 
 howled once a week, but I gained one afternoon 
 in seven for study by my ruse. 
 
 "Oh, the joy of feeling the ivory or bone 
 under my expectant fingers ! I played all the 
 Chopin, Henselt, and Liszt etudes on the miser 
 able keyboard of the organ. Yes, of course, 
 without wind. It was, I assure you, a truly spirit 
 ual consolation. You can readily imagine if a 
 man has been in the habit of practising all 
 day, even if he does ' burgle ' at night, that to be 
 suddenly deprived of all instrumental resources 
 is a bitter blow." 
 
 276
 
 THE CURSORY LIGHT 
 
 Pinton stuttered out an affirmative response. 
 Then both arose after paying their checks, and 
 the organist shook the burglar's hand at the 
 corner, after first exacting a promise that Blas- 
 tion should play for him some morning. 
 
 " With pleasure, my boy. You're a gentleman 
 and an artist, and I trust you absolutely." And 
 he walked away, whistling with rare skill the 
 D flat valse of Chopin. 
 
 " You can trust me, I swear ! " Pinton called 
 after him, and then went unsteadily homeward, 
 full of generous resolves and pianistic ambitions. 
 As he intermittently undressed he discovered, to 
 his rage and amazement, that both his purse and 
 watch had disappeared. The one was well filled ; 
 the other, gold. Blastion's technic had proved 
 unimpeachable. 
 
 277
 
 XVI 
 AN IRON FAN 
 
 EFFINGHAME waited for Dr. Arn in the study, 
 a small chamber crowded with the contents 
 of the universe so it seemed to the visitor. 
 There was a table unusual in size, indeed, big 
 enough to dissect a body thereon. It was lit 
 tered with books and medical publications and 
 was not very attractive. The walls were cov 
 ered with original drawings of famous Japanese 
 masters, and over the fireplace hung a huge fan, 
 dull gray in colouring, with long sandalwood 
 spokes. Not a noteworthy example of Japanese 
 art, thought Effinghame, as he glanced without 
 marked curiosity at its neutral tinting, though 
 he could not help wondering why the cunning 
 artificers of the East had failed to adorn the 
 wedge-shaped surfaces of this fan with their 
 accustomed bold and exquisite arabesques. 
 
 He impatiently paced the floor. His friend 
 had told him to come at nine o'clock in the 
 evening. It was nearly ten. Then he began 
 to finger things. He fumbled the papers in the 
 desk. He examined the two Japanese swords 
 light as ivory, keen as razors. He stared at 
 each of the prints, at Hokusai, Toyokimi, Kuni- 
 278
 
 AN IRON FAN 
 
 yoshi, Kiyonaga, Kiosai, Hiroshighe, Utamaro, 
 Oukoyo-Ye, the doctor's taste was Oriental. 
 And again he fell to scrutinizing the fan. It 
 was large, ugly, clumsy. What possessed Am 
 to place such a sprawling affair over his man 
 tel ? Tempted to touch it, he discovered that 
 it was as silky as a young bat's wing. At 
 last, his curiosity excited, he lifted it with some 
 straining to the floor. What puzzled him was 
 its weight. He felt its thin ribs, its soft, paper- 
 like material, and his fingers chilled as they 
 closed on the two outermost spokes. They 
 were of metal, whether steel or iron he could 
 not determine. A queer fan this, far too heavy 
 to stir the air, and 
 
 Effinghame held the fan up to the light. He 
 had perceived a shadowy figure in a corner. It 
 resolved itself into a man's head bearded, 
 scowling, crowned with thorns or sunbeams. It 
 was probably a Krishna. But how came such 
 a face on a Japanese fan ? The type was Orien 
 tal, though not Mongolian, rather Semitic. It 
 vaguely recalled to Effinghame a head and face 
 he had seen in a famous painting. But where 
 and by whom ? It wore a vile expression, the 
 eyes mean and revengeful ; there was a cruel 
 mouth and a long, hooked, crafty nose. The 
 forehead was lofty, even intellectual, and bore 
 its thorns yes, he was sure they were thorns 
 like a conqueror. Just then Dr. Arn entered 
 and laughed when he saw the other struggling 
 with the fan. 
 
 279
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 " My Samurai fan ! " he exclaimed, in his 
 accustomed frank tones ; " how did you discover 
 it so soon ? " 
 
 " You've kept me here an hour. I had to do 
 something," answered the other, sulkily. 
 
 "There, there, I apologize. Sit down, old 
 man. I had a very sick patient to-night, and I 
 feel worn out. I'll ring for champagne." They 
 talked about trifling personal matters, when sud 
 denly Effinghame asked : 
 
 "Why Samurai? I had supposed this once 
 belonged to some prehistoric giant who could 
 waft it as do ladies their bamboo fans, when 
 they brush the dust from old hearts as the 
 Spanish poet sang." 
 
 "That fan is interesting enough," was the 
 doctor's reply. " When a Samurai, one of the 
 warrior caste Japanese, was invited to the house 
 of a doubtful friend, he carried this fan as a 
 weapon of defence. Compelled to leave his 
 two swords behind a screen, he could close this 
 fighting machine and parry the attack of his 
 hospitable enemy until he reached his swords. 
 Just try it and see what a formidable weapon it 
 would prove." He took up the fan, shut it, and 
 swung it over his head. 
 
 " Look out for the bottles ! " cried Effinghame. 
 
 " Never fear, old chap. And did you notice 
 the head?" 
 
 " That's what most puzzled me." 
 
 " No wonder. I too was puzzled until I 
 found the solution. And it took me some years 
 280
 
 AN IRON FAN 
 
 yes, all the time you were in Paris learning 
 how to paint and live." He paused, and his 
 face became gloomy. 
 
 "Well well?" 
 
 " There is no well. It's a damned bad fan, 
 that iron one, and I don't mind saying so to 
 you." 
 
 " Superstitious you ! Where is your 
 Haeckel, your Wundt, your Weismann ? Do you 
 still believe in the infallibility of the germ- 
 plasm ? Has the fan brought you ill-luck? The 
 fact is, Arn, ever since your return from China 
 you've been a strange bird!" It was Effing- 
 hame's turn to laugh. 
 
 "Don't say another word." The doctor was 
 vivacious in a moment and poured out wine. 
 They both lighted cigars. Slowly puffing, Arn 
 took up the fan and spread it open. 
 
 " See here ! That head, as you must have 
 noticed, is not Japanese. It's Jewish. Do you 
 recall the head of Judas painted by Da Vinci in 
 his Last Supper? Now isn't this old scoun 
 drel's the exact duplicate well, if not exact, 
 there is a very strong resemblance." Effing- 
 hame looked and nodded. 
 
 " And what the devil is it doing on a fan of 
 the Samurai? It's not caprice. No Japanese 
 artist ever painted in that style or ever expressed 
 that type. I thought the thing out and came to 
 the conclusion 
 
 "Yes yes! What conclusion?" eagerly 
 interrupted his listener. 
 
 281
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 " To the conclusion that I could never unravel 
 such a knotty question alone." Effinghame was 
 disappointed. 
 
 " So I had recourse to an ally to the fan 
 itself," blandly added Arn, as he poured out 
 more wine. 
 
 " The fan ? " 
 
 " Precisely the fan. I studied it from tip 
 to tip, as our bird-shooting friends say, and I, 
 at last, discovered more than a picture. You 
 know I am an -Orientalist. When I was at 
 Johns Hopkins University I attended the classes 
 of the erudite Blumenfeld, and what you can't 
 learn from him need I say any more ? One 
 evening I held the fan in front of a vivid elec 
 tric light and at once noticed serried lines. 
 These I deciphered after a long time. Another 
 surprise. They were Chinese characters of a 
 remotely early date Heaven knows how many 
 dynasties back ! Now what, you will ask, is 
 Chinese doing on a Samurai fighting fan ! I 
 don't know. I never shall know. But I do 
 know that this fan contains on one side of it the 
 most extraordinary revelation ever vouchsafed 
 mankind, particularly Christian mankind." Ex 
 cited by his own words, Arn arose. 
 
 " Effinghame, my dear fellow, I know you 
 have read Renan. If Renan had seen the com 
 munication on this iron fan, he would have 
 never written his life of the Messiah." His 
 eyes blazed. 
 
 " Why, what do you mean ? " 
 282
 
 AN IRON FAN 
 
 " I mean that it might have been a life of 
 Judas Iscariot." 
 
 " Good God, man, are you joking ? " ejacu 
 lated Effinghame. 
 
 " I mean," sternly pursued Am, " that if De 
 Quincey had studied this identical fan, the opium- 
 eater would have composed another gorgeous 
 rhetorical plea for the man preelected to betray 
 his Saviour, the apostle who spilt the salt." He 
 sat down and breathed heavily. 
 
 " Go on ! Go on ! " 
 
 " Shall I relate the history upon the fan ? " 
 And without waiting for an answer he began at 
 the left of the fan and slowly read to the right : 
 
 I who write this am called Moa the Bonze. 
 What I write of I witnessed in a walled city of 
 Judea. I travelled there attracted by the report 
 of miraculous happenings brought about by the 
 magic art of a youthful barbarian called leshua. 
 The day I arrived in the city they had sentenced 
 the wise man to death by crucifixion. I was 
 disappointed. I had come many moons and 
 many leagues from the Yellow Kingdom to see 
 something rare. I was too late. The magician, 
 whom his disciples called a god, had been exe 
 cuted. I tarried a few days in the city. After 
 many questions put to beggars and outcasts, I 
 heard that a certain woman of rank had a por 
 trait of leshua. I called and without hesitation 
 asked her to show me this picture. She was an 
 exalted soul. She wept bitter tears as she drew 
 283
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 from a secret cabinet a scarf upon which was im 
 printed a bloody image. She continued to weep 
 as I made a copy of the head. I confess I was 
 not impressed. The face was bearded and ugly. 
 The new god was said to have been as fair as 
 the sun. And I told the woman this. She only 
 wept the more. 
 
 " If he were a god," I asked, " where are 
 outward evidences ? " She became frantic. 
 
 " The real man ! " she cried ; " this one died 
 for the man he betrayed," and again fell to 
 lamenting. Seeing I could gain nothing more 
 from her, I left, wondering at the strange here 
 tics I had encountered. I went back to my 
 country and after weaving this tale and paint 
 ing the head, there awaited the fifth Buddha, 
 the successor to Siddartha, whose coming has 
 been predicted. 
 
 Arn's voice ceased. There was silence in 
 the chamber. Then Effinghame started up and 
 fiercely growled : 
 
 " What do you make of it, Arn ? " 
 
 " Isn't it clear enough ? There's been a 
 frightful error somewhere, one of incalculable 
 consequences. A tremendous act of heroism 
 has been committed by a man whose name has 
 been universally execrated through the ages. 
 Perhaps he repented at the eleventh hour and 
 by some means impersonated his betrayed 
 friend ; perhaps " 
 
 " But that other body found in the blasted 
 284
 
 AN IRON FAN 
 
 field of Aceldama ! " demanded the agitated 
 Effinghame. Dr. Arn did not answer. 
 
 After a lugubrious pause, he whispered : 
 
 " There's more to follow. You haven't heard 
 the worst." 
 
 "What more! I thought your damnable 
 old Bonze died in the odour of sanctity over 
 there in his Yellow Kingdom." 
 
 "True. He died. But before he died he 
 recorded a vision he had. It is inscribed on the 
 other side of the fan." 
 
 Effingham's features lengthened. 
 
 " Still the same fan." 
 
 "The same. Here is what it prophesies." 
 Reversing the clumsy fan, Arn again read : 
 
 Before I pass over into Nirvana I must re 
 late what I saw in the country of the Christians. 
 It was not a dream. It was too real. And yet 
 it is to be, for it has not yet happened. The 
 Campagna was now become a shallow lake from 
 the sea almost to the Sabine Mountains. What 
 had been Rome was a black waste spot, full of 
 stones and weeds. And no two stones stood to 
 gether. Ah ! our war with the white races had 
 been successful. We had not used their fight 
 ing machines, as did that nation of little brown 
 men, the Japanese. The Chinese were too sage. 
 They allowed the Christians to exterminate the 
 Japanese; but when they attacked us and at 
 tempted to rob us of our land, we merely resorted 
 to our old-time weapon the Odour-Death. 
 285
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 With it we smothered their armies, sunk their 
 navies, swept through their countries like the 
 simoon. The awful secret of the Odour-Death 
 is one that has been ours from the beginning of 
 time. Known only to the College of Bonzes, it 
 was never used except in extreme peril. Its 
 smell is more revolting in its consequences than 
 the Black Plague. It ravaged the earth. 
 
 I sat in a flat-bottomed boat, enjoying the 
 soft melancholy Italian evening. Not a human 
 did I see ; nor had I encountered one on my slow 
 voyage from the Middle Seas. In meditation 
 I pondered the ultimate wisdom of Confucius 
 and smiled at the folly of the white barbarians 
 who had tried to show us a new god, a new 
 religion. At last they, too, had succumbed like 
 the nations before their era. The temple of 
 Jupiter on the Capitol had fallen, so had the 
 holy temple of Jerusalem. And now St. Peter's. 
 Their central religion had been destroyed, and 
 yet prophecies of the second coming of their 
 divinity had not been accomplished. When the 
 last Pope of Rome dies, so it was said, then time 
 would be accomplished. The last Pope had died. 
 Their basilica with its mighty dome was a desert 
 where scorpions and snakes abounded. The 
 fifth Buddha would appear, not the second 
 Christos. Suddenly I saw before me in a puny 
 boat a beautiful beardless youth. He was at 
 tired in some symbolical garments and upon his 
 head a triple tiara. I could not believe my 
 aged eyes. He sat upright. His attitude was 
 286
 
 AN IRON FAN 
 
 hieratic. His eyes were lifted heavenwards. 
 He clasped his hands and prayed : 
 
 " O Lord, remove thy servant. The time is 
 at hand foretold by thy slaughtered saints. I 
 am the last Pope and the humblest of thy ser 
 vants. Though the heathen hath triumphed 
 upon the earth, I go to thy bosom, for all things 
 are now accomplished." And he tumbled for 
 ward, dead. The last Pope ! I had seen him. 
 Nothing could happen after that. 
 
 And as I turned my boat in the direction of the 
 sea a moaning came upon the waters. The sky be 
 came as brass. A roar, like the rending asunder 
 of the firmament, caused my soul to expand with 
 horror and joy. Yes, time was accomplished. 
 The last Pope had uttered the truth. Eternity 
 was nigh. But the Buddha would now prove 
 to the multitudes awakened from their long 
 sleep that He, not other gods, was the true, the 
 only God. In a flare of light sounded the trum 
 pets of destiny; eternity unrolled before me, 
 and on the vast plain I saw the bones of the 
 buried dead uniting, as men and women from 
 time's beginnings arose in an army, the number 
 whereof is unthinkable. And oh ! abomination 
 of desolation, the White Horse, not Kalki the 
 tenth incarnation of Vishnu, but the animal fore 
 told in their Apocalypse, came through the 
 lightnings, and in the whirlwinds of flame and 
 thunder I saw the shining face of Him, the Son 
 of Man ! Where our Buddha ? Alas ! the 
 last Pope spake truth. I, Moa the Bonze, tell 
 287
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 you this ere it be too late to repent your sins 
 and forswear your false gods. The Galilean is 
 our master. . . . 
 
 " Farceur ! Do you know what I would do 
 with that accursed fan ? I'd destroy it, sell it, 
 get rid of it somehow. Or else " Effing- 
 hame scrutinized the doctor, whose eyes were 
 closed "or else I would return to the pious 
 practices of my old religion." No smile crossed 
 the face of his friend as he firmly held the 
 fighting fan, the iron and mystical fan of the 
 Samurai. 
 
 288
 
 XVII 
 
 THE WOMAN WHO LOVED 
 CHOPIN 
 
 WHEN Marco Davos left Ischl on the midday 
 train, that picturesque, huddled Austrian water 
 ing-place was stuffy. He was surprised then 
 most pleasantly by the coolness of Aussee, 
 further down the line in the direction of Vienna. 
 Ischl is not a bad place, but it lies, as the natives 
 say, smothered in a kettle. He rode over from 
 the station to the stadt park, where the band was 
 playing. There he dismounted, for he was going 
 further Aussee is not very interesting, but it 
 principally serves as a good starting-point for 
 trips to many of the charming lakes with which 
 Styria is dotted. After asking his way, Davos 
 passed the swimming baths, and keeping on the 
 left bank of a tiny stream, he presently found 
 himself walking through an earthly paradise. 
 Since his advent in Ischl, where he drank the 
 waters and endeavoured to quiet his overtaxed 
 nerves, he had made up his mind to visit Alt- 
 Aussee ; several Viennese friends had assured 
 him that this hamlet, beneath a terrific precipice 
 289
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 and on the borders of a fairy-like lake, would 
 be well worth the while. 
 
 It was a relief to breathe the thinner moun 
 tain air, and the young artist inhaled it with 
 satisfaction, his big hat in hand, his long 
 curly black hair flowing in the gentle breeze. 
 He found himself in tunnels of verdure, the 
 sunlight shut off by the heavy leafage ; then the 
 path debouched into the open and, skirting 
 closely the rocky wall, it widened into an island 
 of green where a shady pagoda invited. He 
 sat down for a few minutes and congratulated 
 himself that he had escaped the intimate discom 
 forts of the omnibus he discerned on the opposite 
 bank, packed with stout people. This was the 
 third week of his vacation, one enforced by a 
 nerve specialist in the Austrian capital, and for 
 the first time Davos felt almost cheerful. Per 
 haps the absolute hush of the country and the 
 purity of the atmosphere, with its suggestion 
 of recent rain, the skies weep at least once a 
 day in the Salzkammergut region, proved a 
 welcome foil to fashionable Ischl, with its crowds, 
 its stiffness, its court ceremonial for the em 
 peror enjoys his villegiatura there. And Davos 
 was sick and irritable after a prolonged musical 
 season. He had studied the pianoforte with 
 Rosenthal, and his success, from his d^but, 
 had been so unequivocal that he played too much 
 in public. There was a fiery particle in his in 
 terpretations of Chopin, Schumann, and Liszt 
 that proclaimed the temperament, if not the actual 
 290
 
 THE WOMAN WHO LOVED CHOPIN 
 
 possession, of genius. Still in his early manhood 
 he was only twenty the maturity of his 
 musical intelligence and the poetry of his style 
 created havoc in impressionable hearts. With 
 his mixed blood, Hungarian and Italian, Marco 
 Davos' performance of romantic composers was 
 irresistible ; in it there was something of Pach- 
 mann's wayward grace and Paderewski's plan- 
 gency, but with an added infusion of gypsy 
 wildness which evoked for old concert-goers 
 memories of Liszt the brilliant rhapsodist. 
 
 But he soon overpaid the score presented by 
 the goddess Fortune his nerves were sadly 
 jangled. A horror of the human face obsessed 
 his waking and sleeping hours ; he dreamed 
 of colossal countenances with threatening eyes, 
 a vast composite of the audiences he nightly 
 faced. As his popularity increased the wan 
 ing of his self-respect told him that he must go 
 into retreat, anywhere out of the musical world 
 
 else would his art suffer. It did suffer. The 
 nervous diffidence, called stage-fright, which had 
 never assailed his supreme self-balance, intruded 
 its unwelcome presence. Marco, several months 
 after he had discovered all these mischievous 
 symptoms, the maladies of artistic adolescence, 
 was not assured when the critics hinted of them 
 
 the public would surely follow suit in a few 
 weeks. Then came the visit to the learned Vien 
 nese doctor and the trip to Ischl. A few more 
 months of this appalling absorption in his own 
 personality, this morbid marriage of man to 
 
 291
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 his own image, and he suspected that his brain 
 would be irretrievably injured. 
 
 He was a curious student of matters psy 
 chologic as well as musical. A friendly labo 
 ratory had inducted him into many biologic 
 mysteries. Particularly fascinating to him was 
 the tactile sense, that sense of touch where 
 with man acquaints himself with this earth-clot 
 swimming in space. Davos contemplated the 
 tips of his fingers as he sat in the grateful cool, 
 his ten voices as he named them. With them 
 he sang, thundered, and thought upon the key 
 board of his grand piano-forte. A miracle, 
 indeed, these slender cushions of fat, ramified 
 by a network of nerves, sinews, and bones as 
 exquisite in their mechanism as the motion of 
 the planets. If hearing is a miracle, so is 
 touch ; the ear is not a resonator, as has been 
 so long maintained, but an apparatus which 
 records variations of pressure. This makes it 
 subservient to the laws of sensation ; touch 
 and hearing are akin. It aroused the pride 
 of Davos after he had read the revolutionary 
 theories of Pierre Bounier regarding the touch. 
 So subtle could the art of touch be culti 
 vated, the pianist believed, that the blind could 
 feel colour on the canvas of the painter. He 
 spent weeks experimenting with a sensitive 
 manometer, gauging all the scale of dynamics. 
 No doubt these fumblings on the edge of a new 
 science temporarily hurt his play. With a dan 
 gerous joy he pressed the keys of his instru- 
 292
 
 THE WOMAN WHO LOVED CHOPIN 
 
 ment, endeavouring to achieve more delicate 
 shadings. He quarrelled with the piano manu 
 facturers for their obstinate adherence to the 
 old-fashioned clumsy action ; everything had 
 been improved but the keyboard that alone 
 was as coldly unresponsive and inelastic as a 
 half-century ago. He had fugitive dreams of 
 wires that would vibrate like a violin. The 
 sounding-board of a pianoforte is too far from 
 the pianist, while the violinist presses his strings 
 as one kisses the beloved. Little wonder it is 
 the musical monarch. A new pianoforte, with 
 passionately coloured overtones, that could sob 
 like a violoncello, sing like a violin, and resound 
 with the brazen clangours of the orchestra 
 Liszt had conceived this synthesis, had by the 
 sheer force of his audacious genius compelled 
 from his instrument ravishing tones that were 
 never heard before or alas ! since. 
 
 Even the antique harpsichord had its compen 
 sations ; not so powerful in its tonal capacity, 
 it nevertheless gave forth a pleading, human 
 quality like the still small angelic voice. Davos 
 pondered these problems, pondered Chopin's 
 celestial touch and the weaving magic of his 
 many-hued poems ; Chopin Keats, Shelley, 
 and Heine battling within the walls of a frail 
 tender soul. 
 
 The sound of footsteps and voices aroused 
 him. He shivered with disgust. More people ! 
 Two men, well advanced in life, followed by two 
 women, barely attracted his notice, until he saw 
 
 293
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 that the little creature who waddled at the rear 
 of the party was a Japanese in European clothes. 
 Notwithstanding her western garb, she resem 
 bled a print of Utamaro. Beside her walked a 
 tall, grave girl, with dark hair and gray eyes, 
 attired in the quaint garb of some early nine 
 teenth-century epoch 1840 or thereabouts. 
 As old-fashioned as she looked, a delicate girlish 
 beauty was hers, and when she indifferently 
 gazed at Davos, straightway he heard humming 
 in his head the " glance motive " from Tristan 
 and Isolde. They passed on, but not leaving 
 him as he was before ; a voice whispered in 
 the secret recesses of his being : " You love ! 
 Follow ! Seek her ! " And under the sudden 
 impulsion of this passion he arose and made a 
 few steps toward the curve of the path around 
 which the girl and her companions had disap 
 peared. The absurdity of this hasty transla 
 tion into action of his desire halted him. Yes, 
 his nerves must be in a bad way if a casual 
 encounter with a pretty woman but was she 
 pretty ? He did not return to his seat. He 
 continued his stroll leisurely. Pretty ! Not ex 
 actly pretty distinguished ! Noble ! Lovely ! 
 Beautiful ! He smiled. Here he was playing 
 the praises of the unknown in double octaves. 
 He did not overtake her. She had vanished on 
 the other side of the bridge, and in a few min 
 utes he found himself entering Alt-Aussee. It 
 wore a bright appearance, with its various- 
 coloured villas on the lake shores, and its church 
 294
 
 THE WOMAN WHO LOVED CHOPIN 
 
 and inn for a core. The garden of this hotel 
 he found to be larger than he had imagined ; 
 it stretched along the bank and only stopped 
 as if stone and mortar had been too lazy to go 
 farther. 
 
 Again he hesitated. The garden, the restau- 
 ration full of people : women knitting, chil 
 dren bawling, men reading; and all sipping 
 coffee to a background of gossip. He remem 
 bered that it was the sacred hour of Kaffee 
 klatsch, and he would have escaped by a flight 
 of steps that led down to the beach, but he was 
 hailed. A company of a half-dozen sat at a 
 large table under the trees, and the host was 
 an orchestral conductor well known to Davos. 
 There was no alternative. He took a chair. 
 He was introduced as the celebrated pianoforte- 
 virtuoso to men and women he had never seen 
 before, and hoped so rancorous was his mood 
 never to see again. A red-headed girl from 
 Brooklyn, who confessed that she thought 
 Maeterlinck the name of some new Parisian 
 wickedness, further bothered him with questions 
 about piano teachers. No, he didn't give les 
 sons ! He never would ! She dropped out of 
 the conversation. Finally by an effort he swore 
 that his head was splitting, that he must return 
 to Ischl. He broke away. When he discovered 
 that the crowd was also bound for the same place, 
 he abruptly disappeared. It took him just two 
 hours to traverse the irregular curves of the lake 
 on the Franz Carl Promenade, and he ate his 
 
 295
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 dinner in peace at the inn upon a balcony that 
 projected over the icy waters. 
 
 Davos decided, as he smoked a mild cigarette, 
 that he would remain at Alt-Aussee for the night. 
 The peace of the landscape purified his soul of 
 its irritability, though he wished that the Dach- 
 stein would not dominate so persistently the sky 
 line it was difficult to avoid the view of this 
 solitary and egotistic peak, the highest in Styria. 
 He was assigned a comfortable chamber, but the 
 night was too fine for bed. He did not feel 
 sleepy, and he went along the road he had come 
 by ; the church was an opaque mass, the spire 
 alone showing in the violet twilight, like some 
 supernatural spar on a ship far out at sea. He 
 attempted to conjure to his tired brain the fea 
 tures, the expression, of the girl. They would 
 not reappear ; his memory was traitorous. 
 
 The murmur of faint music, piano music, made 
 his ears wince how he hated music ! But afar 
 as were these tonal silhouettes, traced against 
 the evening air, his practised hearing told him 
 that they were made by an artist. He languidly 
 followed the clue, and soon he was at the gate 
 of a villa, almost buried in the bosk, and listen 
 ing with all his critical attention to a thrilling 
 performance yes, thrilling was the word of 
 Chopin's music. What! The last movement 
 of the B flat minor sonata, the funeral march 
 sonata, but no more like the interpretation he 
 had heard from others from himself than 
 than . . . 
 
 296
 
 THE WOMAN WHO LOVED CHOPIN 
 
 But, good heavens ! Who was playing ! The 
 unison passages that mount and recede were 
 iridescent columns of mist painted by the moon 
 light and swaying rhythmically in the breeze. 
 Here was something rare. No longer conscious 
 of the technical side of the playing, so spirit 
 ualized was it, so crystalline the touch, Davos 
 forgot his manners and slipped through the 
 gateway, through the dark garden, toward an 
 open window in which burned a solitary candle. 
 The mystery of this window and the quicksilver 
 dartings of the music gods, what a touch, 
 what gossamer delicacy ! set his heart throb 
 bing. He forgot his sick nerves. When the 
 trumpet blows, the war-horse lusts for action 
 and this was not a trumpet, but a horn of elf -land. 
 He moved as closely as he dared to the window, 
 and the music ceased naturally enough, the 
 movement had concluded. His ears burned 
 with the silence. She came to the window. 
 Arrested by the vision the casement framed 
 her in a delicious manner he did not stir. 
 She could not help seeing this intruder, the 
 light struck him full in the face. She spoke : 
 
 " Dear Mr. Davos, won't you come into the 
 house ? My father and my uncle will be most 
 happy to receive you." 
 
 ****** 
 
 She knew him! Stunned by his overstrung 
 emotions, he could only bow his head. 
 
 297
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 II 
 
 He received the welcome of a king. The 
 two men he had seen earlier in the day 
 advanced ceremoniously and informed him 
 that the honour of his presence was something 
 they had never hoped for ; that as news flies 
 swiftly in villages they had heard he was 
 at Alt-Aussee ; they had recognized the great 
 Marco Davos on the road. These statements 
 were delivered with exaggerated courtesy, 
 though possibly sincere. The elder of the pair 
 was white-whiskered, very tall and spare, his 
 expression a sadly vague one. It was her 
 father. The other an antique person, a roly- 
 poly fellow who chuckled and quavered, was her 
 uncle. Davos sat in a drawing-room containing 
 a grand pianoforte, a few chairs, and couches. 
 The floor was stained, and when a cluster of 
 lights was brought by the uncle, he noticed 
 that only Chopin portraits hung on the walls. 
 He apologized for his intrusion the music 
 had lured him from the highroad. 
 
 "We are very musical," said the father. 
 
 " I should say so, "reiterated his brother-in-law. 
 
 " Musical ! " echoed Davos. " Do you call it by 
 such an everyday phrase ? I heard the playing 
 of a marvellous poet a moment ago." The two 
 men looked shyly at each other. She entered. 
 He was formally presented. 
 
 "Monsieur Davos, this is Constantia Grabow- 
 ska, my daughter. My name is Joseph 
 298
 
 THE WOMAN WHO LOVED CHOPIN 
 
 Grabowski; my late wife's brother, Monsieur 
 Pelletier." Davos was puzzled by the name, 
 Constantia Grabowska ! She sat before him, 
 dressed in black silk with crinoline ; two dainty 
 curls hung over her ears ; her profile, her 
 colouring, were slightly Oriental, and in her 
 nebulous gray eyes with their greenish light 
 there was eternal youth. Constantia ! Polish. 
 And how she played Chopin ah ! it came 
 to him before he had finished his apologies. 
 
 " You are named after Chopin's first love," 
 he ejaculated. " Pardon the liberty." She 
 answered him in her grave, measured contralto. 
 
 " Constantia Gladowska was my grand 
 mother." The playing, the portraits, were now 
 explained. A lover of the Polish composer, 
 Davos knew every incident of his biography. 
 
 " I am the son of that Joseph Grabowski, 
 the Warsaw merchant who married the soprano 
 singer, Constantia Gladowska, in 1832," said 
 the father, smilingly. " My father became 
 blind." 
 
 "Chopin's Ideal!" exclaimed Marco. He 
 was under the spell of the girl's beauty and 
 music. He almost stared at her, for the know 
 ledge that she was a great artiste, perhaps 
 greater than himself, rather dampened his pas 
 sion. She was adorable as she returned with 
 out coquetry his ardent gaze ; but she was 
 he had to admit it a rival. This composite 
 feeling he inwardly wrestled with as the conver 
 sation placidly proceeded. They only spoke of 
 299
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 Poland, of Chopin. Once the name of Emilia 
 Plater, the Polish Joan of Arc, was mentioned 
 she, too, was a distant connection. The 
 young pianist hinted that more music would 
 be agreeable, but there was no response. He 
 was quite alone with Constantia, and they 
 talked of Poland's tone-poet. She knew much 
 more of Chopin than he did, and she recited 
 Mick'fewicz's patriotic poems with incomparable 
 verve. 
 
 " Do you believe in heredity ? " he cried, as 
 the father entered with the tea. " Do you 
 believe that your love of Chopin is inherited? 
 Chopin composed that wonderful slow move 
 ment of the F minor concerto because of his 
 love for your grandmother. How I wish I 
 could have seen her, heard her." 
 
 The girl, without answering him, detached 
 from her neck a large brooch and chain. 
 Davos took it and amazedly compared the 
 portrait with the living woman. 
 
 "You are Constantia Gladowska." She 
 smiled. 
 
 " Her love of Chopin she must have loved 
 her youthful adorer has been transmitted to 
 you. Oh, please play me that movement 
 again, the one Rubinstein called 'the night 
 wind sweeping over the churchyard graves." " 
 Constantia blushed so deeply that he knew 
 he had offended her. She had for him some 
 thing of the pathos of old dance music its 
 stately sweetness, its measured rhythms. After 
 300
 
 THE WOMAN WHO LOVED CHOPIN 
 
 drinking a cup of tea he drifted to the in 
 strument flies do not hanker after honey 
 as strongly as do pianists in the presence of 
 an open keyboard. A tactful silence ensued. 
 He began playing, and, as if exasperated at 
 the challenge implied by her refusal, he played 
 in his old form. Then he took the theme of 
 Chopin's E flat minor Scherzo, and he juggled 
 with it, spun it into fine fibres of tone, dashed 
 it down yawning and serried harmonic abysses. 
 He was magnificent as he put forth all the 
 varied resources of his art. Constantia, her 
 cheeks ablaze, her lips parted, interposed a 
 fan between her eyes and the light. There 
 was something dangerous and passionate in 
 her regard. In all the fury of his play 
 he knew that he had touched her. Once, 
 during a pause, he heard her sigh. As he 
 finished in a thunderous crash he saw in the 
 doorway the figure of the Japanese maid 
 an ugly, gnarled idol with slitted eyes. She 
 withdrew when he arose to receive the unaf 
 fected homage of his hosts. He was curious. 
 Monsieur Pelletier, who looked like a Brazilian 
 parrot in beak and hue, cackled : 
 
 "That's Cilli, our Japanese. She was born 
 in Germany, and is my niece's governess. Quite 
 musical, too, I should say so. Just look at my 
 two Maltese cats ! I call them Tristan and 
 Isolde because they make noises in the night. 
 Don't you loathe Wagner ? " 
 
 It was time to go. Enamoured, Davos took 
 301
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 his leave, promising to call the next forenoon 
 before he went back to Ischl. He held her fin 
 gers for a brief moment and longed to examine 
 their tips, the artist still struggled to subdue 
 the man, but the pressure he received was so 
 unmistakable that he hurried away, fearing to 
 betray his emotion. He hovered in the vicinity 
 of the house, longing for more music. He was 
 disappointed. For a full hour he wandered 
 through the dusty lanes in the faded light of an 
 old moon. When he reached his chamber, it 
 was long past one o'clock ; undaunted, his 
 romantic fervour forced him to the window, and 
 he watched the shining lake. He fell asleep 
 thinking of Constantia. But he dreamed of 
 Cilli, the Japanese maid with the hideous eyes. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Not only that morning, but every morning for 
 two weeks, did Marco Davos visit Alt-Aussee. 
 He came down from Ischl on the earliest train, 
 and some nights he stopped at the hotel near his 
 new friends. After a few visits he saw little of 
 the father and uncle, and he was not sorry 
 they were old bores with their archaic anecdotes 
 of dead pianists. Two maniacs on the subject 
 of music, Davos wished them to the devil after he 
 had known them twenty-four hours. His passion 
 had reached the acute key. He could not eat 
 or drink in normal fashion, and no sooner had 
 he left the girl than the sky became sombre, 
 302
 
 THE WOMAN WHO LOVED CHOPIN 
 
 his pulse weakened, and he longed to return to 
 her side to tell her something he had forgotten. 
 He did this several times, and hesitated in his 
 speech, reddened, and left her, stumbling over 
 the grass like a lame man. Never such a crazy 
 wooer, never a calmer maiden. She looked un 
 utterable sentiment, but spoke it not. 
 
 When he teased her about her music, she 
 became a statue. She was too timid to play 
 before artists ; her only master had been her 
 father. Once more he had heard the piano as 
 he returned unexpectedly, and almost caught 
 her; he saw her at the instrument, but some 
 instinct must have warned her that she was 
 being spied upon. She stopped in the middle 
 of a phrase from a Mendelssohn song, and even 
 to his prejudiced ears her touch had seemed 
 commonplace. Yet he loved her all the more 
 despite her flat refusal to play. The temptation 
 to his excited artistic temperament was removed. 
 He played, often, gloriously. His nerves were 
 steel. This was a cure his doctor had not fore 
 seen. What did it matter, anyhow ? he was 
 near Constantia daily, and the sunshine was 
 royal. Only why did her relatives absent 
 themselves so obstinately ! She told him, with 
 her secret smile, that she had scolded them for 
 talking so much ; but when he played they were 
 never far away, she assured him. Nor was the 
 Japanese woman, Cilli what a name ! A 
 nickname given by Constantia in her babyhood. 
 Cilli was a good soul. He hoped so her good- 
 303
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 ness was not apparent. She had a sneering 
 expression as he played. He never looked up 
 from the keyboard that he did not encounter 
 her ironical gaze. She was undoubtedly inter 
 ested. Her intensity of pose proved it ; but 
 there was no sympathy in her eyes. And she 
 had a habit of suddenly appearing in door or 
 window, and always behind her mistress. She 
 ended by seriously annoying him, though he 
 did not complain. It was too trivial. 
 
 One afternoon he unfolded his novel views 
 on touch. If the action of the modern piano 
 forte could be made as sensitive in its response 
 as the fingerboard of a fiddle. . . . Constantia 
 listened with her habitual gravity, but he knew 
 that she was bored. Then he shifted to the 
 subject of fingers. He begged to be allowed 
 the privilege of examining hers. At first she 
 held back, burying her hand in the old Mechlin 
 lace flounce of her sleeves. He coaxed. He 
 did not attempt to conceal his chagrin when he 
 finally saw her fingers. They were pudgy, 
 good-humoured, fit to lift a knife and fork, or 
 to mend linen. They did not match her cameo- 
 like face, and above all they did not reveal the 
 musical soul he knew her to possess. For the 
 first time since he met her she gave evidence 
 of ill humour. She sharply withdrew her hand 
 from his, and as she did so a barbaric croon was 
 heard, a sort of triumphant wailing, and Con 
 stantia, without making an excuse, hurriedly left 
 the room. The singing stopped. 
 
 304
 
 THE WOMAN WHO LOVED CHOPIN 
 
 " It's that devil of a Japanese woman," he 
 muttered testily. He waited for nearly an hour, 
 and in a vile temper took up his hat and stick and 
 went away. Decidedly this was his unlucky 
 day, he grumbled, as he reached the water. 
 He saw Grabowski and Pelletier, arm in arm, 
 trudging toward the villa, but contrived to evade 
 them. In ten minutes he found himself spying 
 on the house he had quitted. He skirted a little 
 private way back of the villa, and to his amaze 
 ment father, uncle, and Constantia came out 
 and hailed the omnibus which travelled hourly 
 to Aussee. Davos was furious. He did not risk 
 following them, for he realized he had been 
 treated shabbily. His wrath softened as he 
 reflected ; perhaps Constantia, agitated by his 
 rudeness, had he been rude ? persuaded her 
 family to follow him to Ischl. The sky cleared. 
 That was the solution Marco Davos straight 
 ened himself his pride was no longer up in 
 arms. Poor child she was so easily wounded ! 
 How he loved her ! 
 
 His body trembled. He could not believe he 
 was awake. Incredible music was issuing from 
 behind the closed blinds of the villa. Music! 
 And the music he had overheard that first night. 
 But Constantia had just gone away ; he had seen 
 her. There must be some mistake, some joke. 
 No, no, by another path she had managed to get 
 back to the house. Ay ! but what playing. 
 Again came that purling rush of notes, those 
 unison passages, as if one gigantic hand grasped 
 
 305
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 them so perfect was the tonal accord. He did 
 not hesitate. At a bound he was in the corri 
 dor and pushed open the door of the drawing- 
 room. . . . 
 
 At first the twilighted room blinded him. 
 Then to his disgust and terror he saw the ape 
 like features of the squat Japanese governess. 
 She sat at the piano, her bilious skin flushed 
 by the exertion of playing. 
 
 " You you! " he barely managed to stammer. 
 She did not reply, but preserved the immobility 
 of a carved idol. 
 
 "You are a wonderful artiste," he blurted, 
 going to her. She stolidly answered : 
 
 " The Japanese have the finest sense of touch 
 in the world. I was once a pupil of Karl Tau- 
 sig." Involuntarily he bowed his head to the 
 revered name of the one man he had longed to 
 hear. Then his feelings almost strangled him ; 
 his master passion asserted itself. 
 
 "Your fingers, your fingers let me see them," 
 he hoarsely demanded. With a malicious grin she 
 extended her hands he groaned enviously. Yes, 
 they were miracles of sculpture, miracles of colour 
 and delicacy, the slender tips well-nigh prehensile 
 in their cunning power. And the fingers of Con- 
 stantia, of his love, of the woman who loved 
 Chopin that Chopin whose first passion was 
 for her grandmother, the opera singer Constantia 
 Gladowska ! 
 
 The knowledge of her cruel deception crept 
 into his consciousness. He was chilled for 
 306
 
 THE WOMAN WHO LOVED CHOPIN 
 
 several seconds. Grief at his lost love, im 
 placable anger at her trickery, crowded into his 
 unhappy brain. But he only bowed to Cilli, 
 and summoning all his will he politely said : 
 
 " It is quite true that when the Japanese choose 
 to play the piano, we Europeans must shut up 
 shop." He hurried out to the road and walked 
 desperately. . . . 
 
 The next morning, as he nervously paced the 
 platform of the Ischl railway station, he encoun 
 tered his old friend Alfred Brunfeld, the jovial 
 Viennese pianist. 
 
 " Hullo ! " 
 
 "Hullo!" 
 
 " Not going back to Vienna ? " 
 
 "Yes I'm tired of the country." 
 
 " But, man, you are pale and tired. Have you 
 been studying up here after your doctor bade 
 you rest ? " The concern in Briinfeld's voice 
 touched Davos. He shook his head, then be 
 thought himself of something. 
 
 " Alfred, you are acquainted with everybody 
 in Europe. How is it you never told me about 
 that strange Grabowski crowd you know, the 
 granddaughter of Chopin's first love ? " Brunfeld 
 looked at him with instant curiosity. 
 
 " You also ? " he said. The young man blushed. 
 After that he could never forgive ! The other 
 continued : 
 
 " Granddaughter, fiddlesticks ! They are not 
 Poles, those Grabowskis, but impostors. Their 
 real name is is Davos started. 
 307
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 "What, you have met them ? " 
 
 " Yes, the stupid father, the odious uncle, the 
 fair Constantia what a meek saint ! and 
 that diabolical Japanese, who plays the piano 
 like a house on fire." Tears came to the eyes 
 of Marco Davos. 
 
 " Did they I mean, did she take you in, 
 too ? " 
 
 " Here, at Ischl, last summer," was the grim 
 reply. 
 
 308
 
 XVIII 
 THE TUNE OF TIME 
 
 FERVAL returned to Rouen after a fatiguing 
 trip down the Seine as far as Croisset, the old 
 home of Gustave Flaubert. Here he viewed, 
 not without a dismal sense of fame and its 
 futility, the little garden-house in which the 
 masterpieces of the great Frenchman had been 
 conceived in joy and executed in sorrow. He 
 met the faithful Colange, one-time attendant 
 of Flaubert, and from him learned exacerbating 
 details of the novelist's lonesome years; so he 
 was in a mood of irritation as he went ashore 
 near the Boi'eldieu Bridge and slowly paced 
 toward his hotel. He loved this Norman 
 Rouen, loved the battered splendour of Notre- 
 Dame Cathedral, loved the church of Saint- 
 Ouen that miracle of the Gothic, with its 
 upspringing turrets, its portal as perfect as a 
 Bach fugue. And in the Solferino Garden he 
 paid his tribute of flowers at the monuments of 
 Maupassant and Flaubert. Ferval was modern 
 in his tastes ; he believed nothing in art was 
 worth the while which did not date from the 
 nineteenth century. 
 
 Deplorably bored, he passed his hotel on the 
 
 39
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 Quai and turned into the Rue Jeanne d'Arc, 
 which led by the facade of the Palais de Justice. 
 He had studied it carefully, and it did not, this 
 dull afternoon in September, hold his interest 
 long ; he sauntered on, not feeling strong enough 
 to light a cigarette. Decidedly, Rouen was be 
 come tiresome. He would go back to Paris by 
 the evening train or to Dieppe, thence to 
 London, on the morning boat. Presently he 
 found himself nearing the Porte de la Grosse 
 Horloge. Through its opening poured viva 
 cious working girls and men in blouse and cap, 
 smoking, chattering, gesticulating. It was all 
 very animated, and the wanderer tried to enjoy 
 the picture. Then over against the crenellated 
 wall, under the tablet bearing the quaint inscrip 
 tion picked out in choice Latin, Ferval saw a 
 tall girl. Her bare head would not have marked 
 her in a crowd where motley prevailed ; it was 
 her pose that attracted him, above all, her 
 mediaeval face, with its long, drooping nose 
 which recalled some graven image of Jean 
 Goujon. Her skin was tanned ; her hair, flame- 
 coloured, was confined by a classic fillet; her 
 eyes, Oriental in fulness, were light blue 
 Ferval had crossed to the apparition and noted 
 these things. She did not return his stare, but 
 continued to gaze at the archway as if expect 
 ing some one. Young, robust, her very attitude 
 suggested absolute health ; yet her expression 
 was so despairing, her eyes so charged with 
 misery, that involuntarily he felt in his pocket 
 310
 
 THE TUNE OF TIME 
 
 for money. And then he saw that in her hand 
 she held a tambourine. She wore a faded uni 
 form of the Salvation Army. 
 
 Suddenly an extraordinary noise was heard ; 
 music, but of such a peculiar and excruciating 
 quality that the young man forgot his neighbour 
 and wondered what new pain was in store for 
 his already taut nerves. The shops emptied, 
 children stopped their games, and the Quarter 
 suspended its affairs to welcome the music. 
 Ferval heard rapturous and mocking remarks. 
 " Baki, Baki, the human orchestra ! " cried one 
 gossip to another. And the reverberating 
 music swelled, multifarious and amazing as if 
 a military band from piccolo to drum were about 
 to descend the highway. A clatter and bang, a 
 sweet droning and shrill scraping, and then an 
 old man proudly limped through the gateway of 
 the Great Clock. This was the conjurer, this 
 white-haired fellow, who, with fife, cymbals, 
 bells, concertinas, he wore two strapped under 
 either arm, at times fiddler, made epileptic 
 music as he quivered and danced, wriggled, and 
 shook his venerable skull. The big drum was 
 fastened to his back, upon its top were placed 
 cymbals. On his head he wore a pavilion hung 
 with bells that pealed when he twisted or nodded 
 his long, yellow neck. He carried a weather 
 worn fiddle with a string or two missing, while 
 a pipe that might have been a clarinet years 
 before, now emitted but cackling tones from 
 his thin lips, through which shone a few fang- 
 Si 1
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 like teeth. By some incomprehensible coordi 
 nation of muscular movements he contrived to 
 make sound simultaneously his curious armoury 
 of instruments, and the whistling, screeching, 
 scratching, drumming, wheezing, and tinkling 
 of metal were appalling. But it was rhythmic, 
 and at intervals the edge of a tune could be 
 discerned, cutting sharply through the dense 
 cloud of vibrations, like the prow of a boat cleav 
 ing the fog. Baki, his face red and swollen by 
 his exertions, moved to the spot where waited 
 the girl. 
 
 "Ai t Debora!" cried a boy, "here's the old 
 man. Pass the plate, pass the plate ! " To his 
 amazement, though he could give no reason for 
 the feeling, Ferval saw the girl go from group to 
 group, her tambourine outstretched, begging for 
 coppers. Once she struck an insulting youth 
 across the face, but when she reached Ferval 
 and met his inquiring look, she dropped her 
 eyes and did not ask for alms. A red-headed 
 Sibyl, he thought discontentedly, a street beg 
 gar, the daughter of an old ruffian. And as 
 he walked away rapidly he remembered her 
 glance, in which there lurked some touch of 
 antique pride and wrath. 
 
 II 
 
 Rouen lay below him, a violet haze obscuring 
 all but the pinnacles of its churches. The sink 
 ing sun had no longer power to pierce this 
 312
 
 THE TUNE OF TIME 
 
 misty gulf, at the bottom of which hummed the 
 busy city ; but Ferval saw through rents in the 
 twirling, heat-laden atmosphere the dim shapes 
 of bridges mirrored by the water beneath him ; 
 and once the two islands apparently swept toward 
 him, a blur of green ; while at the end of the 
 valley, framed by hills, he seemed to discern 
 the odd-looking Transbordeur spanning the 
 Seine. 
 
 For. twenty-four hours he had not ceased 
 thinking of the girl with the tambourine, of 
 her savage, sullen grace, her magnificent poise 
 and strange glance. He had learned at his 
 hotel that she was called " Deb or a la folle" 
 and that she was the daughter of the still 
 crazier Baki. Was she some sort of a gypsy, 
 or a Continental version of Salvation Army 
 lass ? No one knew. Each year, at the begin 
 ning of autumn, the pair wandered into Rouen, 
 remained a few weeks, and disappeared. Where ? 
 Paris, perhaps, or Italy or la has ! The shoul 
 der-shrugging proved that Baki and his daughter 
 were not highly regarded by reputable citizens 
 of Rouen, though the street people followed 
 their music and singing as long as it lasted. 
 Singing ? queried Ferval ; does the woman sing ? 
 
 He became more interested. His visits to the 
 country where Pissarro painted and Flaubert 
 wrote revealed other possibilities besides those 
 purely artistic ones in which this amateur of 
 fine shades and sensations delighted. He did 
 not deny, on the esplanade where behind him 
 
 3*3
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 stood Bonsecours and the monument of Jeanne 
 d'Arc, that souvenirs of the girl had kept his 
 eyelids from closing during the major portion 
 of the night. To cool his brain after the mid 
 day breakfast he had climbed the white, dusty, 
 and winding road leading to the Monumental 
 Cemetery wherein, true Flaubertian, he had 
 remained some moments uncovered at the 
 tomb of the master. Now he rested, and the 
 shade of the trees mellowed the slow dusk of 
 a Rouen evening. 
 
 A deep contralto voice boomed in his ears. 
 As he had seen but a scant half-dozen persons 
 during the afternoon on the heights, Ferval 
 was startled from his dreams. He turned. 
 Sitting on a bank of green was the girl. Her 
 hands were clasped and she spoke carelessly to 
 her father, who, unharnessed from his orchestra, 
 appeared another man. Rapidly Ferval observed 
 his striking front, his massive head with the long, 
 white curls, the head of an Elijah disillusioned 
 of his mission. He, too, was sitting, but up 
 right, and his arm was raised with a threatening 
 gesture as if in his desolating anger he were 
 about to pronounce a malediction upon the van 
 ishing twilighted town. Ferval moved immedi 
 ately, as he did not care to be caught spying 
 upon his queer neighbours. He was halted by 
 their speech. It was English. His surprise 
 was so unaffected that he turned back and 
 went up to the two and bade them good-day. 
 At once he saw that the girl recognized him;
 
 THE TUNE OF TIME 
 
 the father dropped his air of grandeur and put 
 on the beggar's mask. What an actor ! thought 
 Ferval, at the transformation. "Would the 
 good gentleman please ?" 
 
 The girl plucked at her father's arm implor 
 ingly. With her grave, cold expression she 
 answered the other's salutation and fixed him 
 with her wonderful eyes so inquiringly that 
 Ferval began a hasty explanation. "English 
 was rarely spoken here . . . and then the 
 pleasure of the music ! " The old man burst 
 into scornful laughter. 
 
 " The music ! " he exclaimed. " The music ! " 
 echoed his daughter. Ferval wished himself 
 down in Rouen. But he held his position. 
 
 "Yes," he continued, "your music. It in 
 terested me. And now I find you speaking my 
 own tongue. I must confess that I am curious, 
 that my curiosity has warrant." Thus was he 
 talking to beggars as if they were his social 
 equals. Unconsciously the tone he adopted 
 had been forced upon him by the bearing of 
 his companions, above all by their accent, that 
 of cultivated folk. Who and what were they ? 
 The musician no longer smiled. 
 
 " You are a music-lover, monsieur ? " he asked 
 in a marked French patois. 
 
 " I love music, and I am extremely engaged 
 by your remarkable combination of instru 
 ments," answered Ferval. Baki regarded his 
 wretched orchestra on the grass, then spoke 
 to his daughter. 
 
 315
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 " Debora," he said in English, and his listener 
 wondered if it were Celtic or Scotch in its un 
 usual intonations, " Debora, you must sing some 
 thing for the gentleman. He loves our art," 
 there was indescribable pathos in this phrase, 
 " so sing something from Purcell, Brahms, 
 or Richard Strauss." 
 
 These words were like the sting of hail ; they 
 seemed to drop from the sky, so out of key 
 were they with the speaker's ragged clothes 
 and the outlandish garb of his daughter. Pur- 
 cell ! Brahms ! Strauss ! What could these 
 three composers mean to such outcasts ? Be 
 lieving that he was the victim of a mystification, 
 Ferval waited, his pulses beating as if he had 
 been running too hard. The girl slowly moved 
 her glorious eyes in his direction ; light as they 
 were in hue, their heavy, dark lashes gave them a 
 fantastic expression bright flame seen through 
 the shadow of smoke. He felt his own dilating 
 as she opened her throat and poured out a broad, 
 sonorous stream of sound that resolved into Von 
 ewiger Liebe by Brahms. He had always loved 
 deep-voiced women. Had he not read in the Tal 
 mud that Lilith, Adam's first wife, was low of 
 voice ? And this beggar-maid ? Maybe a mas 
 querading singer with a crazy father ! What else 
 could mean such art wasted on the roads, thrown 
 in the faces of a rabble ! Ferval kindled with 
 emotion. Here was romance. Brahms and his 
 dark song under the bowl of the troubled blue 
 sky strongly affected him. He took the lean, 
 316
 
 THE TUNE OF TIME 
 
 brown hand of the singer and kissed it fervently. 
 She drew back nervously, but her father struck 
 her on the shoulder chidingly. 
 
 " A trifle too dreary," he rumbled in his heavy 
 bass. " Now, Purcell for the gentleman, and 
 may he open his heart and his purse for the 
 poor." 
 
 " Father," she cried warningly, " we are not 
 beggars, now!" She turned supplicatingly to 
 the young man and made a gesture of dismissal. 
 He gently shook his head and pretended that 
 he was about to leave, though he felt that his 
 feet were rooted in the earth, his power of willing 
 gone. 
 
 " Ay, ay, my girl ! " continued the musician, 
 " you can sing as well as the best of them, only 
 you love your sinful old father so much that you 
 have laid aside your ambitions, to follow him in 
 his pilgrimage of expiation about this wicked 
 globe. Ah, sir, if you but knew I will speak, 
 Debora, for he is a gentleman and a lover of 
 music ! If you but knew our history, you would 
 not be surprised at us. Have ye ever been in 
 Wales ? " 
 
 Ferval stumbled in his answer. It was over 
 looked ; the old man continued : " If ye have, ye 
 must have heard of the sin-eaters. I am one of 
 them, I am an eater of sin " 
 
 Again the girl exclaimed, this time piteously, 
 " Oh, father, remember your vow ! " 
 
 " Poor lass ! Yes, I was a doer of evil, and I 
 became an eater of sin. Some day my sins will
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 be forgiven this is my penance." He pointed 
 to his instruments. Ferval kept silence. He 
 feared a word would blow away the cobweb 
 foundations of the narrative. The girl had 
 turned and was watching a young tilted moon 
 which with a single star made silvery dents low 
 in the western horizon. 
 
 " I am an eater of sin. We still have a few 
 such in Wales. They put a piece of bread and 
 cheese on the breast of a dead man and when the 
 sin-eater eats it, the sins of the dead are passed 
 into the bread and cheese and the soul of the 
 dead is shrived of them. Ay, ay, but it's a 
 grave duty, my friend, to take upon your own 
 soul the crime of another. If you are free 
 from sin yourself, you may walk through life a 
 brave creature ; but ... I took his sins, sins, 
 the sins of the wickedest composer of our cen 
 tury, God rest his soul. And for the wicked 
 things he put into his symphonies I must march 
 through life playing on this terrible collection 
 of instruments the Tune of Time " His 
 daughter faced him. 
 
 " Father, we must go ; you are only keeping 
 the gentleman." Again she signalled Ferval, 
 but he disregarded her warning. He would not 
 stir. The story and the man who told it, a 
 prophet shorn of his heaven-storming powers, 
 fascinated him. 
 
 " I took his sins to myself and they were 
 awful. Once every night I play the Tune of 
 Time in which the wickedness of the dead man
 
 THE TUNE OF TIME 
 
 is spread out like dry rot in a green field. This 
 man kept his genius so long stagnant that it de 
 cayed on his hands, and then into his pestilential 
 music he poured his poison, and would have 
 made the world sick. Oh, for delivery from 
 the crushing transgressions of another ! His 
 name ? Ah, but that is my secret ! I ate his 
 sin, and truth, my son, is stranger than theology ! 
 Listen ! " 
 
 Before his daughter could check him he had 
 hastily donned his armament of instruments and, 
 tramping slowly the broad, smooth path, began 
 playing. Ferval, much disappointed, was about 
 to disappear, for he remembered the racking 
 noises of the previous day. But this music, this 
 Tune of Time ! . . . 
 
 Ill 
 
 It was like the flare of lightning which illu 
 minates strange regions beyond the borders of 
 the soul. Ferval no longer heard, he felt; 
 he felt no more, he saw. The white veil was 
 torn asunder, and it showed him a melodious 
 thunder-pool wherein tapering tiny bodies swam, 
 whose eyes were the eyes of Debora. They 
 split and coalesced into other creatures, and 
 to the drummings of spheric harmonies resolved 
 themselves scaly and monstrous. Never did 
 they cease changing. As the music buzzed he 
 saw the great ladder of life, the lowermost rungs 
 resting in lakes of melted amber, the top threat 
 s'
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 ening the remotest rims of the universe. And 
 still the Tune of Time whirred on, as facet after 
 facet of the Infinite wheeled toward creation. 
 Numberless legions of crumpled nightmare 
 shapes modulated into new, familiar forms. 
 Ferval saw plasmic dew become anthropoidal 
 apes, fiercely roaming primeval forests in search 
 of prey. The music mounted ever upward, for 
 the Tune of Time is the Tune of Love love 
 and its inseparable shadow, hate, fashion the 
 firmament. The solid, circular earth shivered 
 like a mighty harp under this lyric burden of 
 love. The very stars sported in their orbits ; 
 and from the fulgurating ovens of the Milky 
 Way there shot forth streams of audible light 
 that touched the heart-strings of the hairy, erect 
 primates and set them chanting ; thus were the 
 souls born which crowned them men. This space- 
 bridging music ranged from sun to sun, and its 
 supernatural symphony had no beginning and 
 never shall end. 
 
 But the magician or devil who revealed this 
 phantasmagoria of the Cosmos how had he 
 wrested from the Inane the Tune of Time that 
 in a sequence of chromatic chords pictured the 
 processes of the eternal energy ? Was this his 
 sin, the true sin against the Holy Ghost ? How 
 had he blundered upon the secret of the rhyth 
 mic engine which spun souls through the ages ? 
 No man could live after this terrific peep at the 
 Ancient of Days. Debora's eyes peered into 
 Ferval's, filled with the music that enmeshes. 
 320
 
 THE TUNE OF TIME 
 
 And now sounded the apocalyptic trumpets even 
 unto the glittering edges of eternity. . . . 
 
 Amid this vertiginous tempest of tones Deb- 
 ora danced the Dance of Space. She revolved 
 in lenten movement to the lilt of the music, her 
 eyes staring and full of broken lights. As her 
 gaze collided with her companion's he saw a 
 disk of many-coloured fire ; and then her lan 
 guorous gestures were transformed into shivering 
 intensities. She danced like the wine-steeped 
 Noah ; she danced as danced David before the 
 Ark of the Covenant. And she was Herodias 
 pirouetting for the price of John's head, and her 
 brow was wreathed with serpents. Followed 
 the convulsive curvings of the Nautch and the 
 opaque splendours of stately Moorish slaves. 
 Debora threw her watcher into a frenzy of fear. 
 He crouched under a sky that roofed him in 
 with its menacing blackness ; the orbs of the 
 girl were shot with crescent lightnings. Alien 
 in his desolation, he wondered if her solemn 
 leaps, as the music dashed with frantic speed 
 upon his ear-drums, signified the incarnation of 
 Devi, dread slayer of men ! The primal charmers 
 affrighted his vision: Lilith, Ourania, Astarte", 
 Ashtaroth, Belkis, Ishtar, Mylitta, Cotytto, and 
 many immemorial figures from before the Flood 
 streamed by and melted into the woven paces 
 of Debora this new Jephtha's daughter danc 
 ing to her doom as her father fingered the 
 Tune of Time. In the whirling patterns of her 
 dance, Ferval discerned, though dimly, the Veil 
 321
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 of Maya, the veil of illusion called Space, on the 
 thither side of which are embroidered the fuga 
 cious symbols of Time. . . . 
 
 . . . As the delirious music faltered and 
 fainted, he watched the tragic eyes of Debora 
 yellowing cat-like. His senses and imagination 
 had been hypnotized by all this fracas and by 
 the beauty of the girl. With such a mate and 
 such formidable music, he could conquer the 
 earth ! His brain was afire with the sweetness 
 of the odour that enveloped them, an odour as 
 penetrating as the music of the nocturnal Chopin. 
 
 " Debora," he whispered, " you must never go 
 away from me." She hung her head. The old 
 man was not to be seen ; the darkness had swal 
 lowed him. Ferval quietly passed his arm about 
 the waist of the silent woman and slowly they 
 walked in the tender night. She was the first 
 to speak : 
 
 ''You did not hear a madman's story," she 
 asserted in her clear, candid voice, which had 
 for him the hue of a cleft pomegranate. " It is 
 the history of my father's soul. It is his own 
 sin he expiates." 
 
 " But you, you ! " Ferval cried unsteadily. 
 " Why must your life be sacrificed to gratify the 
 bizarre egotism of such a " He cut short the 
 phrase, fearful of wounding her. He felt her 
 body tremble and her arm contract. They 
 reached the marble staircase of the Jeanne 
 d'Arc memorial. She stopped him and burst 
 forth : 
 
 322
 
 THE TUNE OF TIME 
 
 " Would you be willing to share his burden ? 
 Would you take upon your shoulders his sin ? 
 He may have committed the one unpardonable 
 sin, for he discovered the true philosopher's 
 stone, that can transmute metals, make moun 
 tains nod, the stars to stop, and command the 
 throne of Jehovah oh, what blasphemy has 
 been his in his daring music ! If he could per 
 suade one other soul besides mine to help him, 
 he might be released from his woe. Will you be 
 that other?" 
 
 She put this question as if she were proposing 
 a commonplace human undertaking. Ferval in 
 his confusion fancied that she was provoking 
 him to a declaration. To grasp his receding 
 reason he fatuously exclaimed : 
 
 " Is this a Salvation Army fantasy ? " 
 
 With that she called out, in harsh resentment: 
 
 " Not salvation for you ! " 
 
 She then thrust him from her so violently that 
 he tumbled backward down the steps to the very 
 bottom, where, unnerved by the ferocity of the 
 attack and his head bruised by the fall, he felt 
 his consciousness escape like gas from a punc 
 tured balloon. When found the next morning, 
 he was barely covered by the old sin-eater's rags, 
 while near by was scattered the entire orchestra 
 of that eloquent wizard. Shudderingly he real 
 ized that it had been no dream; shudderingly 
 he wondered if upon his soul had been shifted 
 the unknown crime of the fanatic ! The witch 
 ing, enigmatic Debora haunted his memory ; 
 
 3 2 3
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 and with dismay he recalled the blistering vision 
 evoked by the music, through which she had 
 glided like some tremulous Lamia. Decidedly 
 his imagination had carried him far. He cursed 
 his easy credulity, he reviled his love of the 
 exotic. . . . 
 
 Ferval made inquiry of the authorities, but 
 received little comfort. Salvation Army people 
 they were not, this father and daughter ; the tam 
 bourine, assumed garb, and prophet's beard had 
 deceived him. Impostors ! But of what incred 
 ible caliber, of what illusion-creating power ! For 
 years he could not see a Salvation Army girl 
 without a sense of cerebral exaltation. If he 
 could have met Debora again, he would have 
 forgiven her sibylline deceptions, her father's 
 chicanery. And how did they spin their web ? 
 Ferval, student of the occult, greedy of meta 
 physical problems, at first set it down to Indian 
 Yogi magic. But the machinery the hide 
 ously discordant human orchestra, the cory- 
 bantic dancing ! No, he rejected the theory. 
 Music is sometimes hypnotic, but not such 
 music ; dancing is the most alluring of the 
 spatial arts, and Debora's miming was a de 
 light to the eye ; but could it have so obscured 
 his judgments as to paint upon the canvas of 
 his fancy those prodigious frescoes of time and 
 space ? 
 
 In the iron solitude of his soul he tortured 
 himself with these questions. His stupor 
 lasted for days was it the abrupt fall or was 
 3 2 4
 
 THE TUNE OF TIME 
 
 it the result of his absinthe-like dreams ? He 
 was haunted by an odour that assailed his brain 
 like one tune persistently played. The odour ! 
 Whence did it come with its sickly sweetness ? 
 Perhaps therein lay the secret of his halluci 
 nating visions. Perhaps a drug had perverted 
 his brain. But within the week the dangerous 
 perfume had become dissipated, and with it 
 vanished all hope of solving the riddle. Oh, 
 to sense once more the enchantments of its 
 fragrance, once more revel in the sublimated 
 intoxication of mighty forces weaving at the 
 loom of life ! By the cadences of what in 
 fernal art had he been vouchsafed a glimpse of 
 the profiles of the gods ? Henceforth Ferval 
 became a lover of shadows. 
 
 3 2 5
 
 XIX 
 NADA 
 
 THE tenderness of the growing night dis 
 quieted the dying woman. 
 
 " Aline ! " she called. But it was only the 
 name that reverberated within the walls of her 
 brain, harrowed by fever. A soft air rustled the 
 drawn curtains of lawn ; and on the dressing 
 table the two little lamps fluttered in syncopated 
 sympathy. One picture the room held. It was 
 after a painting by Goya, and depicted a sneer 
 ing skeleton scrawling on his dusty tomb, with 
 a bony fore-finger, the sinister word, Nada 
 nothing ! The perturbation of the woman in 
 creased, though physical power seemed denied 
 her. " Aline, my child ! " This time a cluck 
 ing sound issued from her throat. 
 
 The girl went to the bedside and gently 
 fanned. Her aunt wagged her head negatively. 
 " No, no ! " she stuttered. Aline stopped, and 
 kneeling, took the sick hands in her own. Their 
 eyes met and Aline, guided by the glance, looked 
 over at the picture with its sardonic motto. 
 
 " Shall I take it away, Aunt Mary ? " The 
 
 elder woman closed her eyes as if to shut out 
 
 the ghoulish mockery. Then Aline saw the 
 
 tabouret that stood between the windows it 
 
 326
 
 NADA 
 
 was burdened with magnolias in a deep white 
 bowl. 
 
 " Do you wish them nearer ? " 
 
 "No, no," murmured her aunt. Her eyes 
 brightened. She pushed her chin forward, and 
 the young girl removed the flowers, knowing 
 that their odour had become oppressive. She 
 was not absent more than a few seconds. As 
 she returned the maid touched her arm. 
 
 " The gentlemen are waiting below, miss. 
 They won't leave until they see you." 
 
 " How can I go now? Send them away, send 
 them away ! " 
 
 " Yes, miss ; but I told them what you said 
 this afternoon about the danger of Holiest 
 Mother " 
 
 " Hush ! she is calling." Aline slipped into 
 the room on hurried feet, her eyes dilated, her 
 hair in anxious disorder. But the invalid made 
 no signal. She lay with closed eyelids, the 
 contraction of her nostrils a faint proclamation 
 of life. Again the niece took her place at 
 the headboard, and with folded fingers watched 
 the whispering indications of speedy flight. 
 The maid soon beckoned her from a narrowed 
 door. Aline joined her. 
 
 " They say that if you don't go down, they 
 will come up." 
 
 " Who says ? " was the stern query. 
 
 " The Second Reader and the Secretary. I 
 think you had better see them ; they both look 
 worried. Really I do, Miss Allie." 
 3 2 7
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 " Very well, Ellen ; but you must stay here, 
 and if Holiest Mother makes the slightest move, 
 touch the bell. I'll not be gone five minutes." 
 
 Without arranging her hair or dress, Aline 
 opened the folding doors of the drawing-room. 
 Only the centre lamp was lighted, but she rec 
 ognized the two men. They were sitting to 
 gether, and arose as she entered. The burly 
 Second Reader wore a dismayed countenance. 
 His cheeks were flabby, his eyes red. The 
 other was a timid little man who never had any 
 thing to say. 
 
 " How is Holiest Mother? " asked the Reader. 
 
 "Dying." 
 
 " Oh, Sister Aline ! Why such a blunt way 
 of putting it ? She may be exchanging her 
 earthly garb for a celestial one but die ! We 
 do not acknowledge death in the Church of the 
 New Faith." He paused and blandly stroked 
 his huge left hand, covered with red down. 
 
 " Holiest Mother, my aunt, has not an hour 
 to live," was the cool response of the girl. " If 
 you have no further question, I must ask you to 
 excuse me ; I am needed above." She stepped 
 to the door. 
 
 " Wait a moment, sister ! Not so fast. The 
 situation is serious. Hundreds of thousands of 
 the faithful depend on our report of this of 
 this sad event. We may tell them that the 
 female pope of our great religion" he bent 
 his big neck reverently "was wafted to her 
 heavenly abode by the angels. But there are 
 328
 
 NADA 
 
 the officers of the law, the undertaker, the ceme 
 tery people, to be considered. Shall we acknow 
 ledge that our founder has died like any other 
 human in bed, of a fever ? And who is to be 
 her successor ? Has she left a will ? " 
 
 " Poor Aunt Mary ! " muttered the girl. 
 
 " It must be a woman, will or no will," con 
 tinued the Second Reader, in the tone of a con 
 queror making terms with a stricken foe. " Now 
 Aline, sister, you are the nearest of kin. You 
 are a fervent healer. You are the Woman." 
 
 " How can you stand there heartlessly plot 
 ting such things and a dying woman in the 
 house ? " Aline's voice was metallic with pas 
 sion. " You care only for the money and power 
 in our church. I refuse to join with you in any 
 such scheme. Aunt Mary will die. She will 
 name her successor. Then it will be time to 
 act. Have you forgotten her last words to the 
 faithful ? " She pointed to a marble tablet above 
 the fireplace, which bore this astounding phrase : 
 " My first and forever message is one and eter 
 nal." Nothing more, but the men cowered 
 before the sublime wisdom uttered by a frail 
 woman, wisdom that had started the emotional 
 machinery of two continents. 
 
 " But, great God ! Miss Aline, you mustn't go 
 off and leave us in this fix." Drops of water 
 stood on the forehead of the Second Reader. 
 His hands dropped to his side with a gesture of 
 despair. His companion kept to the corner, a 
 scared being. 
 
 3 2 9
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 " You know as well as I do that somebody has 
 to take the throne seat after after your Aunt 
 Mary dies I mean, after Holiest Mother is 
 translated to eternity. Ask her, beg her, for 
 some advice. We can't let the great undertaking 
 go to pieces " 
 
 " You have little faith, brother," replied 
 Aline. " If that message means anything, then 
 the New Faith will take care of itself " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know," was the testy interrup 
 tion ; " but the world is not so easily led in mat 
 ters of religion. The message, as you say, is 
 divine; but it may sound like meaningless 
 twaddle to the world at large. If we are to 
 heal mankind and dispel the heresy of disease 
 and death, why can't Holiest Mother save her 
 self ? Mind you, I am looking at this thing with 
 the eyes of the sceptics " 
 
 "You are an unbeliever, a materialist, your 
 self," was the bold retort. " Do as you please, 
 but you can't drag me into your money calcula 
 tions." The swift slam of the door left them to 
 their fears. 
 
 Her aunt, sitting as upright as a candle, was 
 conducting an invisible orchestra when Aline 
 returned. The frightened maid tried to hold the 
 lean, spasmodic arms as they traced in the air 
 the pompous rhythm of a march that moved 
 on silent funereal pinions through the chamber. 
 The woman stared threateningly at the picture 
 on the wall, the picture of the skeleton which had 
 come from nothingness to reveal nothingness to 
 
 330
 
 NADA 
 
 the living. The now distraught girl, her nerves 
 crisped by her doubts, threw herself upon the 
 bed, her fears sorely knocking at her heart. 
 
 " Aunt, Aunt Mary Holiest Mother, in 
 Christ's name, in the name of the New Faith, 
 tell me before you go tell me what is to be 
 come of our holy church after you die after 
 you pass over to the great white light. Is it 
 all real ? Or is it only a dream, your beautiful 
 dream ? What is the secret truth? Or or 
 is there no secret no " her voice was cracked 
 by sobs. The stately, soundless music was waved 
 on by her aunt. Then Holiest Mother fell back 
 on her pillow, and with a last long glance at the 
 picture, she pointed, with smiling irony at the 
 picture. 
 
 Nada, Nada . . . 
 
 The night died away in tender complicity 
 with the two little lamps on the dressing table, 
 and the sweet, thick perfume of magnolias modu 
 lated into acrid decay as day dawned. Below, 
 the two men anxiously awaited the message from 
 the dead. And they saw again upon the marble 
 tablet above the fireplace her cryptic wisdom : 
 
 " My first and forever message is one and 
 eternal." 
 
 33 1
 
 XX 
 
 PAN 
 
 For the Great God Pan is alive again. 
 
 DEAN MANSEL. 
 
 THE handsome Hungarian kept his brilliant 
 glance fixed upon Lora Crowne ; she sat with 
 her Aunt Lucas and Mr. Steyle at a table 
 facing the orchestra. His eyes were not so 
 large as black ; the intensity of their gaze fur 
 ther bewildered the young woman, whose ap 
 pearance that evening at the famous cafe" on 
 the East Side was her initial one. The heat, 
 the bristling lights, the terrific appealing clamour 
 of the gypsy band, set murmuring the nerves of 
 this impressionable girl. And the agility of 
 the cymbalom player, his great height, clear 
 skin, and piercing eyes, quite enthralled her. 
 
 " It is the gypsy dulcimer, Lora ; I read all 
 about it in Liszt's book on gypsy music," said 
 Aunt Lucas, in an airy soprano. 
 
 Mr. Steyle was impressed. Lora paid no at 
 tention, but continued to gaze curiously at the 
 antics of the player, who hammered from his 
 instrument of wire shivering, percussive music. 
 With flexible wrists he swung the felt-covered 
 
 33 2
 
 PAN 
 
 mallets that brought up such resounding tones ; 
 at times his long, apelike arms would reach far 
 asunder and, rolling his eyes, he touched the 
 extremes of his cymbalom ; then he described 
 furious arpeggios, punctuated with a shrill 
 tattoo. And the crazy music defiled by in a 
 struggling squad of chords ; but Afpad Vihary 
 never lifted his eyes from Lora Crowne. . . . 
 
 The vibration ceased. Its withdrawal left the 
 ear-drums buzzing with a minute, painful sensa 
 tion, like that of moisture rapidly evaporating 
 upon the naked skin. A battalion of tongues 
 began to chatter as the red-faced waiters rushed 
 between the tables, taking orders. It was after 
 eleven o'clock, and through the swinging doors 
 passed a throng of motley people, fanning, gos 
 siping, bickering all eager and thirsty. Clar 
 ence Steyle pointed out the celebrities with 
 conscious delight. Over yonder that man 
 with the mixed gray hair was a composer who 
 came every night for inspiration, musical and 
 otherwise, Clarence added, with a laugh. And 
 there was the young and well-known decadent 
 playwright who wore strangling high collars and 
 transposed all his plays from French sources; 
 he lisped and was proud of his ability to drama 
 tize the latest mental disease. And a burglar 
 who had written a famous book on the manage 
 ment of children during hot weather sat meekly 
 resting before a solitary table. 
 
 The leader of the Hungarian band was a 
 gypsy who called himself Alfassy Janos, though 
 333
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 he lived on First Avenue, in a flat the door of 
 which bore this legend: Jacob Aron. The rest 
 of the band seemed gypsy. Who is the cymbalom 
 player? That is not difficult to answer; the 
 programme gives it. 
 
 " There you are, Miss Lora." 
 
 She looked. " Oh, what a romantic name ! 
 He must be a count at least." 
 
 " Lora, dear, gypsies never bear titles," re 
 marked Aunt Lucas, patronizingly. 
 
 "How about the Abbe Liszt?" triumphantly 
 asked her charge. 
 
 Aunt Lucas laughed coldly. " Liszt was 
 Hungarian, not Romany. But your artist with 
 the drumsticks certainly is distinguished-looking. 
 If he only would not wear that odious scarlet 
 uniform. I wonder why he does not sit down, 
 like the rest of his colleagues." 
 
 Afpad Vihary leaned against the panelled 
 wall, his brow puckered in boredom, his long 
 black mustaches drooping from sheer discour 
 agement. His was a figure for sculpture a 
 frame powerfully modelled, a bisque complex 
 ion. Thin as a . cedar sapling, he preserved 
 such an immovable attitude that in the haze 
 of the creamy atmosphere he seemed a carved, 
 marmoreal image rather than a young man with 
 devouring eyes. 
 
 The three visitors ate sandwiches and pre 
 tended to relish Munich beer served in tall 
 stone mugs. Aunt Lucas, who was shaped like 
 a 'cello, made more than a pretence of sipping ; 
 
 334
 
 PAN 
 
 she drank one entirely, regretting the exigencies 
 of chaperonage : to ask for more might shock 
 the proper young man. 
 
 " It's horrid here, after all," she remarked dis 
 contentedly. " So many people such people 
 and very few nice ones. The Batsons are over 
 there, Lora ; but then you don't care for them. 
 O dear, I wish the band would strike up again." 
 
 It did. A vicious swirl of colour and dizzy, dis 
 located rhythms prefaced the incantations of the 
 Czardas. Instantly the eating, gabbling crowd 
 became silent. Alfassy Janos magnetized his 
 hearers with cradling, caressing movements of 
 his fiddle. He waved like tall grass in the 
 wind ; he twisted snakewise his lithe body as 
 he lashed his bow upon the screaming strings ; 
 the resilient tones darted f ulgurantly from instru 
 ment to instrument. After chasing in circles of 
 quicksilver, they all met with a crash ; and the 
 whole tonal battery, reenforced by the throbbing 
 of Afpad Vihary's dulcimer, swept through the 
 suite of rooms from ceiling to sanded floor. It 
 was no longer enchanting music, but sheer mad 
 ness of the blood ; sensual and warlike, it gripped 
 the imagination as these tunes of old Egypt, fil 
 tered through savage centuries, reached the ears. 
 Lora trembled in the gale that blew across the 
 Puzta. She imagined a determined Hungarian 
 prairie, over which dashed disordered centaurs 
 brandishing clubs, driving before them a band 
 of satyrs and leaping fauns. The hoofed men 
 struggled. At their front was a monster with 
 
 335
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 a black goat-face and huge horns; he fought 
 fiercely the half-human horses. The sun, a 
 thin scarf of light, was eclipsed by earnest 
 clouds; the curving thunder closed over the 
 battle ; the air was flame-sprinkled and enlaced 
 by music ; and most melancholy were the eyes 
 of the defeated Pan the melancholy eyes of 
 Afpad Vihary. . . . 
 
 Aunt Lucas was scandalized. " Do you 
 know, Lora, that the impudent dulcimer vir 
 tuoso" she prided herself on her musical 
 terms "actually stared you out of counte 
 nance during the entire Czardas ? " And she 
 could have added that her niece had returned 
 the glance unflinchingly. 
 
 Mr. Steyle noticed Lora's vacant regard when 
 he addressed her and insisted on getting her away 
 from the dangerous undertow of this " table 
 d'h6te music," as he contemptuously called it. 
 He summoned the waiter. 
 
 Lora shed her disappointment. " Oh, let's 
 wait for the cymbalom solo," she frankly begged. 
 
 Her aunt was unmoved. " Yes, Mr. Steyle, 
 we had better go ; the air is positively depress 
 ing. These slumming parties are delightful if 
 you don't overdo them but the people!" 
 Up went her lorgnon. 
 
 They soon departed. Lora did not dare to 
 look back until she reached the door that opened 
 on the avenue ; as she did so her vibrant gaze 
 collided with the Hungarian's. She determined 
 to see him again. 
 
 336
 
 PAN 
 
 II 
 
 Nice Brooklyn girls always attend church and 
 symphony concerts. This dual custom is con 
 sidered respectable and cultured. Lora's par 
 ents during their lifetime never missed the 
 Theodore Thomas concerts and the sermons 
 of a certain famous local preacher; but there 
 were times when the young woman longed 
 for Carmen and the delights of fashionable 
 Bohemia. Carefully reared by her Aunt Lucas, 
 she had nevertheless a taste for gypsy bands and 
 " Gyp's " novels. She read the latter translated, 
 much to the disedification of her guardian, who 
 was a linguist and a patron of the fine arts. This 
 latter clause included subscriptions to the Insti 
 tute Course and several scientific journals. If 
 Lora were less romantic, all would be well. 
 Once the careful chaperon had feared music 
 and its disturbing influences ; but after she 
 had read an article about its healing effect 
 upon the insane she felt that it could work no 
 evil in Lora; indeed, it was an elevating art. 
 She was fond of music herself, and, as danc 
 ing was strictly tabooed, there seemed little 
 likelihood of the noble art of "sweet concord 
 ance" Aunt Lucas had picked this quota 
 tion up somewhere doing mischief to her 
 impressionable niece. 
 
 Nearly all dwelling-houses look alike in 
 Brooklyn, even at midday. The street in which 
 the Crownes lived was composed of conven- 
 337
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 tional brown-stone buildings and English base 
 ments. Nielje, the Dutch maid, stood at the 
 half-opened door, regarding with suspicion the 
 big, dark man who had pulled the bell so vio 
 lently. Aunt Lucas was in New York at the 
 meeting of a society devoted to Ethical Enjoy 
 ment. Though Nielje had been warned secretly 
 of an expected visitor, this wild-looking young 
 man with long black hair, wearing a flaring coat 
 of many colours and baggy Turkish trousers, 
 gave her a shock. Why did he come to the 
 basement as if he were one of the cook's callers ? 
 She paused. Then the door was shoved in by a 
 muscular arm, and she was pushed against the 
 wall. 
 
 " Don't try that again, man," she protested. 
 
 He answered her in gibberish. " Mees, Mees 
 Lora," he repeated. 
 
 " Ach ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 Afpad Vihary gloomily followed her into the 
 dining-room, where Lora stood trembling. This 
 was the third time she had met the Hungarian, 
 and fearing Prospect Park, after two timid 
 walks there, under the fiery-fingered leaves of 
 early autumn, she had been prevailed upon 
 to invite Afpad to her home. She regretted her 
 imprudence the moment he entered. All his 
 footlight picturesqueness vanished in the cold, 
 hard light of an unromantic Brooklyn breakfast- 
 room. He seemed like a clumsy circus hero as 
 he scraped his feet over the parquetry and 
 attempted to kiss her hand. She drew away 
 
 338
 
 PAN 
 
 instantly and pointed to a chair. He refused 
 to sit down ; his pride seemed hurt. 
 
 Then he gave the girl an intense look, and 
 she drew nearer. 
 
 "Oh, Afpad Vihary," she began. 
 
 He interrupted. " You do not love me now. 
 Why ? You told me you loved me, in the park, 
 yesterday. I am a poor artist, that is the 
 reason." 
 
 This speech he uttered glibly, and, despite 
 the extraordinary pronunciation, she understood 
 it. She took his long hand, the fingers amazed 
 her. He bent them back until they touched his 
 wrist, and was proud of their flexibility. He 
 walked to the dining-table and tossed its cover- 
 cloth on a chair. Upon his two thumbs he went 
 around it like an acrobat. " Shall I hold you 
 out with one arm ? " he softly asked. Lora was 
 vastly amused ; this was indeed a courtship out 
 of the ordinary it pleased her exotic taste. 
 
 " Hungarian gypsies are very strong, are they 
 not?" she innocently asked. 
 
 " I am not gypsy nor am I Hungarian ; I am 
 an East Indian. My family is royal. We are 
 of the Rajpoot tribes called Ranas. My father 
 once ruled Roorbunder." 
 
 Lora was amazed. A king's son, a Rana of 
 Roorbunder ! She became very sympathetic. 
 Again she urged him to sit down. 
 
 " My nation never sits before a woman," he 
 proudly answered. 
 
 " But I will sit beside you," she coaxed, push- 
 
 339
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 ing him to a corner. He resisted her and went 
 to the window. Lora again joined him. The 
 man piqued her. He was mysterious and very 
 unlike Mr. Steyle poor, sentimental Clarence, 
 who melted with sighs if she but glanced at 
 him ; and then, Clarence was too stout. She 
 adored slender men, believing that when fat 
 came in at the door love fled out of the window. 
 
 "They put me in a circus at Buda-Pesth," re 
 marked Afpad Vihary, as if he were making a 
 commonplace statement about the weather. 
 
 She gave a little scream ; he regarded her 
 with Oriental composure. " In a circus ! You ! 
 Did you ride ? " 
 
 " I cannot ride," he said. " I played in a 
 cage all day." 
 
 " Because you were wild ? " She then went 
 into a fit of laughter. He was such a funny 
 fellow, though his ardent gaze made her blush. 
 So blond and pink was Lora that her friends 
 called her Strawberry a delicate compliment 
 in which she delighted. It was this golden head 
 and radiant face, with implacably blue eyes, 
 that set the blood pumping into Afpad's brain. 
 When he looked at her, he saw sunlight. 
 
 " Do you know, you absurd prince, that when 
 you played the Czardas the other night I seemed 
 to see a vision of a Hungarian prairie, covered 
 with fighting centaurs and satyrs ! I longed to 
 be a vivandttre among all those fauns. You 
 were there in the music, I mean and you 
 were big Pan oh, so ugly and terrible ! " 
 340
 
 PAN 
 
 " Pan ! That is a Polish title," he answered 
 quite simply. 
 
 "Stupid! The great god Pan don't you 
 know your mythology ? Haven't you read Mrs. 
 Browning ? He was the god of nature, of the 
 woods. Even now, I believe you have ears 
 with furry tips and hoofs like a faun." 
 
 He turned a sickly yellow. 
 
 " Anyhow, why did they put you in a cage ? 
 Were you a wild boy ? " 
 
 "They thought so in Hungary." 
 
 " But why ? " 
 
 He stared at her sorrowfully, and was about 
 to empty his soul ; but she turned away with a 
 shudder. 
 
 "I know, I know," she whispered; "your 
 hands they are like the hands of " 
 
 Arpad threw out his chest, and Lora heard 
 with a curiosity that became nervous a rhythmic 
 wagging sound, like velvet bruised by some dull 
 implement. It frightened her. 
 
 " Do not be afraid of me," he begged. " You 
 cannot say anything I do not know already." 
 He walked to the door, and the girl followed him. 
 
 " Don't go, Afpad," she said with pretty re 
 morse. 
 
 The fire blazed in his eyes and with a single 
 swift grasp he seized her, holding her aloft like 
 a torch. Lora almost lost consciousness. She 
 had not counted upon such barbarous wooing, 
 and, frightened, cried out, " Nielje, Nielje ! " 
 
 Nielje burst into the room as if she had been
 
 VISIONARIES 
 
 very near the keyhole. She was a powerful 
 woman from Holland, who did not fear an army. 
 
 " Put her down ! " she insisted, in her deepest 
 gutturals. "Put her down, you brute, or I'll 
 hurt you." 
 
 Lora jumped to the floor as Nielje struck with 
 her broomstick at Afpad's retreating back. To 
 the surprise of the women he gave a shriek of 
 agony and ran to the door, Nielje following close 
 behind. Lora, her eyes strained with excite 
 ment, did not stir ; she heard a struggle in the 
 little hall as the man fumbled at the basement 
 entrance. Again he yelled, and then Lora 
 rushed to the window. Nielje, on her knees, 
 was being dragged across the grassy space in 
 front of the house. She held on, seemingly, to 
 the coat-tail of the frantic musician ; only by a 
 vigorous shove did he evade her persistent grasp 
 and disappear. 
 
 A policeman with official aptness went leis 
 urely by. Nielje flew into the house, locking 
 and bolting the door. Her face was red as she 
 rolled on the floor, her hands at her sides. Lora, 
 alarmed, thought she was seriously hurt or hys 
 terical from fright; but the laughter was too 
 hearty and appealing. 
 
 " Oh, Meeslora ! Oh, Meeslora ! " she gasped. 
 " He must be monkey-man he has monkey 
 tail ! " 
 
 Lora could have fainted from chagrin and 
 horror. 
 
 Had the great god Pan passed her way ? 
 342
 
 BOOKS BY JAMES HUNEKER 
 
 ICONOCLASTS: 
 
 A Book of Dramatists 
 
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 CONTENTS: Henrik Ibsen August Strindberg Henry Becque 
 Gerhart Hauptmann Paul Hervieu The Quintessence of 
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 OVERTONES : 
 
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 CONTENTS: Richard Strauss Parsifal: A Mystical Melodrama 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY, LOS ANGELES 
 
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