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| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-03-03 15:21:10 -0800 |
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| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-03-03 15:21:10 -0800 |
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diff --git a/75516-h/75516-h.htm b/75516-h/75516-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9943eb9 --- /dev/null +++ b/75516-h/75516-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6555 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + A book of dear dead women | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> /* <![CDATA[ */ + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; + text-indent: 1em; +} + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} +.p4 {margin-top: 4em;} +.p0 {text-indent: 0em;} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +hr.r5 {width: 5%; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 47.5%; margin-right: 47.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} +table.autotable { border-collapse: collapse; width: 60%;} +table.autotable td, +table.autotable th { padding: 4px; } +.x-ebookmaker table {width: 95%;} + +.tdr {text-align: right; vertical-align: top;} +.page {width: 8em; vertical-align: top;} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; +} + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 5%; +} + +.bbox {border: 2px solid; margin-left: 25%; width: 50%; padding: 1em;} + +.center {text-align: center; text-indent: 0em;} + +.right {text-align: right; text-indent: 0em;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +/* Footnotes */ +.footnotes {border: 1px dashed; margin-top: 1em;} + +.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + +/* Poetry */ + +.poetry { + display: block; + text-align: left; + margin-left: 0 + } +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry in browsers */ +/* .poetry {display: inline-block;} */ +/* large inline blocks don't split well on paged devices */ +@media print { .poetry {display: block;} } + +.x-ebookmaker .poetry { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 5% + } +.poetry-container { + margin: 1.5em auto; + text-align: center; + font-size: 98%; + display: flex; + justify-content: center + } +.poetry .stanza { + padding: 0.5em 0; + page-break-inside: avoid + } +.poetry .verse { + text-indent: -3em; + padding-left: 3em + } + +/* Transcriber's notes */ +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:smaller; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; } + +.xbig {font-size: 2em;} +.big {font-size: 1.3em;} + +abbr[title] { + text-decoration: none; +} + +/* Poetry indents */ +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3em;} +.poetry .indent10 {text-indent: 10em;} + + + /* ]]> */ </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75516 ***</div> + + + + +<h1>A BOOK OF DEAR DEAD WOMEN</h1> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + + +<div class="chapter bbox"> +<p class="center xbig"> +A BOOK OF DEAR<br> +DEAD WOMEN<br> +</p> + + +<p class="center p2"> +BY<br><span class="big"> +EDNA WORTHLEY UNDERWOOD</span> +</p> + +<div class="poetry-container p2"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“<i>Dear dead women with such faces</i>”—<span class="smcap">Browning</span></div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="center p4"> +BOSTON<br> +LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY<br> +1911<br> +</p></div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="center"> +<i>Copyright, 1909, 1911</i>,<br> +<span class="smcap">By Little, Brown, and Company</span>.<br> +</p> +</div> +<hr class="r5"> +<p class="center"> +<i>All rights reserved</i><br> +</p> + +<p class="center"> +Published March, 1911<br> +</p> + +<p class="center p2"> +THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.<br> +</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + + +<div class="chapter"> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>I wish to acknowledge my indebtedness to <i>The Smart Set</i> for +permission to reprint “The Painter of Dead Women,” which appeared in +the issue of January, 1910.</p> + +<p class="right"> +<span class="smcap">Edna Worthley Underwood.</span><br> +</p> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2> +</div> + +<table class="autotable"> +<tr><th></th><th class="tdr page"><span class="smcap">Page</span></th></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">One of Napoleon’s Loves</span> </td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> + +<span class="smcap">The Painter of Dead Women</span> </td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_64">64</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> + +<span class="smcap">The Mirror of La Granja</span> </td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_92">92</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> + +<span class="smcap">Liszt’s Concerto Pathétique</span> </td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_133">133</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> + +<span class="smcap">Sister Seraphine</span> </td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_144">144</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> + +<span class="smcap">The Sacred Relics of Saint Euthymius</span> </td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_158">158</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> + +<span class="smcap">The Opal Isles</span> </td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_194">194</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> + +<span class="smcap">The House of Gauze</span> </td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_257">257</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> + +<span class="smcap">The King</span> </td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_286">286</a></td></tr> +</table> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="ONE_OF_NAPOLEONS_LOVES">ONE OF NAPOLEON’S LOVES</h2> +</div> + +<p class="center big">FROM THE DIARY OF THE COUNTESS TATJANA TSCHASKA</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“<i>Polonus sum,</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Poloni nihil a me alienum puto.</i>”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + + +<p class="right"> +<span style="margin-right: 3.5em;"><span class="smcap">Estate Mioduschweski,</span></span><br> +<span class="smcap">near Warsaw on the Vistula</span>,<br> +<span style="margin-right: 9.5em;">June 8, 1806.</span><br> +</p> + +<p>Never did spring come so early. In April, when the country is as white +as the coverlet on my bed, fields were dotted with black rings at the +base of trees which glistened with moisture.</p> + +<p>Returning birds twittered under the eaves. Rivers awoke and became +merry. In the distance rose the smoke of melting snow. Even in the +North—in White Russia—so travelers tell, the ice broke. Now the +country is wonderful.</p> + +<p>I have seen the foam-edged waves of the Baltic come rolling in by +the mouth of the Niemen, just as spring rolls northward its foam of +flowers—to rescue us from the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span> grasp of winter. In the same way, I +wonder, will the army of France come northward to rescue Poland from +the grasp of Russia? That is what every one talks about. That is what +every one hopes. I hope it, too, but somehow I do not believe it. I +have no faith in France. Yet it would be no act of generosity on her +part. We Poles have bled for her on every battlefield of Europe. It +is little that in return she should give the nation life. France may +intend to do this. It is hard to tell now. No trustworthy news reaches +us. The Prussians suppress and burn the mail lest we take heart and +rebel. They say, however, that the Great Napoleon has conquered Italy +and is now making plans for the North.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>June 12, 1806.</i> The country is lovely! The avenue of poplars that +leads to the house is enveloped in lustrous gauze. The birches and the +willows and the lindens are green flames that shake in the light.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span></p> + +<p>In the fields I can see the white head-kerchiefs of women who are +working, and beyond, the white spire of the church. Those two white +objects symbolize Poland—hard work and hope—the effort for something +beyond and, perhaps, unattainable.</p> + +<p>I love this country with its fine distances and long levels where the +eye is not impeded. Yet it has affected our natures, and not always +advantageously. It has made us think that great things are too near and +too easy to get.</p> + +<p>Small wonder that others have coveted Poland!—the Swedes among their +rocks, where they have only fish to eat; the barbarous Russians, buried +in winter and snow; Prussia for the trade facilities of the Vistula; +and Austria because she is greedy of everything.</p> + +<p>The armies of the Continent have swept across Poland. It is the highway +that leads to war.</p> + +<p>Here on our estate and southward to the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span> boundaries of Little Poland, +there is not now such devastation and ruin. Perhaps it is because +spring is here and I do not see it. With the spring there comes a +sensation of expectation. Is it merely the unrest that beautiful things +bring? I do not know. It seems to me that it is stronger this year than +usual; that all Poland feels it; that Poland is waiting for something. +It is the feeling I have in the Grand National Theater in Warsaw, +before the curtain goes up on a new tragedy. Perhaps that is what +Poland is waiting for now—the curtain to go up on a new world-tragedy, +whose stage is to be our country or Russia, and the chief actor the +French Colossus.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>June 20, 1806.</i> Spring makes my heart glad, and for the silliest +reason. I fancy that the dead of the Massacre of Praga are not so +miserable and are a little happy. Is not spring a sort of forgiveness?</p> + +<p>In the nights of winter, when the wind<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span> and the white snow sweep down +from the north, I suffer torments. The wind mimics and multiplies their +cries of agony, their pain. I lie awake and listen and tremble.</p> + +<p>At the time of the massacre I was a child. We were in Warsaw at our +town house, which is situated near the suburb of Praga. The windows +were shattered by the musketry. To save our lives we hid in the +cellar—men, women, children, servants—an entire day. At night, when +we crept back to our chambers in the upper story, every breath of wind +brought the groans of the dying. The air was sickening and thick with +dust and smoke and the scent of blood. Nine thousand Poles lay dead +upon the field, slain by that Russian butcher, Suwarow.</p> + +<p>When the news reached Petersburg, the people rushed into the streets +and shouted: “If Suwarow is with us, who can be against us!” Was +not that blasphemy such as God<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span> is sure to punish! Then we named +Yek-Katarina<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> “The Fury of the North.”</p> + +<p>What will eventually become of Poland? Who next will be greedy of it? +I have a presentiment—which I dare not whisper to any one—that in +years to come it will be only a name, a great and glorious name, that +signifies, in a world whose patriotism and fineness commercialism has +dulled, the impossible dream of freedom.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>June 30, 1806.</i> My honored mother came to me this morning and +broached the subject of my marriage. Since I had heard nothing for +several days, I hoped it had been laid aside for the present.</p> + +<p>“You are past your twenty-first birthday, an age when girls of your +rank have been married three years. Soon you will be an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span> old maid. Have +you no interest in the matter?”</p> + +<p>“I hoped you would permit me to enjoy myself in the country. It may be +the last summer that I shall be at home,” I ventured.</p> + +<p>Here my honored mother brushed away a tear, but soon returned valiantly +to the subject.</p> + +<p>“You have read too much. You want a story-book life.”</p> + +<p>“That is not it. I do not want to marry until—”</p> + +<p>“Until what?”</p> + +<p>“It is settled.”</p> + +<p>“What is settled?”</p> + +<p>“The fate of Poland.”</p> + +<p>“What have you to do with that?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing; but I feel that I might do something. There is in me the +power to do something—”</p> + +<p>“And you are going to sit and waste your youth for that? Marry, raise +up sons for Poland! That’s the thing to do!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span></p> + +<p>“I do not wish to offend you, my honored mother, but I wish you would +drop the subject until late summer—”</p> + +<p>“Look at your friends—how well they are married! There is the Countess +of Tisenhaus, who has married a Frenchman of birth, a peer of the +realm, Count de Choiseul-Gouffier. Anna Tyskiewicz has become Countess +Potocka; Princess Czartoryska has married the Prince of Wirthemberg; +Anna Lapouschkine, by her marriage with Prince Paul Gavrilowitsch +Gargarin, is one of the beauties of the Court of Russia. I should think +you would want to play a part in the world! Do you not owe it to your +family?” exclaimed my honored mother in such exasperation that she was +unable to continue the discussion. This is the way these scenes end. +They grieve me and vex her. And what good comes of them?</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>July 5, 1806.</i> My honored mother has submitted to me a list of +names which have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span> received her approval and that of my honored father +and grandfather. This is merely a conciliatory formality. They will +choose whom they please. Since I have met none of them and know only +their families, it makes little difference. The thing nearest my heart +is that the marriage be deferred. Therefore I considered those at +a distance from Warsaw. I picked up the list, read it through with +a show of interest, and checked Count Krasinski<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> and Prince Adam +Czartoryisky; the former is in Paris, and the latter is attached to the +Court of Russia. The names pleased my honored mother. There are none +nobler in Poland. Peace is restored—for a time.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>July 10, 1806.</i> Yesterday we attended a reception in Warsaw given +by the Countess Stanilas Potocka for her new daughter, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span> Countess +Anna. My honored mother was in high spirits because of my apparent +acquiescence to her plans, and happily pictured me settled more +splendidly than is the Countess Anna.</p> + +<p>The Countess Anna, while not pretty, is charming and girlish. +She told us about the country place which is being built for her +outside of Warsaw. She has named it Natoline. The old Count Stanilas +Potocki—who is now in ill-health because of years of exposure +endured in the Ukraine—is helping with the decorative scheme. He is +a great connoisseur of art. They say his taste is respected abroad. +His art gallery is the finest in Poland, except that owned by the +Czartoryisky—the Prince General—in the “Blue Palace.”</p> + +<p>While he was escorting the ladies, my honored mother and myself among +the number, through the hall where the pictures are hung, I made +an unfortunate remark for which my honored mother reprimanded me<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span> +severely. We came to a picture, purchased recently (I cannot remember +the Italian painter’s name), which has caused comment. It represents +a band of horsemen going at full speed through the streets of an +ancient city. They come to a river bridged only by one board. Across +this foaming chasm beckons an impossibly beautiful sprite, half-hidden +in whose enveloping gauzes is a skeleton, the symbol of death. The +skeleton holds out a crown.</p> + +<p>“Ah!” I exclaimed, “above that fleeting phantom, whose possession is +death, should be written Poland.”</p> + +<p>There was a dreadful hush. Eyes looked into eyes. Every one knows that +with his Cossack warriors of the Ukraine Count Stanilas wanted to wrest +the crown from the Commonwealth.</p> + +<p>It is the talk in Warsaw, too, that negotiations are going forward for +my marriage with a Czartoryisky, who likewise coveted the crown of +Poland.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span></p> + +<p>I wonder if I have an unfortunate tongue! I must remember not to say +everything I think.</p> + +<p>Countess Waleweska was present. She wore a red velvet dress. She did +not look so well as usual. We are called the two prettiest women in +Warsaw. She is tall and blond; that is why the red did not become her. +I am plump and petite, with dark eyes, dark skin, and blond hair.</p> + +<p>Later I forgot my chagrin. I met Pan Kasimir Brodzinski.<a id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> He is +entertaining. He has written some interesting things of late, too, +about Polish literature. At once I asked him, “Why are there never any +new Polish novels? We stopped on our way at a book-seller’s to get +something to take back to Mioduschweski. Is no one doing anything?”</p> + +<p>“Unfortunately that is the case, Countess Tatjana.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span></p> + +<p>“The only Polish novel I found was <i>Valeria</i>, by Baroness +Krüdener.”</p> + +<p>“Your honored mother will object to that, Countess Tatjana.”</p> + +<p>“Why, Pan Brodzinski?”</p> + +<p>“It is a <i>chronique scandaleuse</i> of the writer’s life in Venice +and Copenhagen.”</p> + +<p>“I found the last volume of Walter Scott. They say Her Imperial +Majesty, the Empress, reads nothing else. You will laugh when I tell +you that I bought two books just for the interest they have aroused in +the Great Napoleon—<i>Corinne</i> and <i>Werther</i>—which he has +carried with him for months at a time.”</p> + +<p>Here Pan Brodzinski leaned forward and his face became eloquent:</p> + +<p>“Let me tell you something: the writer of that book, Goethe, and +Napoleon, and an Englishman whom you have not read—Byron—rule the +minds of the age. The entire civilized world is in raptures over them. +Do you know, a friend of mine<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span> lately returned from Russia told me that +Russian soldiers stationed in the lonely regions of the Caucasus are +learning the English language just to read Byron.”</p> + +<p>Just as I was getting ready to ask Pan Brodzinski the latest news +of the Grande Armée, our hostess summoned us to the drawing-room +to hear some recitations by Adam Mickiewicz.<a id="FNanchor_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> He is a remarkable +child—not more than seven and he declaims like an orator. The strange +part about it is he will give only Polish pieces. Nor indeed will he +answer if you address him in French. The Mickiewicz belong to the old +<i>schlachta</i> (nobility) of Lithuania. I have seen their ancestral +home. It is like the palace of a king.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span></p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>July 11, 1806.</i> The post horn awoke us, blowing furiously. We +jumped up and dressed without crossing ourselves or saying a “Hail +Mary.”</p> + +<p>In the yard was a messenger from Warsaw to tell us that Napoleon had +defeated the English in Italy and was striding northward like a giant +in seven-league boots. I wonder what he is like, this world-hero who is +writing his name in blood across the face of Europe. They say that he +is handsome. Heroes, of course, are always handsome.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>July 18, 1806.</i> My honored grandfather, who is eighty and an +adherent of our ancient customs, came in this morning while I was +reading a French book to my sister Mischa. He flew into a rage because +I was not reading Polish.</p> + +<p>He is worth seeing. He attracts attention on the streets of Warsaw. He +still wears the <i>zupan</i> and the <i>kontusch</i>, and when he goes +abroad, the <i>burka</i> fastened across his breast<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span> with silver clasps +whereon are the arms of the Tschaski.</p> + +<p>“You are just like the rest!” he exclaimed, but in so grieved a tone +that my heart went out to him. “And I hoped better things of you! There +are no more Poles in Poland! We are a French race now. We speak French, +read French, follow French modes in thought and dress. When you enter +the home of a person of rank, it is as if you entered a drawing-room +in the Faubourg St. Germain. There is nothing to be seen that is +characteristic of us. It is right that we should cease to be a nation +when we have ceased to be ourselves.</p> + +<p>“Why do not the Germans dress like the Italians, or the Spaniards +like the Russians? Would it not be just as reasonable? In the houses +of fashion we see the same gilt furniture upholstered in silk, the +same mirrors in frames of decorated Saxon porcelain, a profusion of +frail ornaments made of china, tables inlaid with marble or bordered +with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span> delicate plaques of Sèvres, picture galleries, tapestries, +silk-hung walls—all the things that create effeminacy and a luxurious +forgetfulness.”</p> + +<p>I could not answer, because I know that it is true. Yet why should we +not love beautiful things! Is it our duty to live in huts in the wild +forests of Lithuania just because we are Poles and belong to the North?</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>July 26, 1806.</i> Things are in a sad state. Everywhere +uncertainty, indecision. Here no one dares do anything. Some are +under the protection of Austria; some under the protection of Russia; +others found their hope on France, and others vacillate in indecision. +Was there ever such a state of things! Truly <i>Polonia confusione +regitur</i>.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>August 6, 1806.</i> At dinner last night, my honored grandfather +regaled us with stories<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span> of his youth. He was in Paris at the time of +the second “partition.”</p> + +<p>One night at a <i>soirée</i> some one said: “How it will grieve the +Poles to see their country cut up again! What will they do?”</p> + +<p>Quickly the answer came: “Give balls and masquerades in Warsaw. When +I think of Poland, I know that they are dancing—always dancing in +Warsaw.”</p> + +<p>I do not know why I write this, or why it impressed me so. If the +French were the best dancers in Europe, would they not be proud of it +too? They are jealous. We are more French than they.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>August 17, 1806.</i> My new frocks have come from Paris. I am glad +that my honored grandfather was not present when they were unpacked. +There are a number of gauze ball dresses made with shirred over-skirts +caught up with little flowers, and several <i>robes rondes</i>. They +are the <i>dernier cri</i> of fashion.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span></p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>August 27, 1806.</i> I have had a splendid day. Pan Anton +Malzweski<a id="FNanchor_5" href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> called. It has rained for a week, and we have had no +guests. I was so glad to see him I greeted him in the Polish manner: +“Praised be Jesus, the Christ.”</p> + +<p>He answered quickly in that impulsive way I like: “In all eternity.”</p> + +<p>We are of an age and great friends. He has been everywhere and seen +everything. He has seen Prince Adam Czartoryisky in Imperial Russia. He +told me all sorts of things about him. He is one of the most notable +figures in the court set and the desire of all the ladies.</p> + +<p>In the course of the afternoon, when we were quite alone, he confided +to me his ambition. What do you suppose it is? To be a poet! I gravely +answered: “All Poles are poets.”</p> + +<p>“But I am going to be a great one in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span> English manner. As soon as +the wars are over and I have time, I am going to set to work. It was +Lord Byron who discovered to me my talent. The name of the first book +is chosen: <i>Maria, An Heroic Tale of the Ukraine</i>. In it there +is to be a song—partly written down now—called <i>The Carnival of +Venice</i>, which is what Byron and I thought of the Venetian nights.”</p> + +<p>He talked with such fury, such disconnected haste, that I could only +gasp: “You have seen Lord Byron!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, and I gave him the subject for a poem—<i>Mazeppa</i>—which will +be translated for us.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>September 5, 1806.</i> We have just heard that the Grande Armée has +crossed the borders of Prussia. Prussia tried to put herself on a war +footing secretly. In return, Napoleon has seized Wesel, a fortress by +the Rhine. Is he so near, and we did not know?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span></p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>September 11, 1806.</i> The harvest is under way. The fields are +dotted with grain stacks that are for all the world like round towers. +I look at them and dream of Napoleon and the fortress by the Rhine. +Could anything be sillier!</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>September 21, 1806.</i> My honored grandfather had company to-day. +Count Severin Rzewuski, Count Stanilas Potocki, and the Prince General. +The Prince General is feeble and ill, although he conceals it bravely. +He still keeps up the elegant courtly life he knew in his youth, +although it is evident he cannot last long. Every one says that he will +die some night at the card-table, dressed in the stiff, formal evening +dress of a century ago, his courtiers gathered about him.</p> + +<p>Little was talked of save the political situation. We are upon the +eve of world-changing events. There is evident the ominousness that +precedes the storm. The old gentlemen talked freely. They are of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span> one +political faith and have deeply at heart the welfare of Poland.</p> + +<p>It must have been a great life that was lived in their youth. The +Prince General says that there will never be anything to equal the old +aristocracy of Poland. Their life was the most sumptuous and luxurious +in Europe. Mischa and I listened. It was like a romance. Count Rzewuski +says that it is our own fault that we are where we are to-day. In the +old days each was too great to acknowledge a greater.</p> + +<p>“You are right,” replied Count Potocki. “He who will not obey his own +king will be forced to obey the king of others. ‘After feasting follows +fasting.’”</p> + +<p>Our grandparents tell only of wars and bloodshed. In other countries, I +wonder, are there other memories?</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>October 6, 1806.</i> Napoleon is in Prussia. Terrible things are +happening. We do not know just what, because little news reaches us.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span></p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>October 12, 1806.</i> The excitement in Warsaw cannot be imagined. +Every few hours a messenger arrives with a blowing of trumpets. Why +should not we tremble when the Czar of Imperial Russia trembles on his +throne?</p> + +<p>Yet Warsaw rejoices—<i>and dances</i>.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>October 18, 1806.</i> My engagement to Prince Adam Czartoryisky has +been announced. I had no word in the matter; I was not consulted.</p> + +<p>I have received a letter from Prince Adam and as betrothal gift a +<i>kanak</i>—an antique Polish necklace of wrought silver set with +round disks of ivory upon each of which is carved an eagle—the white +eagle of Poland. I ought to be proud and happy. Prince Adam is Minister +of Foreign Affairs at the Court of Russia. My honored mother says that +my position will be better than that of the Countess Anna Potocka.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span></p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>October 25, 1806.</i> Last night there was a celebration at the +Prince General’s in the “Blue Palace,” in honor of my betrothal to his +son Prince Adam. Prince Adam could not be present. He was represented +by his dearest friend, M. Novosiltzow, likewise attaché of the Russian +Court.</p> + +<p>He brought with him a gift from His Imperial Master, a miniature of +the Empress Elizabeth surrounded with diamonds and strung upon blue +riband. M. Novosiltzow attached it to my shoulder in the presence of +the guests. I am now a <i>dame de la portrait</i>.</p> + +<p>We made merry in the good old Polish way. First we danced the +Polonaise, going through nearly every room in the house and up and +down all the stairs. Then the Prince General made a speech, as was the +custom in his youth, at the end of the Polonaise. Next, toasts were +called for. Mine was drunk from one of my jeweled slippers, which every +one present declared to be smaller and shapelier than those worn by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span> +the Archduchess of Austria, Marie Louise, who has the prettiest foot +in Europe. It was splendid and solemn, but some way my heart was not +in it. My honored mother, however, was gay and happy enough for two. +I kept thinking—I wonder if outside through the night he is marching +toward Warsaw, <i>the man who has the face of an antique god</i>.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>October 12, 1806.</i> The expected has happened. There has been a +terrible battle at Jena. Prince Louis fell. A new sun has risen over +Europe. Napoleon is master of Berlin, and Queen Louise is kneeling at +the feet of a soldier of fortune. I wonder if he is greater than all +other men, or if it is only that he knows one game better—the game of +war. He moves armies as if they were pawns upon a chess-board.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>November 12, 1806.</i> Autumn is upon us. The harvest has left the +fields bare and brown. In the poplars there is a shiver that tells +of winter. The leaves are a faded<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span> yellow, which is the color of the +things of yesterday. To-morrow we go to Warsaw for the winter.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>November 25, 1806.</i> St. Catherine’s day. This was to have been my +wedding-day. St. Catherine is the patroness of happy marriages. It is +altogether impossible for Prince Adam to leave Russia. The only hope of +Polish freedom is his friendship with the Emperor. Now is a momentous +time. He must be at his ear to estimate his moods, that he may whisper +at the propitious moment, <i>memento Poloniæ</i>! He writes: “We Poles +who have lost the right to fight upon the field of battle, must, as a +last necessity, resort to the coward’s weapons—cajolery and diplomacy.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>November 27, 1806.</i> Napoleon is in Posen!</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>December 18, 1806.</i> I received a letter from Prince Adam to-day +which brings us nearer together than any he has written<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span> before. He has +taken me into his confidence. He has a plan for saving Poland. It is +this; to use his influence with the Emperor to bring about a defensive +union of Russia and England, each of which alone is strong enough to +check the advance of France. Then it will be to the advantage of each +that Poland be independent, the future’s formidable barrier against +continental aggression.</p> + +<p>“I shall make Alexander see,” he writes, “that the partition of Poland +was foolish.”</p> + +<p>This is the object of his life. For this he is sacrificing his youth +and his happiness at the Court of Russia.</p> + +<p>My honored mother says, in case he succeeds, a king will be chosen for +Poland, and it is sure to be either Prince Adam or Prince Poniatowski.</p> + +<p>Nothing can make me believe that personal motives enter into his +ambition. He is the most disinterested of men. All this time that he +has been Minister of Foreign Affairs for Russia, he has received no +salary.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span> He refused to accept money, orders, or insignia of rank from +the nation that oppressed his race. He said that he considered it his +duty to free Poland, since it was his own family, the Czartoryisky, who +in ancient days first invited the Russians into the country.</p> + +<p>He has no faith in Napoleon. He hates him. It is his desire to be the +instrument of his downfall. He writes: “Napoleon is the scourge of +Europe. It is the duty of nations to unite and make an end of him.”</p> + +<p>As for Poland, no time is to be lost, because the nature of Alexander +is undergoing a change. He no longer has Utopian dreams of presenting +nations with their freedom. As far as his weak nature will permit, he +is being Russianized. Now, when the subject of Poland is mentioned, +there must be some other object—and that for Russia’s good.</p> + +<p>Then he wrote of life and people in St. Petersburg. He went to the +first night of the new opera, <i>Il Barbiere di Seviglia</i>. It was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span> +written by Signor Paisiello, a protégé of the Great Catherine.</p> + +<p>There has been a new play brought out by a Russian at Knipper’s +Theater—<i>Roslaw</i> by Kniazin. Prince Adam did not care for it. +However, as soon as it is put on sale at Glosunow’s, he will send me a +copy that I may judge for myself.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>December 21, 1806.</i> Napoleon is in Warsaw! The joy of the people +is beyond description. It must have been like this when our own king, +Jan Sobieski, returned with conquering arms. We have greeted him as +if our freedom were assured. But he has said nothing. He has made no +promises.</p> + +<p>The streets are gay with colors. Side by side are the gold eagle of +France and the white eagle of Poland. The soldiers are banqueted +everywhere. The people have gone mad and dance and sing without knowing +why.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span></p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>January 5, 1807.</i> We have not given Napoleon a chance to ask +for soldiers. They are rushing to him in such numbers it is as if the +nation threw itself at his feet and cried: “<i>With the forehead! With +the forehead!</i>”</p> + +<p>Prince Poniatowski has raised a legion. Yesterday the consecration of +their arms took place in Zielony Plac. When I looked at the youths +kneeling at the altar, it seemed to me not a Christian consecration, +but a pagan sacrifice of blood in honor of the modern Moloch—Napoleon.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>January 9, 1807.</i> My honored grandfather has returned from +inspecting the French troops. He says that, in comparison with them, +our old armies looked like a merrymaking at a country fair.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>January 11, 1807.</i> <i>I have met Napoleon!</i> It was last +night. I am still so excited that I do not know how to tell about it. +The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span> ladies of Warsaw have been vexed that he did not arrange for a +presentation. Yesterday the invitation came. At nine-thirty we were +assembled. We waited a full hour, standing in nervous expectation. At +last the door by which we knew he would enter opened, and Talleyrand +appeared. It seemed minutes before he spoke. Then he bowed and +announced—“The Emperor!” The word had the voice of the thunders and +filled all space. I can hear it now. “<i>The Emperor!!</i>”</p> + +<p>He looked like a god who in haste had been made a man and made too +small. By some accident his eyes met mine. For an instant it was as if +we two were alone, unconscious of the crowd that swayed between.</p> + +<p>As the ladies filed past and were presented, I felt that he was waiting +for me. Then a terrible nervousness seized me, which expressed itself +in a sort of exaltation, a wild and reckless daring.</p> + +<p>When my turn came, he stepped forward<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span> eagerly and asked my name. “The +Countess Tatjana Tschaska.”</p> + +<p>He beckoned me to him. “I am sure now that I shall meet in Poland the +only ruler whom I fear.”</p> + +<p>“And whom may that be, Sire?”</p> + +<p>“The Queen of Beauty,” bowing gallantly.</p> + +<p>I retorted: “One of our Slav poets said long ago: ‘One need not fear +a Russian Czar so greatly as a Polish woman.’” Then I courtesied and +moved on.</p> + +<p>As soon as the presentations were over, I saw him making his way toward +me. On the instant I was the observed of all. The crowd fell back, +seeing that it was his will, and left us alone. I was conscious of a +sensation then which I hope will never be repeated in the course of my +life. It was as if upon the instant all my ideals, all my standards of +living, had been shattered. It was as if I had never lived before. It +is in such moods that we do things that we regret and wonder at ever +after. There was something<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span> within me that rushed to meet him, that +swept barriers before it. Outwardly, however, I was calm.</p> + +<p>When he came near enough to speak, he asked jestingly: “Are there +really none but nobles in Poland?”</p> + +<p>In an instant I was on my mettle, defiant and scornful. “Sire, it +is easier to be a sovereign prince in France than a petty noble in +Poland.” Then I read such admiration in his eyes I regretted the answer +and hastened to make amends by inquiring, somewhat awkwardly: “Are you +not home-sick for Paris, here in the North?”</p> + +<p>“How could I be, when in Warsaw I have found another and a gayer Paris?”</p> + +<p>“Why is it that it fascinates the foreigner so?”</p> + +<p>“Because here the East and the West meet. The streets—how +interesting—a scene from an opera; turbaned Mussulmans, Janizaries, +Hungarians, Russians in pointed caps, Poles, Tartars—”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span></p> + +<p>“And what of the people—people such as are here?”</p> + +<p>“I do not care so much for the men, but I never saw such pretty women. +In them, too, the East and the West meet. They unite the intelligence, +the fine presence of the West with the fire and the languor of the +East.”</p> + +<p>I do not know what else we said. We talked with merriment and +unrestraint. Then he bowed, spoke a few words with some of the others, +and retired. He has gray-blue eyes that deepen and darken when he +talks. He is very small for a man, but so exquisitely proportioned +that he gives the impression of stateliness and height. His voice is +beautiful. It makes the heart vibrate.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>January 12, 1807.</i> To-day the Emperor sent one of his aides +to inquire for my health and to bring me a book—<i>Comte de +Comminges</i>. An enclosed note says that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span> this is his favorite book +and that every time he reads it he weeps. Strange man who can see his +fellows slaughtered by thousands, and weep over the mimic passions of a +book!</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>January 14, 1807.</i> At the Assembly last night, I was commanded to +the Emperor’s whist table. No sooner had I sat down than he turned to +me with the greatest unrestraint of manner. “What stakes shall we play +for, my little Countess?”</p> + +<p>“When one plays with the King of the World, Sire, it should be for +nothing less than a kingdom.”</p> + +<p>“Well, then, what shall it be? Name it!”</p> + +<p>“The freedom of Poland, Sire.”</p> + +<p>You cannot imagine the consternation. Every one was so frightened that +I began to be frightened, too. He was not in the least vexed. No one +knows better how to value bravery.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span></p> + +<p>“Granted, my little Countess! And I will play for the heart of the +bravest of Polish women.”</p> + +<p>Then the game began. I cannot tell how furiously we played. It was as +if the fate of the world hung in the balance. I never lived such an +exciting hour. People crowded around to learn the result. Bets were +made. Excitement rose to fever heat. I lost. He leaned across the table +and grasped my hands. “Now you are mine. I have won you fairly, you +little rebel!”</p> + +<p>Then some one cried out,—Prince Murat I think it was: “Sire, I never +thought to see you grasp the hand of Russia.”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean?” was the somewhat startled answer.</p> + +<p>“The Countess Tatjana, Sire, is the affianced bride of Prince Adam +Czartoryisky, the real ruler of Imperial Russia.”</p> + +<p>“It is my custom always to defeat my enemies,” he answered, but I saw +that his face clouded.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span></p> + +<p>“Wait!” I exclaimed. “Prince Adam and I may yet defeat you!”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>January 20, 1807.</i> In a letter received from Prince Adam to-day +was this sentence: “Do not trust the French Emperor. He will deceive +the Poles. He will make them promises he has no idea of keeping, and in +return they will shed their blood for him by thousands. The people of +the South, remember, are light of tongue.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>January 26, 1807.</i> Warsaw is still wild over the Emperor. He +possesses a strange magnetism. It is as if, like Prometheus, he had +stolen the fire of the gods. He is mortal. It cannot last. I wonder if, +like Prometheus, he will atone for his temerity by being chained to a +rock in the sea that the vultures of envy may eat his heart!</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>January 30, 1807.</i> Again last night I was commanded to +the Emperor’s whist table. He had forgotten about our little +unpleasantness<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span> and was unfeignedly glad to see me. As I entered, +he was talking with the Prince General about Goethe, whom he met in +Weimar. The Prince General moved away to make place for the players, +and the Duke of Bassano came up.</p> + +<p>“I must quote for our little Countess, Duke, that saying of Goethe’s +which proves him to be a warrior like myself: ‘Women and fortresses +were made to storm and take.’”</p> + +<p>“When Goethe wrote that, Sire,” I answered, “two exceptions were +understood—Russian fortresses and Polish women.”</p> + +<p>Then you should have heard the laughter, which he took good-naturedly, +replying: “I like spirit in a woman. It indicates race.”</p> + +<p>After the game was over, we found ourselves alone. He insisted upon +driving me home. We managed it without the others knowing; otherwise I +should not have dared. When we were in the sleigh he said, as if he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span> +thought I would be greatly interested: “I am going away to-morrow—or +the next day, my little Countess.”</p> + +<p>“Where, Sire?”</p> + +<p>“To White Russia.”</p> + +<p>I started as if some terrible thing had been communicated to me, then +replied: “Do not seek the wind in the open field.”<a id="FNanchor_6" href="#Footnote_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a></p> + +<p>The answer did not please him. Some minutes passed before he spoke. +Then the conversation took an intimate turn. We drove for two hours +at a furious pace, the horses’ feet striking diamonds from the snow. +When we reached the white levels of the country, silent and cold in +the silver night, I suddenly realized that in the nature of the man +beside me were the same great spaces of cold and silence—like the +steppe—which nothing could reclaim. For a moment fear rose in my heart.</p> + +<p>He said a thousand fond and foolish things and at last asked me if I +loved him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span></p> + +<p>I replied: “One worships the gods, Sire; one does not love them.”</p> + +<p>When we reached home and got out of the sleigh, he stood looking at me +in silence. His face looked paler than usual and more stern. Suddenly +a sort of rage convulsed it. He drew me to him, held me close, and +kissed my hair again and again. Then he leaped into the sleigh and was +off without a word. For an instant the stars in the winter sky and the +sparkling snow-stars upon the earth were one. A noise as of whirling +waters dulled my ears. In love as in war he is fierce and furious.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>February 10, 1807.</i> There has been another battle. We do not +know much about it, except that it must have been in the neighborhood +of Eylau. I have not heard from Prince Adam. I wonder if he was there. +I fancied him on one side and Napoleon on the other, with the black +thundering cannon between.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span></p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>February 14, 1807.</i> Every day comes news of an engagement in +which the French are successful. To-day a messenger came to me from +the seat of war, bringing a small box. In it there was an ornament +of diamonds, with a slip of paper, upon which was written: “Russian +fortresses may be taken!”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>February 19, 1807.</i> The French have defeated the Russians at +Ostrolenko.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>February 27, 1807.</i> Despite the war and the sad news that reaches +us daily, the carnival has been merry. We do always dance in Warsaw. +There is no denying it.</p> + +<p>Last night being Tuesday before Ash Wednesday, we celebrated at the +Prince General’s in the good old-fashioned way. We wore the Polish +costume in compliance with the Prince General’s request. The ladies +were resplendent in antique flowered court gowns of old English +gilt-brocade; the gentlemen in gorgeous uniforms with all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span> their +decorations, long blue and white plumes tossing from their hats.</p> + +<p>We began by dancing the Kracoviak, each with a glass of wine in his +hand. At the turns of the dance, where the ladies whirl, half kneeling, +and their full skirts spread out around them like the petals of a +flower, each gentleman made the sign of the cross above his partner’s +head with a glass of glowing wine. Then came a gavotte, then a +Polonaise, and last the old-fashioned dance where we sing, “Oh, we love +one another, yes, we love one another!” Thus we kept it up without once +pausing. At midnight the Prince General’s chaplain entered and made a +little talk upon the necessity of keeping the fast days. We followed +him to the chapel, where mass was said. When he came to the place +in the service where he reads, “<i>Cum jejunatis nolite fieri sicut +Pharisæi</i>,” the men leaped to their feet, flashed their swords from +jeweled scabbards, and set their plumed hats high upon their heads<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span> to +signify that they would fight and die for the faith. It was a splendid +and imposing sight—those solemn courtly figures glittering with gems +and gold, under the fretful light of tapers in the pale winter dawn. I +shall not soon forget it.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>April 20, 1807.</i> This has been a sad Lent, a veritable season of +gloom. I do not know why. I have heard nothing from the Emperor.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p class="right"> +<span style="margin-right: 7em;"><span class="smcap">Mioduschweski,</span></span><br> +<span class="smcap">Near Warsaw on the Vistula.</span><br> +</p> + +<p><i>June 1, 1807.</i> Spring is here. Even spring is sad. Not even the +birds are merry. Our peasants have sung their saddest songs at the +planting. I have heard nothing from the Emperor.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>July 10, 1807.</i> The Peace of Tilsit has been signed. Prince +Adam was there. France won her point, made alliance with Russia and +left England out. Prince Adam is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span> broken-hearted. Had Alexander been +less weak, Poland would be free. An attempt to influence the mind of +Alexander is like writing one’s name on water. There is a Russian +proverb that says, however: “You must not expect a cuckoo to be a +falcon.”</p> + +<p>How discouraging has this long diplomatic battle been to Prince Adam! +To it he has sacrificed his youth. Alexander has made use of his talent +for ten years by luring him on with the hope of a free Poland. He says +that at the Peace of Tilsit Napoleon jested and made all manner of fun +of the Poles. Since he is no longer the champion of the people, he has +degenerated into an ambitious knave, to whom the god of luck gave a +touch of genius.</p> + +<p>“Napoleon,” he writes, “is not a man of knightly honor with the blood +of kings in his veins. He is merely an adventurous usurper eager for +power. He is the first exponent of a modern commercial world whose +dawn is just at hand—a world<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span> wherein everything will be negotiable, +everything will have its price. The chivalric spirit of the past will +exist no longer; nothing comparable will exist again after the sword of +Napoleon has passed over it.”</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>(Here the loss of a number of leaves from the diary causes an +interruption in the story. It is taken up again with the year 1812).</p> +</div> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p class="right"> +<span class="smcap">Zaozaima, near Wilna in Lithuania.</span><br> +</p> + +<p><i>June 15, 1812.</i> I have just reached Zaozaima to oversee for the +summer one of our Lithuanian estates. My honored mother was unable to +come.</p> + +<p>I received a letter from Prince Adam to-day. He is no longer Minister +of Foreign Affairs, but he still stays on at the Court of Russia +because of his influence and friendship with Alexander. He still hopes +to effect the freedom of Poland. And I am waiting. How many women are +there in Poland to-day whose fate, like mine, is bound up with the fate +of the nation!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span></p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>June 27, 1812.</i> A messenger just came post-haste from Prince Adam +with this letter: “By the time this reaches you, Napoleon will have +crossed the Niemen with the great army of France. Diplomatic relations, +as you know, have been severed between France and Russia. Again I have +hope of the old alliance of Russia and England.</p> + +<p>“Word has been sent to Napoleon that you are in Zaozaima in Lithuania, +on the direct route to Russia. His love for you is well known. He will +send you word. You can help us. While I have the ear of Alexander and +you the heart of Napoleon, something may yet be done for Poland. This +is the plan—not to let Napoleon see the army of Russia until after he +has left Wilna. When he does see it, it will feign fear and retreat. In +case an engagement cannot be avoided, it is our plan to give him the +victory and then retreat again. In this way we can bring him into the +heart of the country.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span> With you to help, we will lure Napoleon, who is +now drunk with success, to a banquet of death in the heart of White +Russia.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>July 18, 1812.</i> A messenger came from the Emperor to-day and an +escort of Lithuanian soldiers. I am commanded to go to Witepsk to the +Convent of Our Lady of Good Council and there await him. I did not +think it would come so soon.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>July 20, 1812.</i> All night we rode through the great pine woods of +Lithuania. The soldiers sang, alternately, with answering voices, one +of the strangely modulated <i>dainos</i> of the country:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container p2"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“But when shall we go from the Russian land</div> +<div class="verse indent0">Back again to the Memel +strand?</div> +<div class="verse indent0">When posts and stones to blossom are seen </div> +<div class="verse indent0">And trees in depth of +the sea grow green.”<a id="FNanchor_7" href="#Footnote_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a></div></div></div></div> + +<p>Poor fellows! There is little probability that they will come back to +the Memel.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span></p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>July 25, 1812.</i> Witepsk is a gloomy city filled with cloisters. +There are twenty-four here. They look as black and as forbidding as the +black pines of Lithuania.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>July 27, 1812.</i> I found the strangest manuscript in the convent +to-day! It is unsigned and ancient. No one knows of its origin. I copy +a part which mysteriously refers to the present:</p> + +<p>“For I say unto you that the balance must always be kept. Great things +will be weighed and estimated by great things. But in the end that +shall prevail that is fullest of joy. Joy, alone, is life. Joy, alone, +can create. That which is effort is of a baser fiber.</p> + +<p>“Out of the gloom and the fog of the North the barbarians came and +destroyed the land of joy, the cities of white marble, the gladness of +the pagan world. They destroyed the altars whereon the incense smoked +and the sacrificial doves slumbered.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span></p> + +<p>“In the ages of ages, when the time shall be ripe and the world shall +have forgotten its ancient joy, retribution will fall upon the North.</p> + +<p>“Out of the South will come a Cæsar and a god, who, like them of +old, shall know not fear, but joy. He will be wise with the wisdom +of the sleeping centuries. He will be a Bacchic god, in whose honor +for incense cities will burn and the smoking blood of slaughtered +nations rise. He will be a Titan, who believes that the only crime is +littleness and impotence. A new age will begin with him.”</p> + +<p>As I read I saw the white cameo-like face of the Great Emperor framed +in the gold of a burning city.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>July 29, 1812.</i> The Emperor came yesterday. He brought two suits +such as are worn by the Polish cavalry, one for me and one for my +<i>dame de compagnon</i>. I had to cut my hair. Now it is in little +yellow curls. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span> said I must look like the women who lead the armies +of the Great Catherine.</p> + +<p>We are on the road to Moscow.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>July 30, 1812.</i> What is so inspiring as the call of trumpets! +They are the instrument of courage and high deeds.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>July 31, 1812.</i> Pan Brodzinski, Pan Anton Malzweski, and Prince +Michael Radziwill are with the army. I have not seen them.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>August 1, 1812.</i> This army is a wonderful sight. In it are people +of all nations. The faith of the soldiers in Napoleon is fanatical. In +just this way do the Moslems worship Allah. They think he is superior +to death. As the days go by and I learn to estimate his power, I, too, +can say “<i>Allah il Allah</i>.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>August 10, 1812.</i> No mortal was ever adored like this. Surely +there must be good in his heart.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span></p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>August 11, 1812.</i> It is just as Prince Adam wrote. The Russians +feign fear and retreat. I cannot be a party to this murder, this luring +him on to death. I must find some means of escape. I must find some +means of saving him that will save Poland too.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>August 12, 1812.</i> Napoleon disguised himself as a chasseur and we +rode together all day. I made the most of the opportunity.</p> + +<p>“Sire, before we reach the boundaries of Old Poland, I pray you, take +this precaution for your safety—make Poland free. Then you will have a +safe ally behind you. Then you can conquer Russia.”</p> + +<p>“Why take the trouble! Do you not see how they fear me, how they +retreat?”</p> + +<p>“That is only a ruse, Sire; they are the subtlest of races.”</p> + +<p>“They fear me; that is why.”</p> + +<p>“No, Sire, I know them better. It is a ruse. I beg you to listen and be +not angry.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span> Only a man whom the too great favors of destiny had made +drunk would lead an army into the heart of Russia. It means death—to +them—to you.”</p> + +<p>“That is for cowards. <i>Audaces Fortuna juvat, timidosque +repellit.</i>”</p> + +<p>“Sire, make Poland free!”</p> + +<p>“If I did, what good would it do the Poles? They could not remain free.”</p> + +<p>“Why, Sire! Do you not admire my race?”</p> + +<p>“I admire them, but I do not respect them. Your Polish aristocracy has +received a foreign education. In art, in letters, they have become +<i>demi-savants</i>, which has unfitted them for practical affairs. No +people were ever more fitted to please. No people ever so loved the joy +of life—music and the tossing of plumes. <i>But</i>—no people ever +had so little talent for the conquest of life. They were not made for +care, work, for a commonplace thing like discipline. That is why they +are famous for their cavalry.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span> They are good only for the impetuous +rush of an inspired moment.”</p> + +<p>“Sire, make an end to this crucifixion of my country! It will mean +safety to you on your return. <i>Make Poland free!</i>”</p> + +<p>“It would be useless. You Poles have no genius for affairs. You have +always acted like children.”</p> + +<p>“Sire, we are grown now. Sorrow has made us wise.”</p> + +<p>“It is useless, I tell you. You do not belong to the present. You +belong to other centuries. You are the last defenders of the bulwark of +the Middle Ages, where chivalry ruled. Now a modern world is here that +does not care for things that are merely fine; an age without ideals +but with great practical sense; an age which money and success alone +can rule,—money and success, won at any price, for not even honor +will stand in the way. Soon the old chivalric days when men loved one +another will be merely a dream.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span></p> + +<p>“The wars of the time to come will not be like these of mine. They will +be bloodless wars fought at expense of men’s souls and nerves, and +they will be crueler and more deeply destructive than any that have +desolated Poland.</p> + +<p>“If I should make Poland free, it could not remain free. It is the age +that is at fault. You have not grasped modern life. Another age has +come over Europe. And because the Pole cannot accommodate himself to +it, the nation will be destroyed. It will pass under the rule of others +who have in abundance what he has not. <i>Polonia delenda est.</i>”</p> + +<p>I can do no more. He must go on to ruin. <i>I dare not show him the +letter of Prince Adam.</i></p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>August 16, 1812.</i> We are under the walls of Smolensk, the city +which the Cossack Hetmans wrested from the Commonwealth. This is on the +borders of Old Poland.</p> + +<p>I said to the Emperor in one last attempt: “There is Russia, Sire. +Do you remember<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span> how it looks upon the map? A wilderness bounded by +a river of blood and by blue and frozen seas. Those, Sire, are God’s +awful prohibition.”</p> + +<p>He looked toward it thoughtfully for a time, then turned and walked +silently away.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>August 18, 1812.</i> Yesterday the French took Smolensk. Again I +saw the policy of Russia. It was garrisoned by thirty thousand men. +They gave us the victory that Napoleon may push on into the heart of +the country. There, when winter comes, the snow and the frost will do +what arms can not. There he will contend with a new army—the army of +the elements. I saw the battle. It was terrible beyond description. The +Emperor commanded in person. He was here, there, everywhere, all at +once. He was the incarnate demon of joy. Bullets dared not touch him. +Screaming, they fled past. It was frightful in that he really seemed to +be protected by a superhuman power.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span></p> + +<p>After it was over, he rode to where I sat.</p> + +<p>“Was a woman ever entertained as I have entertained you? I do not amuse +you with stupid balls, operas, soirées, but with the play of the best +armies of Europe.”</p> + +<p>His joy filled me with terror.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>August 20, 1812.</i> The soldiers are wild with hope. They see +themselves master of the East. I alone know what awaits them. They are +uplifted by such a burning desire of the future that the present is +annihilated.</p> + +<p>Along the way are the dead and dying. No one seems to care.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>August 22, 1812.</i> I am becoming infected with the general joy. +Yet I know that the Russians have prepared their revenge.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>August 28, 1812.</i> The Russians are still retreating. Yesterday +and the day before there were slight engagements in which the French +were successful.</p> + +<p>The Russians retired to Borodino. Now<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span> the invincible Kutusow is in +command. The Emperor is delighted. He is eager to meet him.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>September 8, 1812.</i> Yesterday they fought by Borodino. Kutusow +retired to Moscow.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>September 12, 1812. We can see Moscow!</i></p> + +<p>Imagine a yellow, barren plain, over it gold-dust haze, brightening +and darkening as the wind sways it, through which rise a multitude of +green and red and blue and silver domes, surmounted by gold, lace-work +crosses. It floats in the air. It is the creation of a magician. At +the same time it is very real, and touched with mystery and age—the +immemorial age of the East.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>September 15, 1812.</i> We are in Moscow. The city is deserted. +Kutusow took his troops and went away. It was not fear that made him. +Something terrible is going to happen. Why do not the French suspect?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span></p> + +<p>It is unimaginable—the effect of this silent, wonderful city. Who +would dream of a city here—on the barren plain that stretches eastward +to Asia! And such a city! Italian palaces by the side of Tartar huts! +Bazaars where the wonders of the Orient are displayed!</p> + +<p>The soldiers are pillaging right and left. Entire squadrons go about +decked in gold and embroidered gauzes fit for the harems of Stamboul.</p> + +<p>It is like a festival in honor of a pagan god. This illusion is +heightened by the fires which are burning everywhere, like incense.</p> + +<p>Never before did the bitter North see anything like this. Like this +life must have been in the old days—in Alexandria and in Mitylene.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p><i>September 17, 1812.</i> It has come! It could not be put off longer. +Last night the Emperor summoned me to him. He was in the Uspenski +Sobore, the cathedral where<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span> the Russian emperors are crowned. Here +he has set up his abode. The splendor of the room I entered was +overpowering. It was magnificent, imposing, glittering with marbles, +with paintings, and with decorations, made out of barbaric gold. It was +lighted by a thousand candles, each as tall as the body of a man. Yet +the corners and the roof were black and impenetrable.</p> + +<p>No sooner had I entered than he drew me to him with that silent fury I +remembered. Then he hastened to make fast the door.</p> + +<p>“Now I can unfold my plan—I, who am master of the world. For five +years I have loved you and asked nothing in return. Now is my time. You +are to be my Empress—Empress of the East. This shall be your capital, +Russia and the Orient your crown lands. You shall be what Yek-Katarina +dreamed always of being—Empress of the East.”</p> + +<p>“But—Sire—the church! Could it bless a union like ours?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span></p> + +<p>“The church? Why, I shall be the church!”</p> + +<p>I saw that he was drunk with the deadliest wine that can be given to +mortals—success, and the too great favors of destiny.</p> + +<p>“Sire, I have considered. I will follow your will—on one condition.”</p> + +<p>Here some one knocked at the door.</p> + +<p>“The city is on fire! Lose no time. Save yourself!”</p> + +<p>“And what is that?” paying not the slightest heed to the interruption.</p> + +<p>“Sire, Russia’s supply of powder is under the Kremlin. In an instant we +may all be destroyed. Sire! Sire!”</p> + +<p>“And what is that?”</p> + +<p>The pounding on the door became deafening. The great windows were so +lighted by the flames outside that they dimmed the candles. The floor, +made of bricks of steel, was as red with the reflection as a sea of +blood.</p> + +<p>“The freedom of Poland, Sire.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span></p> + +<p>“I grant it.”</p> + +<p>“Why should you not? Poland was cut up to make presents for the lovers +of Catherine. Why should it not be united for the one love of Napoleon?”</p> + +<p>“Sire! Sire! Open the door. Do not risk your life—the fate of France. +Open! Open!”</p> + +<p>“Write then its freedom here,” snatching a piece of paper and spreading +it before him.</p> + +<p>I felt no fear. I was conscious only of a great exaltation,—the +sensation he had first taught me to know. Death was nothing in +comparison with the goal I sought.</p> + +<p>“Write, Sire, write!”</p> + +<p>We were then in such an intensity of many-colored light that the +farthest top of the great dome shone red like a baker’s oven. The +knocking and the voices increased, grew deafening.</p> + +<p>“An instant, just another instant!” I prayed, “until that paper is in +my hands!”</p> + +<p>“Dictate; it shall be as you wish.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span></p> + +<p>“Write, then: ‘<i>que la République de Pologne soit maintenue dans son +état de libre élection et qu’il ne soit permis à personne de rendre le +dit royaume héréditaire dans sa famille ou de s’y rendre absolu</i>.’”</p> + +<p>Just as he reached the place of signature, the door fell and the Prince +of Naples, followed by frightened soldiers, rushed in.</p> + +<p>“What are you writing?” He snatched the paper from the table. By this +time the room was half filled with soldiers.</p> + +<p><i>The freedom of Poland!</i></p> + +<p>“Sire, this woman is the tool of Russia. See, here is the letter +written to her by Prince Adam Czartoryisky. Listen, Sire, listen!</p> + +<p>“‘With you to help, we will lure Napoleon, who is now drunk with +success, to a banquet of death in the heart of White Russia.’”</p> + +<p>The look on the face of the Great Emperor is one of the things which +the merciful God will never permit me to forget. Upon it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span> dawned in +quick succession the intelligence of all those baffling defeats, +followed by a mingled look of anger, surprise, and that which cut me +deepest—grief.</p> + +<p>“Sire,” continued the Prince of Naples, “outside waits her escort sent +by His Imperial Majesty, Alexander, to rescue her from burning Moscow.”</p> + +<p>“Take her to her escort,” was the stern reply.</p> + +<p>Not one word, not one glance, did he give to me.</p> + +<p>As I drove away toward Warsaw, I saw him for one last instant standing +on the pictured Kremlin wall, fearless and calm, a pagan god for whom +a city fell in ruin. Behind and beside, the conflagration rolled its +waves of flame.</p> + +<p>I had been faithful to my country, to my duty, yet I felt the greatest +contempt for myself.</p> + +<p>You see, I was beneath his anger.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span></p> + + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"> + +<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> Great Catherine. In the middle of the Eighteenth Century +the Russians called Catherine II. <i>Yek-Katarina</i>, which is +equivalent in English to Arch-Catherine.</p> + +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> + +<p><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="label">[2]</a> Krasinski—Count Sigismund, a Polish writer best known +as the author of <i>Irydion</i>, which, under the thin covering of a +fable, tells the tragic story of Poland. He was a prominent figure in +the Paris of that day.</p> + +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> + +<p><a id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3" class="label">[3]</a> Pan Kasimir Brodzinski, Polish critic.</p> + +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> + +<p><a id="Footnote_4" href="#FNanchor_4" class="label">[4]</a> One of the greatest poets of Poland. His poems, ballads +and his sonnets—in which he pictures the Crimea and the mountain world +of Southern Russia—have been translated into the languages of the +Continent. He is numbered among the Polish patriots of 1830.</p> + +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> + +<p><a id="Footnote_5" href="#FNanchor_5" class="label">[5]</a> Polish poet who wrote <i>Maria, An Heroic Tale of the +Ukraine</i>.</p> + +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> + +<p><a id="Footnote_6" href="#FNanchor_6" class="label">[6]</a> Slav proverb.</p> + +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> + +<p><a id="Footnote_7" href="#FNanchor_7" class="label">[7]</a> Author’s translation.</p> + +</div> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_PAINTER_OF_DEAD_WOMEN">THE PAINTER OF DEAD WOMEN</h2> +</div> + + +<p>We were lingering over one of our honeymoon breakfasts in Naples, my +husband dividing his attention between <i>Il Corriere di Napoli</i> and +his coffee, and I planning for my favorite pastime, swimming, in that +sea which looks like a liquid sapphire.</p> + +<p>“‘No clue to the mysterious disappearance of the Contessa Fabriani,’” +he read. “‘After a month’s search, the police are baffled.’”</p> + +<p>“That does not sound particularly remarkable to you, I suppose. +Women—and men, too, for that matter—have disappeared from other +cities. But this adds another chapter to a mysterious story of crime.</p> + +<p>“For twenty-five years not only native Italian women, but visiting +women of other nations have disappeared from Naples, and nothing has +afterward been heard of them.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span> The peculiar part about it is that they +have all been young and beautiful, and women of the upper class.”</p> + +<p>I paid little heed to his words. I was thinking of other things. +Besides, Luigi was a Neapolitan and interested in all the happenings +of his native city. On my first visit to Naples I did not have time to +interest myself in a sensational story such as I could read any morning +in the London papers.</p> + +<p>“You have not forgotten that to-night is the ball?” said my husband, +consulting his watch and jumping up. “I want you to look particularly +lovely. All my friends—and your old rivals—will be there. Business +takes me from the city for the day, and in case I should not return in +time to accompany you, I have arranged for Cousin Lucia to meet you at +ten at the door of the Cinascalchi Palace. I shall come later—in time +for part of the dancing. Tell Pietro to get you there at exactly ten,” +he called, after he had kissed me good-by.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span></p> + +<p>When I took a last look at myself in the glass that night, I felt that +I had obeyed my husband’s instructions. I was looking particularly +lovely. I had dressed with the purpose of appearing as unlike Italian +women as possible.</p> + +<p>My slim six feet of stature was arrayed in a plain white satin +princess, from which the shoulders rose scarcely less white and satiny. +My hair was the color of the upland furze, and my cheeks glowed like +the roses of an English garden.</p> + +<p>“Pietro!” I called, after we had driven what seemed to me a very long +time. “Are you sure that you are going in the right direction? I did +not suppose that it was outside the city.”</p> + +<p>He reassured me and drove on.</p> + +<p>We entered the courtyard of a country estate. As I stepped from the +carriage, I saw in the distance the grouped lights of Naples. Pietro +whipped the horses and drove off before I had time to speak.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span></p> + +<p>There were no other carriages in the yard. Could I have mistaken the +time? Lucia was not there to meet me, either. “She is probably within,” +I reflected, “since the palace is bright with light.”</p> + +<p>Doors swung back softly and as if by magic. I entered. The blaze +of light that rushed out all but blinded me. Words cannot express +the horror of it nor the silence that accompanied it. There were no +servants moving about. No one was in sight. I was alone.</p> + +<p>Imagine a sweep of majestic rooms whose floors were polished to the +surface consistency of stone; straight white walls of mirrored marble, +and, blazing from walls and ceiling, prisms of cut crystal. Wherever +you looked the glitter of light flashed back at you, confusing your +eyes and dazing your brain. I did not suppose that light could hold +such terror.</p> + +<p>“There is surely some mistake,” I whispered. “This is no place for +dancing or merriment. It is more like a white and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span> shining sepulchre. +I would rather trust myself to the night outside,” and I turned toward +the door with the purpose of leaving. But the space behind, where I +knew that I had entered, presented a smooth and evenly paneled surface. +There was no door. Nor was there place for lock or knob. As I stood +confused and hesitating, I learned to the full the demoniac power of +light. The slightest motion of my body, my head, my breathing, even, +sent from polished corners and cornice quivering arrows into my eyes. +The mirrors and the shining marble reflected floor and ceiling until +it was impossible to tell where one left off and the other began. It +seemed, after a time, that I was floating head downward in a sea of +light.</p> + +<p>Then something righted me sharply. It was not sound nor was it thought. +It appealed to subtler senses. It was as if the material body was +endowed with a thinking machine and each pore contained a brain. It +aroused some consciousness which the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span> hypnotism of light had dulled. I +knew then that I was standing, slim and white and frozen with terror, +in the focus of the light.</p> + +<p>I felt the cold diamonds shift their position upon my throat and breast +and tremble as I breathed irregularly. I heard the sibilant slipping of +the stiff satin as it fell into a changed position.</p> + +<p>A powerful and dominant brain had touched my own. For one unconscious +moment it had ruled it and set upon it the seal of its thought.</p> + +<p>Such a passion of fear assailed me that it seemed as if I must choke. +My fascinated eyes turned toward the end of the farthest room. From +there the message came. There, I knew, was something compelling, +something electric. Exactly in the center of that far room, and very +erect, stood a man. He was coming toward me, too, slowly—very slowly. +Yet I heard not the slightest sound. Evidently he was shod with rubber. +He moved as I have seen a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span> malevolent spider move toward a prisoned +fly, enjoying the pleasure of motion because he knows that there is no +escape for his victim. Just as gracefully and easily did he move toward +me. And as he came, I knew that he read my soul, measured my strength +and my power of resistance, and at the same time admired the white +erectness of my body.</p> + +<p>Fear, as with a bitter acid, etched his picture on my brain. He was +very tall—taller than I by a good inch—and faultlessly attired; a +patrician, but a degenerate patrician, the body alone having preserved +its ancient dignity.</p> + +<p>Ribboned decorations brightened his coat, and I saw a garter on his leg.</p> + +<p>He was thinner than any one I ever saw and correspondingly supple. His +movements had the fascination of a serpent. Thus might a serpent move, +if its coiled length were poised erect.</p> + +<p>His head would have been beautiful, had not the features been so +delicately chiseled<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span> that strength and nobility had been refined away, +and in their place had come effeminacy and a certain cold and delicate +cruelty.</p> + +<p>He was an old man, too, and his heavy hair was white. His brows, +however, were black and youthful, and from beneath looked out blue +eyes. The eyes were the color of light when it shines through thick +ice. They were the color of the sharp edge of fine steel when it is +bared too quickly to the sun. In the same hard way the light ran across +them.</p> + +<p>But the strangest part was that there seemed to be no limit to their +depth. However far you looked within, you could not find a person. You +could not surprise a consciousness. There was no soul there. In its +stead there was merely a keen and destructive intelligence.</p> + +<p>I realized that the man coming toward me did not live by means of the +physical acts of life. He had learned to live by his brain. He was a +cerebral!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span></p> + +<p>I sensed his dominant personality and struggled against it. I sensed, +too, the presence of a numbing mental fluid that crippled my will and +dulled me as does that sweet-smelling death which surgeons call the +anæsthetic.</p> + +<p>He had stripped himself of human attributes. He knew nothing of fear, +pity, love.</p> + +<p>“I have the honor of meeting, I believe, the bride of the Leopardi.” He +bowed and spoke in an even, unemotional voice.</p> + +<p>I bowed in return. “How is it possible for you to know that? I do not +remember having met you.”</p> + +<p>“It is not necessary to have met me. No beautiful woman comes to Naples +whom I do not know. I,” bowing again, “am Count Ponteleone, painter of +dead women. You have probably heard of me.”</p> + +<p>“Who has not!” I exclaimed, somewhat reassured and wondering that this +could be the man whose name was resounding through two continents.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span></p> + +<p>“This intrusion—which I beg you to pardon—is due to the coachman’s +mistake. I am expected at the Cinascalchi ball. My husband and cousin +await me there. If you will send me on in your carriage, I shall be +grateful.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, your coachman made no mistake,” calmly ignoring my request. “I +brought him here and you, too, as I have brought other women—by this,” +tapping his forehead.</p> + +<p>“You are graciously jesting to excuse my rudeness,” I managed to +stammer, summoning the ghost of a smile.</p> + +<p>“Well, we may as well call it a jest if you wish. It is a jest which +ought to flatter. I entertain only beautiful women here.”</p> + +<p>The glance that accompanied this enveloped me from head to foot. It was +a glance of admiration, and yet in it there was none of the desire of +would-be love. It was devoid of warmth and emotion. Nothing could be +more impersonal. No mark of material beauty had escaped it. It was the +trained<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span> glance of a connoisseur which measures accurately. I might +have been a picture or a piece of furniture.</p> + +<p>I felt that he knew my racial standing, my rank as a human animal, by +the delicate roundness of my bones and the fine fiber of my flesh. I +had been as glass to his intelligent gaze. Somehow, then, I felt that +the body of me belonged to him because of this masterly penetration +which substance could not resist.</p> + +<p>“Since you are to be my guest, we might seek a more comfortable place +to converse.”</p> + +<p>He led the way to the center of the great rooms where, touching an +invisible spring, doors flew back, disclosing a drawing-room draped in +red. As he bowed me to a seat, he remarked: “Here you look like a pearl +dropped in a cup of blood.”</p> + +<p>I, too, thought that I had never seen so wicked a red nor one so +suggestive of luxurious crime. The comparison jarred upon me and +prickled me with fear.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span></p> + +<p>As he sank back in an easy-chair opposite, I saw how the red walls +touched with color the whiteness of his hair and sent occasional ruddy +gleams into the depth of his eyes.</p> + +<p>“You are an Englishwoman, too,” he observed, with evident relish. “I +knew it. Only the mists and rains of England can make color like yours. +Did you notice how well we looked together as we walked along between +the mirrors? Are we not as if made for each other—tall and regal—both +of us? What a picture we would make!”</p> + +<p>It occurred to me then, with unpleasant appropriateness, that he was +the painter of <i>dead women</i>.</p> + +<p>“It is an English woman, too, that I lack for my collection,” he mused +meditatively.</p> + +<p>“Collection! Have you a collection of women? That is certainly unique. +I have heard of collections of bugs, birds,—but women, never. Perhaps +you would like me to join it!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span></p> + +<p>“Indeed I should! I never saw a woman I admired so tremendously.”</p> + +<p>I drew back in fear, silenced by the ardor of his words.</p> + +<p>“Oh, you need not be afraid. I am not like other men. I do not love as +they love. I love only with my brain. While you have been sitting here, +I have caressed you a thousand times, and you have not even suspected +it. I do not want the bestial common pleasures which my coachman can +have, or my scullion can buy with a <i>lira</i>. Why should not I be +as much superior to them in my loves as in my life? If I am not, then +I am not their superior in any way. My pleasures are those of another +plane of life, of a brain touched to a keener fire, of nerves that +have reached the highest point of pleasurable vibration. Besides, when +I love, I love only dead women. Life reaches its perfection only when +death comes. <i>Life is never real until then</i>,” he added.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps you would like to kill me for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span> your amusement to-night,” I +replied, still trying to keep up the jest. “I have always flattered +myself, however, that I was better alive.”</p> + +<p>No sooner were the words out than I regretted them. His face grew thin +and strained like a bird-dog’s on the scent. His lips became expressive +of a terrible desire, and his frail hands trembled with anticipation.</p> + +<p>As I looked, his pupils disappeared, and his eyes became two pools of +blue and blazing light. Unwittingly I had hit upon his object. I had +surprised his purpose in a jest.</p> + +<p>Who could have dreamed of this! At the worst, I thought, I might be +detained for two or three days, forced to serve him for a model, and +cause worry to my husband and gossiping comment.</p> + +<p>But whose imagination could have reached this! Strangely enough, the +decree of death that I read in his face dissipated my fear.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span> I became +calm and collected. In an instant I was mistress of myself and ready to +fight for life. The blood stopped pounding in my brain. I could think +with normal clearness.</p> + +<p>“The worst of it is,” I reflected, “this man is not mad. If he were, I +might be able to play upon some delusion for freedom. He has passed the +point where madness begins. He has gone just so much too far the other +way.”</p> + +<p>“Then you really think that you could love me if I were dead,” I +laughed, leaning toward him gayly. “Is it not rather a strange +requisite for winning a woman’s love? What would my reward be? Are you +sure you could not endure me any other way?”</p> + +<p>“Do not jest about sacred things! Death,” he answered slowly and +reprovingly, “is the thing most to be desired by beautiful women. It +saves them from something worse—old age. An ugly woman can afford to +live; a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span> beautiful woman can not. The real object of life is to ripen +the body to its limit of physical perfection, and then, just as you +would a perfect fruit, pluck and preserve it. Death sets the definite +seal upon its perfection, that is, if death can be controlled to +prevent decay. And that is what I can do,” he added proudly, getting +up in his abstraction and pacing up and down the room. “And what +difference does it make, what day it comes? All days march toward +death.”</p> + +<p>I admired unreservedly the elegant, intellectualized figure, now that I +had thrown fear to the winds.</p> + +<p>“Come,” he pleaded, “let me kill you! It is because I love you that I +ask you. It is because I think that your physical self is worth being +preserved. Your future will be assured. You will never be less happy +than now, less lovely, less triumphant. You will always be an object of +admiration.”</p> + +<p>“What a magician you are to picture<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span> death attractively! But tell me +more about it first.”</p> + +<p>Joy leaped up and sang in my heart at the prospect of the struggle. +I felt as the race-horse feels when, knowing the strength and the +suppleness of his limbs, he sees the long white track unfold before him.</p> + +<p>“In ancient days my ancestors,” he began, “were Roman Governors in +Spain. At the court of one of them, Vitellius Ponteleone, lived a +famous Jewish physician (in old Spanish days the Jews were the first +of scientists), by name Ibn Ezra. He made a poison (poison is not the +right word, I regret greatly its vulgar suggestiveness) from a mineral +which has now vanished from the face of the earth. This poison causes +a delicious, pleasureful death, and at the same time arrests physical +decay. Now, if you will just let me inject one drop of it into that +white arm of yours, you will be immortal—superior to time and change, +indestructibly young. You do not seem to realize<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span> the greatness of the +offer. For this honor I have selected you from all the women in Naples.”</p> + +<p>“It is an honor, of course; but, like a proposal of marriage, it seems +to me important and to require consideration.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, it is not important. We have to prepare for life, but for +death we are always ready. Besides, I am offering you a chance to +choose your own death. How many can do that!”</p> + +<p>“Do not think that I am ungrateful, good Count, but—”</p> + +<p>“One little drop of the liquid will run through your veins like flame, +cutting off thought and all centers of painful sensation. Only a dim +sweet memory of pleasant things will remain. Gradually, then, cells +and arteries and flesh will harden. In time your body will attain the +hardness of a diamond and the whiteness of fine marble. But it is +months, years, before the brain dies. I am not really sure that it +ever dies. In it, like<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span> the iridescent reflections upon a soap bubble, +live the shadows of past pleasures. There is no other immortality that +can equal this which I offer. Every day that you live now lessens +your beauty. In a way every day is a vulgar death. It coarsens and +over-colors your skin, dulls the gold of your hair, makes this bodily +line, or this, a bit too full. That is why I brought you here to-night, +at the height of your beauty, just as love and life have crowned you.”</p> + +<p>“It must be a remarkable liquid. Let me see it. Is it with you?”</p> + +<p>“No, indeed! It is kept in a vault which it takes an hour to open. It +is guarded as are the crown jewels of Italy,” he responded proudly.</p> + +<p>“There is no immediate danger,” I thought. “There is time. Now the road +lies long before me.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose there is an antidote for—this liquid. I will not call it +poison, since you dislike the word so greatly.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span></p> + +<p>“None that is known now. You see it destroys instantly what only +patient nature can rebuild.”</p> + +<p>“I am greatly interested in it. Show me the other women upon whom you +have tried it. I am eager to see its effect.”</p> + +<p>“I knew you would be. Come this way.”</p> + +<p>We ascended a staircase, where again I felt the sting of light. Upon a +landing, half-way up, he paused and pointed to our reflected figures.</p> + +<p>“Are we not as if made for each other—you and I? When I sleep the +white liquid sleep, I shall arrange that it be beside you.”</p> + +<p>My death evidently was firmly determined upon.</p> + +<p>At the top he unlocked a door, and we entered a room where some fifty +women were dancing a minuet. Above them great crystal chandeliers +swung, giving to their jewels and their shimmering silks and satins +reflected life. Each one was in an attitude of arrested motion. It was +as if they had been<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span> frozen in the maddest moment of a dance. But what +a horrible sight—this dance of dead women, this mimic merriment of +death!</p> + +<p>“You know my picture of this scene, do you not?” said he, turning on +more light. “They were perfect models, I can assure you. I can paint +them for hours in any light.</p> + +<p>“When I die I shall bequeath to Naples this art gallery. Will it not be +a gift to be proud of? Nothing can surpass it in uniqueness. Then the +bodies of these women will have attained the hardness and the whiteness +of fine marble. They can in no way be distinguished from it except by +their hair.</p> + +<p>“Of course now, if the outside world knew of this, I should be punished +as a murderer.”</p> + +<p>How firmly it is settled in his mind that the outside world is mine no +more!</p> + +<p>“But then I shall be revered as a scientist who preserved for posterity +the most perfect human specimens of the age in which I lived. I shall +be looked upon as a God. It is as great to preserve life as it is to +make it.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span></p> + +<p>The next room we entered was a luxurious boudoir. Before an exquisite +French dressing-table sat a woman whose bronze hair swept the floor. On +either side peacocks stood with outspread tails. Their backs served as +a rest for a variety of jeweled hair-pins, one of which she was in the +act of picking up.</p> + +<p>“That is the Contessa Fabriani. She is not dead yet. She hears every +word we say, but she is unable to speak. I am painting her now. You can +see the unfinished picture against the wall.”</p> + +<p>In an adjoining room a dark-skinned woman of the Orient, whose black +and unbound hair showed purplish tints, was reclining upon the back of +a Bengal tiger. Other Eastern women lay upon couches and divans.</p> + +<p>“See, even in death, what enticing languor! See the arrested dreams in +their dark eyes, deep as an Oriental night! These women I have loved +very greatly. Sometimes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span> I have a fancy that death cannot touch them. +In them there is an electric energy, the stored-up indestructible ardor +of the sun, which, I like to fancy, death cannot dissipate.”</p> + +<p>“Now here,” said the Count, opening another door, “I will show you an +effect I have tried for years to reproduce. This has been the desire of +my life.”</p> + +<p>He flung back a row of folding windows, making the room on one side +open to the sea.</p> + +<p>“It is the effect of the blended radiance flung from the water here and +the moon, upon dull silver, upon crystal, and the flesh of blond women.”</p> + +<p>He turned out the lights. The moon sent an eerie, shivering luster +across the crystal and silver decorations, and touched three women in +robes of white, who were standing in attitudes of dreaming indolence.</p> + +<p>“This thin, ethereal, surface light, this <i>puissance de lumière</i>, +is what I have tried<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span> in vain to prison. I have always been greedy of +the difficult and the unattainable. If I could do this, I should be the +prince of painters! It is a fact, a real thing, and yet it possesses +the magic of dreams, the enchantment of the fleeting and the illusory.</p> + +<p>“I wish to be the wizard of light. I wish to be the only one to prison +its bright, defiant insubstantiality.</p> + +<p>“Can you not see how wonderful it is? It is the dust of light. +Reflected upon silver and clear crystal it is what shadow is to sound. +Sometimes it seems to me like a thin, clear acid; then like some blue, +sweet-smelling volatile liquid, eager again to join the air.</p> + +<p>“Have you noticed how it penetrates blond flesh? It reveals, yet +transfigures it. I wish you could watch its effect often. Sometimes +the wind churns the sea-light into transparent foam. Then I love its +curd-like, piled-up whiteness. Sometimes when there is no moon, and +only a wan, tremulous<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span> luster from the water, the light of a far star +is focused on their satins, on their diamonds, struggles eerily among +their laces, or flickers mournfully from a pearl. The room then is +filled with a regretful, metallic radiance. The stars caress them. They +have become impersonal, you see, and the eternal things love them.</p> + +<p>“When the autumn moons are high, the light that fills the room is +resonant and yellow. It tingles like a crystal. It gives their cold +white satins the yellow richness of the peach’s heart, and to the women +the enticing languor of life. On such nights the moonlight is musical +and makes the crystal vibrate.</p> + +<p>“Now, to-night, the light is more like the vanishing ripple of the sea. +Is it not wonderful? Look! It is the twin of silence, the ghost of +light!”</p> + +<p>In his excitement and exhilaration, his eyes shone like the moon-swept +sea. I knew that in them, too, slept terrors inconceivable.</p> + +<p>“This is the room I have in mind for you.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span> You will queen it by a head +over the other women. The color of your dress is right. Your gems, too, +are white. Here, sometime, I promise to join you, and together we will +be immortal.</p> + +<p>“Excuse me just a moment. Wait here. Let me get the liquid and show it +to you. You will be fascinated by it, just as other women have been. I +never saw one who could resist it.”</p> + +<p>As he left, I heard the key turn in the lock. When we entered the other +rooms, I remembered that he bolted the doors on the inside. This door, +then, was the only one by which he could gain entrance. Swiftly I +slipped the bolt. Now I was safe—for a time, unless there was a secret +entrance.</p> + +<p>It was not far from the window to the water. I laughed with delight. +I had dived that distance many a time for pleasure. I was one of the +best swimmers in England, and I had always longed for a plunge in +this sapphire sea. Now was my chance and life<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span> as the goal to gain. +I took off my satin gown as gayly as I had put it on. Like the Count +of Ponteleone, I, too, admired the play of light on its piled-up +whiteness. How merrily the sea-wind came! How it counseled courage!</p> + +<p>I took the plunge. Down, down, down I went, cleaving the clear water. +The distance up seemed interminable. It was like being born again when +at last I saw the white foam feather my arms and felt my lungs expand +with air. I swam in the direction of Naples. I could not reach the +city, but I could easily reach some fisher’s hut and there gain shelter.</p> + +<p>Oh, the delight of that warm, bright water under the moon! I felt that +the strength of my arms and my legs was inexhaustible. I exulted in the +water as a bird exults in its natural element, the air.</p> + +<p>After I had covered what I thought to be a safe distance, I turned on +my back and floated. Then I caught sight of the window<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span> from which I +had leaped. It was brilliantly lighted. Count Ponteleone was leaning +from it, his white hair shining like a malevolent flame.</p> + +<p>Despite the distance, I could feel the power of his wild blue eyes, +which sparkled like the sea. Again I dived, lest they should reassert +their power over me and draw me back.</p> + +<p>I came up under the shadow of the shore, and made my way along until I +reached a boat where Neapolitan fisherwomen were spreading their nets +to dry.</p> + +<p>They took me in, and for the doubled price of a good month’s fishing +brought me that night to Naples.</p> + +<p>“Ah, Luigi,” I sobbed, as he folded me in his arms, “little did I +think, when you spoke of the dance this morning, that I should spend +the night with the dead dancing women of Ponteleone.”</p> + +<p>“Nor I that you would solve Naples’ mystery of crime.”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_MIRROR_OF_LA_GRANJA">THE MIRROR OF LA GRANJA</h2> +</div> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>¿Que es el hombre? Un misterio.</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>¿Que es la vida? ¡Un misterio tambien!</i></div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent10"><span class="smcap">Espronceda.</span></div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“Sólo en tiempo de Felipe II, cuando el espíritu del Renacimiento +se hacía sentir allí, fueron pintadas muchas hermosas damas para su +galería de retratos del Prado.”—<span class="smcap">Carlos Justi.</span><a id="FNanchor_8" href="#Footnote_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a></p> + +<p>(In the time of Philip the Second, when the spirit of the Renaissance +was being felt, he had many beautiful women painted for his gallery of +the Prado.—<span class="smcap">Carlos Justi.</span>)</p> +</div> + + +<p>I arrived in Toulouse on my homeward way to Spain in the midspring of +1898.</p> + +<p>For three years I had toured the world with my violin, giving concerts +in its principal cities. I had been flatteringly received. Men had +showered their gold upon me; women their flowers and favors. I was +acclaimed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span> the Spanish Paganini, the greatest of violinists, the +premier artist upon this difficult instrument. I had been surfeited +with applause. I had been fêted until I was weary. Now I was looking +forward to a well-merited rest in which to gratify my love of art, +and, perhaps, try my hand at composing. In addition, I longed for +the dignified ease, the cultivated leisure of the life of a Spanish +gentleman. During the years of concert giving, I had earned enough +to give myself this pleasure. I felt, too, that there is something +ignoble in prostituting art to gold and the indiscriminate applause of +the multitude. Art should be superior to traffic, accessible only to +intelligent understanding and to love.</p> + +<p>As I mused, a messenger entered and handed me a telegram. It announced +the death of my maternal great-uncle, the Conde de Quederos. The +telegram said that before the burial every effort had been made to +reach me, and that since there were no direct<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span> heirs, I, as nearest in +blood, inherited the estate.</p> + +<p>I could not grieve over my uncle’s death. I could not be expected to. +I had never seen him but once, and that was when I was a child. In +addition, I knew that he was old, almost if not quite a centenarian, +and that long ago life must have lost its charm. My heart warmed with +gratitude toward that kindly Fate which was bestowing favors upon me. +Only that morning I had meditated as to what place in Spain, now that +my parents were no more, I should choose for a residence. Here was the +problem solved without effort on my part and in a most pleasing manner.</p> + +<p>I went directly to Cuenca, to the dead Conde’s <i>castillo</i>, +to the heart of that old Castile which the greedy Romans coveted. +As I entered, I read upon the fluted shield above the door, +“<i>Adelante</i>” (Go on). A brave race truly, whose motto was never to +turn back.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span></p> + +<p>In the hall the lined-up servants met me, and each addressed me gravely +as Conde de Quederos. That night I had a conference with the steward as +to the rooms which I was to occupy.</p> + +<p>“The finest suite in the <i>castillo, Señor mio</i>, is the one the +late Conde occupied. It is called ‘The Suite of the Mirrors.’”</p> + +<p>“Mirrors!” The word stirred responsive memory. “Is not there a magic +mirror, so called, here in the castle? It seems to me I remember having +heard something of the kind.”</p> + +<p>“<i>Si, Señor mio.</i> It is in the drawing-room from which the +suite takes its name. They were all made by the late Conde’s +great-grandfather at La Granja. Mirror-making was his hobby.”</p> + +<p>Yes, yes; now I recalled the stories my mother had told. Aloud I said: +“That is the suite which shall be mine. Show me up.”</p> + +<p>“Shall I light the drawing-room?”</p> + +<p>“No; open the blinds and leave me while<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span> you have my bags unpacked and +my chamber made ready.”</p> + +<p>The suite consisted of a bed-chamber with dressing-room attached, and +a sitting-room, which from its size and adornment was called “The +Drawing-Room of the Mirrors.”</p> + +<p>Here I sat down to rest and smoke my after-dinner cigar. The dim summer +night filled the ancient room with frail shadows, making the mirrors, +which reached from floor to ceiling, look like pale plates of tarnished +steel.</p> + +<p>I remembered it all now! It came back in a vivifying flash of +thought. The male members of my mother’s family, excepting the late +Conde, had been scientists <i>enragés</i>. They had preferred, too, +the delusive by-ways, the dangerous and insecure footings, where +fact borders upon fancy, where the will-o’-the-wisp of unrealized +possibility lures on. They had wasted life and impaired their fortunes +in following unattainable fancies and in trying to wrest from nature +secrets<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span> forbidden to man. They had been men of strange vagaries and +inexplainable passions, who found the pleasure of existence in ways not +understood by others.</p> + +<p>The great-grandfather of the late Conde had been devoted to +mirror-making. It was his effort and his wealth that had brought to +La Granja the first Venetian <i>specchiai</i>, and those who made +<i>verres de cristal</i> and wrested from them their secret. He sent +to England to Lord Buckingham and to France to Colbert to purchase the +knowledge of their workmen in this fascinating art. And it was he who +made the sixteen mirrors in the room in which I sat.</p> + +<p>Indeed, the age in which he lived had been mad over glass-making. The +Council of Ten of the Venetian Republic went so far as to pass a law +that its nobles might wed with the glass-makers of Murano without loss +of caste. It was the only work which did not detract from a great +noble’s dignity.</p> + +<p>France imitated Venice and made a similar<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span> law. Spain, thanks to the +effort of Conde de Quederos, was not behind in the art. Nor did the +Conde lose standing among the ancient nobility of Castile for the +hours spent at the furnace. With its introduction from Italy had come +likewise its patent of nobility.</p> + +<p>After the old Conde had gratified his love of mirror-making for years +and had made fifteen of the sixteen mirrors which hung in the room in +which I sat, his mind was teased with the desire to make a magic mirror.</p> + +<p>With this object in view, he devoted himself to the chemistry of +glass. He bought all the books and ancient manuscripts procurable +upon the subject. He thought of nothing else. He talked of nothing +else, until it was commonly reported that he was mad. He insisted that +it was possible to make a mirror of such exquisite purity, of such +lustrous depth, that, like that Borgian glass which snapped in twain +at the touch of poison, it should refuse to reflect material bodies +and earthly substances and reproduce<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span> only the impassioned dreams of +the mind, or the frail and insubstantial spirit forms which, having +once been on earth, hover near in attempt to commune again with the +creatures of the flesh. What wonder they called him mad!</p> + +<p>A few days before his death, however, the sixteenth mirror was brought +from La Granja and hung in the place reserved for it. Just what this +mirror was like I could not remember having heard. The next night, +when I was less weary, I determined to have a look at the old Conde’s +productions. In the magic mirror I had no interest. The idea was too +absurd. It was a madman’s dream.</p> + +<p>The next evening I ordered the chandeliers to be lighted in the great +drawing-room, and with my violin tucked under my arm hastened thither. +It was a noble room that lay revealed beneath the glitter of the +swinging crystals. I was glad that I had not spoiled the first effect +by seeing it by day. It was lofty, and long by some forty feet. The +floor<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span> was worked out in a curiously dim-bright design made of marble +and ancient glass bricks, in whose depth glowed <i>mille fiori</i>. The +ceiling was a richly resplendent canvas, whereon were depicted giant +figures representing the loves of Hercules and Omphale. The walls were +made up of alternate panels of mirrors, mural paintings continuing +the stories of classic lovers, and spaces of mysteriously colored and +strangely wrought glass, evidently rare and priceless specimens of the +ancient workmen of La Granja.</p> + +<p>At a glance the mirrors seemed as much alike as peas in a pod. They +reached from floor to ceiling. They were framed uniformly in the +heavily ornate frames with which fifteenth-century Italy supplied the +world.</p> + +<p>Yet the effect was most lovely. Between the feverish panels wherein the +passion of flame had prisoned restless colors and the perfervid scenes +of classic love, the mirrors interposed spaces of pale neutrality and +mysterious calm. They afforded the relief<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span> that water affords in the +out-of-door landscape. Their unsoundable depths of silence were like +a telescopic glimpse into the night of space. They were the mute and +motionless keepers of secrets of another world. Their pale passivity +was more pleasant than silence. Yet at times they seemed to tell of the +possibilities of a spirit life which was centered in colossal calm.</p> + +<p>What artistry had been expended upon the decoration of these walls! +That dead uncle could have been no ordinary man. My heart thrilled with +pride. It was worth being called mad so to have understood the values +of light.</p> + +<p>Drawing an easy-chair before the central mirror, I took up my violin +preparatory to playing. Then I noticed that the frame of the central +mirror was unlike the others. I looked about to make sure. Yes, it was +the only odd one. And odd enough it was, made of closed flower buds, +tiny eggs, and folded leaves. It must mean something, that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span> strange +frame. It was not chosen with an eye single to decorative ends. It was +an hieroglyph, a symbol. But what one? Each detail represented the +sleeping germ of a life principle. In the egg, in the bud, life is +folded. They pointed to the mirror edge. Did they mean that there too +life was folded?</p> + +<p>I leaned forward. The cold face of the mirror confronted me. I started +with fear. I was not reflected in it! Nothing was reflected in it! Not +an article of furniture, not a picture, not a bead of light from the +great chandelier above. I looked about, This was the only odd mirror. I +made sure of that. All the others were a-quiver with light and color. +I held my hand in front of it. I waved my violin to and fro. In vain! +They left not a trace upon its surface. Prickly fear crept over me. I +shivered as if from touch of the dead or sweep of their icy breath. +The mirror’s pallid passivity added to the horror. It was the silent +mockery of the dead. And this horror was born,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span> not of midnight noises +and visions, but of silence and the splendor of light.</p> + +<p>Only last night in this very room I had called my uncle a madman, a +dreamer. How ashamed did I feel of my vain conceit of the evening, +confronted with this production of his skill! It was as if some +towering ghost smiled down scornful pity upon me, who stood there +dancing about like a maniac in the effort to wrest a responsive +reflection from that mute surface. Never had anything so undone me, so +set me a-tremor with discomfort. I was in touch with something of which +I knew nothing, with an unknown force whose extent and power I could +not measure.</p> + +<p>Controlling my nervousness, I sat down to contemplate the glass. It +was like looking into the depths of a pellucid lake, whose surface +had never been rumpled by wind or blurred with light. It was like a +glance down infinitudes of space, clearly gray and sweetly translucent, +but beyond the farthest rim of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span> the worlds where not even star dust +floated. It was a place where, defiant of natural law, light existed +without object. It was a void over which nature had no power. It was a +pale inanity, the antithesis of the life principle which is motion. It +was a powerful and repellent nothing. A sickening dizziness assailed +me. I felt as if I were perched upon the edge of an abyss wherein +material substances were lost. I was conscious of a peculiar revulsion, +a sort of mental nausea such as is experienced when watching a serpent +move, throwing off electric vibrations at variance with the human +organism.</p> + +<p>This, then, was the mirror of the dead! It was a place for spectres +to disport themselves! It was the gray shadow world where phantoms +dwelled! Who could guess what slept within its depths! Who could guess +what was looking out upon me now which my physical self could not +discern!</p> + +<p>I closed my eyes to shut out the sight and lifted the violin. The bow, +as if moved by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span> an impulse of its own, struck the slow, prolonged, high +notes which announce the Saraband. An inspiration! Why should not I +popularize the dance music of Spain as Chopin had that of Poland?</p> + +<p>For a time I played on, repeating old airs and improvising new ones, +but ever recurring to the Saraband. Nervousness vanished. Others had +put up with this non-committal mirror, why should not I? Courage +returned. Music exercised its old magic. Again I cared for nothing save +my art.</p> + +<p>I do not know how long this musical reverie had lasted when, opening my +eyes, I saw in the depths of the mirror, but far, far away, a dim white +figure. I was playing the Saraband. I noticed that when certain notes +were struck the figure could be seen more plainly, that it grew in +distinctness and came nearer, while others made it recede and fade away.</p> + +<p>Was it the creation of my bow? Now for the first time was the +demon-compelling<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span> power of Paganini mine? Through contemplation of +that crystal surface had I purged my soul of impeding impurities, as +if, denuded of clothes, I had swept through space and bathed in its +crystal ozone? Had not the tones of my violin changed too? I listened +critically. Yes; they had a certain heart quality which had been +lacking, a luscious, singing richness, colorful and sweet. The single +tone, divorced from melody, filled me with delight. Ambition leaped +to giant height. Fear vanished. I could subdue the world—I—I, Lopez +Manrico! I bent to my playing. Each time it was the Saraband that +evoked the image. No other melody whatsoever had the power to do it. +And there were certain phrases and turns of this that had especial +effect upon it. Once I thought that I could discern the features of +the figure, and I did glimpse it firmly enough to know that it was the +figure of a woman.</p> + +<p>How I tried to prolong the notes that were creating beneath my eyes +that evanescent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span> being! How, by trained trickery, did I try to prolong +the instrument’s power of tone extension! It was useless. Strength +failed. My arm grew weak and fell of its own accord, and the vision +paled and faded.</p> + +<p>The old Counts of Quederos had been scientists, I meditated. One had +devoted himself to the relation of sound to the human body. Perhaps he +had left a record of his discoveries. I would go to the library and +see. At least the books that he had studied would be there. Excepting +only the Imperial Library, the Castillo de Quederos contained the +finest collection of rare books and manuscripts in Spain.</p> + +<p>I ran to the room and lighted all the lights. Ardor of investigation +filled me. If the problem could be solved, I would do it. Was it +not a duty, too, since in a way the power lay with me? “<i>Le génie +s’oblige.</i>”</p> + +<p>Here were the books of the old glass-maker, probably arranged just as +he had left them: John Pechon’s treatise on optics,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span> dating from the +thirteenth century; Biringuccio’s receipts for glass-making; Garzoni’s +chemistry of glass; the three books of Eraclius, who, in the early +thirteenth century, got together all that was then known of the art. +I took down the third volume. It opened at the seventh chapter, where +begin the receipts for compounding the substance. This was not what I +wanted. Nor did I care more for the poets—Lopez Mendoza, Ha Levi, nor +the private letters of Cib-dareal, precious as they are.</p> + +<p>As I replaced the latter, I felt something behind it. Inserting my +hand, I pulled out a gilded cylinder. Within it lay a manuscript in +an unknown tongue, and with it a translation made by a Spanish Jew. +The manuscript proved to be <i>The Resurrecting Powers of Science</i> +by Abu Hamid Algazali of Bagdad. Something told me that my search was +rewarded. I pulled a chair beneath the nearest light and there, until +day, perused the parchment. It had suffered many a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span> midnight perusal. +Finger marks were upon it, and it was frayed and soiled. I read:</p> + +<p>“Each body is responsive to a tone or a combination of tones.</p> + +<p>“Each body is, in a sense, a musical instrument whose vibrating strings +are taut nerves and muscles.</p> + +<p>“The circulating blood sings a song.</p> + +<p>“Heart-beats describe a melody.</p> + +<p>“One of the energies wrapped up in the life principle is a musical +chord.</p> + +<p>“It is possible for music, if the right tone be discovered, to arrest +ebbing life force, or to call back those who have passed beyond.”</p> + +<p>“To call back those who have passed beyond!” Here it was! Now I +understood. I had unwittingly hit upon the chord that vibrated in +unison with the mirror vision. What a possibility lay before me! I +could read no more. Dizzy with the discovery, I went to bed. I did not +even pause to view the wonder of the dawn that was bleaching the night +pale.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span></p> + +<p>When again night came, I hastened to the drawing-room. I lighted every +light. I locked and bolted the door. I would not permit an interruption.</p> + +<p>Then I took the melody of the Saraband and transposed it from key to +key. In this way the tone I sought could not elude me. The first notes +of the dance evoked the figure, but it was so far away, so dim, it was +scarcely more than a breath’s shadow. It was only with the key of F +minor that a change came. Then the figure grew more distinct. Features +were visible. It took on color, firm form. It came floating on, on, on, +toward me, until within the glass just a few feet away stood a lithe, +brown, Moorish girl. My heart choked me with its beating. It was all +that I could do to command strength with which to continue the music.</p> + +<p>Very gracefully she swayed to the melody of the Saraband, but she +danced it in a way that was new to me. On her head rested a tiny cap +fringed with vari-colored gems.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span> She wore white muslin trousers, very +full, gathered at the ankle with bells of gold, whose tongues were +little stones that looked like flame. The upper part of her body was +covered with a tight-fitting vest of pale blue, picked out in silver, +and a tight-fitting coat of yellow satin, both of which were open to +the waist, disclosing the brown skin. From under the cap her hair fell +in long braids, intertwined with coral. Her little bare feet were +encased in slippers with gem-studded heels. She was evidently a Moorish +dancing-girl, but of an age long, long gone by.</p> + +<p>She had the small head and the broad low brow of ancient races; eyes +long, dark, and somber, accented by brows as “delicately arched as +those of the pictured Cenci;” a mouth whose warm red undercurve +contradicted the saddened eyes.</p> + +<p>She was a frail and febrile copy of Da Vinci’s St. Marguerite, who, +despite her saintship, is a Spanish dancing-girl in a moment of repose. +There was something<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span> about her that stimulated the powers of life, that +created a passionate and imperious music which flooded the soul with +desire.</p> + +<p>But it was the eyes that held my attention longest. They clung to mine +with an unwavering glance. In them lay a mute appeal. They looked at +me piteously, longingly. They implored help of me. They were like eyes +that look from the other side of the grave with the hope that by not +losing sight of mine they could draw themselves back and up again to +the light. They begged for life. At that moment I would have lain down +my own life to give momentary reality to hers.</p> + +<p>Nor did she dance continuously like the puppet of my bow. She possessed +independent life. She paused and waved and beckoned with her little +hands. She tried to make me understand her dumb sign language, but +always in her eyes there was that look of piteous questioning.</p> + +<p>She was so frail and bright! She was like<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span> a butterfly made of gauze. A +breath could crush her. Yet she danced bravely to please me, to win my +applause. Poor little lonely dancer! Who could be more unsuited to the +shadow world? Never had I so realized the cruelty of death. Never had I +so rebelled against it. What had her crisp muslins, her satins, and her +frivolous graces to do with death! I longed to clasp her in my arms, to +breathe my own life breath into her, to shield her from that awful fear.</p> + +<p>Her eyes looked into mine. Her soul spoke to mine and was understood, +but her body I could not reach. It was, perhaps, ages away. It was not +space that separated us; it was something crueler far. It was time!</p> + +<p>Suddenly a tremor passed over her. What was it! Ah! yes, my weary arm +had faltered in its playing. The little face quivered with fear. She +held out her arms in mute appeal. I was helpless. The exhausted muscles +refused to obey. My arm fell to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span> my side. She floated away, away down +the dim, gray, mirror vista, her little hands fluttering a sad farewell.</p> + +<p>When I put out the lights and leaned from the window for a moment for a +whiff of fresh air, I found that the night had gone and that the dawn +was streaking faintly the fields and hills.</p> + +<p>That day I slept only until noon. Nervous tension prevented rest. The +remainder of the day I lounged in the library or idled on the verandas, +living over again in thought the incidents of the night. For months +this was my life. Not once did I leave the <i>castillo</i>, although +invitations from the neighboring gentry and my uncle’s friends poured +in upon me. Nor indeed, during this time, did I see any one but the +servants. I denied myself to visitors. I thought only of my Moorish +love. I dreamed only of her in the few day hours devoted to sleep. +Several times I saw the servants touch their foreheads significantly +when they passed me,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span> and I heard them whisper, “The madness of the De +Quederos!”</p> + +<p>My life now took on an excessive value. Did not another depend upon it? +Without me my Moorish love was dead. With me she enjoyed a semi-being. +At times I suffered the most torturing fear lest accident to me condemn +her forever to oblivion. The thought shook my soul.</p> + +<p>Each night when my playing evoked her, she begged more piteously for +life, and I, who so gladly would have granted it, was powerless. Each +night her sign language was more comprehensible, more eloquent of +longing and of love. Each night my love for her grew greater. When the +hour for parting came, I felt grief such as they who bury those they +love. How could I know where she went, what horrors encompassed her! +How could I know what difficulties she had conquered to come to me! How +could I know that she would ever come again!</p> + +<p>By day the burden of my mind was to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span> know where, only to know where, +she was! Not even the feverish imaginings of my heart could frame an +answer.</p> + +<p>At night, when lights began to twinkle in the little houses of the +village and the stars to show one by one, I looked out and cursed them, +because I knew that in not one of them all was she. In all the broad +firmament she was not. She alone, my Moorish love, had no share in +the sweetness of the spring. I grew to hate the world that had cast +her off. I became a solitary. How could I be expected to mingle with +people, to leave the <i>castillo</i>! Would it not be murder to do so +even for the space of a night? Not all crimes are amenable to law. +Her life depended upon me. Absence meant death. Could I condemn her I +loved to one unnecessary hour within the grave? Did I not always see, +sleeping or waking, the piteous eyes that begged for life? Did I not +always see the mouth that tried to smile, to coquette, despite the +death-fear that drooped it?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span></p> + +<p>But how could I explain this to the Conde’s friends? Had I done so, +they would not have understood. I really believe they would have called +me mad. I persisted in silent refusals.</p> + +<p>What a fate was mine! I loved a woman who was separated from me by +the centuries. I loved a phantom, a vision, a self-created mirage. +I, alone, knew that this vision possessed life. Night after night we +conversed by signs. Eyes looked into eyes, soul into soul, yet might +we never join hands or lips. We saw each other plainly, yet might our +voices never bridge the chasm of the ages. Within arm’s reach of me she +stood, and smiled and beckoned, yet I had not the power to touch her. +Her red lips voiced messages to me, but the wind of ages rushed between +and swept them away to bury within soundless silence. What torture was +this! What inexplainable suffering! In subtle punishment the curse of +Tantalus was not its kin.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span></p> + +<p>Only to the violin could I confide my sorrow. I threw away my music. My +heart alone dictated. Thus I poured forth my longing, my unsatisfied +passion, and my grief. Thus I voiced my anger, my hatred of men, of +life, my rage against that silent and invisible God who mocked me with +his might, and reduced my endeavor to puny impotence.</p> + +<p>Sometimes, when cruel notes shivered the air, and sharp discords all +but snapped the strings, I caught sight of the frightened faces of +the servants coming one by one, a-tiptoe, to peer at me. Or below I +saw teamsters turn sharply to avoid the <i>castillo</i> and the Roman +bridge beneath my window. Too, there were fewer travelers on the road +of late. Less often sounded the friendly mule bell. The simple peasants +were terrified by the sounds of hate and rage. The servants, too, +feared me. They believed me to be “<i>possessed</i>.” The old steward, +alone, had a different opinion. He attributed my peculiarities to drink +or infatuation for a woman.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span> The more so since of late no one had been +admitted to my rooms. One day the kind old fellow touched my arm in a +fatherly manner and whispered, “<i>Mi hijo, niños y vinos son mal a +guardar!</i>”</p> + +<p>It was too late for the kindly offices of friends. I was hopelessly +given over to an infatuation. I had lost regard for appearances. I did +not care.</p> + +<p>Swiftly the days slipped by. I paid as little heed as do they who live +under emotional strain. Spring deepened into summer; autumn came. In +time its color faded beneath the mists of November. Before I knew it, +<i>la nôche de los difuntos</i> (the night when the dead come back) was +at hand.</p> + +<p>It pleased me to think that then I could celebrate my wedding with +the dead. For the occasion I had the great drawing-room filled with +flowers. At the last moment the caprice seized me to don the state +costume of a courtier of Philip the Second. Then I drew a gilt couch +of old brocade in front of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span> mirror and with closed eyes began to +improvise upon the dance.</p> + +<p>Suddenly a little hand touched my shoulder and a voice whispered: “Will +you not look at me, now that I have come?”</p> + +<p>There she was beside me, and more lovely by half when freed from the +mirror’s grayness.</p> + +<p>“But you—will you not tell me who you are?” I whispered back in an +ecstasy of love.</p> + +<p>“Zarabanda.”</p> + +<p>“<i>Zarabanda!</i>”</p> + +<p>“Yes, why not?”</p> + +<p>“The Moorish love of Philip the Second?”</p> + +<p>Passion and its artistic embodiment, music, had made my love outlast +the empire that gave her birth. She had survived Spain and its splendor.</p> + +<p>I was perched upon a dizzy height indeed. Below me the gray centuries +unfolded.</p> + +<p>At the word “Philip” grief contracted her face.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span></p> + +<p>“Oh, Philip! Philip! Will you not call him? Will you not let me see +him? I will never ask it of you again. You need not be afraid because +he is a great king. Give him this,” taking a bracelet of peculiar +workmanship from her arm and handing it toward me. “He will understand. +He will come anywhere for me.”</p> + +<p>Grief filled my heart. It was not I she loved—I, who had recreated +her, who had brought her back from the grave. It was not I she thought +of, but that cruel and long-dead king.</p> + +<p>“Believe me, my little love, I would do anything for you but +this—which is impossible.”</p> + +<p>“Just once, please, just once! He was so handsome, Philip, and he loved +me so. Before he married Mary of England he took me to Granada, to the +town of the wall of a thousand towers. There he would have married me, +had it not been for Perez, the Great Minister!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span></p> + +<p>At mention of that name a shiver passed over her, the memory of an +ancient fear, setting crisply a-jingle the gems upon her cap and the +gold bells on her trousers.</p> + +<p>“There I invented the Saraband. It was the dance he loved, and he named +it for me. All Spain danced it then.</p> + +<p>“One day he was called away by a court messenger from Madrid. When he +left, he swore to marry me. On a certain day I was to meet him, having +sent word three days before. Then he was to marry me and make me queen!</p> + +<p>“But as soon as he went, I was seized and imprisoned. I could not send +him word. I never saw him again. Oh, please let me tell him why. He +thinks I failed him. Let me tell him why!”</p> + +<p>“I would do it if I could. I would do anything for you, but how can I?”</p> + +<p>“Why? Philip is not—” Her dark face blanched, fear leaped into her +eyes. “Philip—is not—dead?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span></p> + +<p>I nodded. Not a word did she say, but tears came to her eyes and fell +slowly, one by one, upon her little hands. Never before had I realized +the word’s leaden weight. It was a plummet line that found the heart of +grief.</p> + +<p>“Then there is nothing more to live for!”</p> + +<p>The words pierced me like a dagger. I knew how complete was her +indifference to me.</p> + +<p>“How long ago did he die?” she asked, with a sigh that shook her body +as a ground swell shakes the sea.</p> + +<p>Could I tell her? That would mean another grief.</p> + +<p>“Tell me when he died; how long ago.”</p> + +<p>“In 1598.”</p> + +<p>“And now what year is it?”</p> + +<p>“1898. Three hundred years.”</p> + +<p>“Three hundred years he has slept and dreamed me false! And now I can +never tell him!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span></p> + +<p>My heart forgot its suffering in sympathy for her.</p> + +<p>“Now I can never tell him!”</p> + +<p>Silence fell between us. She forgot my presence, so complete was her +absorption in the past.</p> + +<p>The breath of the late autumn came through the ancient windows, +slanting for an instant the flames of chandeliers and sconces until +they looked like an army’s bloody spears upraised in flight. Opposite +the mute mirror oppressed me with its suggestion of nothingness and +of space. The flowers, too, became restless and shivered, as if some +foreign element had disturbed them.</p> + +<p>As I thought thus gloomily, the little brown hand fell on mine, and +the voice whose sound was like the veiled tone-sweetness of a harp was +saying:</p> + +<p>“Then, if it was so long ago, you did not know Tiziano, who painted me, +did you?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span></p> + +<p>How pitiful was this effort to be gay!</p> + +<p>“Tiziano-was-a-noble-man-from-Venezia.”</p> + +<p>The words were hyphenated with sighs.</p> + +<p>“Oh, he was a very great painter! He said I was the loveliest woman +in Europe. The court ladies were wild with envy. But he would have +none of them. It was I he wanted—I—I! He painted me lying beside an +open window, a Cupid holding a crown above my head. At my feet sat +Philip—Philip, the king, at my feet! There is a little cap upon his +head, and he is playing the Saraband upon his lute. In the background I +made him paint the highland country of Madrid, which I should look out +upon when I was queen—”</p> + +<p>“Yes!” I interrupted excitedly, unable to stand more. “Philip might +have given you a crown; I have given you life. Which is greater? Whom +do you owe the most? Have you no thought of me? My love has brought you +back from the grave, and now you think only of him!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span></p> + +<p>The little hand on mine fluttered sensitively. I grasped it. Its +delicate touch made me recall what I had read of the fine skin texture +of women of the dark races. I pressed my lips to it with delight. From +it came a peculiar odor, as from some unknown exotic, which took the +senses captive.</p> + +<p>Until now I had never loved a woman. I had loved pictures, I had +loved marbles, but a living woman never. Acquaintance with the most +exquisite and exacting of arts had perhaps made my senses superfine. +The slightest physical imperfection was sufficient to spoil my +pleasure. Old age—that physical memory of many wearinesses—filled me +with disgust. Of love I did not ask a return, but the near presence of +something faultless, something which might never pall upon my senses, +something which I might love unrestrainedly.</p> + +<p>During the years of concert giving I had been attracted by beautiful +faces, but acquaintance seldom failed to dispel the glamour.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span> Their +possessors were self-seeking, vain, frivolous. Disgust took the place +of admiration. It was a disagreeable sensation which I did not like to +endure for the second time, to find a woman of delicate and sensitive +beauty possessed of the grasping nature of a miser, or caring only for +detail of practical things. Nothing in womankind had made me so dislike +the race as this union of external beauty and prosaic practicability.</p> + +<p>Here, for the first time, was a woman whom I could love. She had none +of the traits of the modern woman. She could not prate of things that +disgusted and bored me. In her eyes there was no consciousness of +the life I detested. She was mine in a very real sense because I had +created her. I measured the greatness of my love by the knowledge +that I could love on while knowing that her heart was another’s. If +one loves, it is not necessary to be loved in return. Love is its own +reward. Already I felt its ennobling influence.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span></p> + +<p>Ah! how she enchanted my soul leaning there against the high gilt +sofa’s end! Her black braids swept the floor. Her brown feet from which +the slippers had fallen were folded childishly, showing little pink +nails a-shine.</p> + +<p>Every gem of color on her costume was like the dropping of a note of +liquid melody into my soul. She was an exquisite toy of flesh fashioned +for love. She was a fine-wrought gem of palest bronze, from which the +swinging lights struck cream and amber gleams.</p> + +<p>“Zarabanda, my Moorish love! You shall learn to care for me and forget +him. I swear it! What a life we will lead together, you and I! He could +have brought Spain to your feet. I will bring the world. You shall see! +You shall see! I will bring the world. I will show this modern age +which loves ugliness—I will show it the noble type of antique beauty!” +Thus I raved in my infatuated dream.</p> + +<p>My fervor moved her. She sat up erect.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span> The jewels on her cap danced +brightly. She leaned toward me. I saw that my suit was not to be in +vain. The look of piteous fear within her eyes which had so haunted +me for months was gone. In its place there was a look which, had she +possessed no other charm, would have bound me to her forever. How shall +I describe it?</p> + +<p>It was the essence of that which I missed in modern pictures which +represent antique life. It was just that which I missed in the women of +Tadema. It was just that which their eyes had not. It was a look made +up of the accumulated days of living a life totally dissimilar to our +own, a life made up of dissimilar thoughts, pleasures, needs. In short, +I saw within the eyes of Zarabanda the soul of a vanished age. My mind +was filled with a thousand fancies.</p> + +<p>Looking at her, I sensed vividly the imperial love-hours of Moorish +beauties who had wantoned by the wall of a thousand towers. Their +purple and palpitant past<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span> engulfed me. The penetrating color-joy of +pagan pageants swept my senses, leaving a myriad burnished points of +thought. The voluptuous phantoms of past pleasures intoxicated me. The +life that pagan Spain had lived in ancient days, before Christianity +had come to make bitter upon its lips the wine of joy, was distilled +within my soul. Love, thought, creative fire, lifted life to divinest +height, intensifying all its powers.</p> + +<p>Before my feverish and exalted fancy there rose a vision of the East, +the personified East, the seductive East, the glorious and sensuous +East, swathed in a robe of mist which palpitated like the voluptuous +veins of women when the tide of love is high. This vision inundated my +senses in a shimmering wave, which rolled its long, foaming coils of +pleasure over me.</p> + +<p>Bending down, I folded her in my arms. I felt her little brown arm slip +round my neck, its softness rivaling the down beneath<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span> a sea-gull’s +wing. The penetrating Eastern perfumes struck my face, the blended +sweetness of aloes and ambergris. Her brown breasts became two moons +of gold beneath the shadowy twilight of her throat. The thick hair +with its trailing braids was an Eden of dim and amorous ways, where a +promise dwelled. As I drew her nearer, her eyes became black lakes. +Exquisitely pale her face was, like warm ivory. Nearer and nearer to +me the red mouth came; I knew that upon it dwelled all the sweetness +and all the savors of the South. My lips just brushed it, when, with +a reverberant crash, the great mirror fell and shivered in a thousand +pieces. My arms encircled the empty air. She was gone—gone, and +forever.</p> + +<p>Thick dust of powdered chemicals, with which the glass was coated, +filled the air. I hastened to gain the window. Something fell at my +feet. It was her bracelet.</p> + +<p>I reached the window just as the sun, its<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span> red rays throbbing like a +crown of blood, dipped above the horizon line. By its angry glare I +read upon the golden band, which was all that remained to me now of my +one night of joy, “Philip, To His Moorish Love.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span></p> + + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"> + +<p><a id="Footnote_8" href="#FNanchor_8" class="label">[8]</a> From “Diego Velázquez y su Siglo,” by Carlos Justi.</p> + +</div> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="LISZTS_CONCERTO_PATHETIQUE">LISZT’S CONCERTO PATHÉTIQUE</h2> +</div> + + +<p>It was in the winter of 1906 that the following remarkable incidents +were communicated to me, and truly in a most remarkable manner. But +who may say what shall be the intermediary link, the invisible tie to +connect us with the facts of a vanished past? Who may say what vague +but mentally potent beings dwell on the border line separating the real +from the unreal, floating up perhaps from unthinkable depths of time +and space, there to await the propitious moment for tapping some nerve +of consciousness in us and establishing telegraphic communication with +the soul? Over these spirit wires of thought and feeling they flash +faint messages. They set the nerves a-tingle with the consciousness of +an infinity of unknown lives surrounding our own, of invisible electric +bodies that shock<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span> us into the recovery of forgotten memories, of the +realization of a limitless land that spreads beside us and upon the +verge of which we live precariously poised.</p> + +<p>On an afternoon in the winter of 1906 I attended a concert given by two +well-known pianists. The <i>pièce de résistance</i> of the concert—it +was for this that I had come—was a two-piano number, the <i>Concerto +Pathétique</i> of Liszt, that sonorous tone tragedy with its wildly +dramatic incidents, interrupted from time to time by a melody of more +than mortal sweetness. As I listened, annoyed by the movements of seat +companions, the bobbing black heads in front, or the dry winter light +that filtered through a window to the right, striking sharply a corsage +ornament or a jewel, and projecting into my eyes daggered light as from +a crystal ball, suddenly my surroundings vanished, and I found myself +alone looking out across a land that I had never seen.</p> + +<p>Before me lay a twilight desert, somber and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span> lonely. Gray sand, +uninterrupted by tree or dwelling, as undulating and as barren as the +sea, stretched on and on. After a time I discovered that it was not +twilight that caused the dimness. Upon the horizon there was nothing +to indicate the vanishing of a sun or the future rising of a moon. +Within the sky there were no stars. A Cimmerian twilight lay over all. +I realized then that it was some place of purgatorial punishment, +where sweet light did not come nor green earth growths, nor rain, +nor the sound of leaves. It was a place of puzzling incompleteness +and fragmentary physical form. There were arms twisted and bony and +unattached to bodies, whose bent-fingered hands thirsted for cruelty +or itched for gold. There were legs wrinkled and withered with pain +and curved fantastically. There were backs bowed by the bearing of +burdens, and a multitude of winged and awful faces forming a discordant +chromatic scale of miseries, now flashing out leering and wanton +smiles,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span> and anon fading away into monotonous grayness.</p> + +<p>It was a land of disembodied pain, where the shadow forms of sorrow +dwelled. Regret, remorse, shame, misery, and anguish here got +themselves clothed in unearthly substances, and strained futilely +earthward where repentance lay. Here evil thoughts and desires were at +once translated into form, swiftly to fade back again by uncountable +disgusting gradations to the insubstantiality of dreams.</p> + +<p>Across this desert a woman fled, breathless with haste and terror. She +was young, scarcely more than a child, as years count, and she would +have been beautiful had not her features been disfigured by grief. Out +behind, a long black robe floated like an emblem of evil, giving to her +appearance a certain cloistral touch. Closer inspection proved it to +be a nun’s cloak. It was unfastened and thrown hastily about her where +it was held together by one small nervous hand.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span> Her hair, which was +pale gold, was short-cropped and curly, and bore the imprint of a close +covering. There was something pitiful in these little clustering curls +of faded gold, which were down-soft like the hair on a baby’s neck. +They told of helplessness and youth. Now in places they were darkened +by the perspiration of fear. Cloistral life and the nun’s hood had +bleached her face and given to it a marble pallor, until it seemed to +radiate light in the general dimness. Her eyes were a dark ethereal +blue. In their depths lay a light made of blended pain, passion, and +regret. As the hideous sand monsters drifted toward her, threatening +to block her way, then vanished to reshape themselves into still more +hideous forms, childishly she opened her mouth to call for help. But +no sound issued from her lips, although the little chin quivered +piteously. I knew that she was dumb and could not speak.</p> + +<p>As she sped on, upborne by an unnatural<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span> energy, there rang out upon +the desert air a melody of more than mortal sweetness, the brief and +broken fragment of a phrase. As the music died away upon the moonless +space, there fell across the sand the pallid cold radiance of a cross, +but so far away, so etherealized by space and distance, that it was +scarcely more than a shadow’s shadow.</p> + +<p>At first, I thought that the music was in some inexplicable way related +to the beauty of her face—that perhaps they were one. There was a +similarity between them. Both set to vibrating the same responsive +fibers of the heart. Both were penetratingly sweet, yet touched with +sorrow.</p> + +<p>Further consideration proved this conjecture to be vain, and that the +music came from some alien yet nearby place. I could see by the woman’s +face that it caused her joy and sorrow, and I felt that it always sang +on in her heart, and that her trembling lips tried to frame its sounds. +Yet—in some way I could not understand—it kept<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span> her forever outside +the radiance of the cross.</p> + +<p>Again and again it rang out—a melody of more than mortal sweetness. +And each time the woman hastened her pace. The face of the desert +began to change, and in the distance there was something that lay like +the shimmer of light. I watched it as it grew brighter. Colors were +distinguishable. It was a garden! Oh, the yearning in her face! Oh, +the effort with which she summoned strength to reach it! Her eyes grew +black with determination. Her little curls were spotted with moisture. +Sweeter and more penetrating became the breath of melody. It winged +her feet with courage. It put strength into her heart. Yes, yes, there +it lay! A fresh, bright, green garden, where a happy multitude of tiny +blue and white flowers grew. Over it iris-winged insects fluttered. The +sun shone resplendently. Here was the home of the melody. Its sweetness +was that of love and the fullness<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span> of life. Now the radiance of the +cross no longer touched the sandy waste. It remained high in the air, +aloof and far, a wan gold shadow of exquisite remoteness, like the +ghost of a vanished joy.</p> + +<p>As she drew nearer, more intense became the light that fell upon the +garden. It became a blue and dazzling glory, beneath which the tiny +flowers expanded and expanded until they were lilies of mammoth size +and proportion. Oh, so lustrous, so satin soft, so voluptuously lovely +was their texture! A rare fragrance filtered from them through the +sand-thick air, a languorous, seductive, benumbing fragrance, like the +intangible soul of pleasure. When again the music came, the giant lily +buds burst open, disclosing in place of pistil and stamen the white +glorious bodies of women, whose hair outfloated in bright crinkles like +blown flame, and whose feet trod an amorous measure.</p> + +<p>Now I knew whence the music came. It<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span> was made by the twining beauty of +seductive arms, the swaying of bright torsos, the interlacing of lithe +limbs, the argent light struck from bared breasts and brows. It was +their white passion, their wanton loveliness, their amorous longing, +their electric, vital, and indomitable youth translated into tone.</p> + +<p>Far above the desert now, the wan cross hung in dim remoteness, a faint +frown of light, withdrawing coldly into the depths of space. The garden +glory touched the woman’s face. The sand monsters fell back, no longer +encumbering her. Happiness and courage shone from her eyes. The journey +was nearly over. A step—a dozen steps and she would have gained the +garden. She was all but there. She flung away the convent cloak. The +sweet wind lifted the little curls upon her brow. A blue lily leaned +amorously to meet her, its petals ready to enfold her. The strange +light swathed her about like a robe. The melody touched her heart<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span> to +joy. She was ready to grasp a waiting flower; one white hand reached +for it, when a thunder of many wings was heard.</p> + +<p>From across the desert, from the sky above, a multitude of blackish +green-winged monsters, darkening the air to a dun midnight, dashed +down. Their black and sullen bodies, outspread wing on wing, shut out +the garden and formed a hideous wall of crawling heads. The great +wings surrounded and engulfed her, beating her back—back—back—with +lightning-like rapidity. Away, away, away they swept her, so swiftly +that the desert was left behind. And still they swept her on and on, +across another land—a land of granite, bleak and sterile and black, +whose darkness was shivered from time to time by the angry glare of +whirling swords that formed the mighty gate of a realm of night. Here +the whirring wings uplifted her. She had no more hold upon the earth. +Below, above, beside, were depth on depth of overlapping wings. Once, +for an instant, the swaying,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span> fluttering band fell back. Sharp sword +light streaked her face. I saw its white horror and the little curls +a-dance with fear. Then more monsters came rushing. The earth and the +air were a-quiver with wings. There was a rush and a roar. There was +a noise as of many waters. Then the monsters swept away into the land +of darkness beyond, where nothing was distinguishable, where there was +no measurement of time or space. Again the granite land was lone and +silent, its gray immovableness disturbed only by the swinging gate of +swords, which streaked the rocks with floating ribbons of light.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="SISTER_SERAPHINE">SISTER SERAPHINE</h2> +</div> + + +<p>We were sitting upon the terrace of Château Châteauroux in the early +evening—the old Comtesse M——, Mischna Stepanoff, and myself. It +was the time of the first soft warmth of spring. Two blossoming fruit +trees beside us were sweet ghosts in the early night. About them white +butterflies fluttered.</p> + +<p>In the west there were great piled clouds edged with a pink as rare and +as wonderful as that which Watteau created for his frail creatures of +joy. And this pink was reflected in soft broken ribbons in the gently +moving surface of the Loire.</p> + +<p>“What a night for love!” sighed Mischna Stepanoff, in whose life the +passion had played no unimportant part.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I replied, “love and youth and spring; they are earth’s immortal +trinity.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span></p> + +<p>“That reminds me of a story—a true story—of spring and youth and +love,” sighed reminiscently the old Comtesse, who had been a famous +beauty in her day.</p> + +<p>“Tell it to us,” urged Mischna Stepanoff. “Next to being in love +oneself is the pleasure of listening to the stories of other people who +have been in love.”</p> + +<p>“But I feel that I cannot do justice to it,” objected the old Comtesse. +“It is a story for the pen of Maupassant, who wrote of the tress of +hair. It might have been included among the pagan and Oriental dreams +of Gautier, or such fragile and dainty reminiscences of youth as De +Nerval occasionally indulged in. What could I do with a fancy like +that?”</p> + +<p>“Tell it, anyway,” we insisted.</p> + +<p>“Well, what I lack, your own greater imaginative skill must +supply,”—smiling and waving deprecatingly toward us a tiny jeweled +hand.</p> + +<p>“It is the strangest, the most interesting story in the world. And it +is true.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span></p> + +<p>“Over there where the hills step aside to make room for the passing of +the Loire, is the ruin of a convent which you have probably noticed. +In my youth it was inhabited by Les Sœurs Blanches, a well-conducted +and aristocratic order of nuns, who educated the daughters of the old +noblesse.</p> + +<p>“One day I paid a visit there and for the first time saw Sister +Seraphine. She was about eighteen then, I should judge, although she +had already taken the final vows. I was at once attracted by her face +and her strange beauty. The upper part of the face—the brow, the eyes, +the nose—were those of an ascetic, a dreamer, an intellectual. The +brow was nobly formed and broad; the nose chastely chiseled and modeled +to an artist’s taste; and the eyes were the spiritual gray-blue of the +mystic. The eyes were very beautiful, too—mistily humid, like the +valley of our Loire here on a morning of spring.</p> + +<p>“But the mouth! How can I tell you what<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span> it was like! There will never +be another in the world like it. In its color alone there were hidden +all the sins of earth. Such a color might have been born from the +conflagration of a world, or in the feverish brain of some sightless +dreamer. In its curves there was all the resistless languor of a +mediæval mondaine, or a voluptuous Roman woman who had idled in the +villas of Baiæ. Imagine, if you will, such a mouth beneath that ascetic +brow! It was the cause of her undoing, too—and her ruin.</p> + +<p>“It contradicted the rest of her face so sharply that it was as if +she were two persons in one. It threw the beholder into a sort of +stupefaction. It made him feel as if he had stumbled awkwardly upon +some unguarded secret. It was that rarest of all features—a perfect +mouth! And yet, perchance, I think its perfection was a trifle +over-accented. It was, I think, a shade too red, too alluring, too +sensuous. It was a veritable Cupid’s bow set about with mocking<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span> +dimples that changed like light on the mobile surface of the Loire.</p> + +<p>“No one could have known less of the world than Sister Seraphine. She +had been placed with Les Sœurs Blanches when she was four years old. +And she had never once left their sheltering care. She was of noble +blood, too, although the bar sinister blackened her birth record. On +her father’s side, it was whispered, she came of that royal blood of +old France that had never known the meaning of fear. And her mother was +the gay Comtesse of Marny.</p> + +<p>“Now in all her young life Sister Seraphine had never seen a man except +the village priests and those who sat on Sundays beyond the grating in +the church. Think of it! Can you even imagine such a condition! Every +holiday and fête day before her final vows were taken, plans had been +made to give her an outing in the great world, to introduce her to that +society to which by birth she belonged. But, some way or other,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span> each +time the plans miscarried. Some other person’s welfare and happiness +intervened, had to be considered first. The result was that she had +never left the convent walls.</p> + +<p>“Shortly after this first visit of mine, the Duchesse de St. Loisy +presented to the convent two long mirrors for the reception room. +About this same time Sister Seraphine was put in charge of the room to +receive guests and the relatives of the <i>jeunes demoiselles</i> on +visiting days. Callers at the convent were not very frequent in those +days. Traveling facilities were not what they have come to be since, so +Sister Seraphine was left alone for hours in the great room.</p> + +<p>“Here she acquired the habit of looking at herself in one of the +mirrors. At first eyes stared blankly back at eyes. She could not +see <i>herself</i>. It is difficult, always, to get acquainted +with oneself. That to me, Mischna Stepanoff, has been one of the +pleasures of living—to find within me things that I did not dream +were there. Sister Seraphine after<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span> a while discovered her mouth. She +was surprised, as you may imagine. It was as if it were the mouth of +some strange unknown person who dwelled within her. It was—<i>the +other</i>—made visible!</p> + +<p>“Soon she sensed, rather than reasoned, that it was in harmony with the +fragrant creative spring outside; that she was part of an universal +nature that lived and laughed. It seemed to her that even in repose her +mouth laughed. It was like the pagan sunshine, which always laughed. +She became interested in her mouth. She became fascinated with the many +things that it expressed, with its color, its flexibility, and its +capacity for joyous sensation, if by chance she touched it to a flower.</p> + +<p>“One night, just before she closed and left the great room for the +night, she leaned long by the mirror’s edge looking up at the stars +through a near-by window. They were merry that night, the stars. It was +spring, which is youth in the world, and they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span> laughed. They laughed so +gayly, so alluringly, that she turned impulsively and kissed her own +mouth in the mirror.</p> + +<p>“For days after this Sister Seraphine was meditative and beyond her +habit thoughtful. She could not look at the mirrors. Her cheeks flushed +with shame. She felt disgraced and dishonored. Every time she was +obliged to pass by the great mirrors, she carefully turned her eyes +away.</p> + +<p>“During these days it seemed as if Spring, like a bandit, broke through +the ponderous convent walls. Its murmur and its mystery and its +fragrance and its buoyant life were everywhere. They poured invisibly +through the somber, painted windows. They swept enticingly down the +long bare halls. All night they sang beneath the casements of the +penitential chambers. They awoke with the first penetrating sweetness +of the dawn.</p> + +<p>“Each morning, in the opening flower cups, Sister Seraphine found +other mouths<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span> that looked like hers. She saw there the same desirous, +satiny lips. The same brilliant color burned upon them, the same dewy +ripeness. One night, unable to sleep, so many and so mighty were the +voices that called her, she got up softly and tiptoed down the long +bare corridors to the reception room. It was not ever really night +anywhere that spring, it seems to me as I recall it. The frail gray +shadows of summer made instead a sort of semi-day.</p> + +<p>“She knelt down on the floor in front of one of the mirrors. There she +saw a white face under an aureole of short gold hair, two eyes that +shone like stars, and a mouth that was red as a wound. Again she kissed +it. When she crept back to her room, she found it lonelier than before. +Something, she knew not what, was missing. The world was empty. Some +joy had gone out of life.</p> + +<p>“The next day she asked for permission to see Father Richards, the aged +priest of the parish.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span></p> + +<p>“‘Father,’ she began, ‘you know that I have never left the convent +walls, do you not?’</p> + +<p>“‘Yes, my daughter.’</p> + +<p>“‘You know that I have known no other home.’</p> + +<p>“‘Yes, my daughter.’</p> + +<p>“‘That I have read only my breviary and the books of the saints. And +yet, Father, I have sinned, sinned grievously—’</p> + +<p>“‘How, my daughter?’</p> + +<p>“‘I have kissed—’</p> + +<p>“‘Kissed?’</p> + +<p>“‘Yes, Father. I have kissed a mouth, because I wanted to; because it +was red and sweet, like the flowers outside in the spring.’</p> + +<p>“‘What! You say—Explain, my daughter!’ said the aged priest, greatly +puzzled.</p> + +<p>“‘I kissed my own mouth, Father. I kissed it in the mirror, not once, +Father, but twice. And I am not sorry. It gave me pleasure, Father. +Were not mouths made to kiss? And the pleasure was not that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span> which I +have felt when I kissed the white feet of the Virgin. And I am not +sorry, Father.’</p> + +<p>“‘It is your youth, my daughter; spring, too, in the blood. You must +pray and fast—especially fast. That will subdue evil.’</p> + +<p>“‘No, Father. I think differently. I will not. I am going away. The +great mirrors in the drawing-room there have shown me my mouth, Father. +And it has told me of another life—a life to which I belong! Do you +know what made it so red, so wonderful, so faultless, Father, this +mouth of mine? It was the splendid, free, pleasure-loving, tempestuous +lives that they lived who made me. There is not in this mouth of mine +one servile curve, one penitential or humiliating line, one touch of +pleading or regret. Although I have not seen them, I know that it must +have been a great race that bore me. They did not even leave me a name +to which I have a just claim. But right here, on my mouth, Father, they +set the red seal of their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span> pleasures, their aristocratic arrogance, +their fearlessness, and their power.</p> + +<p>“‘I can see the life they lived! I can see it all—through the days and +the nights and the years. A regal life it was, in great moat-encircled +castles, amid clash of steel, cries of joy and triumph and music and +the madness of power.</p> + +<p>“‘I can see the white glorious faces of the women they loved, framed in +fluttering and triumphant banners.</p> + +<p>“‘Think of the kisses given by brave men to the lips of beautiful +women! Think of the banquets and the feasting in great halls, where a +thousand candles flickered over satins and silks and gems and laces and +smooth shoulders and lustrous hair! Think of the wine they drank in +those long, long nights of revelry—wine that had treasured up and kept +the sweetness of a thousand springs; think of the songs, the laughter, +the dance, the jests! Think of the resounding hunt across fields vivid +with spring; the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span> inspiriting call of the horns, the tossing of plumes, +the eyes afire with joy!</p> + +<p>“‘Think of their daring and their high-hearted days when they +cheerfully placed life in the balance, to weigh against a kiss! Think +of the strength that took whatsoever it wanted, regardless of results; +that flung defiance in the face of Fate!</p> + +<p>“‘This mouth, Father, told all this to me. This mouth is their message +to me.</p> + +<p>“‘Do you know what has happened, Father? The strangest, the most +unbelievable, the most preposterous thing in the world! I have been +seduced by my own mouth! A miracle! A miracle of earth, not of heaven, +Father—by my own mouth!</p> + +<p>“‘I am going away, too, Father, now.’</p> + +<p>“And right there, before the feeble and astonished old man, she tore +off her hood and the bindings of her brow, and went out into the spring +that was waiting for her—across the fields, and away. Think of the +audacity, the power of decision, the strong,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span> quick-working will that +nothing could enfeeble!</p> + +<p>“You have both heard of Madame X——, have you not, who had such a +genius for life and luxury, whose sables the Tzaritza envied, who had +at her feet half the desirable men of France? She was Sister Seraphine.”</p> + +<p>“Every one has a right to happiness, do you not think so?” exclaimed +Mischna Stepanoff, the joy of her own lost youth leaping to her eyes.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_SACRED_RELICS_OF_SAINT_EUTHYMIUS">THE SACRED RELICS OF SAINT EUTHYMIUS</h2> +</div> + + +<p>About the middle of the sixteenth century there was built, on the +westward-fronting coast of Istria, a pleasure palace. The builder, +Paul, Count of Radknothy, was a Hungarian nobleman of wealth and power, +who had traveled widely and formed his taste upon the best models of +the day.</p> + +<p>On his frequent journeys he tarried oftenest in Venice. The rich and +luxurious city held for him the charm it has never failed to hold for +the people of the North.</p> + +<p>Here he met La Fiorita, a dancer renowned for her beauty. She was his +senior by a number of years and a woman of unsavory reputation. The +story of her amours, which had been many, sounded like a page from +Masuccio, and had been the talk of Italy. She had been <i>persona +grata</i> with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span> the nobles of that licentious age. She had ruled as +temporary mistress of many a summer palace hidden away among the +Italian hills. For Count Radknothy she had the fascination which women +of mature years have had for younger men. He married her and took her +away to his Istrian home.</p> + +<p>She was glad of this lucky stroke of fortune. She realized that, +considering the life she had led, her beauty could not last in its +perfection.</p> + +<p>In the second year after her marriage, shortly before the time of her +first confinement, she was miraculously saved from death at the hands +of an assassin by a Carthusian nun, whom the blow struck. The assassin, +who paid for the attempt with his life, was a follower of her old days, +in whose heart her beauty had been more than a fancy.</p> + +<p>This escape from death back into the luxurious life she had never +ceased to look<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span> upon as the kindness of Providence, aroused the +religious fanaticism that slumbers in the Italian soul. In return, she +made a vow that the unborn child should be sacred to the church. Later, +a daughter was born to Count and Countess Radknothy, who was christened +Elsbeth.</p> + +<p>Overjoyed at her safe delivery, chastened in mind by the favors of +Heaven, the Countess decided that the child should take the veil in a +convent of the Silent Sisters. Then she felt that she had atoned for +the sins of her youth. Accordingly, when little Elsbeth was twelve +years old, she was sent to the Hungarian Convent of St. Euthymius.</p> + +<p>This convent, which had once been the war-castle of a feudal lord, and +which bore witness to its past in its stern and forbidding exterior, +was situated in northwestern Hungary, just south of the Little +Carpathians, and surrounded by their gloomy forests. It stood on an +elevation. On the north a lake lay, whose outlet was the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span> shallow +Ipoly, which to southward joins the Danube. It was a hilly, thinly +populated country of ancient mansions separated from each other by +miles of woodland.</p> + +<p>From the convent but one building was visible, the family chapel of +the Ràkoczi, a family of royal lineage whose male members had led the +wars for Hungarian independence. The castle was on the other side of +the chapel and its rear was toward the lake. On the north side of the +convent there was but one window. From this the warlike baron used to +watch his enemies approach. Beneath the window, clinging to the wall, +was a staircase. This was the room which was assigned to Elsbeth.</p> + +<p>Notwithstanding her childish immaturity, it was evident that she had +inherited her mother’s blond beauty, which, in her case, was made more +brilliant by the father’s Hungarian blood. During the two years that +had preceded her daughter’s birth, La Fiorita had luxuriated in her +Istrian palace.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span> Here, freed from the efforts of a dancer’s life, and +cherished by a love in the flower of its youth, her beauty had reached +its perfection. In addition, little Elsbeth had inherited her mother’s +abundant vitality and her taste for music and dancing.</p> + +<p>Because of the child’s love of music and the noble family to which +she belonged, the rules of St. Euthymius were lifted, and she was +permitted to take her lute with her. La Fiorita consoled herself with +the thought that the lute would take the place of conversation, which +was forbidden. With this solicitude she dismissed the subject. She felt +that she had purchased the forgiveness of Heaven and gave herself over +unrestrainedly to the life of pleasure she loved.</p> + +<p>It was autumn when Elsbeth reached St. Euthymius. The repellent +exterior of the convent-fortress was softened by the richness of the +season. Autumn once seen among the mountains of Hungary is something +always to remember. A languid<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span> radiance enfolds the landscape. The +stern Carpathians float in a mist of blue, through which white, fragile +birches and fiery maples gleam. The forests and the mountains are +reflected in the water. Along the roads ferns expand into fans of gold. +The woodlands exhale an aromatic perfume.</p> + +<p>The witchery of the season dulled the first pain of separation. But +when the rains of November scattered the leaves, and the wind sang +about the lonely towers and echoed down the bare corridors, she cried +like a little child to go home. The sisters’ efforts to comfort her +were vain. Equally vain were their attempts to divert her mind with +lessons and prayer. She still cried to go home.</p> + +<p>There was no devotional chord in her nature to respond to the good +sisters’ teachings. They were like a voice calling in a land where no +one lives. When winter came, the entire world was black and white. +Without, the snow and the bare trees—or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span> the blacker pines and firs; +within, white, echoing rooms, where silent, black-clad figures moved. +The sight filled her with grief, and by contrast called to mind her +bright-gowned, beautiful mother.</p> + +<p>When spring came, she was so pale and thin that the kind sisters +would have sent word of her condition to her parents, had it not been +expressly stated that no word was to be sent to disturb the peace of +the Istrian home.</p> + +<p>When she was seventeen, the sisters decided that she was sufficiently +instructed in the duties of the order to be made a member. Obediently +she took the veil and the vow of silence. This occasioned no fresh +grief, since it could not interfere with her source of happiness—her +dreams.</p> + +<p>In the spring of the following year, shortly after vespers, when she +was in her room alone, she heard some one playing upon a lute a melody +of enchanting rhythm. Hastily she unfastened the window square.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span> In the +melody floated, with the breath of the soft spring night. It came from +the lake. She vibrated pleasurably to it. In it were poured out the +longing heart of youth and the soft allurements of love. Instinctively +she threw off the cloak and hood. She unclasped the black mantle at her +throat. In her eyes, upon her face, glowed that look of inspired joy +with which La Fiorita had held her admirers. Snatching the lute from +the wall, she repeated the melody and improvised an answer. The unknown +musician understood and followed her lead. Thus they conversed for an +hour through the medium of music.</p> + +<p>The next morning Elsbeth was summoned to the Superior. Some of the +sisters said that they had heard music in the night coming from her +room, and of a kind not suitable for convent walls. Had not years of +silence lamed their tongues and made them incapable of utterance, they +would have been eloquent in their description of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span> the melodies they had +heard. As it was, they insisted vehemently upon their wickedness.</p> + +<p>“My daughter,” said the Superior, “since this is the first complaint +against you, you shall go unpunished. We have shown forbearance +because of your youth. Now that you are older, and have become one of +us permanently, it is right that you should obey the rules and uphold +them. In the future play sacred music, or such as befits the vows you +have taken.” With this the Superior dismissed her.</p> + +<p>It was later that night when the lute called beneath her window. Her +answer was a sharp note of warning. The unseen musician understood. +When again he touched the strings, it was midnight, and the shy summer +stars had been hours a-twinkle. He played the same alluring cantilena, +but softly, tenderly, as if meant for a loved one’s ears alone. +He swept the strings so delicately it was but a breath of musical +fragrance upon the night.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span></p> + +<p>Elsbeth trembled. The blood coursed pleasurably through her veins. Her +soul expanded with joy. Fear was forgotten. She thought only of the +unseen one upon the lake who called to her.</p> + +<p>He had understood what she said the night before. He had come again. +She took her lute and replied clearly and daringly. Then again the soft +melodic whisper floated up from the water. Her answer was firm and +triumphant, shrilling on one sustained crystal note of longing. This +passionate appeal for life, for freedom, touched the hearer’s heart, as +the murmurous caress which followed proved.</p> + +<p>Six years had passed since any one had spoken to her like that, six +silent years of convent life. She was like one buried alive, calling +out to the warm, sweet world on the other side of the grave. Her lute +told this in a song of unrest.</p> + +<p>The next day there was a solemn meeting of the sisters in the great +audience hall of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span> St. Euthymius. Sister Seraphita had heard the music. +She had awakened the others, who, in their turn, awakened the Mother +Superior. Never had their unworldly ears heard sounds like these. They +plunged them into an alien world, where they trembled. They troubled +their minds with the tone-pictures they flashed upon the senses. +The music concealed a persistent suggestion that there are nobler +things than a life of prayer and penance. It brought back memories +of forgotten days. It touched their arid hearts to strange tremors. +It sent a-flutter insistent voices as the sea sends abroad upon the +wind the story of its secret longing. It gave transient energy to dead +instincts. It set vibrating thoughts inimical to convent life. The +stupidest among them felt this, and they agreed that it must be stopped.</p> + +<p>In addition, it had been whispered that it sounded as if two lutes +were being played, instead of one. Of course, they knew that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span> that was +impossible. No one could gain entrance to the convent. If they did hear +two lutes, who was it who played the other one?</p> + +<p>A look of awful comprehension brightened their dull old eyes. It was +marvelous playing, too. They remembered that. Even the Superior said +that she had not heard its equal. No mortal fingers swept that other +lute. No mortal fingers could so fill the castle with resonance. There +<i>were</i> two lutes! Who played the other? It was Satan who did +it—Satan and none other!</p> + +<p>Then the Superior recalled what she had heard of the music and dancing +madness that had taken possession of the nuns of the south of France in +the early years of the church. How it had been proved to be the work +of Satan and how the evil spirit had been exorcised. Abbé X—— had +written a book about it. After discussing the subject, Elsbeth was sent +for.</p> + +<p>“My dear daughter,” began the Superior,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span> “it grieved me to learn of +your disobedience. I, together with the sisters, have decided that +forfeiture of the lute is a just punishment. Sister Seraphita may now +bring it to my room and hang it upon the wall. As for you, my daughter, +I recommend the prayers for the penitent.” Then she rose, signifying +that the session was at an end.</p> + +<p>Elsbeth said nothing. Her mind was so filled by the occurrences of the +past days that the meaning barely reached her.</p> + +<p>That night the melody floated up to where she stood waiting, just as +the sickle of the moon swung to a level with the black tree-tops.</p> + +<p>How could she answer now? Hastily she unfastened the window. Then she +remembered a lace handkerchief belonging to her mother, which she +picked up the day they took her away. It was filmy and light. It would +float upon the water. He would see it fluttering down. In one corner +was embroidered,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span> in the colored needlework of the day, the crest of +the house of Radknothy.</p> + +<p>The changed music that came told her that he had caught the +handkerchief. He understood the message. In the answering tones there +was something deferential.</p> + +<p>Then he played the melody of the first night, modulating it +masterfully, and using the theme as the basic idea for many a sweetly +extemporized caprice. As she stood alone in the dim cell listening, +while the warm spring night caressed the short, bright curls upon her +head, it thrilled her with a joy that was akin to pain. It was like the +memory of something that had vanished—a tragic past that had swept her +away upon billows of flame. It was the sense-memory of a past whose +incidents she could not recall, but whose fervor flashed upon her.</p> + +<p>The sisters heard the music. One by one, softly, they crept to the +Mother Superior’s door to see if she were awake. There she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span> sat, a +terrified, trembling old figure, her eyes staring at the lute upon the +wall, while her pale lips murmured a prayer. One by one they peered in +to make sure that the lute was really there, hanging motionless upon +the wall. Yet its music echoed down the long corridors and floated in +at the windows. A ghastly procession they made! Shrunken and hollow of +cheek, toothless, yellow and wrinkled of face! The candles silhouetted +sharply and distorted their bald and trembling heads.</p> + +<p>Yes, there was the lute, motionless, just where Sister Seraphita had +hung it. Yet they could hear its music. What a horrible thing! To +listen to music made by a lute hung out of reach upon a wall! Their +shrunken chins and toothless lips trembled. Their knees knocked +together. It was all their old, weak hands could do to hold the candles.</p> + +<p>Here was proof of the work of the evil spirit. Every sister in the +convent was a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span> witness. Perhaps it was Satan himself who swept the +strings. In addition, they had heard that the coming of an evil spirit +is accompanied by a breath of cool air or a freshening breeze. Whenever +the wind came stronger, the music was noticeably louder. That was +another proof.</p> + +<p>The next day and the next were given over to prayer. But each night the +same dreadful thing occurred, the same luxurious and sinful melody came +floating on the midnight. The aged sisters were distracted. They were +grieved, too. No scandal had ever touched St. Euthymius.</p> + +<p>On the fourth day they met in solemn council, to which Elsbeth was +summoned, in order to be questioned. She said that each night, in +accordance with the Superior’s orders, she had gone early to bed after +repeating thrice the prayers for the penitent. Quickly she fell asleep. +Then she dreamed—but so vividly that the following day she was unable +to tell the dream from reality—that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span> the Mother Superior came to her +door, knocked softly, opened it and held out the lute. She took it +and improvised upon it the rest of the night. Softly then again the +knocking came, the Superior opened the door, took the lute and went +away. Each night she dreamed the same dream. And each morning she found +her door as she had left it.</p> + +<p>On hearing this the good sisters were more puzzled than ever. One +thing, however, was certain. Elsbeth was the medium through which the +evil spirit gained entrance. Through her he was trying to draw the +Mother Superior into his toils, and thus work the ruin of the convent.</p> + +<p>After sifting conflicting opinions, they decided that she should be +confined within her room for a month. During that time she was not to +see nor hold converse with any one. Food and drink would be placed at +her door at regular intervals.</p> + +<p>The first days of confinement were lonely.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span> The lute was gone. There +was nothing for company. Nor did the first week of confinement have any +effect upon exorcising the demon. Each night the trembling old women +gathered in the Superior’s room to watch with terrified eyes while the +motionless lute made music.</p> + +<p>Elsbeth’s only amusement was to stand on tiptoe and look out through +the swinging square of the window. It was so high that she could not +see anything immediately below. One day while she was standing on +tiptoe peering out, her knees, trembling with the strain, struck a +projection of the grooved wood, and she felt the wall yield as if a +door were there.</p> + +<p>Getting down on her knees, she scrutinized every curve of the +decorative wood to see if a spring could be found. She knew the room +had belonged to the old Baron who built the castle, and that it was +unlike the others. Since the hidden spring—if such an one there +were—did not disclose<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span> itself to the eye, she determined to follow +with her fingers every scroll of the panel, pressing evenly upon each +in turn.</p> + +<p>About half-way up to the lower edge of the window, at about the height +where her knees had been, a whorl of polished wood slipped from sight. +The panel swung out and the level lake lay before her. Leaning out, she +found that the stairway which she had seen from the edge of the water +was within reach. This was the old Baron’s place of secret exit.</p> + +<p>That night, when the unknown serenader touched his lute, she opened +the door, swung lightly to the stair top and motioned silence. The +listening sisters, who heard the music begin, then cease abruptly, +were filled with thankfulness. After waiting an hour and hearing no +recurrent sound, they crept back to their beds, secure in the thought +that the exorcising of the demon had begun.</p> + +<p>In a little boat at the foot of the stairs sat a man holding a jeweled +lute. It seemed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span> to Elsbeth that she had always known him. He looked +just like the men with whom she had been acquainted for years in her +dreams. Like them, he was dark and young. Like them, too, he was +handsome and had come to fetch her in a boat. He wore the costume of an +Hungarian nobleman of the middle of the sixteenth century: a light blue +mantle fancifully braided, of Polish cut, thrown coquettishly over one +shoulder, called in those days <i>kabodion</i>; black velvet breeches, +a round-topped hat and a tight-fitting dress coat, such as were worn by +men of birth, called <i>mente</i>. Years of silence had thrown her so +completely upon herself for companionship that it had become difficult +to tell the real from the unreal. The one who waited in the boat was +merely a proof of the reality of dreams.</p> + +<p>He, on his part, saw a girl-woman of magnificent proportions coming +swiftly down the steps. Upon her head a halo of little curls shone in +the light. Her face was very<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span> white, but in her eyes there was the look +with which La Fiorita had gone to meet her lovers. So familiarly did +she hasten to him that he felt himself drawn within the magic circle of +her day dreams, where nothing was impossible, and held out his hands +impulsively to help her to a seat.</p> + +<p>Yet, how can any one tell in what other life we have met, how close the +tie that bound us, whose fibers vibrate on in this!</p> + +<p>“Where shall we go?” he asked, admiration shining in his eyes.</p> + +<p>“Down there, around the bend of the lake, where the sisters cannot hear +our voices.”</p> + +<p>He bent to the oars, and a silver furrow stretched behind them. +Meanwhile Elsbeth looked attentively at her companion. His youth +pleased her. He was the only one she had met who was young like herself.</p> + +<p>Prince Ràkoczi was about twenty-eight. He had been married some years +to an Italian woman many years his senior. The Princess—known as the +Princess of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span> Bloody Heart, because of a heart of rubies which she +invariably wore—was descended from the Italian house of Montanelli. +The head of this house was known throughout Europe for the making of +skillful and artistic instruments of torture. It was due to her father, +Alonzo Montanelli, that in that age murder had reached the dignity of +a fine art, and was accompanied by the exquisite decorative setting +that befits a fête. The name, Montanelli, was password to every torture +chamber of Europe.</p> + +<p>Once around the bend, she said: “Where are we going?”</p> + +<p>“To my chapel yonder.”</p> + +<p>“Shall we be alone?”</p> + +<p>“Quite alone.”</p> + +<p>“Then I will play upon your lute.”</p> + +<p>“You shall have another like it for yourself,” he said, handing it +toward her, while the moon found the heart of a crimson stone and +flashed red light upon his hand.</p> + +<p>At sight of the richly lighted chapel, her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span> eyes shone like a little +child’s at sight of a Christmas tree. So great was her capacity for +happiness that she forgot the past in the pleasure of a moment.</p> + +<p>He led her into the chapel. “You cannot imagine what I thought when I +first saw you. I thought that you were the original of a picture that +hangs here. That Magdalene is not a painter’s dream. It is the portrait +of the woman whom my father loved. During my mother’s life the picture +was not hung. It was only after I came into possession of the estate +that it was taken from its place of concealment. It is La Fiorita, a +dancing girl whom my father knew in Venice in his youth.” Looking up, +Elsbeth saw a voluptuous Venetian beauty, whose face stirred vague +memories.</p> + +<p>When they rowed back to the convent, the moon was low in the sky. The +lake was dull and tarnished. In the tops of the trees a crisp wind +shivered that told of dawn.</p> + +<p>During the days that followed, Elsbeth<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span> was glad of her imprisonment. +She escaped the sisters’ prying eyes. They who live in solitude are +skilled in reading the heart.</p> + +<p>Each night the Prince came for her, and they drifted down the lake, +explored its recesses, improvised upon their lutes within the chapel, +or reclined upon the steps to talk of love. In this way a month passed +away.</p> + +<p>To the good sisters of St. Euthymius the month had brought comfort. +The evil spirit was controlled and put to flight. They could sleep in +peace, their timid old hearts untroubled by fear. Now the lute hung +silent upon the wall. There had been no recurrence of the melody. The +prayerful penance of Elsbeth had exorcised the demon.</p> + +<p>The Superior called a council. It was agreed that Elsbeth should spend +another month in prayer and silence. When the word was brought to her, +she received it humbly. The Superior’s heart was filled with gratitude. +Her patience was bearing fruit.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span></p> + +<p>One night, after the beginning of the second month, when Elsbeth and +Prince Ràkoczi entered the chapel, he rushed to fasten the door that +communicated with the castle.</p> + +<p>“Why do you do that?” inquired Elsbeth.</p> + +<p>“The Princess has arrived. Of course there is little danger of her +coming here. Yet it is best to be safe.”</p> + +<p>Then they forgot about her in their love and joy in each other, and set +about perfecting plans for Elsbeth’s escape from the convent.</p> + +<p>“Listen, little one,” the Prince continued, drawing her to him, while +the candles struck rich colors from his braided <i>kabodion</i> and +accented the pallor of his face. “It is arranged for to-morrow night. +A larger boat and two oarsmen will come for us here. They will row +us to the end of the lake. There an old servant will await us with a +carriage. He will take you to a hunting lodge of mine, to the east +of here,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span> near the Bohemian Forest. There, as soon as I can make +arrangements, I will join you, and together we will go to Italy. I +have a present for you for to-morrow night, too—a dress and a jewel, +brought all the way from Stamboul. You shall put it on, and we will +celebrate our marriage here at the altar—”</p> + +<p>“What was that—a knock?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“The Princess?”</p> + +<p>“It must be. No one else would come. We must be quick. I will get into +that chest there, beneath the picture. Turn the jeweled fruit to the +right. That locks it. Then go to the altar and say your prayers. If she +questions you, your quick wits must frame an answer.”</p> + +<p>When Elsbeth unbolted the door, a tall, gaunt woman approaching middle +age swept in. She wore a long, dark, cloaklike garment of <i>morit</i>, +and a violet-colored <i>kazabajka</i>, while her hair was partially +hidden<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span> beneath a white <i>csepesz</i>. Suspended from her neck was a +ruby heart. She had narrow, side-glancing eyes, a long oval face, and +thin lips. Her expression indicated cruelty.</p> + +<p>“My fair nun, how came you here—and at this hour?”</p> + +<p>“Most gracious Princess,” replied Elsbeth, bending in salutation, +“last night I had a dream in which I saw The Virgin of the Red Girdle +poise in the air above the Ràkoczi chapel. That, as the gracious +Princess knows, bodes ill. I made a vow to avert the ill by prayerful +intercession at the altar.”</p> + +<p>“And you chose night, good sister, for your beneficent purpose?”</p> + +<p>“By day, most gracious Princess, I am occupied with convent duties. +Therefore I sacrifice to it the hours of sleep.”</p> + +<p>“But the Prince—does he help you? Where is he?”</p> + +<p>“The Prince? Your Highness will see that I am at my prayers alone, and +with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span> your gracious permission I will return to them.”</p> + +<p>The Princess made a signal of dismissal, and Elsbeth knelt with her +rosary at the altar.</p> + +<p>Princess Ràkoczi was too astute and too well versed in the intrigues +of that subtle age to take the nun’s smoothly spoken words at their +face value. She saw, too, that the nun was a woman of great beauty. The +disfiguring garb could not hide that. She made a tour of the chapel. +Around the outer edge, at the base of the walls, were placed coffers in +which the church silver, the relics, and the priestly vestments were +stored. From time to time, as she made this tour of inspection, she +glanced sharply at Elsbeth, to see if she were intent upon her beads. +When she had completed the circuit, she paused at Elsbeth’s right and +bent to look at the gem-decorated carving of the chest that stood +beneath the picture of La Fiorita. As she bent down, she heard<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span> a sharp +sound. Looking up, she saw that the rosary had dropped upon the marble +altar and that the nun’s hands were trembling.</p> + +<p>“I have found him!” she thought. “What a lesson I will teach them!” +Jealous rage pinched her pale features to a cruel thinness. Aloud she +said: “Good sister, I thank you for your unselfish watchfulness.”</p> + +<p>Elsbeth rose and remained bowing while the Princess passed out. When +she had been gone a sufficient time for safety, the nun bolted the door +and released the Prince.</p> + +<p>“You shall not have another experience like this!” he said, clasping +her in his arms.</p> + +<p>“But to-morrow night?”</p> + +<p>“She would not spy upon us two nights in succession.”</p> + +<p>On the way across the lake, the sparkles of light upon the water +were not more numerous than the words of love which he lavished upon +Elsbeth. They erased from her mind the disagreeable occurrence. She<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span> +thought only of the morrow, of escape—and of the gorgeous gown and the +jewel that had come from Stamboul.</p> + +<p>As soon as they left the chapel, the Princess had the door unbolted, +and entered, followed by two men bearing a chest identical in size and +design with the one that stood beneath the picture. In obedience to +her command they exchanged them, and took the former chest back to the +castle.</p> + +<p>The next night found Elsbeth on the stairs waiting eagerly. When Prince +Ràkoczi came, she took the package he gave her and ran back to her +room. When again she came out, she wore a short white satin princess +dress, heavily embroidered in seed pearls. It was cut low and square at +the neck, and flared at the bottom. It resembled in style and cut the +votive robes made for statues of the Virgin. About her neck was a cross +of diamonds. The convent cloak was thrown over her arm, to be used in +case of need.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span></p> + +<p>No sooner had they entered the chapel and seen to the safe bolting of +the door, than with kisses and caresses he led her to the picture of La +Fiorita. Moving a few steps away, he paused and looked at her.</p> + +<p>“You cannot imagine how greatly you resemble that picture. In certain +ways the faces are identical. The difference is that you have not lived +so much. That is the woman my father loved. This is the woman whom I +love. As she was the grief of his life, you will be the happiness of +mine—” An imperative knock interrupted him.</p> + +<p>Elsbeth donned the cloak and hood, drawing it carefully over the +whiteness of her gown. Then she unbolted the door. Graciously the +Princess entered.</p> + +<p>“My good sister, I am going to take you from your prayerful duties for +a few moments to-night to gratify a curiosity of mine.”</p> + +<p>“I shall be most happy to serve you, Gracious Princess,” murmured +Elsbeth.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span></p> + +<p>“I have heard,” she continued, “that beneath the fingers of a pure +woman the opal loses its angry fire and becomes white like a pearl. It +is my wish to find out if that is true. Now on that chest there—the +one beneath the repentant Magdalene—opals are set. You, of course, +having had no occasion to observe the chest, have not seen them. I +will make the test in the light of this candle, if you will come. Now +observe the decoration on the chest front, a procession of wise men +bearing offerings to the infant Christ. It was designed and made by +Maestro Benedetto da Majano and is well-nigh priceless. Notice the rich +softness of the wood—its depth of color. Do you see how it poises +between the shades of brown and red? Look at that kneeling figure +there, holding up a plate filled with fruit. The fruit in the center of +the plate is made of opals. Now place your finger upon the central one, +the apple. It represents, I fancy, the forbidden fruit of the tree of +life.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span></p> + +<p>“That’s right. That’s right. Remarkable! Remarkable! It has grown +pale—see! So have you, good nun. Why is that? Why does your hand +tremble? Hold it more firmly, that I may see. There!—there!—Now press +your fingers on that central stone.”</p> + +<p>Elsbeth obeyed. As she did so, a shriek rang out, so heartrending, so +horrible, it curdled the blood. Again a shriek of mortal anguish—then +silence.</p> + +<p>Above her, stern and erect, Princess Ràkoczi towered, her thin face +illumined by the pointed candle. Without a word she gathered up her +rustling robe and walked away.</p> + +<p>When she had gone, Elsbeth lifted the chest lid. “Merciful God!” she +cried. “Help! Help! Help!” Again and again she called, until her throat +felt numb and weary.</p> + +<p>When she pressed her finger to the opal, she had touched a spring that +released<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span> round, needle-like darts of steel, which had been concealed +beneath the satin lining. The body within was shredded into ribbons. +In the space of a moment it had become an unrecognizable mass of pulp. +Across it lay a silver heart, shining dimly, and beside it two tiny +marble Cupids held chains of roses, which were dotted with blood.</p> + +<p>Madly she grasped the steels, attempting to tear them away. But she +succeeded only in making deep wounds in the palms of her hands. She ran +to the castle door, determined to have revenge. The door was fastened +on the other side. When she beat upon it and tried to call for help, +she found she could not speak. Her throat was paralyzed. She was dumb.</p> + +<p>The next morning, when the sisters of St. Euthymius came to tell her +that they had decided to release her from her confinement, they found +her lying upon her bed, robed in white satin and pearls, a cross of +diamonds upon her breast. When they spoke to her in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span> their astonishment +at the sight that met their eyes, and asked for an explanation, she +pointed to her mouth. They understood. She had taken the vow of eternal +silence. Then she held up her hands. The palms were dotted with spots +of red. They fell upon their knees in reverence and adoration, crying: +“A miracle! <i>The stigmata! The stigmata!</i>” They saw, too, that her +face was changed, and that her hair was streaked with white.</p> + +<p>For the remainder of her life, which lasted twenty-five years, Saint +Elsbeth was never known to break her vow of silence.</p> + +<p>The white robe and the diamond cross which came down from heaven when +she was made the bride of Christ possessed greater healing efficacy +than any relics in Hungary. Their power was oftenest called into +service by maidens and young lovers, until Saint Elsbeth became the +patron saint of the heart. Through these relics Saint Euthymius became +the richest convent in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span> all Hungary and the most widely known for the +piety of its inmates.</p> + +<p>There are certain days of midsummer when the convent is gratuitously +open to the public. Then the room with its tiny window overlooking the +lake is shown, where the miracle was wrought, and the white satin robe +and diamond cross came down from heaven to honor Saint Elsbeth, who was +the bride of Christ.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_OPAL_ISLES">THE OPAL ISLES</h2> +</div> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Vivere ardendo é non sentire il malo!</i><a id="FNanchor_9" href="#Footnote_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a></div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent10"><span class="smcap">Gaspara Stampa.</span></div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">(To live intensely, to be impervious to wrong!)</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + + +<p>We were sitting over our after-dinner cigars, my host, Gustav Berençy, +and myself, when the conversation touched on love. Without pausing to +consider the effect of the question or its evident infringement of +guest-right, I boyishly asked him why he had never married.</p> + +<p>Gustav Berençy had been the friend of my grandfather. They had +known each other in Paris in their youth. I remembered hearing my +grandfather say that Berençy was not only the handsomest, but the +most distinguished man he had met. Looking out upon the luxurious +park-setting of his seaside<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span> home, I could not help wondering why he +had always lived alone.</p> + +<p>As I asked the question, I saw that the eyes looking into mine were +dimmed for a moment, as if by a veil of grief.</p> + +<p>“I <i>am</i> married,” he replied; “not by the law of man, but by +something more sacred—the law of the heart, which is God’s law.”</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon,” I hastened to make reply, repenting of the +ill-timed question. “I had not heard of your marriage, nor indeed,” I +added, “of your wife’s death.”</p> + +<p>“No, of course not,” was the answer, “because I do not know myself +whether she is alive or dead. In all these years I have not been +able to tell. She is here with me, in the great room there above,” +indicating with his hand a wing of the house.</p> + +<p>“I do not believe I understand,” I murmured awkwardly, trying to hit +upon a fitting answer.</p> + +<p>“Very likely you do not, because I do not.” Grief like a shadow flitted +across his face.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span> For the moment it looked aged and strangely weary.</p> + +<p>“Of course you do not understand, because I do not. For fifty years she +has been there—in that room. For fifty years my heart has not wavered +in its allegiance to her, and yet I do not know, as I have told you, +whether she is alive or dead.”</p> + +<p>We sat in silence, while my host looked reminiscently out across the +sea, as if somewhere in its spaces he sought the mystery’s solving. +A sensation of fear swept over me, which, however, I controlled upon +the instant. I was ashamed of my folly. This genial, courtly gentleman +was not mad. In the eyes that looked into mine there was none of the +maniac’s frenzy. On the contrary, they were gently meditative, and +pregnant with thought and grief.</p> + +<p>“No,” he said, reminiscently, lighting a fresh cigar, whose white smoke +in the gentle evening floated up and blended aureole-like with the +thick whiteness of his hair, “no, I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span> do not mind telling you why I have +never married, as the world puts it. It is a strange story. I doubt if +you will believe it. But you are leaving on the morrow, and I shall +never see you again. Besides, I am old, you know. I am eighty.”</p> + +<p>With a sad smile he waved aside my polite demurrer. “Fifty years is +long enough to keep a secret, is it not?” he continued. “And it might +be well in after years for some one to know the truth. It might help +her.”</p> + +<p>Involuntarily my thoughts flew to the great silent room above, where +for fifty years the woman had lain who was neither alive nor dead. +Little did I guess what was housed there, as my heart beat eagerly with +anticipation.</p> + +<p>“I was born, as you know, in France,” said my host. “My mother died at +my birth. My childhood was spent in a monastic school on the gloomy +coast of La Bas Bretagne. There I did not see much childish<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span> merriment, +as you may imagine. Shortly after graduating, when the subject was +being discussed as to whether or not I, the younger son, should take +holy orders—and at that time of my impressionable youth I was not +greatly averse to the idea, so accustomed had I become to monastic +discipline—my father and my brother died, leaving me heir to the name +and fortune. Thus duty, rather than inclination, kept me in a world of +which at that time I knew nothing.</p> + +<p>“Finding the loneliness of the old home unendurable, I went to Paris. +There I saw something of life. When at length dissipation palled upon +me, I gave myself over to study and to art. It was then that I met +your grandfather. Finally, I determined to make the <i>grand tour</i>, +which in those days was <i>de rigueur</i> for young men of wealth and +position. I sauntered across Europe, pausing wherever caprice seized +me, idled carelessly across Asia, dallying with my art the while, +reached its eastern coast, and found myself<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span> confronted by the great +Pacific. Here, not knowing what else to do, but without a definite goal +in view, I took passage for a cruise among the islands of Polynesia. +Some months later, when I had satisfied my curiosity in regard to the +South Seas, just after leaving the Austral Isles, a typhoon struck +us and we were wrecked upon an outlying coral reef. The steamer was +virtually cut in two. The entire crew were drowned with the exception +of the first mate, one sailor, and myself.</p> + +<p>“We were swept by the fury of the waves upon a high white beach, where +a group of natives who had seen the wreck were waiting for the storm to +subside, with the intention of plundering the ship. I found that we had +merely exchanged one form of death for another and a crueler one. We +were seized, bound hand and foot, and thrown upon the ground to await +the tribe’s decision of our fate upon the morrow. That night, while I +lay awake wondering what the outcome<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span> would be, a young native woman, +whose sinewy strength had caught my eye during the day, slipped up to +where I lay alone at a distance from the others, and with incredible +swiftness cut the thongs that bound me. Putting her finger to her +lips significantly, she motioned me to follow. One fate was as bad as +another, if they all meant death, and I did not hesitate.</p> + +<p>“She went across the island, walking so swiftly that it was all that I +could do to keep up. Not once did she look back, or seem to think of +me. She went straight on, as if impelled by fear. I have no idea how +far we walked. When at length she paused with a gesture that made me +know that the journey was at an end, the day was not far off. We had +crossed the island, and again the sea lay before us.</p> + +<p>“The shore was different here. It was repellent and stern, like the +coast of La Bas Bretagne which I had known in my gloomy childhood. +Rocks sloped in sharp declivity<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span> to the water, which looked threatening +and black.</p> + +<p>“Going up to one of the rocky walls, she pointed to an opening beneath, +and went in a little way, motioning me to follow. There I saw a +stairway hewn from the living rock, and descending into the bowels of +the earth. Although it seemed at first glance to be perpendicular, it +sloped slightly toward the water, at whose edge we had entered, so I +knew that whatever pathway lay beyond must lead beneath the sea.</p> + +<p>“She crouched down upon the stair beside me and, stretching out one +long bare arm, pointed down, down, down—once, twice, thrice—meaning +that there I must go. Then she took from her back a bag-shaped basket +and handed it to me. In it were food and drink.</p> + +<p>“Like a whirr of yellow swords, the first sun-rays pierced the sky. As +if frightened to see the day so soon, she bounded up the stairs and was +gone. To go back meant<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span> death; to go on meant I knew not what. But the +chance of a life hung in the balance, so I went on.</p> + +<p>“The stairs led downward between smooth walls of rock. How far I do not +know. I counted the steps until I could count no longer. My brain grew +dizzy and refused to work. I sat down and buried my face in my hands +to recover poise. I got up and went on, and again my brain refused to +count the infinite steps. Again I had to give it up.</p> + +<p>“The opening above, which for a time shed light plentifully upon +me, became a distant pin-point, then vanished, and inky blackness +surrounded me. I should have felt like one buried alive, had it not +been for the fresh air that swept between the perpendicular walls of +this canal-way.</p> + +<p>“But what awaited me at the bottom? Was it water, black and silent +and of fathomless depth—impassable, mysterious water that had never +reflected the stars or the sun? Was I to find myself upon the edge of +an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span> abyss whose depth I could sense but could not estimate?</p> + +<p>“What torturing fear and suspense did I not suffer, as I descended that +frightful stairway! Suppose my foot slipped and I should fall! What +then! But she, my guide of the night, had motioned that I was to follow +the stairway. She had not crossed the island merely to bring about my +death. It was her intention to save me. I must have faith in her. There +was no other way. I summoned fresh courage and crept down the blackness.</p> + +<p>“I lost all account of time as hours go. But judging by my weariness +and hunger when I reached the level, I think I must have put in a good +part of a day in descending that frightful stairway. At the bottom +I found myself in a smooth and level road enclosed between walls of +granite.</p> + +<p>“But the silence and the darkness—how can I tell you what they were? +Such silence drives men mad. The darkness was like velvet in its +black impenetrableness. It<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span> seemed to fall upon my face and stifle +me. Nothing disturbed the silence. Even the wind slipped noiselessly +through this grave of granite. And it had come so far that it had freed +its wings of the scents of the world of light, of the sea and of the +earth. No message from the world above came here. Not a sound broke the +silence. From the walls of barren rock no dust clods fell to tell of +the ceaseless, weaving life of the earth. Adown their sides no water +tinkled. Along the road there was not even the friendly whirr of a +dried leaf blown by the wind. Nothing! Nothing!</p> + +<p>“After I had traveled for a time and the silence had heaped its leaden +weight upon me, I shrieked. I could restrain myself no longer. I cried +out with all the strength of lung that I possessed, and the granite +walls sent back a million, broken-voiced echoes to beat about my ears.</p> + +<p>“For days I traveled on like this, pausing only to eat and sleep. I had +lost reckoning<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span> of time, of night, of day. I heard only the measured +sound of my own steps. I do not know how many days and nights had +passed like this, when I found that the road was leading upward. It +became narrower and steeper. I brushed the rock walls as I walked; I +could scarcely squeeze between them. I did not fear. The sound of my +steps had dulled my brain. Darkness had paralyzed the power to think.</p> + +<p>“Above my head the roof lowered till I could no longer stand erect. I +fell upon my knees and crept forward. The wind changed; it freshened. I +thought it brought a scent of the sea. Suddenly thick leaves barred the +way. I brushed through them, and the star-splendid circle of a tropic +night swept into view.</p> + +<p>“I was in the garden of a spacious residence that crowned an elevation. +Below me a white city lay, and around and beyond the sea. How I drank +in the air! How I rejoiced in the sleepy rustle of leaves and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span> grass, +and in the regained face of the earth!</p> + +<p>“The city which presented itself to my eyes was arranged in the form of +a wheel, whose hub was the dwelling in the garden where I stood. From +the dwelling the streets radiated like spokes, and at the end of each, +terminating at the island’s edge, shone the sea. Around the eminence +spread a circular park of considerable breadth, adorned with flowers +and statues. Around this lay a smooth wide road, bordered at regular +intervals with slender palms, whose leaves in the windless night were +motionless. Opposite, the city streets began, and each was headed by +a building of great beauty, so that beyond the park and the roadway +rose a circular sweep of noble buildings. At regular distances from the +central starting-point, each street was interrupted by a small circular +space of greensward, and these, uniting, made a driveway around the +city.</p> + +<p>“I chose at random one of the paths that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span> intersected the garden and +followed it. Since I was the toy of chance, I determined to resign +myself bravely. After a detour the path led toward the dwelling, +blended with one of its marble walks, and ended at the foot of a +staircase. I climbed the stairs and entered an uncovered corridor of +white marble. After walking to the end, I found it closed by a smooth +and rounded stone. I touched it. It swung open, enfolding and sweeping +me within its circle, and then closed silently behind me. Impenetrable +draperies of silk hung in front of me, brushing my face. I parted them +and entered the strangest room I ever saw.</p> + +<p>“It was long and of unusual height. The top was uncovered and let in +the tropic night. Around the edge of the top of the walls a rim of +opal glass projected, upon which a glass ceiling was folded back, to +be used in case of need. There were no pictures in the room, nor were +there decorations or adornment of any kind. The four walls<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span> were hung +uniformly in curtains of heavy white silk, which fell in straight folds +to the floor.</p> + +<p>“There was no air moving. Indeed, I remembered the night outside to +have been singularly windless. Yet these white curtains shivered and +swayed with a sibilant and silken murmur. Across their surface gold +lines and figures swept. An endless chain of golden phantoms girdled +the spacious chamber. From the walls bright forms leaped with a burst +of light, and then faded back to whiteness. Round and round swept a +glittering, changing pageant, impalpable and soundless. Sometimes the +gold within the witch-wrought silk blazed forth until the air gleamed +with yellow light that dimmed the stars. Anon it paled to such a vague +misty radiance as engirdles a winter moon. But always there was change +and light and motion and the rustle of swayed silk. If I examined the +curtains closely, if I took them up in my hands, I found that they +were colorless and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span> uniformly white. But if I let them fall again, +and stepped a foot away to look at them, gold light and flashing form +leaped out to startle me.</p> + +<p>“There were times when the gold wall-light faded and a dim brilliancy +took its place. Occasionally, too, a silver light inspirited the +restless curtains, pallid frost-shine filled the room, and horizontal +lines of silver swept round the walls. When the silver lines grouped +themselves into form and being, it was as if lustrous spirits danced +airily a ghost dance of joy, now flashing for an instant into vivid +life, now paling and fading into silver mist that still retained their +gracious contours.</p> + +<p>“There was no furniture save a long, narrow, bed-like pedestal or +support of ivory, which stood in the center of the room. Upon this +rested a mammoth sickle likewise of ivory, formed like the new moon, +and within its hollow curve there lay—how shall I tell you!—was it a +woman wrapped in lustrous<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span> gauze, or was it a mammoth opal that bore a +woman’s form? Standing beside the figure and looking down, I could not +tell. Beneath the pallid surface colors glowed like tint of flesh with +jewels upon it. Again, they seemed to be only the fiery flash of an +opal’s heart, and the surface became icily cold.</p> + +<p>“I discovered plainly once or twice the long, noble lines of a figure +relaxed as if in sleep. Within the white stone floated the gracious +semblance of a woman, yet far away and insubstantial, like colors +seen in a dream. Sometimes I thought the figure breathed, but by the +light of those moving curtains I could not tell. They kept up such a +tremor of shifting brightness that my own body became unreal and no +longer seemed to belong to me. They dazzled my senses and broke my +chain of reasoned thinking. I was adrift with nothing to guide me. +When at length I turned from contemplation of the mysterious figure to +find again, if possible, the place of exit, in the wall-labyrinth of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span> +weaving light, some power which I could not but obey compelled me to +pause on a sudden and look back.</p> + +<p>“There, standing upright by the moon’s ivory horn, was the opal woman. +The tangling gauze which covered her—which I had not dared to touch +to find if it were gauze or the smooth cold surface of a stone—had +slipped to her feet, where it billowed white like foam. She was taller +than the average woman and more slender, yet withal muscularly built +and round. Hers was the body of Pallas.</p> + +<p>“An apron-like corselet of flexible gold, woven in open-work squares, +fitted her smoothly, falling evenly to her feet, but opened to the +waist on either side. Beneath this from the waist downward fell +something silken and white, softening the sharp outline of the gold. +In each little open-work square of the corselet hung a pink gem, and +between her breasts was set a ruby.</p> + +<p>“Her hair, which was thick and of a bronze<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span> color, was arranged in +great coils on either side of her head, completely covering her ears. +In the center of each coil shone a ruby that matched in size and +color the one between her breasts. From these rubies, and attached to +them, extended a net of tiny pearls, covering her hair and holding it +securely in place.</p> + +<p>“So absorbed was I in contemplation of her person, that I forgot that +word was due from me. When at length I lifted my eyes to hers, it was +as if along with the conquest of my senses the conquest of my mind had +been completed. They seemed to enfold and sweep me within a sea of +light where all things were foreign to my will.</p> + +<p>“Notwithstanding her strange and fantastic costuming, which at once +revealed and enhanced the beauty of her body, I knew that this was +no vain coquette. This was not a woman to find pleasure in vulgar +admiration. Her costume I felt to be the result of some ideal of life, +of beauty, which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span> was the ruling passion of her mind. Calmly and in +silence we looked at each other. In my face surprise and admiration +struggled. She, however, was undisturbed and looked back at me serenely.</p> + +<p>“Even then, before a word had been exchanged between us, I felt that +her life and her ideal of life were altogether dissimilar to my own, +that mentally we were the opposite each of the other. Within her I +sensed unsoundable depths of peace and calm, which had their origin in +some mental possession to which I was an alien. I measured then the +abyss that lay between us.</p> + +<p>“She was as richly colored and as gorgeous as a canvas, yet in her +bearing there was nothing that hinted of pride or self-consciousness. +I shall never forget that first glimpse of her. The picture is printed +indelibly upon my brain, despite the years that have intervened—so +vividly, indeed, that nothing has been able to dim it. For me it has +dulled all other visions. Judge of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span> it by the fact that I had known +more or less well the beauties of Paris, and that I was accustomed to +the luxurious gowning of the French city. It was only a few seconds +that we stood there, and yet—so vivifying is the power of beauty—it +was time enough for a world of fancies to sweep my brain.</p> + +<p>“Her eyes were two flowers set within the petaled pallor of her face. +Wide, straight-fronting eyes of chastest blue they were, whose vivid +vitality was softened by an inner and a spiritual flame. Her face +symbolized the dream-white city which I had seen outside in the night. +And the changing light-splendor of that wondrous room was caught up +and concentrated there. As I stood looking at her, a thousand vague +and vanishing glimpses of remembered loveliness came back to haunt me. +There was something about her that shut off thought connection with +the active world of fact, and set one adrift among the pages of the +painters. Despite her slenderness and her purely womanly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span> beauty she +was strong and masterful. She suggested the “virile note of great art.”</p> + +<p>“In silence I stood and waited for her to speak. In a voice whose +calmness was like the azure flame within her eyes, she said:</p> + +<p>“‘You were not going away, were you? Stay and be my guest. Besides, you +know, you cannot go. There is no way.’</p> + +<p>“‘Nothing could give me greater pleasure than to be your guest—for a +time,’ I added.</p> + +<p>“‘For a time?’</p> + +<p>“‘Yes; then I must go back to Europe, to my home—to France.’</p> + +<p>“‘Home? Yes, yes; of course—but how can you! You are in the Opal +Isles.’</p> + +<p>“‘And where are they?’</p> + +<p>“A strange look crossed her face, but so swiftly that I could not tell +whether it was perplexity or grief.</p> + +<p>“‘The Opal Isles—they—they—are in the center of the shoreless sea +where the white wave circles. And I am Asra.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span></p> + +<p>“‘But there are steamers, of course; I can—’</p> + +<p>“‘Never mind to-night. That can wait, can it not?’ She touched a hidden +spring that summoned a servant. ‘The blue room.’ Then, turning to me, +she said: ‘He will give you clothing suitable to our life and climate. +Good night.’</p> + +<p>“‘Good night,’ I repeated in a daze.</p> + +<p>“After nearing the curtain behind which the servant had disappeared +and stood waiting, I looked back. Asra lay silent and white, as I had +first seen her, between the pale crescent’s ivory horns. Again she +seemed to be not a woman, but a gigantic opal, beneath whose surface a +rainbow slept. The curtains had begun their sibilant whispering again, +and from them leaped gold phantoms in a dance of joy. Nearer and nearer +to the ivory moon they circled. They formed a glittering cordon about +it, weaving of bright motion a visible song of sleep. When the long +curtains fell behind me, I thought: ‘Perhaps<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span> it has all been a dream,’ +I did not know. I could not tell.</p> + +<p>“‘This is the guest-room,’ the servant said, breaking in upon my +reverie. ‘It tells of the supremacy of the sea. Here are your clothes. +Good night.’</p> + +<p>“The room was similar to the one I had left. Like it, it was roofless. +Like it, too, it was walled in white silk. Within the silk slumbered +not gold and silver, but the mysteries of the sea. I saw depth on +depth of translucent water of every varying shade, running the +entire gamut of blues and greens, within which gem-winged fish, slim +silvery serpents, and strange iridescent sea-life swam. It was as +if I looked through leagues of water, as one looks across a level +prairie. Sometimes the water was blue and warm and pierced by sunlight. +Again it was black-green and angry. Sometimes a cold light shivered +this soundless ocean, a great wave came rolling in, crested with +pale foam the color of fear. At the moment when it seemed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span> ready to +break and shed its tumbling waters over me, it vanished and the white +silk trembled crisply. I remembered what Asra had said of the white +wave that circles the shoreless sea. The servant, too, had spoken of +the supremacy of the sea. I felt that in both expressions there was +concealed a threat, or at least a deeper meaning. Unbidden came the +thought that perhaps the Opal Isles and the people who dwelled within +them were somehow at the mercy of the sea.</p> + +<p>“When I stretched myself out upon the narrow ivory bed in the center of +the room, I still continued to watch the curtains, in the dim wonder of +approaching sleep. I was conscious of their beauty and their magic, but +I no longer felt any desire to solve a mystery where all was mystery. +As I fell asleep I wondered if I, too, would be transformed into an +opal. Why not? Are we not all opals by day and night, white flesh opals +beneath whose surface flashes the flame of imagination?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span></p> + +<p>“When I went downstairs the next day dressed in a white tunic worn +after the manner of the Greek costume, I found that I had slept the +greater part of the day. On the way a servant met me and led me to +a room where Asra awaited me. She wore the wonderful costume of the +evening before. The sight of her brought back the golden phantoms +of which she seemed to be an embodied one. I wondered if, when I +approached her, she would vanish and the pallor of space confront +me. I had ceased to trust the testimony of my senses. But she stood +there calmly smiling, the swinging pink corselet gems swaying with the +movement of her breath.</p> + +<p>“When I went up to her, she held out her hand frankly and wished me +good morning. I was more surprised to find that she was real, that +she did not vanish at my approach, than if, upon the instant, a dozen +phantoms had leaped to take her place. The little hand within my own +was warm and white. Here<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span> was the first reality. In gratitude I bent +over it. As I lifted my head, bright sunlight swept in from the open +side of the room and swathed her about like a robe. Color became sound. +I saw then their relationship to fearlessness and joy.</p> + +<p>“With the new clothes I put on a new life—a lighter, freer, happier +life. The black-robed world which I had known seemed far away. Suddenly +it seemed to have been a sort of slavery. I saw it fettered with +restraints and prejudices. I saw it bowed of back and weary. I drew +a deep breath as of one pleasantly released, as if prison doors had +opened and shown me light.</p> + +<p>“Laughing, Asra came to where I stood and clasped upon my upper arm a +bracelet of opals.</p> + +<p>“‘Now you are a subject of the Opal Isles! Now there is no retreat.’</p> + +<p>“I looked down upon the glittering gems. Each stone was emitting +sparklets of cold green light, as if in anger at me, an interloper.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span> +While I was watching almost in fear its malevolent shine, a servant +entered and asked Asra if she wished to drive as usual at that hour. +She looked toward me questioningly.</p> + +<p>“‘Nothing could give me greater pleasure,’ I replied, to the unuttered +question in her eyes. ‘I should like to see the city by day.’</p> + +<p>“As we drove along, I saw that there were other cities and other +islands, a dozen or more perhaps. They had been hidden from me the +evening before by the luminousness of the night, which had made them +a part of the distance. Between the islands little red-sailed boats +fluttered, but nowhere was the long, black smoke-ribbon of a steamer to +be seen.</p> + +<p>“‘Where are the Opal Isles?’ I questioned, turning to Asra. ‘I never +heard the name before. I’m sure I never dreamed of cities of white +marble on the other side of the earth.’</p> + +<p>“I told you last night,’ she replied evasively,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span> ‘that they are in the +center of the shoreless sea, where the white wave circles.’</p> + +<p>“I fancied then, as I looked out across the shining water, that +something white and ominous like foam bounded the far horizon. She +followed my glance. When again she looked toward me, I thought that +within her eyes I read fear, but the look vanished as quickly as it +came, and the old serenity took its place.</p> + +<p>“‘That does not tell me where I am—“in the center of the shoreless +sea”—that only helps to lose me the more.’</p> + +<p>“‘What difference does it make where one is, if one is happy? How could +happiness be situated upon a map!’</p> + +<p>“‘But are there no steamers, no seafaring vessels?’ I insisted, looking +out beyond the islands where the smooth water stretched to the horizon, +unfurrowed of prow or oar.</p> + +<p>“‘Of course not! Why should there be? When one reaches the Land of +the Ideal, where everything is exactly as one would have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span> it, is it +reasonable to suppose that any one would wish to go away?’</p> + +<p>“‘Very true. But how do they get here?’</p> + +<p>“‘How did you?’</p> + +<p>“‘But I mean others. How do <i>they</i> get here?’</p> + +<p>“‘There is only one road that can lead to a land like this. They who +are fit find it.’</p> + +<p>“‘But do not all roads lead two ways?’</p> + +<p>“‘All but this one.’</p> + +<p>“‘I yield. There is no use in questioning the Sphinx.’</p> + +<p>“We were driving through streets lined with marble buildings and +bordered on either side by smooth parkways. At frequent intervals along +the greensward were statues, decorative urns, shrubs, and flowers. Each +building, whatsoever its size, extent, or purpose, was a little work +of art and formed a helpful part of the general grouping. Nowhere was +there anything ugly or unsightly. Nowhere was there a false color or an +immature line. It was as if the people had worked<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span> together with the +single aim of making their city faultless. They seemed to know that +ugly things are immoral.</p> + +<p>“On the larger buildings I noticed that the decorations were frequently +suggestive of the sea, as if in some remote age the city had risen from +its depth. Carved upon the marble were shells, fish, trailing vines +and weeds whose graceful sinuosities told of the swinging of tides. +When we crossed one of the long spoke-like streets which swept from +the center to the edge of the island, I saw that at its end, upon the +turf that met it at right angles, there was a group of statuary. Asra +told me that similar groups stood at the end of each street where it +touched the sea. This group represented dancing nymphs pausing suddenly +in the last wild round of some ecstatic dance, uplifted to toe-tips +by motion-mad draperies, with muscles tense, up-strained to slimmest +height, heads flung back, holding to their lips, trumpet-wise, fluted +shells, through which they were flinging<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span> defiance at the deep. This +picture stuck in my memory. It was like a pin prick of fear. In the +smiling water it made me see a menace and a danger.</p> + +<p>“There were buildings in the city which had a look of great age. They +were yellow and mottled and streaked faintly with fine lines of gray. +Their architecture was strange. It was simple and dignified, but as +alien as the flora of an unknown land. The light fell upon these +ancient buildings tenderly, with none of the harsh obtrusiveness of +unshaded white. It was like a retrospective thought where unpleasant +things seen in the flattering mirror of the past have lost their +harshness. High above the city rose the grace of palms, and in all +directions shone blue water.</p> + +<p>“Then began a life which lasted too brief a time and which I have +never ceased to regret; a life where all the standards of living were +reversed. How shall I tell you?</p> + +<p>“Beauty, not gold, was king!—the intelligent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span> appreciation, the +creation of beauty. They called it the spirit of life made visible. +There was no religion, no church; in their stead they had placed +fearlessness and joy and kindness. If you can imagine what the result +would be to take away wealth as the objective goal of a nation’s +endeavor, you will gain an idea of what I mean.</p> + +<p>“Gradually in our walks and drives, or in our sails upon the water, +Asra instructed me in the new life, until I was beginning to forget +the old. At least I had reached the point where there was no desire of +return. I will not enter into tiresome details of the island people and +their ways, because the most important part is what came later and its +effect upon my life.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps two weeks had elapsed since my arrival in the Opal Isles when +Asra asked me to visit with her a little rocky islet, the farthest and +most outlying of the Opal group, whence a fine view was to be had of +the island cities, and the great sea to westward. At<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span> her suggestion, +we took along a hamper of food, that we might spend the day if we +wished. I managed the red-sailed boat, and we went alone.</p> + +<p>“Rocky and grim the island rose from the water, like the summit of a +mountain whose base had been submerged by the tides. Near the shore on +one side, opposite the landing, stood a graceful little pavilion, a +place of rest and shelter from the too direct rays of the sun. Within +were seats and a table.</p> + +<p>“At one end of the pavilion the rock walls were near and rose high +above its roof. In the wind-sheltered crevices an airy blue flower +grew that resembled the anemone. There were occasional ferns, too. +Other vegetation there was none. The shore was strewn with dull, +copper-colored seaweeds of sharply indented edges. They resembled hairy +tentacles, long eager sea-arms reaching from the deep to drag us down.</p> + +<p>“Asra wore the dress in which I had first seen her, the gold open-work +corselet, with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span> the swinging pink stones and giant rubies. As I looked +at her, the light struck a flame from the ruby above her heart, and I +noticed that its color was that of the crimson sail. I remembered how I +had watched it upon the misty water, and how I had thought that it was +the color of life, when life is lived bravely.</p> + +<p>“‘I am glad of your mood to-day,’ she said, divining my thoughts. ‘Why +can you not always be like this? Why can you not always be dominant and +fearless? That is the way to live. I do not understand you when you are +sad.’</p> + +<p>“‘Nor I myself.’</p> + +<p>“‘Why is it then?’</p> + +<p>“‘The mystery of things, perhaps. I do not know exactly. Perhaps it is +because I wonder where I am.’</p> + +<p>“‘What possible difference can place make if we are happy?’</p> + +<p>“‘Perhaps it is because I fear the day will come when I must go away.’</p> + +<p>“A deep light shone in her eyes. The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span> thought flashed through my brain +that here was such a face as dwells forever in the depth of our ideals.</p> + +<p>“‘But why need you go? What is there in the old world that you want? +Stay here with me.’</p> + +<p>“‘Do you mean it, Asra?’ I cried, all but smothered with the joy that +burst upon my senses.</p> + +<p>“‘Yes, why not?’</p> + +<p>“‘Then this life is mine forever!’ I exclaimed, hastening toward her, +while she waved me gently away.</p> + +<p>“‘To the fearless all things belong.’</p> + +<p>“‘Asra!’ I cried, the wild joy still beating in my brain.</p> + +<p>“Again she waved me away. ‘See!’ She spread a paper before me which she +had taken from a slender chatelaine swinging from her waist. ‘This is +the permission for me to choose whom I wish—you if I wish.’</p> + +<p>“‘And you do wish, Asra?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span></p> + +<p>“‘Otherwise would I have told you? It depends upon you. There are +conditions. You must banish fear, doubt, sadness, forever. Do you +understand? If you were unable, it would mean ruin—such ruin as you do +not know. You must be sure of yourself.’</p> + +<p>“‘Anything that lies within my power I will do. But is this within my +power? Can I be sure? Can I know?’</p> + +<p>“I looked out over the sea. The broad light fell full upon it, and a +myriad merry eyes looked back at me. Its voice reached me. I listened. +The meaning was unmistakable. It was the undying laughter of the pagan +gods. At night, too, I remembered, its voice had reached me; and I +shivered to think that it was a dirge then, that it sang an eternal +dirge. And between these two voices of nature—the two voices that call +forever, the laughter and the dirge—what was there? The ideal! Yes, +the ideal, desirable and unattainable, forever, between the laughter +and the dirge.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span></p> + +<p>“‘Now you have reached it!’ she exclaimed, breaking in upon my +thinking. ‘You were sure to. Now you will conquer. Put the other world +behind you. Annihilate it with your fearlessness. Be mine!’</p> + +<p>“Her face inspirited me. Courage, like wine, strengthened my veins. +I felt that I had been lifted into a high and rarefied element. The +moments became lyric and sped onward with the lilt of song.</p> + +<p>“‘I will not fail you. I will live with you upon your height of joy. I +will prove that I am worthy.’</p> + +<p>“I clasped her in my arms, and the face which was like the realization +of a dream was near to mine.</p> + +<p>“‘I knew it!’ she exclaimed, disengaging herself gently from my embrace.</p> + +<p>“For the moment I moved in an element of lightness and joy, freed +from fear, superstition, and corroding care. I began to realize that +joy is the most important thing in the world, the most pregnant of +possibility<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span> and power. I saw a new world, a new sky, and a new earth. +Beneath her mighty touch, I saw as if for the first time the face of +the morning upon the level water. I looked across it. My fancy peopled +with triumphant phantoms the immeasurable distances that lay beyond. +Worlds on worlds sprung up in space over which joy floated like a +victorious banner and whose roadways were threaded by the gleaming +feet of love. I saw victorious and triumphant things; white arms +up-flung, red lips that shrilled in song; bright helmet plumes blown +back like flame; and between them the white, glorious face of the woman +I loved. Joy had strung my mind to a finer pitch. It had given it +temporarily the strength and the suppleness of steel. Like a thin and +glittering sword of unbreakable metal, joy stood, unsheathed of grief +and formidable forever, between me and the destructive forces of life. +Nothing now could diminish my power. I had found that for which we are +created.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span></p> + +<p>“Wherever the mysterious roads of life might lead, it was joy that +waited for me at the end. All the beautiful, unalterable things in +whose creation joy had been dominant came thronging to enrich my senses.</p> + +<p>“‘You are right. Joy is the greatest thing in the world. It is the +alkahest, the universal solvent, in which beauty becomes fluid, and, +like a returning tide of ocean, flows in and makes fecund the barren +coves and inlets of the soul.’</p> + +<p>“‘Put away all that you have known in the past,’ she answered quickly. +‘Forget that there was ever another way of living, another land. Be +mine wholly. If you are worthy, the reward will not be slight.’</p> + +<p>“‘The past is as if it had not been. It is a tide that has slipped back +again into the deep.’</p> + +<p>“‘And it has washed away the writing on the sand. Look!’ She pointed to +the sea. ‘Like its deep the soul is. Nothing can sully it.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span></p> + +<p>“As a lark rises in space, its only connection with the dim earth being +ribbons of fluted sound, so did my ecstatic vision rise and hold me +high above, where petty griefs could not pull me down and where in my +focusing point of light I could draw what I wished up unto myself.</p> + +<p>“‘I promise, Asra.’</p> + +<p>“‘Then I choose you,’ she answered solemnly, a strange new note of +warning ringing in her voice.</p> + +<p>“I felt as if the horses of the sun had whirled me to the heights of +light. Swift air lashed my ears. Glory inundated my senses. I felt the +vertigo of happiness. I saw poise beneficently above me then the vision +of love—the glittering, gold-cloud vision of love as it is painted by +tone in the overture to <i>Lohengrin</i>. When it passed, the elastic +swing of my vision, which had attained height sufficient to embrace +all things, brought before me, by power of contrast, the black, autumn +coast of La Bas Bretagne, as I had seen it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span> in my gloomy childhood. The +shore was strewn with rocks, like this one, and, perched upon them, +much as was this gay pavilion, stood a church, somber and dark with +age. Upon the tower a huge dark crucifix stood, whose black shadow fell +far below. I saw again that cold autumnal sea; the slow-swinging ridges +of dim water, where the black cross wavered, and between which poised +black boats, over whose edges from time to time passed sadly the cold, +silent creatures of the sea. The bright vision faded. I fell from my +height of joy. It was as if I spun down infinitudes of space, light, +like sound, ringing as I went.</p> + +<p>“‘Asra, you swept me with you to a dizzy height, where, for a few +moments, I saw the splendor of the worlds unfurl. But I cannot keep it. +My eyes grow dim; my senses are blurred. A thousand fears assail me. I +am afraid of the heights. I cannot live there calmly. I am not equal to +it.’</p> + +<p>“‘What do you mean?’ Again there was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span> that solemn note of warning that +shook my soul.</p> + +<p>“‘Do not fail me now. You do not realize what it would mean. You do not +dream what would come.’</p> + +<p>“Again I saw the cold gray sky of France. The dim water ridges again +swung toward me, and upon them lay blackly the shadow of sorrow. Doubts +and fears like a demon army fell upon me. They overcame me; they +crushed me.</p> + +<p>“‘Asra, what of that dark ocean whose name is death?’</p> + +<p>“‘What of that!’ she replied in scorn. ‘I do not fear it. Put all such +thoughts behind you. Be brave! Let us intoxicate ourselves with living, +with fancies, dreams, exquisite sensations. The present cannot last. +Therefore make it perfect. Since Life is a guest whom we may not ignore +if we would, does it not behoove us to be royal entertainers?’</p> + +<p>“No more could that impassioned voice<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span> arouse me, nor the eyes, that +filled my soul with light. The earth had claimed me. Supinely I fell +back upon its breast. Never again could she lift me to the heights.</p> + +<p>“‘I am not worthy of you, Asra. Can you forgive me?’ I said, folding +her in my arms and pressing my lips to hers.</p> + +<p>“When my lips touched hers, a change passed over her. She was standing +close beside me, and yet she seemed to be distant, to have moved away.</p> + +<p>“‘Oh, the folly! Why did you not listen to me! Why did you not bury +yourself in your dream and forget! Why did you not content yourself +with looking! There are things made only to dream of—that vanish +at the touch. Good is not good until it is useless,’ she added +enigmatically.</p> + +<p>“‘The ideal must never be reached. <i>Look!</i>’ Wildly her voice rang +out.</p> + +<p>“I followed the direction of her eyes and her pointing hand.</p> + +<p>“‘The white wave!’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span></p> + +<p>“The sky-line was blurred beneath on-rushing water, white and +thunderous and fearful.</p> + +<p>“‘What does it mean, the white wave?’</p> + +<p>“‘Did I not warn you? Come, save yourself while there is time!’</p> + +<p>“She unclasped the bracelet from my arm and flung it down. She led me +toward the rock that towered at the end of the pavilion. After walking +some distance around its projection upon the sand, we came to a dark +and narrow opening. There, handing me the food hamper, she said: ‘Go +straight ahead! Go! Go!’</p> + +<p>“‘But you—will you not go too? What of you?’</p> + +<p>“‘No, no! No matter. There is not time to tell you. Do as I wish. Go +quickly.’</p> + +<p>“I looked across the sea. I saw the towering water. Its icy breath +fanned my face. Its pale crest reached the zenith. Sprayed foam beads +fell from it like marbles and dotted the blue ahead. The red sail of +our<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span> boat fluttered in fear. Without pausing to think or to reason, I +picked Asra up in my arms and darted with her into the black opening. +It was the work of an instant. There was not time for word or argument.</p> + +<p>“No sooner had we crossed the dividing line than, with a crash, a great +rock suspended above the entrance like a door fell and shut us off from +sight of the island and the glittering wave that rolled thundering on. +There was no retreat. There was nothing to do but to go on. I had come +from the darkness and I was plunged back into it again. Neither light +nor sound reached us. Impenetrable night surrounded us. The air however +was fresh, as if it had connection with the outside. Beneath my feet a +smooth roadway of stone led downward, the declivity being sharp.</p> + +<p>“A change had taken place in Asra, which the excitement of the first +few moments had prevented me from noticing. Her body had become light +as air, and cold and stiff. I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span> dreaded to confront the fact and +acknowledge to myself what had happened. It was no longer the body of +a woman. It was no longer my beloved, no longer Asra, whom I held in +my arms. It was the opal which I had first seen between the moon’s +ivory horns. What a grief was this! What sorrow filled my soul! It was +useless to cry out or remonstrate. The change which I had seen upon +the night of my arrival had taken place again. I consoled myself by +thinking that, with day-light and the earth’s surface regained, she +would be herself once more. If it had not been for this thought, I +could not have gone on. I should not have tried for life. What would +there have been to live for! Why could I not reasonably expect this? I +had seen it happen before. Almost beneath my eyes the miracle had taken +place.</p> + +<p>“Lifting the mammoth opal to my shoulder, the easier to carry it, I +sped swiftly down the smooth stone way, hoping every moment for a +ray of light to give promise of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span> an exit, however far away. When I +reached the bottom of the declivity and found level stone beneath my +feet, there was still no sign of light, and I was so weary that I put +my burden down and slept. When I awoke, I ate some of the food in the +hamper and went on.</p> + +<p>“I must have been deep within the heart of the earth. No sound nor +scent of living thing came here. Yet the air was fresh and free from +the damp smell of prisoned places. This was the thing that gave me +hope. Somewhere, not far away, it had met an outer current and purified +itself. The wind blew in my face. It seemed to come from the direction +in which I was going. It was not my own motion that caused it. When I +paused, I could still feel it blowing gently in my face. That gave me +heart, and was the one foundation for hope. Somewhere in the darkness +there was an exit through which the fresh air came.</p> + +<p>“My other journey beneath the earth was as nothing in point of time in +comparison<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span> with this. Had it not been for the plentiful supply of food +within the hamper, I must have perished before I reached the surface. +As it was, I suffered greatly. I was exhausted. My feet were blistered +with walking on unyielding stone, and my arms were stiff with the +strain of holding securely that strange burden. Hope was still high in +my heart that I should see the miracle wrought anew and Asra rise from +her opal sleep. Otherwise I should have cared for nothing. Life would +not have been worth the saving.</p> + +<p>“It was night when I came to the surface of the earth, or, at least, +darkness had fallen. I found myself upon a tiny island, no larger than +a dot upon the water, evidently a coaling station in the South Pacific. +There was but one building, a keeper’s cottage, and over it floated the +flag of France.</p> + +<p>“The evening was not old, for the tide, which indications proved to +have been low that day, was creeping in. I did not pause to think or to +be thankful for my safety. I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span> thought only of Asra. I was in a fever of +excitement to find out if my hope was to be realized. Would she awake +from her sleep and speak to me? Would our old life go on as before? +Carefully I deposited the precious burden upon the ground. The moon was +a slender sickle of gold and lent but little light. However, there was +a luster that came from the water, and the southern stars were bright. +By their aid I hoped to see.</p> + +<p>“Asra was wrapped in a thick white tissue. I remembered that it had +the same billowy whiteness as the covering that slipped and fell down +at her feet like foam on the night of my arrival, when I first saw her +standing by the moon’s ivory horns. I thrust it aside, tearing it in my +haste. Before me lay a radiant opal. From it colors spouted like jets +of water in a wonder-park.</p> + +<p>“The quick interchange of colors blinded me. I could distinguish +nothing, peer as I might. I knelt down and put my face close to the +stone in the endeavor to see. Then it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span> was as if a rain of light +sprayed my face. It was useless. I could make out nothing. Yet the +great stone preserved perfectly the contour of her body. Surely I +should be able to see her when that play of color called up by the +light combinations of the night subsided. As I stood bravely fortifying +my soul with hope, defiant in face of discouragement, the glamour of +the old island life we had led together touched me vividly, and for an +instant’s space swung me to the heights of joy. The stone grew pale +and white. I knelt beside it. Then, plainly in its depth, I saw Asra +asleep, in her gold corselet with its little pink gems and giant rubies.</p> + +<p>“‘Asra!’ I called. ‘Awake! We are safe now. Awake and speak to me.’</p> + +<p>“Peering closely, I saw her smile, else some ray of restless light +touched her.</p> + +<p>“In memory I saw once more the silk-hung chamber with its golden +phantoms, and I grieved to think that I might never see it again.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span></p> + +<p>“‘Asra! The white wave is gone. There is no sign of it anywhere. We are +safe. Awake!’</p> + +<p>“For answer I heard the sea’s undying pagan laughter. Asra faded away. +The stone’s brilliancy revived. The mad dance of spouting colors began. +I knew I could not call her back. I flung myself down beside her and +buried my face in the sand. In a frenzy of grief I determined to watch +until morning. Then, surely, the change I longed for would come. I +could not give up hope. Hope meant life. The day would settle it, and +as I wished. I lay down beside her and waited for the sun.</p> + +<p>“What a night was that! It was the longest I ever knew. At times +weariness over-powered me, and I slept to wake with strung nerves. It +seemed as if the day would never come. I thought the stars of a dozen +nights rose and set. I thought the magic in which I was entangled had +hindered the old rotation of day and night. Every change in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span> the night +sky was reflected in the stone, as if it were the pulse of night. A +wisp of clouds across the zenith, and it was malevolently somber; a +freshening breeze swept them away, and fire darted from it.</p> + +<p>“The day came, gray and chill, with a pallid mist. I was drenched to +the skin, and shivering with cold. Fear, born of weariness, assailed +me. The earth-grief fell upon me like a cloak. I ached in every limb. +In what a fever of hope and fear did I hang over the stone, waiting for +the light to clear sufficiently to see. When it did, I could no longer +see the face of Asra, only her gemmed costuming and the dim outlines of +her body.</p> + +<p>“Then the fear that she would fade away forever all but drove me mad. I +forgot hunger, weariness, everything, in the endeavor to see again the +face I loved. As I watched in such anxiety as they know who have loved +deeply, trembling the while, as if from fever, the sun sent its first +level rays across the sea. The light penetrated the stone. There<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span> was +nothing to hinder me now. I could delude myself no longer. I could see +plainly. Asra was not there.</p> + +<p>“Beneath the snowy surface I could distinguish a mingled brightness +and the long gold lines where her body had been. While I was looking, +these, too, melted away in a dance of color. Doubt and fear had killed +her. She had warned me, too. She had told me that the result would be +something undreamed of.</p> + +<p>“If for an instant hope sprang glowing in my heart, I could see her +dimly, but when it passed she melted away in a jeweled mist and left +me alone. In one telescopic flash of mind I realized the gloom, the +barrenness, of the years that were to come. I realized then, in the +flower of my youth, that the best of life lay behind me. From what I +had known, the paths of life must lead downward.</p> + +<p>“Leaving her concealed in the reeds, I went to the house. I had been +correct in my supposition that it was a French coaling-station.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</span> The +keeper was greatly surprised at the presence of a stranger. When +I explained how I came, he was more surprised and shook his head +doubtfully. He declared that he had never heard of the Opal Isles. He +could not explain my presence in any satisfactory way, however, since +the only steamer which had been expected for weeks was due that day. +When I told him more of the islands, with their twelve white cities, +he no longer contradicted me. He said nothing, but he looked at me +strangely. He thought that I was mad and feared lest opposition arouse +my fury. I knew then that it would be useless to tell of my experience +to any one. No one would believe it.</p> + +<p>“I saw that the keeper would be relieved to be rid of me. When I asked +him for a loan to defray my expenses to Melbourne on the expected +steamer, giving only my word in pledge of refunding, he assented +readily. He showed a like willingness to oblige me when I asked for +a certain wooden chest,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span> some six feet in length, which I had seen +out-doors beneath one of the windows, and for which I had no ostensible +use. He was willing to do anything to have me off his hands.</p> + +<p>“The first thing I did when I reached Melbourne was to cable for money +to my attorneys in Paris. When the answer came, I proceeded to hire +a steamer and to equip it for a cruise of indefinite length. After +procuring the most trustworthy seamen that port afforded, I set out +on my quest of the Opal Isles. The captain, an old man whose life had +been spent upon southern seas, said that in his youth he had heard of +wonderful cities of white marble beyond the last known land. Likewise +he said that he had heard that no one could land there, because they +floated always out of reach. Others affirmed that they were merely +icebergs drifting northward from the polar circle.</p> + +<p>“I was glad to leave the low, yellow, sun-baked shores of Australia. +I longed for the open sea. After we had steamed out of port<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</span> and gone +some distance, sand blown by a furious wind from that blistering upland +desert which makes its interior, fell upon us and dotted the sea like +rain.</p> + +<p>“Straight to southward we steamed, past Tasmania. As we neared it, I +remembered that it was spring in the southern seas—November. Tasmania +was pink with orchard bloom. After we passed it and looked back—so +different is its southern coast—there was nothing to be seen but +towering columns of black basalt.</p> + +<p>“Now the roll of the long waves struck us, sweeping always from west +to east. Tremendous waves they are, whose length no one may measure. +On and on they sweep, unhindered and unchecked, until somewhere to +southward they girdle the earth.</p> + +<p>“Five days later we sighted New Zealand—a row of white mountains whose +bases are buried in yellow gorse. When we came nearer, we saw the +cherry blossoms and the dog-roses of an English garden. Then again<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</span> to +southward and out into the long wash of the Australasian waves. Here +our steamer disturbed and put to flight a myriad sea-fowl resting idly +upon the surface of the water; down-white albatross with wings of jet, +and Cape pigeons with checker-board backs. Land was definitely left +behind with all that we had known. Before us, like a magic pathway +enticing us to follow, stretched the long, shining roadstead of the +wind. Swiftly we slipped down it and away toward the Polar seas. At +night the Southern Cross flamed bright. At night we saw the vari-tinted +stars of a southern zone. We were in a strange world, with a strange +sky above us. The sea, too, was strange. Sometimes it was so clear by +some little island’s side that we could see the mysteries of the deep. +Some times we saw algæ as delicate and finely lined as carven cameos, +and sometimes kelp so long it mocked the sea-serpent in its length.</p> + +<p>“We coasted past unknown islands, where<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</span> bright sea-growths blazed +on coral reefs. We saw palms that looked as if they sprang from the +water, so slender was their foothold in the soil. At times all that we +knew of an island was a whiff of fragrance that blew across our faces +while we slept, or we rose to find a feathery greenness in the day. +Or at dawn we coasted near enough to land to catch a phrase drawled +in dull semi-tones, or to see the sun gild sharply the bare body of +a woman with black and floating hair. Then we came to barren water +where no islands were, turquoise blue and chill, upon whose outer edge +the ice-fields lay. Then back to northward. Round and round we swung. +Thus we scoured the seas. We became known to every merchantman, to +every sailor. At first they thought that ours was a like occupation. +When they found out the difference, they looked upon us with disfavor. +Stories were circulated. They said we brought misfortune and foul +weather. Wrecks and sea tragedies were laid at our door. They<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</span> confused +us with the Flying Dutchman. Gloom settled down upon us. No one escaped +it. Even I was losing heart. I found that we may not live other than +our fellows. The punishment for being different is not slight.</p> + +<p>“Days and days I sat on deck and scanned the horizon with my glass. +When weariness overpowered me, a sailor took my place. Nor at night +was the watch relaxed. Then, too, a sailor sat ready to lift his glass +at call of a ray of light and sweep the sea. Each night when I went to +bed, it was with the hope of finding myself beside the blessed islands +when I awoke. That failing, I consoled myself with the possibilities of +day. My life trembled between hope and disappointment. These were the +poles of my narrowed world.</p> + +<p>“There was one room in the steamer especially arranged for Asra. No +one entered there except myself. It was lighted with brilliancy, that +no material aid might be lacking in reading the great stone’s heart. +There, after the nerve-racking day on deck,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</span> I spent a part of the +night, peering into the long gem which lay upon a couch of white.</p> + +<p>“It was rarely now, and only under mental stress, that I was able to +glimpse the dear face. To do so it was necessary to shut myself off +for days from contact with my fellow men and by imaginative effort +and strong stimulants key myself to a fictitious joy. Then, for one +moment, the fair body in its golden corselet would be visible in all +its beauty, and the face smile as if ready to awake from sleep. Nor +was this consolation of great duration. It was not long before the +strongest and headiest wines failed to have any effect upon me, and I +took to drugs. The moments of vision were of slighter duration, the +body less distinctly seen, less real, and, it seemed sometimes, less +lovely. It was all going from me, all that I had loved. I watched it, +but I was powerless to hinder.</p> + +<p>“The effect of the drugs failed altogether. There was nothing now that +could lift me for an instant to the old height of joy where<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</span> Asra and +I had lived and loved. The strain was telling upon my health. Physical +weakness helped to make the moments of vision rarer. Never again, +Titan-like, could I live with Asra upon the heights. Weariness and +weakness and impotence fell upon me. The earth called me, and held me +bound. I could only look at the opal with its heart of flame and dream +sadly of what had been. I could see Asra now only in the dream recesses +of my brain. And I knew, too, that this power would not last. Old age +would blot it out. There was nothing that I could hold and call my own.</p> + +<p>“The years of cruising had been futile. They had brought disappointment +to my hopes and to my heart the certainty that I should never find the +delectable isles. My strength was exhausted. I was worn out with the +fruitless quest. I gave it up and came here.</p> + +<p>“That room there,” indicating with a wave of his hand an upper wing of +the house,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</span> “I built for Asra. It is arranged and furnished like the +room in which I found her. There she has lain for fifty years and, as +I told you, I do not know whether she is alive or dead. That part of +the house, as you may have noticed, fronts the sea, that she may hear +always what she loved—the undying laughter of the pagan gods.</p> + +<p>“It is years and years now since I have seen her. I am old and I have +not the strength. I shall never see her again. But I know that she is +there—asleep.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>A year later, in a distant city, I picked up a paper and this head-line +caught my eye: “The Strangest Will Ever Filed.” It was an account of +how one Gustav Berençy, a nobleman of the south of France, had left his +wealth to a gigantic opal, which was shaped like a woman’s form.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</span></p> + + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"> + +<p><a id="Footnote_9" href="#FNanchor_9" class="label">[9]</a> From “Rime di tre gentil donne.”</p> + +</div> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_HOUSE_OF_GAUZE">THE HOUSE OF GAUZE</h2> +</div> + +<p class="center big">A MOZART FANTASY</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>C’est quelque part en des pays du nord—le sais-je?</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>C’est quelque part sous des pôles aciéreux,</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Où les blancs ongles de la neige</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Griffent des pans de roc nitreux.</i></div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent10"><span class="smcap">Emile Verhaeren.</span></div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + + +<p>“Good evening, my Lord of Mozart.”</p> + +<p>The voice was sweet and so was the title. He looked up in surprise. +Midnight had sounded. He had thought that he was the only one awake +in the old house in the Rauhensteingasse with its myriad rooms, of +which he rented three. His wife and children were abed. Their clothing +littered the room in which he sat and added to its disorder.</p> + +<p>He remembered the beautiful face that was bending beside him. At sight +of it the years rolled back to the days of his childhood. Now, as she +stood in his miserable<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</span> room and called him “My Lord of Mozart,” he +jumped up in readiness for her behest.</p> + +<p>“I have come for you. The carriage waits below.”</p> + +<p>Something snapped in his head, and it seemed to him that he rushed +through gray leagues of space. Then he mastered himself and followed in +the direction in which his visitor had gone. He did not find her. She +was not within the hall nor upon the street.</p> + +<p>There, however, a carriage waited, its driver by the door. He jumped in +and fell back among soft cushions. A whip curled in the air, and two +horses dashed through the darkness. They left the city, and reached the +country. The speed did not lessen. He saw in fleeting perspective black +hills and bare trees against a dull silver sky, where pale green stars +shone. After they had driven at this pace for a time, they came to a +city. He did not care what city it was. He only knew that she lived +here. At last he should know who she was. At last!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</span></p> + +<p>The driver dismounted and opened the door. With his whip he pointed to +a gate ahead. Then he bowed, leaped to the box and was gone. There was +an inscription upon the gate. When he came near, he read in strange and +antique characters: “The Land of Music.” After he had passed through +the gate, he turned to have another look at it. There was nothing to +be seen of the gate through which he had entered, nor of the country +beyond. In all directions rose the roofs and towers of an alien city.</p> + +<p>He found himself in a square where a number of streets converged. +He read their names, and one caught his fancy: “The Street of the +Masters.” He turned into it.</p> + +<p>“What wonderful dwellings there are in The Land of Music!” he exclaimed +joyously, forgetting for the instant the one he sought. “I knew it! I +knew it! Why could I not have come here sooner!” he added, his lips and +chin trembling piteously.</p> + +<p>“What dwellings the masters dwell in!”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</span> He looked rapturously down the +vista before him. “Here are tone-palaces of an Assyrian magnificence, +silverly translucent, of the most gracious symmetry and rising to +unthinkable heights. How I love this land, through whose gateways I +have just passed! How I love it! It is as if it were made for me. It is +a world of crystal and silver and white onyx and pale ivory. I can see +streets of dwellings whose harmonious lines make Grecian temples heavy; +dwellings of such fabulously fragile beauty as the frost of northern +nights paints on the windows. There are arches springing airily from +arches, reproduced again and again in delicate, diminishing curves; +façades of silver fretwork of the palpitating tenuity of a spider’s +web; forests of fair columns, their capitals hung with leaves of light.”</p> + +<p>Then it was that a strange inversion took place. This became the +reality, and that sad other world the dream. He covered his face with +his hands and gave way<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</span> to a storm of tears, so greatly was he relieved +to be rid of the dream where he had known only sorrow. The relief, +the unspeakable relief, to know that it was a dream! His frail figure +became erect and proud, as he walked along, recognizing the dwellings +of his friends. “Here are the houses of Glück and Sebastian Bach and +my dear, dear Haydn. But what is that—that structure just ahead? +Beethoven? Yes, Beethoven.” He looked about. Nowhere could he see +anything that out-topped it. “My little friend Beethoven! How kind is +life in comparison with the hideousness of dreams!” Again tears dimmed +his eyes. “And there dwells Händel! That is just such a temple as the +saints would build. It is not altogether original, but it is the work +of a mighty soul. If it does not stand for versatility, it stands for +strength.”</p> + +<p>After passing the stern home of Händel, it was some little distance +to the next dwelling. When he came where he could see it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</span> plainly, he +laughed long and wildly, just as madmen laugh. “Who ever heard of any +one forgetting his own home! How could that black dream have lasted +long enough for me to do that? Will it never cease to haunt me? The +idea of forgetting my own home!” And he laughed as madly as before.</p> + +<p>Ahead, upon a little eminence, not quite in a straight line with the +other houses of the street, he saw a sumptuous Italian palace of the +best days, built evidently for love and leisure.</p> + +<p>It was just such a palace as Lorenzo the Magnificent dreamed of setting +among the laureled hills of Tuscany. It was built of resonant crystal, +turreted and pinacled, and provided with a myriad Venetian balconies +and pillared porticos. It was not of such tremendous height as the +dwelling of Beethoven, nor of such vast dimensions as that of Handel, +and yet it might easily be called lovelier than either, because of its +charm of design.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</span></p> + +<p>As he stormed up the steps impatiently, he noticed how well his blue +satin court suit with its jeweled stars and orders and his curling +golden hair suited the dwelling in which he lived. The doors swung open +to receive him. Powdered footmen bent before him.</p> + +<p>The guests were waiting. They were in their places ready for the dance. +He bowed before his partner. Her mouth was a little red dot, and her +eyes were two deep pools of love. They swung into the dance. The music +uplifted them. As changing figures brought them together, he sensed +pleasantly the delicacy of her flesh and the floating fragrance of her +hair. As he bent in the dance’s slow salutes, his eyes embraced soft +shoulders, white breasts upheld, flower-like, by stiff corsages, slim, +jewel-clasped necks, and twinkling feet beneath lifted lace.</p> + +<p>Cavaliers, with heads flung back and hands to sword hilt, like true +old French gallants, danced haughtily out to meet gay<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</span> Watteau ladies. +Then what smiles, what courtly bows, what languishment, what bird-like +gayety! In the swinging whirl he saw court trains outfloat in satin +splendor, and the backward tilt of high-coiffured heads. The floors +and the mirrored walls reflected the dancers, redoubling their graces +in fluent light. He caught the interchange of stolen glances. He saw +delicate fingers press responsive hands. He saw the amorous leaning +of fond bodies and the pledge of lifted eyes. The air was electric +with love. He drank it in eagerly, greedily. It was for this that he +had thirsted. Again, for an instant, the black dream swept down upon +him and blotted the pageant out. When it passed and he found anew the +bright reality, he grasped his companion in his arms convulsively and +buried his face in her breast to forget.</p> + +<p>“To the banquet hall, good friends! To the banquet hall!” he commanded, +when he lifted his face. He leaped to the center of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</span> the room, +silenced the orchestra, and flung up his arms to signal attention, +uncontrollable laughter bubbling on his lips—</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Wine or woman, which is sweetest,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Tell me which for pleasure’s meetest,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Which from care can take us fleetest?”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="p0">he sang, as he danced along.</p> + +<p>Silks swished past him. Fans fluttered like butterflies. Little +slippers clicked in merry flight. Women drifted past with heightened +color and dream-veiled eyes. He heard their low laughter and knew that +they were being led with a caress.</p> + +<p>As he entered the banquet room, a forest of upstretched arms whose +hands held each a wineglass greeted him: “Long life to the Lord of +Mozart! The Lord of Mozart!”</p> + +<p>Amber and crimson wine-light flecked faces and breasts and lifted arms, +and fell in long broken ribbons upon the walls.</p> + +<p>“Now find out which one is sweetest!” they chorused.</p> + +<p>“I pledge a health to each lady,” he gallantly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</span> responded, bowing +before each in turn. “In this way I shall find <i>her</i>, for surely +she is here.” When he had made the rounds and satisfied himself that +she was not, he beckoned a young cavalier to him.</p> + +<p>“Why is <i>she</i> not here?”</p> + +<p>“<i>She?</i> She never takes part in our revels.”</p> + +<p>“But she promised to meet me here.”</p> + +<p>“Impossible, my lord; she is queen.”</p> + +<p>“And I—am I not king?” he responded haughtily. Then, repenting of the +words, he flung his arms tenderly about the boyish figure.</p> + +<p>“Ah, my boy, you do not know what love is—its torture, its longing, +its insatiable longing. He noticed then how the young cavalier +resembled his youthful self before grief and disappointment had lined +his face and lighted their wild light in his eyes.</p> + +<p>“Go to my generals! Summon the army!”</p> + +<p>Doors slid back, transforming the pleasure palace into a hall. The +dancers arranged<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</span> themselves on either side. Between them the soldiers +passed. And what soldiers! They were small and supple and swift. They +flew rather than walked. Each one was a black music note, spurred and +bent and vicious. From their legs black needle-like stilettos pointed. +They were a destructive, unstemmable torrent. When the last one had +crossed the threshold, and they stood drawn up in readiness before +it—“After them, my friends!” he ordered. The revelers obeyed. Black +horses waited at the door. They leaped upon them and swung through the +night.</p> + +<p>In the Land of Music it is always night—night lighted by feverishly +bright stars and the rising and setting of strange moons.</p> + +<p>Upon black and shining backs poised delicate figures; outflying manes +revealed the clasp of jeweled arms, and beside the wild heads of the +horses shone the faces of musical nymphs. The streets through which +they passed were no longer lined with magnificent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</span> buildings. They had +entered the oldest part of the Land of Music, which is sparsely settled +and where the dwellings are quaint and ancient. Here a primitive people +had lived.</p> + +<p>“What a ridiculous army!” roared the Lord of Mozart, who led the +cavalcade, standing upon his horse and pirouetting. “Look! my good +friends! Look!” He pointed ahead.</p> + +<p>There they were, gathering about a structure of considerable extent, +an army of dwarfs, with big, oblong, melon-like heads. They carried +stilettos fringed with darts, but they were slow of motion and aged. +They did not seem to have strength enough to carry about their +cumbersome heads. And in numbers they did not reach the half of the +army of Mozart.</p> + +<p>“So that’s our enemy!” he exclaimed, convulsed with laughter, +pirouetting again upon his horse’s back. “We’ll make short work of +them. Quick, upon them!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</span></p> + +<p>Like a cloud of black locusts, the vicious army of Mozart fell upon +them. They covered them from sight. They smothered them. They dazed +them by their numbers and agility. They killed them.</p> + +<p>“Now to the house!” he called. “The way is clear.” His eyes shone like +steel, and spots of fever dotted his cheeks. He knew that within that +ancient dwelling was the lady of his heart.</p> + +<p>“Come, my friends!” They rode across the dead bodies of the ancient +soldiers, laughing at their ugliness. The ladies pulled high their +silken trains lest they be spotted with dust and blood.</p> + +<p>“My generals, there within sits the lady of my heart. Bring her out and +place her upon the horse beside me.”</p> + +<p>The lady they lifted to the saddle in no way resembled the gay court +beauties. In her bearing there was something noble.</p> + +<p>“Back to the palace!”</p> + +<p>Like magic, they covered the distance.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</span> In front of the entrance, +the Lord of Mozart halted and stood erect in his stirrups, bowing +majestically to right and left.</p> + +<p>“I thank you, good friends, for your aid. And now, good night. I go to +celebrate the conquest of love.”</p> + +<p>“May joy be with you!” they called in return, waving their hands as +their galloping horses disappeared in the brightness of the street.</p> + +<p>“Why did you try to conquer me by force?” she asked, facing him in +the great chamber into which he had taken her, and speaking for the +first time. “Do you not know that it is really by my will that I have +come—to save you from humiliation? Do you not know that you can have +no power over me?”</p> + +<p>“Am I not King! I have power over everything.”</p> + +<p>“You do not know who I am.”</p> + +<p>“How can that matter, since I love you?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</span></p> + +<p>“I am the Lady Melodia. I cannot be long to any one. I belong to all. I +am queen absolute.”</p> + +<p>“Did I not know that we are one!” he answered, bowing in mock humility +to the stately figure. “Have you not come to me of your own will? Is it +not you who guided me here?”</p> + +<p>“That is why your deed to-night is shameful.”</p> + +<p>“But I need you so!” he continued piteously. “Surely you will not leave +me when I need you so. Let me tell you; then you will pity me. I am +haunted by a hideous dream. (I never told any one before. I conceal it +carefully.) Sometimes I cannot tell which is real—this life here, or +the dream. I have the strange consciousness”—he looked about timidly, +like a little child, lest some one hear his secret, then drew her close +to him, his eyes dark with fear—“that I lead two lives. One is in +another world, a world of hard material facts, where<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</span> by the proper +grasping of the facts one can have every joy, every comfort. But there +I cannot grasp anything. I cannot accustom myself to living. I cannot +feel at home. I cannot understand how men buy prosperity. I cannot +learn anything. I cannot cope with people. They beat me at every turn. +I lack something—that fiber of the commonplace that contends and wins. +There, in that black dream-world, I cannot do the simplest things. +And because I cannot, I suffer—suffer poverty and hunger. When I buy +things honestly with my brain, when I win success, I cannot grasp it. +Everything slips away and leaves me alone—to know the want of beggars. +Your presence alone dispels that horror and makes me know that this is +real, that I am real, and that here I belong.”</p> + +<p>Like the face of a mother in tenderness was the face of the Lady +Melodia, as she murmured: “Dear one! Dear one!”</p> + +<p>“Your face lights that black dream-world<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</span> like a star and rests upon my +soul. But there it paralyzes the power of action.”</p> + +<p>“But are you not willing to suffer the dream for the sake of this?” She +indicated the glittering chamber.</p> + +<p>“If I could always remember that it <i>is</i> a dream,” he answered +piteously. “But they—other people—have had real things, while I have +had only the glitter of foam. I’ll tell you what it’s like,” he added +boyishly. “You’ve seen a bottle dropped into water where, instead of +standing upright, it wavers about, unable to keep balance? That is what +I am without you. Does not that justify what I did to-night? Does not +that make it right?”</p> + +<p>Pity had taken the place of resentment when she answered: “Yes, +perhaps. But you see you cannot keep me. A Titan could not do that.”</p> + +<p>“But I am more than a Titan.”</p> + +<p>“Once I was wholly yours—”</p> + +<p>“When?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</span></p> + +<p>“In your youth. Then I was yours unasked. Before you had grown old, +before life had marred you.”</p> + +<p>He looked at himself in a mirror. It was true that there was no sign of +youth in the face, nor, strange as it may seem, was there any sign of +age. It was the face of one whom some terrible passion had consumed and +burnt out without materially ageing.</p> + +<p>“Why did you leave me?”</p> + +<p>“Because you were false to me.”</p> + +<p>“How could I be false to you when I have had no pleasures apart from +you?”</p> + +<p>“Did I not tell you that you could not live two lives—the life of a +man and the life of a god?”</p> + +<p>“You mean love? That is the only thing that makes the black dream +tolerable. It is like the honey the stinging bee carries. It is the gem +in the head of the toad.”</p> + +<p>“That is why I said you were false to me,” she replied, anger +brightening her eyes.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</span></p> + +<p>“But now I love only you. Surely you know that.”</p> + +<p>“How can that right the matter? I cannot belong to any one in whose +heart I have been supplanted for an instant.”</p> + +<p>“You will reconsider when you know that I am worthy. Besides, there is +no one else who <i>is</i> worthy. Perhaps you have not read my heart. I +tired of that other—of love—long ago, as I have tired of every real +thing. It became like a too sweet honey. It sickened me, it smothered +me; it made me struggle to be free. It made me long to feel flying in +my face the bright insubstantiality of dreams. And you are my brightest +dream,” he said, lifting the long hair and burying his face in it.</p> + +<p>“I know, I know, but—”</p> + +<p>“Wait! Do not decide now. You do not know me. There are powers you have +not suspected. I will make you forget. I will take you where oblivion +is deepest. I will prove that I am worthy. You shall<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</span> never leave me. +What care I for law—for right! I will take you where there is no law, +no right, except my will. I will isolate you with myself so far beyond +the boundaries of the real that thought cannot return. We will go +beyond the farthest edge of dreams. Come to the window where you can +see the exterior of the palace. Now watch.”</p> + +<p>She saw the crystal walls glow as if a flame dwelled within them, +while from tower to basement fell a silver veil bordered with diamond +sound-crystals, which floated gracefully. Then the veil rose and +vanished; the flame dimmed and faded until the palace became as frail +as if made of ashes. From this ashen palace rose a diaphanous, white +gauze, pearl-encrusted palace, mirroring itself in a lake of ice. The +man beside her, too, had changed. He became well-nigh transparent. He +looked like a spirit made visible. His hand was frailer and whiter +than the gauze upon which it rested. His eyes were terrible in their +concentrated power.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</span></p> + +<p>“Now, see where I have taken you! Now do you think that there is any +return? See that avenue of white ferns there, from which the frost +particles fall like rain. Can you leave me now? Do you want to? Look at +that frozen sea to the north, encrusted with opaque crystals. Note its +greenish pallor. You are wondering what is flying across it, are you +not? I can see it in your eyes. You are saying to yourself: ‘What are +those creatures which have no form and yet have every form?’ Watch them +awhile—watch them! My love, those changeful and indeterminate contours +are the unembodied stuff melodic dreams are made of. They are the world +of my soul made visible—the soul of a creator. Now do you guess where +you are? If you do, you know that there is no return. They who come +here cannot go back.</p> + +<p>“Watch the far horizon for a moment! There—that light. There, every +once in a while, bright caravans swing to sight, remain<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</span> visible for +a time, like ships upon the desert, flooding the sea with a regretful +splendor, then disappear. But you can never reach them, my love, never +signal them and go away from me. Do you hear that sound? But you do not +know what it is, Sweet, else you would not listen so calmly.</p> + +<p>“High above that frozen sea (in whose heart sleep a million +terrors—that frozen sea, which is genius), so high that your eye +cannot see it, a brilliant-winged bird hovers and flings down the +fragment of a song. The bird is love. When its song reaches the surface +of that frozen sea, it is shivered and broken like a crystal, and the +fragments roll on and on until they reach my gauze-built palace and +make it tremble pitifully. Am I not the first of kings, the wonder +king! Who can resist me! Not you!” he answered, kissing her impetuously.</p> + +<p>“Do you never tire of mad improbabilities?”</p> + +<p>“Tire of them! Does God tire of his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</span> Heaven? The madder they are, the +more they please me. I, too, am a god. I have made a heaven of my own. +I can love only a self-created world where nothing bears the mark of +materiality, of other people’s commonplaceness. In my world matter +takes the form of my slightest wish. I am the center about which change +revolves. I am the force which projects form.” He clapped his hands. +“Let the palace be lighted!”</p> + +<p>Across the floor crept the wan shimmer of the will-o’-the-wisp, and +down the walls the green phosphoric glow of fireflies. Then, at a +motion of his hand, the gauze palace faded to a cold ethereal splendor +until it seemed to the Lady Melodia, in her fear and wonder, that it +was little more than a vague radiance against the snow-lit water. +Above, three moons poised, swinging melodiously into place, streaking +it with opalescent light.</p> + +<p>“Will you deign to accept my arm?” he asked mockingly. As he bent +before her, she saw that he had become as ethereal as his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</span> house of +gauze. His face had an unearthly beauty, and his eyes were awful in +their concentrated splendor.</p> + +<p>They left the chamber and entered a hall, in whose center a staircase +descended for two stories. Upon this staircase came and went an endless +procession of pale and regal women, dull gems upon their breasts and +brows.</p> + +<p>With a gesture of offended dignity, the Lady Melodia turned as if to +leave the hall.</p> + +<p>“There is no cause for anger,” he exclaimed. “I love them, of course. +Are they not made for love? But in loving them, I have dreamed only of +you.”</p> + +<p>“Your love, evidently, has not made them happy,” she retorted +scornfully. “Why are their eyes so full of grief and regret? And why +are they silent? Do they never speak?”</p> + +<p>“They are not real, any more than I am. They are prisoned in the +crystal prison of a melody. They are the women who rise<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</span> from the +whirlpools of music. Like the Russalka, they flutter over the abyss. I +created them to live on the boundary line of sound and silence.”</p> + +<p>“That is cruel. Give them life. I command you!”</p> + +<p>“In every artist, my love, there is the soul of a Nero who longs for +the burning of Rome. They who love beauty are always cruel.”</p> + +<p>“But this is monstrous. I will not permit it.”</p> + +<p>“I am no crueler to them than life has been to me. Like them, I have +always lived on the boundary line of two worlds. In neither have I been +at home. I, too, am not real. Why do you not pity me? Am I not dearer +to you than they?”</p> + +<p>“What are they begging for so piteously? See their outstretched hands!”</p> + +<p>“For life, to break the melody in which they are encased and give them +life.”</p> + +<p>“And you can refuse?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</span></p> + +<p>“Is not that just what life has refused me? Besides, I love them best +as they are. Can you not see what they are to me? They are my soul’s +life. They are the myriad lives that my brain lives. Look! As they +strain earthward with bitter yearning, thirsting for life, for the +substantiality of joy, of love, can you not understand how they inspire +me, how they make me what I am? Their futile frenzy touches my brain to +fire. It pours a fury into my soul and strings my nerves to mastery and +to creative power.</p> + +<p>“Ah, you do not know—no one will ever know—what they have been to +me, what stories, what caprices they have breathed into me. Their mute +eloquence has told me tales of wild longing, of unspeakable desires, +of unknown loves—I cannot tell you how I love them. They set a-tingle +in my brain the centers of creative fancy. They swing me into the +harmonies of the silences. They project upon the canvas of my soul +melodic visions. I live with the unexpanded vigor<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</span> of their prisoned +lives. Their desires are realized in me.</p> + +<p>“Ah!” he continued, becoming reminiscent and talking as if to himself, +“I have had strange, strange loves indeed, which not even tone-magic +can picture, beyond the limits of time and space. I have always been +the king of <i>bons viveurs</i>. I have been a pagan exquisite, a +Lucullian epicure! How I have despised those who had only money to +enjoy with! What miserable beggars are they! What has gold to do with +the brain? It is the brain that enjoys.</p> + +<p>“But to-night is the crowning night. To-night I have you. To-night I +have for a love her whom no mortal has dared to love before. In your +eyes I shall not read the memory of other lovers. Their ghosts cannot +come between us. Upon your lips I shall not taste the savor of their +kisses. Your sweetness has been reserved for me. What matters it that I +have made a bonfire of my soul to buy you! If I had ten lives, I would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</span> +do the same. This way! This way! There is another room. This room was +made for you. No other woman has entered it. It is a strange room. It +is lighted only by the stars, those discreet stars which have shone +upon the amorous sleep of lovers.”</p> + +<p>No sooner had they crossed the threshold, however, than the Lord of +Mozart began to tremble violently. Beads of sweat dotted his brow. He +put out his hands gropingly, as do they who cannot see.</p> + +<p>“<i>The dream! Again the dream!</i> Oh, keep it from me! Banish it with +your kisses! Banish it with your mouth and the clasp of your arms. How +is it possible that I suffer from a horror like this in the splendid +palace of my genius? I cannot see you, but I know that you are here. +I see only the dream. In the dream I am dying, dying miserably, in a +shabby rooming-house in old Vienna. Through a little window I can see +that it is misty and gray outside, and that a cold rain drizzles down. +In the room where I lie<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</span> are poverty and the weeping of little children.</p> + +<p>“Oh, fling it from me with your love! Let me bury my face in your +breast and forget. Keep it away from me! Keep it away from me! Why +can I not reason! Why can I not know that the world would not permit +one gifted as I am to die in want—one who bears within his blood the +genius of his race!</p> + +<p>“Yet I do die there. I know it. I see it. Unaccompanied by a single +one who mourns, my shabby coffin is borne along in the rain—to the +potter’s field where the beggars lie, and the red earth covers my +mouth.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The Lady Melodia bent her head and wept. She knew that the dream was +true, and that the king of the world had died.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_KING">THE KING</h2> +</div> + + +<p>In a low doorway, beneath a sign which advertised his saloon in three +languages, Hebrew, German, and wretched phonetic Mauschel, stood the +Polish keeper, bawling out for the benefit of his countrymen the +arrival of fresh vodka from the Vistula.</p> + +<p>Since the “<i>hep hep</i>” riots and the <i>Judenkrawall</i>, the +Hamburg Ghetto gates had been closed and the quarter shut off from +supplies. This morning they were open again, and noise and excitement +followed.</p> + +<p>The news kindled the inhabitants’ volubility. Men and women rushed +into the street to discuss it. Their minds were divided between love +of money and need of supplies and the world-old fear of bodily injury. +They recalled the horrors of the weeks preceding the ban, and shivered +to think that there was no way of escape. They<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</span> must expose themselves +to fresh injuries or starve.</p> + +<p>In one of the most wretched rooms of the quarter this subject had been +under discussion since sunrise. Here lived Gaon Zunz, his aged wife, +Deborah, and his fifteen-year old granddaughter, Rahel.</p> + +<p>Since the exile, Gaon had increased his hours of prayer and fasting, +and he felt convinced that restoration to liberty had been brought +about by his prayerful intercession. Therefore he decided that in the +future Rahel must go to the city and beg, that he might devote himself +to prayer and study.</p> + +<p>Gaon Zunz was born in southern Russia, where he became a follower of +the Chassidim. In his early manhood he journeyed westward to preach +to the less devout Jews of central Europe that fond fanaticism of the +East. In Hamburg he married and settled, with the hope of raising +sons to the glory of Israel. Disappointed in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</span> this and feeling it to +be God’s justice for weakness lurking in the flesh, he gave himself +over to prayer and fasting, to month-long meditation upon the mystic +Cabbala, and to interpreting the Torah and the Talmud after the manner +of the chosen. Thus he earned the prouder name of Father of the Faith.</p> + +<p>Late in life, a daughter was born to Deborah and Gaon, but there was +no rejoicing in the house of Zunz. Then, indeed, Gaon felt that the +hand of God was heavy upon him. And when, at the age of seventeen, +Rahel, his daughter, after persistently refusing to enter into his +arrangements for marriage, ran away with a French artist who had become +enamored of her rare Oriental beauty, and had painted her as “<i>La +Belle Juive</i>,” he felt that there was no sinner so great as he, for +was he not responsible for his household?</p> + +<p>Misery and sorrow fell upon him. The roots of his faith were shaken. +Surely there<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</span> must be sin in his heart, else he could not so grievously +err.</p> + +<p>The intervening years had served somewhat to lighten this burden of +grief, along with the self-justifying thought that when the ban had +been pronounced against his daughter he had been the first to join in +the curse. Likewise he remembered, and with a thrill of pleasure, that +the next day he had celebrated, in tolerable serenity of soul, the +ceremony in honor of the dead.</p> + +<p>Two years later the artist husband died, and one winter morning, Rahel, +with a ten-days’-old child, came back to the old East Ghetto gate to +beg admittance. Kind-hearted Joel, the keeper, took her petition to the +chief rabbi and interceded for her.</p> + +<p>All day she waited in the cold by the gate, while the rabbis, after +having summoned her father, deliberated. Gaon said nothing in her +favor. He had buried her, and she no longer existed. He would abide by +the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</span> will of the majority. Toward sunset it was agreed that she should +be taken back.</p> + +<p>The chill of the day of waiting in the snow by the windy gate was more +than her weakened condition could bear, and she died shortly, leaving +baby Rahel to the stern up-bringing of her aged grandparents.</p> + +<p>At the thought that his daughter had died in the faith of her fathers, +a great peace settled down upon Gaon, and with it the blessed +realization that she could sin no more. “The Lord killeth and maketh +alive: He bringeth down to the grave and bringeth up,” he repeated with +fervor. He had at last received substantial proof of the answering +of prayer. He had received his reward as a faithful “Son of the +Commandment,” who places reverence for the Law before love of family.</p> + +<p>In return for this favor of the Most High, he determined so to bring +up the little Rahel that there might be no repetition of her mother’s +waywardness.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</span></p> + +<p>A sad childhood was hers. The playtimes with little neighbors were +embittered by scornful treatment and the nicknames “Gentile” and +“Christian dog.” They had been told that she was not of the ancient +blood. She learned to feel that she was an outcast. When she told these +things to her grandfather, he explained, as best he could, that her +father had belonged to the wicked world outside the gate, and that the +sins of the fathers are visited upon the children.</p> + +<p>She meditated long and deeply upon this, but she could not understand. +As a result there remained with her an unspeakable fear of that stern +Hebrew God to whom her grandfather prayed, and whose dwelling was +the round-topped prayer house. After feast days she lay awake far +into the night, tormented by visions of ghostly, white-clad figures +with up-stretched arms weaving to and fro for hours in the ecstasy +of prayer, or intoning the ancient desert songs of Judea. She had +watched them<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</span> ever since she could remember from her seat beside her +grandmother in the long gallery behind the grating.</p> + +<p>Despite the regular attendance at the synagogue, Gaon was unable to +impress upon the child the sacredness of the ancient ceremonial. +Fruitless were his exhortations. She was neither willful nor perverse. +They made no impression upon her. They failed to penetrate the depths +of her being. She could not be brought to realize the wickedness of +eating butter after meat, nor of eating it from the same plate; nor +of touching the implements for making fire between Friday night and +Saturday night. Indeed, her very first whipping was for drinking the +cup of wine poured for Elijah.</p> + +<p>Gaon looked upon these pranks as the outcome of childish dullness. +In addition, he was preparing himself by prayer for the favor of the +ecstatic vision. So bent was he upon self-examination that he did not +perceive that in the child-soul was being<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</span> fought the ancient battle +of the Latin and the Hebrew, the worshippers of the flesh and the +worshippers of the spirit, the realists and the dreamers, which, in +ages past, had made the self-denying followers of the Hebrew Moses +repellant and unlovely to Judea’s pleasure-loving, pagan governors.</p> + +<p>By the time little Rahel reached her eighth year, she had learned not +to play with other children. Cruelty had made her timid. She preferred +to stay within rather than subject herself to taunts. In the dingy +little front room, hung about with old clothes, and tawdry, half-worn +ornaments, she would sit for hours and watch the children through the +top half of the dirty window, which reached the street level. At first +this isolation was grief unspeakable, and rebellion filled her soul. +She watched them through blinding tears, while longing for love and +companionship gripped her heart.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</span></p> + +<p>Time eased this feeling and taught her to amuse herself. She found she +could make any number of playmates with a pencil. Soon the days were +not long enough to fix upon paper the swarming children of her fancy. +She reproduced everything she saw; the passers in the street, the women +who bought old clothes of her grandmother, and the furniture in the +room.</p> + +<p>When her eyes and back ached from long bending, she would look up +through the broken pane of the dirty window at a scrap of blue sky ever +and ever so far away, and the color gave her pleasure. It reminded her +of one of her grandfather’s stories of the Holy Land of the Jews, where +there was a sea called Galilee, which was as blue as the turquoise in +the Polish saloon-keeper’s wife’s <i>Shabbes</i> brooch.</p> + +<p>One day, after many weeks of practice, when her childish fingers had +acquired considerable skill, she found a fresh sheet of brown paper +which she pinned smoothly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</span> upon a board, with the intention of making a +picture of <i>Grossmutter</i> Jackobsky, the pickle dealer across the +way.</p> + +<p>All day the little, fat old woman stood and waved and beckoned with her +dirty, brass-ringed fingers and called: “<i>Pick-les!! Pick-les!!</i>” +About her neck was a rope, from which was suspended a flat board, piled +breast-high with green, shining pickles.</p> + +<p>She wore a curly, faded wig which was always askew, and many-branched +coral earrings which reached her shoulders, the rings being tied about +her ears with coarse yarn, which made two wriggling black bows on +either side.</p> + +<p>She was touching the figure up for the last time one night several days +later, when Gaon came in unexpectedly and caught her at the work.</p> + +<p>“What’s this?” he thundered, snatching the picture from her hands. +“God of Israel! that one of my own blood should keep me from the +vision! Have I not told you that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</span> we may not make pictures, that it +is expressly forbidden by the Torah? Have I not told you that it is a +violation of the Law? “<i>Thou shall not make unto thee a graven image, +nor any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the +earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth: for I, the Lord +thy God, am a jealous God.</i>...””</p> + +<p>The last words ended in a shriek of rage. His face was streaked with +lines of ashen white. Purple veins knotted up ominously upon his +forehead. Madness trembled in his voice. She could see its unsteady +light in his eyes.</p> + +<p>Scarce knowing what he did, in his fear and horror of the crime that +had been committed beneath his roof, he fell upon the frightened child. +When his anger had expended itself, Rahel’s right hip was dislocated +and her back injured. After many weeks, when she was able to be up and +about again, she was a hopeless cripple, and a distortion of the body +had set in.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</span></p> + +<p>At sight of the result of his anger, Gaon quoted Samuel: “Wickedness +proceedeth from the wicked,” and sought to prepare himself anew for the +vision.</p> + +<p>During the years that followed, no answer had been granted him until +the opening of the gate on the day for which he had petitioned. +He ascribed the barrenness of the intervening years to Rahel’s +transgression of the Torah law. Now he felt that God had forgiven +him and restored him to favor. If he could win thus much by personal +intercession, was it not reasonable to believe that he could win more +and perhaps avert the future persecution of his people?</p> + +<p>For this reason he had made up his mind that Rahel must go into the +city and look after the living. She was old enough. She was fifteen, +although she was hardly larger than a child of twelve. During the seven +years since the injury she had steadily grown out of shape, until she +was a one-sided hunchback with a huge, misshapen<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</span> hip. Her face, too, +had taken on the pinched, pitiful look of cripples.</p> + +<p>Gaon’s decision that she must go to the city was like sentence of +death. She had never been outside the gate. She was afraid of the great +world which stoned grown people as the children used to stone her. And +to go all alone! Her soul sickened.</p> + +<p>“Yes, you must go on the morrow, Rahel, if the others are not molested +to-day. I am too old. Besides, I have a greater duty here. There will +be no danger for you, because you do not look like our people. You are +a cripple, and they will give to you richly.”</p> + +<p>It was a pitiable figure, clad in the sober, earth-colored livery of +the poor, that limped down the long street from the Ghetto gate the +next morning. She looked like a little, shivering partridge with a +broken wing. Slung over her back and trailing along behind in the dirt, +was a coarse bag for old clothes. Hidden carefully in the bottom of +that bag, however, were brown paper<span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</span> and two pencils, in case she had a +minute in which to rest.</p> + +<p>The spring air was warm and sweet. Iridescent flecks of morning mist +hovered over distances and disengaged themselves from grass and trees. +What a wonderful world outside the gate! The houses were clean and +white. The windows sparkled. In front of each house was a little green +grass plot with flowers in it. She had never seen flowers growing +before. There was no room in the Ghetto, which was a fixed space for an +increasing number. To be sure, there were flowers in the Synagogue for +the Feast of Weeks, and the <i>succah</i> were frequently roofed with +green leaves and trailing vines for Tabernacles. But here were flowers +of all colors—growing right out of the ground.</p> + +<p>She forgot her fears. Her cramped lungs expanded in the purer air. Her +cramped soul expanded, too, with joy at realization of the beauty of +the world.</p> + +<p>There is a Fatherland of the spirit which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</span> has nothing to do with +country, race, or language, where the heart is happy, and over which +beams warmly the smiling sun of genius. She had found it in the heart +of an alien city; but the artist’s gift was hers, and that makes +beggars kings.</p> + +<p>In each yard grew some flower that she had not seen in the one +before, and she wandered on and on, forgetful of time, weariness, the +errand upon which she had come. Color affected her sensitive nerves +pleasurably, exquisitely, as does melody the sensitive ears of a +musician.</p> + +<p>There were trees, too. In the Ghetto only thin, starved poplars grew. +Here were all kinds, and the tender young leaves upon them shone like +an aura of green, sweet light.</p> + +<p>She walked on and on, until she dropped from weariness, and the +chilling thought came that Gaon would be very angry if she went back +empty-handed.</p> + +<p>While she rested, she ate the bread she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</span> had brought, and began to look +at the people. They were not like Ghetto people. For the most part they +were well dressed. Some of the women had bright yellow hair, and, best +of all, they looked down upon her kindly. As she sat staring up at +them, with great, dark eyes in whose depths lay grief and an infinite +longing, first one, then another, dropped a coin in her lap.</p> + +<p>Down at the end of a distant street, ever and ever so far away, +something sparkled, something blue as the sky, but of a changing blue, +vibrantly bright, like light. It was the color of the turquoise in +the rich Polish woman’s <i>Shabbes</i> brooch. It must be the Sea of +Galilee! Why had not her grandfather told her! It was probably a very +large sea, she reflected, and the other side reached Palestine.</p> + +<p>The desire came to reproduce the sea with the dancing splendor upon it, +and indeed everything she saw; the flowers, the trees with their halos +of young light.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</span> There followed speedily the discouraging thought that +a pencil could not do it. For Ghetto scenes, where everything was gray +or black or brown, a pencil was well enough, but for this something +different was needed.</p> + +<p>She jumped up, forgetful of weariness and her aching back, determined +to beg enough clothes to fill the bag, so that she could keep the coins +for herself. When she reached the Ghetto, she would talk it over with +Joel. He would know if there were pencils of a different kind, which +made color. If there were, she would give him the money and let him buy +them.</p> + +<p>The next morning she took advantage of Gaon’s good humor and left the +Ghetto late, that she might see Joel alone and find out if he had made +the purchases. Sure enough, he was waiting for her, his wizened face +puckered into a smile. Carefully beckoning her to one side, he handed +her a tin box. Lifting the lid, he showed her rows and rows of bright +paint tubes, brushes,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</span> pieces of canvas, and some sheets of drawing +paper.</p> + +<p>“Didn’t it cost an awful lot, Joel, more than I gave you?”</p> + +<p>“Just three times as much; but you’ll earn the money in a week to pay +it back—see if you don’t! One of the artist fellows in the shop showed +me how to use them. You stick your thumb through this thing—<i>so</i>! +Then squeeze out the paint and mix it the color of what you want to +make. That same artist fellow told me there was going to be a picture +show in his shop window to-day. You be sure to see it. The pictures +will be made out of just such stuff as you have here. Now don’t you +miss seeing that picture show—on no account—Rahel!” he called out, as +she hobbled away.</p> + +<p>Her heart grew light as the distance increased between herself and +the Ghetto. The bright world filled her with a pleasant sense of +possession. Could she not make all the lovely things she saw her own? +Could<span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</span> she not steal them and put them on the white paper in the bottom +of the old bag?</p> + +<p>“I’ll fill the bag first and get what money I can, and then I’ll go to +the picture show.”</p> + +<p>Few could withstand the appealing, misshapen figure, with the ragged +dress and piteous face. As noon approached, there was enough in the +bag to satisfy Gaon, and she turned her steps toward the shop, in the +direction Joel had given.</p> + +<p>It was not hard to find. Some distance away she caught the gold gleam +of a frame, and saw a crowd upon the walk. When she reached the edge of +the crowd, she was obliged to put her burden down and pause for breath. +Noon was at hand and the people were beginning to leave. Soon she dared +to creep forward and look up.</p> + +<p>Oh, never-to-be-forgotten moment! Wondrous vision! The gold frame +filled the window from side to side. Within it, floating downward +across a well-nigh endless vista of clouds and radiant mists, tenderly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</span> +up-curling and fleecily white, yet which seemed to be just on the +point of bursting into the brilliancy of sunlight, or into some more +delicate, multi-colored efflorescence of light, was a figure—a figure +of a man of divinest beauty. His blue robe edged with gold floated +gently on the roseate air. About his head was a circle of light, +as if there an immortal sun was about to rise, and his hands were +outstretched in the blessing of prayer.</p> + +<p>“It is strange,” thought Rahel, “that his hands are held right out +toward me.” She looked about for verification. “Yes, they are held +right out toward me and not toward any of the others. And his eyes, +too, are looking down into mine.”</p> + +<p>As she stood and looked up at the sweet, sad eyes, and they looked +back tenderly into hers, a feeling of grief cramped her heart,—grief +for the mother-love she had never known, for the careless merriment of +childhood lost and gone, for the stonings,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</span> the taunts, the jeers, the +insults; for the cruel beatings, the enforced fasts, the insufficient +food; the cold, damp room where she slept on a pile of rags and wept +herself to sleep, and where, in her timid childhood, she had suffered +agonies of fear of the dark and the storms and the wind. She felt that +the pictured One above was sorry; that He pitied her and suffered too; +that He knew it all, understood it all; and tears came to her eyes and +fell down, one by one, like crystals, on the walk. She felt as the +child feels who runs to its mother’s skirts, sure of protection and +comfort.</p> + +<p>The beam of love melted the hardened anguish of her heart and gave it +voice, as sun melts silent snow-fields and makes way for the “green +murmur” of summer. She stood and wept, and her heart was lightened. +Her grief melted away and vanished in the mist of tears. Passers-by +jostled her, but she did not feel them. The noon hour passed nor did +hunger remind her of it, nor<span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</span> weariness warn that she had stood for +a long time. The ineffable face which has smiled its peace adown the +bitterness of the ages smiled into hers, and the miracle of love was +wrought anew.</p> + +<p>She could not drag herself away from the picture; she could not +look enough. She drank in its meaning, its caressing sympathy, its +all-pervading kindliness, greedily. It was for this that she had +thirsted, as a traveler in a stony desert thirsts for water; for what +is love but the thirst of the soul?</p> + +<p>“I can make me a picture just like that!” she thought, with a thrill of +pleasure.</p> + +<p>Inspired by this resolve, she went around to a side street, took out +the drawing-paper and pencils and, seating herself upon the old bag, +went to work.</p> + +<p>“I will make it just like that, only beneath I will paint the Sea of +Galilee.”</p> + +<p>When the picture was sketched in, she left the clothes-bag with a +Jewish fruit-seller, and went back to compare her work<span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</span> with the +original; changing and correcting until the pencil sketch was a perfect +likeness in miniature.</p> + +<p>On the way home, she meditated upon ways and means of executing the +plan. How could she get a piece of canvas large enough, and when she +got it, where could she put it? Gaon must not know, nor any one in the +quarter.</p> + +<p>As she neared the Ghetto and saw in the distance the complicated +twisted gables of the old house, like a flash the problem solved +itself. The two rooms occupied by Gaon and Deborah were on the first +floor. Out of the rear of these rooms a rickety stairway, clinging to +one wall, led to an upper, back room, which Rahel occupied. This room, +whose two outer walls were of stone, belonged to an older house, which +a wealthy rabbi had built for his own use several decades before. The +front had fallen down and been replaced by the present wretched wooden +structure.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</span></p> + +<p>The old rabbi’s room had been painted pale yellow, with the exception +of one long, white panel reaching nearly to the ceiling, which was left +unpainted—as was the custom with the pious—for a testimonial of the +good rabbi’s grief at the destruction of the Temple and Jerusalem.</p> + +<p>“I will paint it in that panel. Grandmother is too feeble and too +nearly blind to risk the stairs, and Gaon is too busy. He has not +entered the room for years. It will be safe enough there. To-morrow is +<i>Shabbes</i>, and the next day the Christian Sunday; I shall have two +days in which to begin it.”</p> + +<p>When Monday came and she went into the city again, it was with the +happy consciousness that the great picture was begun. She went straight +to the shop window in order to contemplate the original and take from +it corrective ideas for her copy.</p> + +<p>The picture was gone, but in its place there was another of the same +man, almost,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</span> if not quite, as lovely. This time he was sitting in +a field of lilies beside a sunny sea. She felt dimly, rather than +thought, that his face was as pure and as beautiful as the flowers +and did not cause the slightest discord in the scene’s serenity. In +front of him children played. He was holding his arms out toward them +invitingly, as if to embrace them all, and the world beside, as if he +would say, “So wide is my love.” The same gentle, tender smile curved +the lips, and the eyes were twin stars of love.</p> + +<p>Beneath were some printed words she could not read. As she stood lost +in contemplation, a woman came and stood beside her in whose face she +recognized the old indelible marks of the Jewish race.</p> + +<p>The woman was a baptized Jewess, whose early days had been passed in +the Ghetto, and who retained a memory of its Mauschel dialect.</p> + +<p>“Who is it?” ventured Rahel timidly, pointing to the picture.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</span></p> + +<p>Finding the name unintelligible to the strange child, the woman was +searching in her mind for a circumlocution when—</p> + +<p>“Is it a great king?” whispered Rahel, in an awed voice.</p> + +<p>“Yes, the greatest King in the world.”</p> + +<p>“Where does he live?”</p> + +<p>“Everywhere.”</p> + +<p>“Then he is here in Hamburg?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, dear.”</p> + +<p>“Now?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, right here.”</p> + +<p>“What is he doing there in the picture?”</p> + +<p>“Blessing little children. He loves them. If they are blind, He touches +their eyes and they see. If they are ill, He makes them well.”</p> + +<p>“Does he love me?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, dear.”</p> + +<p>Again tears came to her eyes and fell upon the pavement.</p> + +<p>“Do you think he would make me well—and—<i>straight</i>?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</span></p> + +<p>“If you love Him, I know He will.”</p> + +<p>When Rahel brushed the tears away from her eyes, so that she could look +up, the kind woman was gone. She could not see her in any direction and +she had forgotten to ask where he lived.</p> + +<p>That day she thought of nothing but the King. Gaon and his displeasure +if she returned with an empty bag vanished like mist before the sun. +<i>The King! The King!</i> Her soul was caught up and whirled along in +an ecstasy of emotion that banished thought and fear.</p> + +<p>The divine face which in ages past smiled down upon its martyrs’ +insensibility to pain and anguish, upon its exiles for faith’s sake, +forgetfulness of home and kindred, and upon the mortally injured, the +blessed promise of a paradise beyond, wrought its old magic upon her. +Nor weariness, nor hunger, nor fear could reach her through Love’s +fever, sent of God.</p> + +<p>“Such a very great king,” she reflected,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</span> “must live in one of those +large houses at the edge of the city.”</p> + +<p>Patiently she limped along the dusty roads, the old bag trailing +behind, pausing at each house that presented a goodly appearance to +inquire, in a language that no one could understand, if the King lived +there. When they shook their heads, she was loth to go away, and tried +again and again to explain. To make up for inability to answer her +questions, and for the grief and disappointment that lay in her eyes, +they gave her money. She took it mechanically, not knowing what she did.</p> + +<p>For a week she was not seen in the Ghetto. The day’s long journeys +to the outskirts of the city made it impossible to reach the gate at +four, which was closing time. She slept in barns and by haystacks, and +kind-hearted servants fed her.</p> + +<p>No large house in the environs was left unvisited. As daily the quest +became more futile, she stopped passers on the streets,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</span> and with +trembling gestures and tearful words tried to explain what she wanted +to know, pointing the while to her poor bent back and misshapen hip. +She peered into the carriages of the rich and scanned each passing face.</p> + +<p>Her feet were bruised and bleeding; her throat parched with the dust of +the road; her eyes dim and blurred with the strain of looking. But of +this she knew nothing, nor that the absorbing passion was wasting her +body and burning up the frail tenement of the spirit.</p> + +<p>People became accustomed to seeing the strange child with the wild, +white face, and touched their foreheads significantly when they met her.</p> + +<p>A week later, when she turned her steps toward the Ghetto, the only +thought that came to console her for the bitterness of disappointment +was that she must surely find him sometime, because he lived in +Hamburg. And then, too, he might be away<span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</span> on a visit and that kind +woman not know about it.</p> + +<p>The silver coins served in some slight degree to mollify Gaon’s wrath, +until she persistently refused to explain the cause of her absence. +Then he would have beaten her as of old, had it not been for the +nearness of the Passover, and the fact that he wished to preserve his +serenity of soul, with the hope that at that season the vision might be +vouchsafed him. He made peace with his conscience by commanding her to +stay at home and fast and pray, preceding the feast.</p> + +<p>During these days of punishment, when she was confined within her room, +she utilized every moment of the light, from the first faint flush of +dawn to the last pallid beam of evening, in working upon the picture. +Like magic it grew beneath her fingers. Each stroke of the brush +brought nearer to her the living figure. She thrilled with the artist’s +incommunicable joy of creation. All her life, all her love, all her +energy, all her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</span> longing, she put into the blessed face. She poured her +soul into it. She robbed her frail body of life that it might beam the +richer.</p> + +<p>As the painted face took on life and beauty and color, and the +pulsating glow of reality, the frail, gnome-like figure that worked +upon it, standing upon an old chair placed on top of a table, became +frailer and more spectral looking, and painted with a fiercer and a +more demoniac energy. The brush flew with the fury of inspiration. +Each drop of paint wrought a miracle and called matter into life. The +artist’s body was wasted away until it looked as if a spirit caught +up in a cobweb of rags was hovering against the old rabbi’s wall, and +painting with the marvelous precision of a supernatural power. At the +end of the two weeks the picture was completed and shone like a gem +illuminating the dingy room.</p> + +<p>When Gaon’s good humor returned sufficiently to send Rahel out of the +Ghetto<span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</span> again, Passion-week had come and its tragic gloom hung over the +German city. As she walked along slowly and feebly, feeling the effect +of the fast, she caught sight, down the old familiar street, of the +Sea of Galilee, and her heart leaped high with joy at the thought that +beneath the feet of the King she had made it just so blue and sparkling.</p> + +<p>She was too weak to beg. She was too weary to walk. She sat down and +watched the blue water in that happy daze which exhaustion brings to +the mind. She felt as if she were encased in a crystal sphere, against +which beat vainly the tingling noises of life, but whose bright surface +reflected, soap-bubble-wise, color and form with an added charm. The +world floated off and away, and she watched it vaguely, her mind taking +note of it as of something seen in a dream. She did not know how long +she sat there. Hours were as minutes. The light began to slope to +westward, warning her of closing time. She got up feebly, determined to +go<span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</span> as far as the window to see the picture. On the morrow the Passover +began, and she would not be permitted to leave the Ghetto for eight +days. Feebly, dizzily, she dragged herself along, her mind a chaos of +fragmentary thoughts.</p> + +<p>She could see the window some distance away, but nothing gleamed in it. +On approaching, what a vision of grief met her eyes! The shock brought +order to her mind and summoned her strength by one mighty effort to a +consuming realization of grief.</p> + +<p>There, in the deep window recess, which was draped in black, just where +the glowing picture had hung, was a huge cross of snowy marble, and +upon it, dying, suffering, with pitiful wounds upon the hands and feet +and breast, with a crown of cruel thorns upon the gentle brow—Oh! +agony beyond expression—<i>The King</i>!!</p> + +<p>Now she could never find him, never see him! Now he could not lay his +hands in blessing upon her and make her well! There<span class="pagenum" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</span> was no one who +pitied her, no one who loved her! There was nothing left to live for.</p> + +<p>When the dimness which overmastering emotion causes passed, she looked +about at the people to see if their grief was equal to her own. They +were going about busily and happily as usual. Bright-haired girls +tripped by in groups, carrying bouquets of gay flowers, and calm +matrons led little children. Yes, yes, it was all true what Gaon had +told her: <i>the world outside the gate was wicked!</i></p> + +<p>Why did they not mourn for him? Why did they not cover their heads with +the white grave cloths and strew upon them ashes? Why did they not find +the ones who killed him and torture them—torture them—torture them!</p> + +<p>Her grief was transformed into rage. Physical exhaustion strung her +nerves to the pitch of frenzy and sent the wild blood beating in her +brain.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</span></p> + +<p>She threw away the old bag. She pushed back hastily the thick hair +from her eyes. She straightened as best she could the miserable bent +figure. She turned and faced the passers-by and the busy street. She +flung her long, thin arms upward, as do Judean shepherds when they +pray, and in that stern and ancient tongue which is rich in reproaches +and the eloquence of vengeance, she cursed them. She cursed them in her +rage and fury at their heartlessness, their wanton cruelty, their base +ingratitude.</p> + +<p>Shriller and shriller grew her voice, fiercer and more unrestrained the +unintelligible words, which called down upon them the vengeance of the +stern Hebrew God, who would destroy them with the fire of his wrath. +Her frail body, swaying to and fro in the agony of emotion, was all but +consumed by the whirlwind of passion that swept it. The heat of anger +burned and withered it as does flame the stubble, and she fell forward +exhausted, upon the walk.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</span></p> + +<p>Some one picked her up and placed her in a neighboring doorway. But +what terrible grief breathed from her face! Her eyes, out of which the +passion had died, were like dim, tarnished mirrors, and the pitiful +mouth was pinched and pale. There was nothing left to live for! The +sun had gone out and the moon was dead and the stars had fallen out of +heaven.</p> + +<p>When she reached home, she flung herself upon the floor and wept. To +her grandmother’s questions and exhortations she was deaf. She did not +hear them. Nothing mattered now.</p> + +<p>Gaon came, his eyes shining with fanaticism, and told her that it was +the eve of the Fourteenth of Nisan, that on the morrow the Passover +began, and that she must help her grandmother prepare the evening meal. +To his commands she turned unheeding ears. Her lifted face expressed +the apathy of the dead. Her blurred eyes looked through him and beyond +at something he could not see.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</span></p> + +<p>When the meal was ready, the cups of salted water set on, the bitter +herbs, and the leg of mutton, Gaon arose and said reverently: “Blessed +art Thou—who hast sanctified us by Thy commandments, and hast +commanded us concerning the removal of the leavened bread.”</p> + +<p>He took one of the lighted candles and proceeded to search carefully +the house, according to the command, to make sure that nothing +forbidden be left during the season of the feast. Into every nook and +cranny of the two rooms he peered, saying after each examination that +if anything forbidden be left unnoticed, it was not his fault and his +heart was pure.</p> + +<p>When Rahel heard him groping on the rickety stairs in the back room, +she leaped to her feet and followed.</p> + +<p>“Grandfather—do not go there! You know there can be nothing in my +room. Do not go there!”</p> + +<p>“I must do as the Law commands.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</span></p> + +<p>“No—Grandfather!—it is useless—the stairs are unsafe—do not go!”</p> + +<p>Unheeding her words, he climbed the creaking stairs, Rahel following. +He flung the door open. The draft blew the candle flame to gigantic +size, illuminating the picture high upon the opposite wall. In the +momentary flash of light it was a living form. The dingy wall had +parted and let in the mist-sweet, white, cloud-radiance of night, adown +which sped toward the trembling, aged man the glorious figure of the +young Messiah. For a moment he was overcome by fear and reverence, and +awed into silence by the majesty of beauty.</p> + +<p>Then his nature reasserted itself. He remembered that Rahel had begged +him not to come. The truth dawned upon him. His face grew cruel and +thin. Unspeakable anger shone from the narrow little eyes upon her +who had broken the Law and a second time kept him from the vision. A +hideous Hebrew type became visible beneath the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</span> mask which habit made. +From under the snarling, lifted upper lip, long teeth protruded like +tusks, and his voice was hoarse with wrath.</p> + +<p>“Rahel, did you do that?”</p> + +<p>No answer.</p> + +<p>“Rahel, I say, did you do that?”</p> + +<p>The strain of the day and the past two weeks had exhausted her. The +face that looked back at him was as white and as emotionless as the +dead. In the dulled eyes shone no light of comprehension.</p> + +<p>“God of Abraham!—and painted in the place sacred to Jerusalem and the +Temple! Never shall I gain the vision—never! never!” His shrunken body +quivered like a leaf in the wind. “Now I shall never gain the vision!” +Tears, pitifulness, a world of disappointment, trembled in his voice.</p> + +<p>“I have sinned grievously. I have not kept the Law. It says: ‘If thy +right hand offend thee, cut it off.’ And I let her live when she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</span> +offended first—I let her live—Oh, God of Abraham—I let her live—”</p> + +<p>“Do you understand what you have done; that you have defiled the house; +that you have broken the express command of the Torah: ‘Thou shalt have +no other Gods before me;’ that you have kept me from the vision? Do you +understand?” The old anger flashed its wild light over his face and +rang tempestuously in his voice. “Do you understand?”</p> + +<p>“<i>There!</i>—take <i>that</i>!—and <i>that</i>!—” He struck her +upon the head with all the force of his uplifted arm. “I will seal up +the door; I will disclaim to my God accountability of this room and its +contents! Now, O God, I have done as Thou commandest: ‘If thy right +hand offend thee, cut it off.’”</p> + +<p>In falling, Rahel’s temple struck a stone uncovered of plastering at +the foot of the old rabbi’s wall, and she lay motionless, a thin stream +of bright blood trickling down her cheek.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</span></p> + +<p>After fastening the door and sealing it securely and disclaiming, as +was the custom on the eve of the Fourteenth of Nisan, accountability +for anything forbidden found beneath his roof, he went back to his +blind and aged wife, where he said grace with fervent solemnity and +partook of the sacred meal.</p> + +<p>That night the Hamburg fire broke out. The inhabitants of the Ghetto +barely escaped. They were well-nigh forgotten. When the gate-keepers +remembered them and let them out, they were on the verge of being +roasted like rats in a trap.</p> + +<p>Among the first to reach the Great Gate and wait were Gaon and his +wife. Rahel was not with them. Faithful to his vow, he had left the +door of the old rabbi’s room sealed and fastened.</p> + +<p>The devastation of that terrible fire is a matter of history. It is +numbered among the calamities that have befallen the human race. When, +days later, the fire had subsided,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</span> nothing of the swarming Ghetto +buildings was left but charred and crumbling wood.</p> + +<p>When Easter dawned, bright and smiling, there still rose from this +burnt and blackened district wreaths of smoke and white steam, +up-curling reverently round the base of the indestructible stone of the +old rabbi’s wall which, alone, of all the Ghetto, still stood erect, +ascending like a peace offering of incense toward the glorious figure +that looked down from above, a figure glowing with youth and beauty, +and framed in the glittering light of spring—radiant, triumphant, +indestructible, immortal—the King—the Hebrew Christ!</p> + + +<p class="center big p2">THE END</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter transnote"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcriber_Notes">Transcriber Notes</h2> + +<p>Obvious punctuation errors have been corrected.</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#Page_88">88</a>: “struggles eeriely” changed to “struggles eerily” +</p></div> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75516 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/75516-h/images/cover.jpg b/75516-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5ba6ff5 --- /dev/null +++ b/75516-h/images/cover.jpg |
