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diff --git a/22358.txt b/22358.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..999f587 --- /dev/null +++ b/22358.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10851 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Erik Dorn, by Ben Hecht + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Erik Dorn + + +Author: Ben Hecht + + + +Release Date: August 19, 2007 [eBook #22358] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ERIK DORN*** + + +E-text prepared by Eric Eldred and the Project Gutenberg Online +Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) + + + +ERIK DORN + +by + +BEN HECHT + + + + + + + +G. P. Putnam's Sons +New York and London +The Knickerbocker Press +1921 + +Copyright, 1921 +by +Ben Hecht + +Printed in the United States of America + + + + +To + +MARIE + + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE + + PART I + + SLEEP 1 + + + PART II + + DREAM 75 + + + PART III + + WINGS 173 + + + PART IV + + ADVENTURE 277 + + + PART V + + SILENCE 369 + + + + +ERIK DORN + + + + +PART I + +SLEEP + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +An old man sat in the shadows of the summer night. From a veranda chair +he looked at the stars. He wore a white beard, and his eyes, grown small +with age, watered continually as if he were weeping. Half-hidden under +his beard his emaciated lips kept the monotonous grimace of a smile on +his face. + +He sat in the dark, a patient, trembling figure waiting for bedtime. His +feet, though he rested them all day, grew heavy at night. Of late this +weariness had increased. It reached like a caress into his mind. +Thoughts no longer formed themselves in the silences of his hours. +Instead, a gentle sleep, dreamless and dark, came upon him and left him +sitting with his little eyes, open and moist, fastened without sight +upon familiar objects. + +As he sat, the withered body of this old man seemed to grow always more +motionless, except for his hands. Resting on his thighs, his twig-like +hands remained forever awake, their thin contorted fingers crawling +vaguely about like the legs of 8 long-impaled spiders. + +The sound of a piano from the room behind him dropped into the old man's +sleep, and he found himself once more looking out of his eyes and +occupying his clothes. His attitude remained unchanged except for a +quickened movement of his fingers. Life returned to him as gently as it +had left. The stars were still high over his head and the night, cool +and murmuring, waited for him. + +He lowered his eyes toward the street beyond the lawn. People were +straying by, seeming to drift under the dark trees. He could not see +them distinctly, but he stared at their flowing outlines and at moments +was rewarded by a glimpse of a face--a featureless little glint of white +in the shadows: dark shadows moving within a motionless darkness with +little dying candle-flame faces. "Men and women," he thought, "men and +women, mixed up in the night ... mixed up." + +As he stared, thoughts as dim and fluid as the people in the street +moved in his head. But he remembered things best not in words. His +memories were little warmths that dropped into his heart. His cold thin +fingers continued their fluttering. "Mixed up, mixed up," said the +night. "Dark," said the shadows. And the years spoke their memories. "We +have been; we are no more." Memories that had lost the bloom of words. +The emaciated lips of the old man held a smile beneath the white beard. + +This was Isaac Dorn, still alive after eighty years. + +The music from the house ended and a woman's voice called through an +open window. + +"I'm afraid it's chilly outside, father." + +He offered no answer. Then he heard Erik, his son, speak in an amused +voice. + +"Leave the old man be. He's making love to the stars." + +"I'll get him a blanket," said Erik's wife. "I can't bear to think of +him catching cold." + +Isaac Dorn arose from his chair, shaking his head. He did not fancy +being covered with a blanket and feeling Anna's kindly hands tucking its +edges around his feet. They were too kindly, too solicitous. Their +little pats and caressings presumed too much. One grew sad under their +ministrations and murmured to oneself, "Poor child, poor child." Better +a half-hour under the cold, amused eyes of his son, Erik. There was +something between Erik and him, something like an unspoken argument. To +Anna he was a pathetic little old man to be nursed, coddled, defended +against chills and indigestions, "poor child, poor child." But Erik +looked at him with cold, amused eyes that offered no quarter to age and +asked for nothing. Good Erik, who asked for nothing, whose eyes smiled +because they were too polite to sneer. Erik knew about the stars and the +mixed-up things, the dim things old senses could feel in the night +though he chose to laugh at them. + +But one thing Erik didn't know, and the old man, turning from his chair, +grew sad. What was that? What? His thought mumbled a question. Sitting +motionless in a corner of the room he could smile at Erik and his smile +under the white beard seemed to give an answer to the mumble--an answer +that irritated his son. The answer said, "Wait, wait! it is too early +for you to say you have lived." What a son, what a son! whose eyes made +fun of his father's white hair. + +The old man moved slowly as if his infirmities were no more than +meditations, and entered the house. + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +The crowds moving through the streets gave Erik Dorn a picture. It was +morning. Above the heads of the people the great spatula-topped +buildings spread a zigzag of windows, a scribble of rooftops against the +sky. A din as monotonous as a silence tumbled through the streets--an +unvarying noise of which the towering rectangles of buildings tilted +like great reeds out of a narrow bowl, seemed an audible part. + +The city alive with signs, smoke, posters, windows; falling, rising, +flinging its chimneys and its streets against the sun, wound itself up +into crowds and burst with an endless bang under the far-away sky. + +Moving toward his office Erik Dorn watched the swarming of men and women +of which he was a part. Faces like a flight of paper scraps scattered +about him. Bodies poured suddenly across his eyes as if emptied out of +funnels. The ornamental entrances of buildings pumped figures in and +out. Vague and blurred like the play of gusty rain, the crowds darkened +the pavements. + +Dorn saluted the spectacle with smiling eyes. As always, in the aimless +din and multiplicity of streets he felt himself most securely at home. +The smear of gestures, the elastic distortion of crowds winding and +unwinding under the tumult of windows, gave him the feeling of a +geometrical emptiness of life. + +Here before him the meanings of faces vanished. The greedy little +purposes of men and women tangled themselves into a generality. It was +thus Dorn was most pleased to look upon the world, to observe it as one +observes a pattern--involved but precise. Life as a whole lay in the +streets--a little human procession that came toiling out of a yesterday +into an interminable to-morrow. It presented itself to him as a +picture--legs moving against the walls of buildings, diagonals of +bodies, syncopating face lines. + +Things that made pictures for his eyes alone diverted Dorn. Beyond this +capacity for diversion he remained untouched. He walked smiling into +crowds, oblivious of the lesser destinations of faces, pleased to dream +of his life and the life of others as a movement of legs, a bobbing of +heads. + +His appreciation of crowds was typical. In the same manner he held an +appreciation of all things in life and art which filled him with the +emotion of symmetry. He had given himself freely to his tastes. A creed +had resulted. Rhythm that was intricate pleased him more than the +metronomic. In art, the latter was predominant. In life, the former. Out +of these decisions he achieved almost a complete indifference to +literature and especially toward painting. No drawn picture stirred him +to the extent that did the tapestry of a city street. No music aroused +the elation in him that did the curious beat upon his eyes of window +rows, of vari-shaped building walls whose oblongs and squares translated +themselves in his thought into a species of unmelodious but perfect +sound. + +The preoccupation with form had developed in him as complement of his +nature. The nature of Erik Dorn was a shallows. Life did not live in +him. He saw it as something eternally outside. To himself he seemed at +times a perfect translation of his country and his day. + +"I'm like men will all be years later," he said to his wife, "when their +emotions are finally absorbed by the ingenious surfaces they've +surrounded themselves with, and life lies forever buried behind the +inventions of engineers, scientists, and business men." + +Normal outwardly, a shrewd editor and journalist, functioning daily in +his home and work as a cleverly conventional figure, Dorn had lived +since boyhood in an unchanging vacuum. He had in his early youth become +aware of himself. As a young man he had waited half consciously for +something to happen to him. He thought of this something as a species of +contact that would suddenly overtake him. He would step into the street +and find himself a citizen absorbed by responsibilities, ideas, +sympathies, prejudices. But the thing had never happened. At thirty he +had explained to himself, "I am complete. This business of being empty +is all there is to life. Intelligence is a faculty which enables man to +peer through the muddle of ideas and arrive at a nowhere." + +Private introspection had become a bore to him. What was the use of +thinking if there was nothing to think about? And there was nothing. His +violences of temper, his emotions, definite and at times compelling, had +always seemed to him as words--pretences to which he loaned himself for +diversion. He was aware that neither ideas nor prejudices--the residues +of emotion--existed in his mind. His thinking, he knew, had been a +shuffle of words which he followed to fantastic and inconsistent +conclusions that left him always without convictions for the morrow. + +There was a picture in the street for him on this summer morning. He was +a part of it. Yet between himself and the rest of the picture he felt no +contact. + +Into this emptiness of spirit, life had poured its excitements as into a +thing bottomless as a mirror. He gave it back an image of words. He was +proud of his words. They were his experiences and sophistications. Out +of them he achieved his keenest diversion. They were the excuse for his +walking, his wearing a hat and embarking daily for his work, returning +daily to his home. They enabled him to amuse himself with complexities +of thought as one improvising difficult finger exercises on the piano. + +At times it seemed to Dorn that he was even incapable of thinking, that +he possessed a plastic vocabulary endowed with a life of its own. He +often contemplated with astonishment his own verbal brilliancies, which +his friends appeared to accept as irrefutable truths of the moment. +Carried away in the heat of some intricate debate he would pause +internally, as his voice continued without interruption, and exclaim to +himself, "What in hell am I talking about?" And a momentary awe would +overcome him--the awe of listening to himself give utterance to +fantastic ideas that he knew had no existence in him--a cynical magician +watching a white rabbit he had never seen before crawl naively out of +his own sleeve. Thus his phrases assembled themselves on his tongue and +pirouetted of their own energy about his listeners. + +Smiling, garrulous, and impenetrable--garrulous even in his silences, he +daily entered his office and proceeded skillfully about his work. He +was, as always, delighted with himself. He felt himself a man ideally +fitted to enjoy the little spectacle of life his day offered. Emotion in +others invariably roused in him a sense of the ludicrous. His eyes +seemed to travel through the griefs and torments of his fellows and to +fasten helplessly upon their causes. And here lay the ludicrous--the +clownish little mainspring of tragedy and drama. He moved through his +day with a vivid understanding of its excitements. There was no mystery. +One had only to look and see and words fitted themselves. A pattern +twisted itself into precisions--precisions of men loving, hating, +questing. The understanding swayed him between pity and contempt and +left the balance of an amused smile in his eyes. + +Intimacy with Erik Dorn had meant different things to different people, +but all had derived from his friendship a fascinated feeling of loss. +His wife, closest to him, had after seven years found herself drained, +hollowed out as by some tenaciously devouring insect. Her mind had +emptied itself of its normal furniture. Erik had eaten the ideas out of +it. Under the continual impact of his irony her faiths and +understandings had slowly deserted her. Her thought had become a shadow +cast by his emptiness. Things were no longer good, no longer bad. People +had become somehow non-existent for her since she could no longer think +of them as symbols incarnate of ideas that she liked or ideas that she +disliked. Thus emptied of its natural furniture, her mind had borrowed +from her heart and become filled, wholly occupied with the emotion of +her love for Erik Dorn. More than lover and husband, he was an +obsession. He had replaced a world for her. + +It was of his wife that Dorn was thinking when he arrived this summer +morning at his desk in the editorial room. He had remembered suddenly +that the day was the anniversary of their marriage. Time had passed +rapidly. Seven years! Like seven yesterdays. He seemed able to remember +them in their entirety with a single thought, as one can remember a +column of figures without recalling either their meaning or their sum. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +The employees of the editorial room--a loft-like chamber crazily crowded +with desks, tables, cabinets, benches, files, typewriters; lighted by a +smoke-darkened sun and the dim glow of electric bulbs--were already +launched upon the nervous routine of their day. An excited jargon filled +the place which, with the air of physical disorder as if the workers +were haphazardly improvising their activities,--gave the room a vivid +though seemingly impermanent life. + +On the benches against a peeling wall sleepy-faced boys with precocious +eyes kept up a lazy hair-pulling, surreptitious wrestling bout. They +rose indifferently in response to furiously repeated bellows for their +assistance--a business of carrying typewritten bits of paper between +desks a few feet apart; or of sauntering with eleventh-hour orders to +the perspiring men in the composing room. + +In the forward part of the shop a cluster of men stood about the desk of +an editor who in a disinterested voice sat issuing assignments for the +day, forecasting to his innumerable assistants the amount of space +needed for succeeding editions, the possible development in the local +scandals. His eye unconsciously watched the clock over his head, his +ear divided itself between a half-dozen conversations and a tireless +telephone. With his hands he kept fumbling an assortment of clippings, +memoranda, and copy. + +Oldish young men and youngish old men gravitated about him, their faces +curiously identical. These were the irresponsible-eyed, casual-mannered +individuals, seemingly neither at work nor at play, who were to visit +the courts, the police, the wrecks, the criminals, conventions, +politicians, reformers, lovers, and haters, and bring back the news of +the city's day. A common almost racial sophistication stamped their +expression. They pawed over telephone books, argued with indifferent, +emotionless profanity among themselves on items of amazing import; +pounded nonchalantly upon typewriters, lolled with their feet upon +desks, their noses buried in the humorous columns of the morning +newspapers. + +"Make-up" men and their assistants, everlastingly irritable as if the +victims of pernicious conspiracies, badgered for information that seemed +inevitably non-existent. They desired to know in what mysterious manner +one could get ten columns of type into a page that held only seven and +whether anyone thought the paper could go to press at half-past ten when +the bulk of the copy for the edition arrived in the composing room at +twenty minutes of eleven. + +Proof-readers emerged from the bowels of somewhere waving smeared bits +of printed paper and triumphantly demanded explanation of ambiguous +passages. + +Re-write men "helloed" indignantly into telephones, repeating with +sudden listlessness the pregnant details of the news pouring in; and +scribbling it down on sheets of paper ... "dead Grant park bullet +unknown 26 yrs silk stockings refinement mystery." + +Idlers lounged and discussed loudly against the dusty windows hung with +torn grimy shades. + +Copy-readers, concentrated under green eye-shades, sat isolated in a +tiny world of sharpened pencils, paste pots, shears, and emitted sudden +embittered oaths. + +Editors from other departments, naively excited over items of vast +indifference to their nervous listeners, came and went. + +An occasional printer, face and forearms smeared with ink, sauntered in +as if on a vacation, uttering some technical announcement and +precipitating a brief panic. + +Toward the center of the room, seated at desks jammed against one +another in defiance of all convenience, telegraph editors, their hands +fumbling cables and despatches from twenty ends of the earth, bellowed +items of interest into the air--assassinations in China, probes, +quizzes, scandals, accusations in far-away places. They varied their +bellows with occasional shrieks of mysterious significance--usually a +misplaced paste pot, a borrowed shears, a vanished copy-boy. + +These folk and a sprinkling of apparently unemployed and undisturbed +strangers spread themselves through the shop. Outside the opened windows +in the rear of the room, the elevated trains stuffed with men and women +roared into a station and squealed out again. In the streets below, the +traffic raised an ear-splitting medley of sound which nobody heard. + +Against this eternal and internal disorder, a strange pottering, +apparently formless and without beginning or end, was guiding the latest +confusions and intrigues of the human tangle into perfunctory groups of +words called stories. A curious ritual--the scene, spreading through the +four floors of the grimy building with a thousand men and women +shrieking, hammering, cursing, writing, squeezing and juggling the +monotonous convulsions of life into a scribble of words. Out of the +cacophonies of the place issued, sausage fashion, a half-million papers +daily, holding up from hour to hour to the city the blurred mirrors of +the newspaper columns alive with the almost humorous images of an +unending calamity. + +"The press," Erik Dorn once remarked, "is a blind old cat yowling on a +treadmill." + +It was a quarter to nine when Dorn arrived at his desk. He seated +himself with a complete unconsciousness of the scene. A litter of +correspondence, propaganda, telegrams, and contributions from Constant +Reader lay stuffed into the corners and pigeonholes of his desk. He sat +for a moment thinking of his wife. Call her up ... spend the evening +downtown ... some unusual evidence of affection ... the vaudeville +wouldn't be bad. + +The thought left him and his eyes fastened themselves upon a sheaf of +proofs.... Watch out for libel ... look for hunches ... scribble +suggestion for changes ... peer for items of information that might be +expanded humorously or pathetically into Human Interest yarns.... These +were functions he discharged mechanically. A perfect affinity toward his +work characterized his attitude. Yet behind the automatic efficiency of +his thought lay an ironical appreciation of his tasks. The sterile +little chronicles of life still moist from the ink-roller were like +smeared windows upon the grimacings of the world. Through these windows +Dorn saw with a clarity that flattered him. + +A tawdry pantomime was life, a pouring of blood, a grappling with +shadows, a digging of graves. "Empty, empty," his intelligence whispered +in its depths, "a make-believe of lusts. What else? Nothing, nothing. +Laws, ambitions, conventions--froth in an empty glass. Tragedies, +comedies--all a swarm of nothings. Dreams in the hearts of men--thin +fever outlines to which they clung in hope. Nothing ... nothing...." His +intelligence continued a murmur as he read--a murmur unconscious of +itself yet coming from the depths of him. Equally unconscious was the +amusement he felt, and that flew a fugitive smile in his eyes. + +The perfunctory hysterics of the stories of crime, graft, scandal, with +their garbled sentences and wooden phrases; the delicious sagacities of +the editorial pages like the mumbling of some adenoidal moron in a gulf +of high winds; headlines saying a pompous "amen" to asininity and a +hopeful "My God!" to confusion--these caressed him, and brought the +thought to him, "if there is anything worthy the absurdity of life it's +a newspaper--gibbering, whining, strutting, sprawled in attitudes of +worship before the nine-and-ninety lies of the moment--a caricature of +absurdity itself." + +His efficiency aloof from such moralizing moved like a separate +consciousness through the day, as it had for the sixteen years of his +service. His rise in his profession had been comparatively rapid. Thirty +had found him enshrined as an editor. At thirty-four he had acquired the +successful air which distinguishes men who have come to the end of their +rope. He had become an editor and a fixture. The office observed an +intent, gray-eyed man, straight nosed, firm lipped, correctly shaved +down to the triangular trim of his mustache, his dark hair evenly +parted--a normal-seeming, kindly individual who wore his linen and his +features with a certain politely exotic air--the air of an identity. + +The day's vacuous items in his life passed quickly, its frantic routine +ebbing into a lull toward mid-afternoon. Returning from a final uproar +in the composing room, Dorn looked good-humoredly about him. He was +ready to go home. Arguments, reprimands, entreaties were over for a +space. He walked leisurely down the length of the shop, pleased as +always by its atmosphere. It was something like the streets, this +newspaper shop, broken up, a bit intricate, haphazard. + +A young man named Cross was painstakingly writing poetry on a +typewriter. Another named Gardner was busy on a letter. "My dearest...." +Dorn read over his shoulder as he passed. Promising young men, both, +whose collars would grow slightly soiled as they advanced in their +profession. He remembered one of his early observations: "There are two +kinds of newspapermen--those who try to write poetry and those who try +to drink themselves to death. Fortunately for the world, only one of +them succeeds." + +In a corner a young woman, dressed with a certain ease, sat partially +absorbed in a book and partially in a half-devoured apple. "The Brothers +Karamasov," Dorn read as he sauntered by. He thought "an emancipated +creature who prides herself on being able to drink cocktails without +losing caste. She'll marry the first drunken newspaperman who forgets +himself in her presence and spend the rest of her life trying to induce +him to go into the advertising business." + +Turning down the room he passed the desk of Crowley, the telegraph +editor. A face flabby and red with ancient drinking raised itself from a +book and a voice spoke, + +"Old Egan gets more of a fool every day." Old Egan was the make-up man. +Dorn smiled. "The damned idiot crowded the Nancy story off page one in +the Home. Best story of the day." Crowley ended with a vaguely conceived +oath. + +Dorn glimpsed the title of the book on his desk, _L'Oblat_. Crowley had +been educated for the priesthood but emerged from the seminary with a +heightened joy of life in his veins. A riotous twenty years in night +saloons and bawdy houses had left him a kindly, choleric, and respected +newspaper figure. Dorn caught his eye and wondered over his sensitive +infatuation of exotic writing. In the pages of Huysmans, De Gourmont, +Flaubert, Gautier, Symons, and Pater he seemed to have found a subtle +incense for his deadened nerves. Inside the flabby, coarsened body with +its red face munching out monosyllables, lived a recluse. "Too much +living has driven him from life," Dorn thought, "and killed his lusts. +So he sits and reads books--the last debauchery: strange, twisted +phrases like idols, like totem poles, like Polynesian masks. He sits +contemplating them as he once sat drunkenly watching the obscenities of +black, white, and yellow bodied women. Thus, the mania for the rouge of +life, for the grimace that lies beyond satiety, passes in him from +bestiality to asceticism and esthetics. Yesterday a bacchanal of flesh, +to-day a bacchanal of words ... the posturings of courtezans and the +posturings of ornate phrases become the same." He heard Crowley +repeating, "Damned idiot, Egan! No sense of human values. Crowded the +best story of the day off page one." ... Some day he'd have a long talk +with Crowley. But the man was so carefully hidden behind perfunctories +it was hard to get at him. He resented intrusion. + +Dorn passed on and looked around for Warren--a humorous and didactic +creature who had with considerable effort destroyed his Boston accent +and escaped the fact that he had once earned his living as professor of +sociology in an eastern university. Dorn caught a memory of him sitting +in a congenial saloon before a stein and pouring forth hoarsely oracular +comments upon the activities of men known and unknown. The man had a +gift for caricature--Rabelaisean exaggerations. Dorn was suddenly glad +he had gone for the day. The office oppressed him and the people in it +were too familiar. He walked to his desk thinking of the South Seas and +new faces. + +"I tell you what," a voice drawled behind him, "Nietzsche has it on the +whole lot of them." Cochran, the head of the copy desk, was talking--a +shriveled little man with a bald face and shoe-button eyes. "You've got +to admit people are more dishonest in their virtues than in their vices. +Of course, there's a lot of stuff he pulls that's impractical." + +Dorn shrugged his shoulders, smiled and lifted his hat out of a locker. +He remembered again to telephone his wife, but instead moved out of the +office. A refreshing warmth in the street pleased his senses and he +turned toward the lake. Walk down Michigan avenue, take a taxi +home--what else was there to do? Nothing, unless talk. But to whom? He +thought of his father. A tenacious old man. Probably hang on forever. +God, the man had been married three times. If it wasn't for his damned +infirmities he'd probably marry again. Looking for something. What was +it the old man had kept looking for? As if there was in existence a +concrete gift to be drawn from life. A blithering, water-eyed optimist +to the end, he'd die with a prayer of thankfulness and gratitude. + +Thus innocuously abstract, moving in the doldrum which sometimes +surrounded him after his day's work, he turned into the boulevard along +the lake. The day grew abruptly fresher here. An arc of blue sky rising +from the east flung a great curve over the building tops. Dorn paused +before the window of a Japanese art shop and stared at a bulbous wooden +god stoically contemplating his navel. + +During his walks through the streets he sometimes met people he knew. +This time a young woman appeared at the window beside him. He recognized +her with elation. His thought gave him an index of her ... Rachel +Laskin, curious girl ... makes me talk well ... appreciative ... unusual +eyes. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +They walked together down the avenue. Dorn felt a return of interest in +himself. Introspection bored him. His insincerity made self thought +meaningless. Listeners, however, revived him. As they walked he caught +occasional glimpses of his companion--vivid eyes, dark lips, a cool, +shadow-tinted face that belonged under exotic trees; a morose little +girl insanely sensitive and with a dream inside her. She admired him; or +at least she admired his words, which amounted to the same thing. Once +before she had said, "You are different." As usual he held his cynicism +in abeyance before flattery. People who thought him different pleased +him. It gave them a certain intellectual status in his eyes. + +His thought, as he talked, busied itself with images of her. She gave +him a sense of dark waters hidden from the moon--a tenuous fugitive +figure in the pretty clamor of the bright street. + +"You remind me," he was saying, "of a nymph among dowagers and +frightened to death. There's really nothing to be frightened of, unless +you prefer fear to other more tangible emotions." + +She nodded her head. He recalled that the gesture had puzzled him at +first. It gave an eager assent to his words that surprised him. It +pretended that she had understood something he had not said, something +that lay beneath his words. Dorn pointed at the women moving by them. + +"Poems in shoe craft, tragedies in ankles and melodramas in legs," he +announced. "Look at their clothes! Priestly caricatures of their sex. +You're still drawing?" + +"Yes. But you don't like my drawing." + +"I saw one of your pictures--an abominable thing--in some needlework +magazine. A woman with a spindly nose, picking flowers." + +He glanced at her and caught an eager smile in her eyes. She was someone +to whom he could talk at random. This pleased him; or perhaps it was the +sense of flattery that pleased him. He wondered if she was intelligent. +They had met several times, usually by accident. He had found himself +able to talk at length to her and had come away feeling an intimacy +between them. + +"Look at the windows," he continued. "Corsets, stockings, lingerie. Shop +windows remind me of neighbors' bathrooms before breakfast. There's +something odiously impersonal about them. See, all the way down the +street--silks, garments, ruffles, laces. A saturnalia of masks. It's the +only art we've developed in America--over-dressing. Clothes are +peculiarly American--a sort of underhanded female revenge against the +degenerate puritanism of the nation. I've seen them even at revival +meetings clothed in the seven tailored sins and denouncing the devil +with their bustles. Only they don't wear bustles any more. But what's an +anachronism between friends? Why don't you paint pictures of real +Americans?--men hunting for bargains in chastity and triumphantly +marrying a waistline. If that means anything." + +He paused, and wondered vaguely what he was talking about. Vivid eyes +and dark lips, a face that belonged elsewhere. He was feeding its +poignancy words. And she admired him. Why? He was saying nothing. There +was a sexlessness about her that inspired vulgarity. + +"You remind me of poetry," she answered without looking at him. "I +always can listen to you without thinking, but just understanding. I've +remembered nearly everything you've said to me. I don't know why. But +they always come back when I'm alone, and they always seem unfinished." + +Her words jarred. She was too naive to coquette. Yet it was difficult to +believe this. But she was an unusual creature, modestly asleep. A +fugitive aloofness. Yes, what she said must be true. There was nothing +unreasonable about its being true. She made an impression upon him. He +undoubtedly did upon her. He would have preferred her applause, however, +somewhat less blatant. But she was a child--an uncanny child who cooed +frankly when interested. + +"I can imagine the millennium of virtue in America," he went on. "A +crowd of painted women; faces green and lavender, moving like a +procession of bizarre automatons and chanting in Chinese, 'We are pure. +We are chaste and pure.' A parade of psychopathic barbarians dressed in +bells, metals, animal skins, astrologer hats and Scandinavian ornaments. +A combination of Burmese dancer and Babylonian priest. I ask for nothing +more." + +He laughed. He had half consciously tried to give words to an image the +girl had stirred in him. She interrupted, + +"That's me." + +He looked at her face in a momentary surprise. + +"I hate people, too," she said. "I would like to be like one of those +women." + +"Or else a huntress riding on a black river in the moon. I was trying to +draw a picture of you. And perhaps of myself. You have a faculty of ... +of ... Funny, things I say are usually only reflections of the people I +talk to. You don't mind being a psychopathic barbarian?" + +"No," she laughed quietly, "because I understand what you mean." + +"I don't mean anything." + +"I know. You talk because you have nothing to say. And I like to listen +to you because I understand." + +This was somewhat less jarring, though still a bit crude. Her admiration +would be more pleasant were it more difficult to discover. He became +silent and aware of the street. There had been no street for several +minutes--merely vivid eyes and dark lips. Now there were +people--familiar unknowns to be found always in streets, their faces +withholding something, like unfinished sentences. He had lost interest +and felt piqued. His loss of interest in his talk was perhaps merely a +reflection of her own. + +"I remember hearing you were a socialist. That's hard to believe." + +There was no relation between them now. He would have to work it up +again. + +"No, my parents are. I'm not." + +"Russians?" + +"Yes. Jews." + +"I'm curious about your ideals." + +"I haven't any." + +"Not even art?" + +"No." + +"A wingless little eagle on a barren tree," he smiled. "I advise you to +complicate life with ideals. The more the better. They are more +serviceable than a conscience, in which I presume you're likewise +lacking, because you don't have to use them. A conscience is an +immediate annoyance, whereas ideals are charming procrastinations. They +excuse the inanity of the present. Good Lord, what do you think about +all day without ideals to guide you?" + +Dorn looked at her and felt again delight with himself. It was because +her interest had returned. Her eyes were flatteries. He desired to be +amusing, to cover the eager child face beside him with a caress of +words. + +"I don't think," she answered. "Do people ever think? I always imagine +that people have ideas that they look at and that the ideas never move +around." + +"Yes," he agreed, "moving ideas around is what you might call thinking. +And people don't do that. They think only of destinations and for +purposes of forgetting something--drugging themselves to uncomfortable +facts. I fancy, however, I'm wrong. It's only after telling a number of +lies that one gets an idea of what might be true. Thus it occurs to me +now that I can't conceive of an intelligent person thinking in silence. +Intelligence is a faculty which enables people to boast. And it's +difficult boasting in silence. And inasmuch as it's necessary to be +intelligent to think, why, that sort of settles it. Ergo, people never +think. Do you mind my chatter?" + +"Please ..." + +A perfect applause this time. Her sincerity appealed to him as an +exquisite mannerism. She said "Please" as if she were breathless. + +"You're an entertaining listener," he smiled. "And very clever. Because +it's ordinarily rather difficult to flatter me. I'm immensely delighted +with your silence, whereas ..." Dorn stumbled. He felt his speech was +degenerating into a compliment. + +"Because you tell me things I've known," the girl spoke. + +"Yet I tell you nothing." + +He stared for an instant at the people in the street. "Nothing" was a +word his thought tripped on. He was used to mumbling it to himself as he +walked alone in streets. And at his desk it often came to him and +repeated itself. Now his thought murmured, "Nothing, nothing," and a +sadness drew itself into his heart. He laughed with a sense of treating +himself to a theatricalism. + +"We haven't talked about God," he announced. + +"God is one of my beliefs." + +She was an idiot for frowning. + +"I dislike to think of man as the product of evolution. It throws an +onus on the whole of nature. Whereas with a God to blame the thing is +simple." + +She nodded, which was doubly idiotic, inasmuch as there was nothing to +nod to. He went on: + +"Life is too short for brevities--for details. I save time by thinking, +if you can call it thinking, _en masse_--in generalities. For instance, +I think of people frequently but always as a species. I wonder about +them. My wonder is concerned chiefly with the manner in which they +adjust themselves to the vision of their futility. Do they shriek aloud +with horror in lonely bedrooms? There's a question there. How do people +who are important to themselves reconcile themselves to their +unimportance to others? And how are they able to forget their +imbecility?" + +They were walking idly as if dreamily intent upon the spectacle of the +avenue. The nervous unrest that came to Dorn in streets and fermented +words in his thought seemed to have deserted him. Assured of the +admiration of his companion, he felt a quiet as if his energies had been +turned off and he were coasting. He recognized several faces and saluted +them as if overcome with a desire to relate a jest. + +"Notice the men and women together," he resumed easily, almost +unconscious of talking. "Observing married couples is a post-graduate +course in pessimism. There's a pair arm in arm. Corpses grown together. +There's no intimacy like that of cadavers. Yet at this and all other +moments they're unaware of death. They move by us without thought, +emotion, or words in them." + +"They look very proud," she interrupted. + +"It's the set expression of vacuity. Just as skeletons always seem +mysteriously elate. Their pride is an absence of everything else--a sort +of rigid finery they put on in lieu of a shroud. Never mind staring +after them, please. They are Mr. and Mrs. Jalonick who live across the +street from my home. I dislike staring even after truths. Listen, I have +something more to say about them if you'll not look so serious. Your +emotions are obviously infantile. I can give you a picture of marriage: +two little husks bowing metronomically in a vacuum and anointing each +other with pompous adjectives. Draw them a little flattened in the rear +from sitting down too much and you'll have a masterpiece. It's amusing +to remember that Mr. and Mrs. Jalonick were once in love with each +other!" Dorn laughed good-naturedly. "Fancy them on a June night ten +years ago before their eyes had become cotton, holding hands and trying +to give a meaning to the moon. Are you tired?" + +"No, please. Let's walk, if you haven't anything else to do." + +"Nothing." It was the seventh anniversary of his marriage. An annoying +thought. "You're an antidote for inertia. I marvel, as always, at my +garrulity. Women usually inspire me with a desire to talk. I suppose +it's a defensive instinct. Talk confuses women and renders them +helpless. But that isn't it. I talk to women because they make the best +sounding-boards. Do you object to being reduced to an acoustic? Yes, sex +is a sort of irritant to the vocabulary. It's amusing to converse +profoundly with a pretty woman whose sole contributions to any dialogue +are a bit of silk hose and an oscillation of the breasts." + +"You make me forget I'm a woman and agree with you." + +"Because you're another kind of woman. The reflector. Or acoustic. I +prefer them. I sometimes feel that I live only in mirrors and that my +thoughts exist only as they enter the heads of others. As now, I speak +out of a most complete emptiness of emotion or idea; and my words seem +to take body in your silence--and actually give me a character." + +"I always think of you as someone hiding from himself," she answered. +Dorn smiled. They were old friends--a union between them. + +"There's no place of concealment in me," he said after a pause. He had +been thinking of something else. "But perhaps I hide in others. After +talking like this I come away with a sort of echo of what I've said. As +if someone had told me things that almost impressed me. I talk so damned +much I'm unaware of ever having heard anybody else but myself express an +opinion. And I swear I've never had an opinion in my life." He became +silent and resumed, in a lighter voice, "Look at that man with whiskers. +He's a notorious Don Juan. Whiskers undoubtedly lend mystery to a man. +It's a marvel women haven't cultivated them--instead of corsets. But +tell me why you've disdained art as an ideal. You're curious. It's a +confessional I should think would appeal to you. I'm almost interested +in you, you see. Another hour with you and you would flatter me into a +state of silence." + +Dorn paused, somewhat startled. Her dark lips parted, her eyes glowing +toward the end of the street, the girl was walking in a radiant +abstraction. She appeared to be listening to him without hearing what he +said. Dorn contemplated her confusedly. He frowned at the thought of +having bored her, and an impulse to step abruptly from her side and +leave became a part of his anger. He hesitated in his walking and her +fingers, timorous and unconscious of themselves, reached for his arm. He +wondered with a deeper confusion what she was dreaming about. Her hand +as it lay on his forearm gave him a sense of companionship which his +words sought clumsily to understand. + +"I was saying something about art when you fell asleep," he smiled. + +Rachel threw back her head as if she were shaking a dream out of her +eyes. + +"I wasn't asleep," she denied. They moved on in the increasing crowd. + +"Men and women," Dorn muttered. "The street's full of men and women +going somewhere." + +"Except us," the girl cried. Her eyes, alight, were thrusting against +the cold, amused smile of his face. He would be late. Anna would be +waiting. An anniversary. Anniversaries were somehow important. They +revived interest in events which had died. But it was nice to drift in a +crowd beside a girl who admired him. What did he think of her? Nothing +... nothing. She seemed to warm him into a deeper sleep. It was a relief +to be admired for one's silence. Admired, not loved. Love was a bore. +Anna loved him, bored him. Her love was an applause that did not wait +for him to perform--an unreasonable ovation. + +He looked at the girl again. She was walking beside him, vivid eyes, +dark lips--almost unaware of him, as if he had become a part of the +dream that lived within her. + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +When she was a child she used to see a face in the dark as she was +falling asleep. It was crude and misshapen, and leered at her, filling +her heart with fear. Later, people had become like that to her. + +When she was eighteen Rachel came to Chicago and studied art at an art +school. She learned nothing and forgot nothing. She read books in +English and in Russian--James, Conrad, Brusov, Tolstoi. Her reading +failed to remove her repugnance to the touch of life. Instead, it lured +her further from realities. She did not like to meet people or to hear +them talk. At twenty she was able to earn her living by drawing posters +for a commercial art firm and making occasional illustrations for +magazines designed for female consumption. + +As she matured, the repugnance to life that lay like a disease in her +nerves, developed dangerously. She would sit in her room in the evening +staring out of the window at the darkened city and thinking of people. +There was an endless swathing of people, buildings, faces, words, that +wound itself tightly about her. She would cover her face suddenly and +whisper, "Oh, I must go away. I must." + +She hurried through dragging days as if she were running away. But there +were things she could not escape. Men smiled at her and established +themselves as friends. Women were easy to get rid of. One had only to be +frank and women vanished. But this same frankness, she found, had an +opposite effect upon men. Insults likewise served only to interest men. +They would become gradually more and more acquainted with her until it +became impossible to talk to them. Then she would have to ignore them, +turning quickly away when they addressed her and saying, "Good-bye, I +must go." + +At times she grew ashamed of her sensitiveness. She would sit alone in +her room surrounded by a whimpering little silence. A melancholy would +darken her heart. It wasn't because she was afraid of people. It was +something else. She would try to think of it and would find herself +whispering suddenly, "Oh, I must go away. I must." + +To men, Rachel's beauty seemed always a doubtful quality. Her appeal +itself was doubtful. The Indian symmetry of her face lay as behind a +luminous shadow--an ill-mannered, nervous face that was likely to lure +strangers and irritate familiars. In the streets and restaurants people +looked at her with interest. But people who spoke to her often lost +their interest. There was a silence about her like a night mist. She +seemed in this silence preoccupied with something that did not concern +them. Men found the recollection of her more pleasing than her presence. +Something they remembered of her seemed always to be missing when they +encountered her again. Lonely evening fields and weary peasants moving +toward the distant lights of their homes spoke from her eyes. An exotic +memory of simple things--of earth, sky, and sea--lay in her sudden +gestures. A sense of these things men carried away with them. But when +they came to talk to her they grew conscious only of the fact that she +irritated them. These who persisted in their friendship grew to regard +her solicitously and misunderstand their emotions toward her. + +It was evening when Rachel came to her room after her walk with Erik +Dorn. The long stroll had given her an aversion toward work. She glanced +at several unfinished posters and moved to a chair near a window. + +A glow of excitement brightened the dusk of her face. Her eyes, usually +asleep in distances, had become alive. They gave themselves to the +night. + +Beyond the scratch of houses and the slant of home lights she watched +the darkness lift against the sky. The city had dwindled into a huddle +of streets. Noise had become silence. The great crowds were packed away +in little rooms. Sitting before the window, unconscious of herself, she +laughed softly. Her black hair felt tight and heavy. She shook her head +till its loose coils dropped across her cheeks. She had felt confused +when she entered the room, as if she had grown strange to herself. + +"Who am I?" she whispered suddenly. She raised her hand and stared at +it. Something intimate had left her. She remembered herself as in a +dream. There had been another Rachel who used to sit in this chair +looking out of the window. A memory came of people and days. But it was +not her memory, because her mind felt free of the nausea it used to +bring. + +She stood up quickly and turned on a light. Her dexterous hands twisted +her hair back into loose coils on her head. Strange, she did not know +herself. That was because things seemed different. Here was her room, +littered with books and canvasses and clothes, and the bed in which she +slept, half hidden by the alcove curtains. But they were different. She +began to hum a song. A tune had come back to her that men sang in Little +Russia trudging home from the wheat fields. That was long ago when the +world was a bad dream that frightened her at night. Now there was no +world outside, but a darkness without faces or streets--a darkness with +a deep meaning. It was something to be breathed in and felt. + +She opened the window and stood wondering. She was lonely. Loneliness +caressed her heart and drew dim fingers across her thought. She could +never remember having been lonely before. But now there was a +difference. She smiled. Of course, it was Erik Dorn. He had pleased +her. The things he had said returned to her mind. They seemed very +important, as if she had said them herself. She would go out and walk +again--fast. It was pleasant to be lonely. Her throat shivered as she +breathed. Bewildered in the lighted room she laughed and her lips said +aloud, "I don't know. I don't know!" + + * * * * * * + +Among the men who had established themselves as friends of Rachel was a +young attorney named George Hazlitt. He had gone to school with her in a +small Wisconsin town. A year ago he had discovered her again in Chicago. +The discovery had excited him. He was a young man with proprietary +instincts. He had at once devoted them to Rachel. After several months +he had begun to dream about her. They were correct and estimable dreams +reflecting credit upon the correct and estimable stock from which he +came. + +He fell to courting Rachel tenaciously, torn between a certainty that +she was insane and a conviction that a home, a husband's love, and the +paraphernalia of what he termed clean, healthy living would restore her +to sanity. Their meetings had been affairs of violence. In her presence +he always felt a rage against what he called her neurasthenia--a word he +frequently used in drawing up bills for divorce. He regarded +neurasthenia not as a disease to be condoned like the mumps, but as a +deliberate failing--particularly in Rachel. The neurasthenia of the +defendants he pursued in courts annoyed him only slightly. In Rachel it +outraged him. It was his habit to inform her that her sufferings were +nothing more than affectations and that her moods were shams and that +the whole was a part and parcel of neurasthenia. + +This unhappy desire of his to browbeat her into a state which he defined +as normal, Rachel had accepted in numb helplessness. She had given up +commanding him to leave her alone. His presence frequently became a +nausea. Her enfevered senses had come to perceive in the conventionally +clothed and spoken figure of the young attorney, a concentration of the +repugnant things before which she cowered. During his courtship he had +grown familiar to her as a penalty and his visits had become climaxes of +loathsomeness. + +But a stability of purpose peculiar to unsensitive and egoistic young +men kept Hazlitt to his quest. His steady rise in his profession, the +growing respect of his fellows for his name, fired him with a sense of +success. Rachel had become the victim of this sense. Of all the men she +knew Hazlitt grew to be the most unnecessary. But his persistence seemed +to increase with her aversion for him. In a sort of mental self-defense +against the nervous disgust he brought her, she forced herself to think +of him and even to argue with him. By thinking of him she was able to +keep the memory of him an impersonal one, and to convert him from an +emotionally unbearable influence into an intellectually insufferable +type. A conversion by which Hazlitt profited, for she tolerated him more +easily as a result of her ruse. She thought of him. His youth was fast +entrenching itself in platitudes and acquiring the vigor and directness +that come as a reward of conformity. Life was nothing to wonder at or +feel. Life shaped itself into definite images and inelastic values +before him. To these images and values he conformed, not submissively, +but with a militant enthusiasm. On summer mornings he saw himself as a +knight of virtue advancing clear-eyed upon a bedeviled world. When he +was among his own kind he summed up the bedevilments in the word "bunk." +The politer word, to be used chivalrously, was "neurasthenia." The +victims of these bedevilments were "nuts." A dreadful species like +herself, given to wrong hair cuts, insanities, outrages upon decency and +above all, common sense. + +Hazlitt's attraction to Rachel in the face of her neurasthenia did not +confuse him. Confusion was a quality foreign to Hazlitt. He courted her +as a lover and proselyter. His proselyting consisted of vigorous +denunciations of the things which contributed to the neurasthenia of his +beloved. He declaimed his notions in round, rosy-cheeked sentences. +There was about Hazlitt's wooing of Rachel the pathos which might +distinguish the love affair of a Baptist angel and the hamadryad +daughter of a Babayaga. + +Yet, though in her presence he denounced her art, taste, sufferings, +books, friends, affectations, away from her she came to him--beautiful +eyed and fragile--bringing a fear and a longing into his heart. Dreaming +of her over a pipe in his home at night, he saw her as something +bewilderingly clean, different--vividly different from other women, with +a difference that choked and saddened him. There was a virginity about +her that extended beyond her body. This and her fragility haunted him. +His youth had caught the vision of the night mist of her, the lonely +fields of her eyes, the shadow dreams toward whose solitudes she seemed +to be flying. Beside Rachel all other women were to him somehow coarse +and ungainly fibered, and somehow unvirginal. + +Out of his dream of her arose his desire to have her as his own, +to come home and find her waiting, to have her known as Mrs. +George Hazlitt. The thought of the Rachel he knew--mysterious, fugitive, +neurasthenic--established normally across a breakfast table, smiling a +normal good-bye at him with her arms normally about his neck, was a +contrast that sharpened his desire. It offered a transformation that +would be a victory not only for his love but for the shining, militant +platitudes behind which Rachel had correctly pointed out to herself, he +lived. + + * * * * * * + +Bewildered in the lighted room, Rachel turned suddenly to the door. +Someone was knocking--loud. She hurried eagerly forward, wondering at +an unfinished thought ... "perhaps it is...." Hazlitt, smiling with +steady, solicitous eyes confronted her. + +"I've been knocking for five minutes," he announced. "I heard you or I'd +have gone away." + +Rachel nodded. Of course, it would be Hazlitt. He was always appearing +when least expected. But it would be nice to talk to someone. She +smiled. This was surprising and she shook her head as if she were +carrying on a conversation with herself. George Hazlitt was always +unbearable. But that was a memory. It no longer applied. + +"I'm glad you came," she greeted him. "I was lonely." + +Hazlitt looked at her in surprise. Visiting Rachel was a matter that +required an extreme of determination. He had come prepared as usual for +the sullen, uncomfortable hour she offered. + +"I was going out," she continued, "but I won't now. If you'll sit down +I'll do some work. You won't mind." + +She looked at him eagerly as if to tell him he must forget she had +always hated him and that she was different now. At least for the +moment. He understood nothing and remained staring at her. His manner +proclaimed frankly that he was bewildered. + +"Yes, certainly," he answered at length, and sat down. She hurried +about, securing her paints and setting up one of the unfinished +posters. Drawing a deep breath Hazlitt lighted a pipe and watched her. +She was beautiful. He admitted it with less belligerency than usual. He +sat thinking, "what the deuce has happened to her. She said she was glad +to see me." He was afraid to start an inquiry. She had never before +smiled at him, let alone voiced pleasure over his presence. It was a +mistake of some sort but he would enjoy it for awhile. But perhaps it +was the beginning of something. + +Hazlitt sighed. He smoked, waited, and struggled to avoid the thoughts +that crowded upon him. + +"That's rather nice," he said. He would follow her mood, whatever it +was. Rachel's eyes laughed toward him. + +"I hope it doesn't bore you. If you hadn't come I would never have +thought of working." + +The thing was unbelievable. Yet he contemplated it serenely. He would +talk to her soon and find out what was the matter. There was undoubtedly +something the matter. His eyes stared at her furtively as she returned +to her work. "There's something the matter," his thought cautioned him. +Rachel resumed her talking. A naivete and freshness were in her voice. +She was letting her tongue speak for her and laughing at the sound of +the curious remarks it made. + +"Do you think that women are becoming barbarians? The way they mess up +their hair and go in for savage colors! Sometimes I get to feeling that +they will end up as--as psychopathic barbarians. With astrologer hats." + +She regarded Hazlitt carelessly. Hazlitt, with fidgets in his thought, +smiled. His eyes lost their solicitous air. They began to search +shrewdly for some reason. The spectacle of a coquettish Rachel was +beyond him, even as the sound of her laugh was an amazing music to his +senses. But his shrewdness evaporated. It occurred to him that women +were peculiar. Particularly Rachel. A direct and vigorous Hazlitt +concluded that Rachel had succumbed to his superior guidance. There was +nothing else to explain her tolerance. He called it tolerance, for he +was still wary and her eyes shining eagerly, hungrily at him might be no +more than a new kind of neurasthenia. He let her talk on without +interruption. She would like to paint streets, houses, lights in the +dark, city things. Blowing puffs of smoke carelessly toward the ceiling +he answered finally, "If you didn't have to support yourself, perhaps +you could." A fear whirled in his heart with the sentence. He had never +asked her outright to marry him. The thought that he had almost asked +her, now made him feel dizzy. + +"There! I guess that can rest now." + +Rachel put aside her painting. She sat down near him. Her eyes narrowed +and she listened with a sleepy smile as he began carefully to recite to +her incidents that had happened during his day. But he became silent. +She didn't mind that. She desired to sit as she was, her emotion a +dream that escaped her thought. Hazlitt fumbled with his pipe. It was +out. He dropped it into a pocket. His shrewdness and his weariness had +left him. He felt almost that he was alone. + +"You're wonderful," he whispered; and he grew frightened of his voice. +Rachel saw his face light with an unusual expression. He would be kind +now and let her smile. + +"I'm glad you came," she sighed. "I don't know why. I feel different +to-night." + +She had a habit of short, begrudging sentences delivered in a quick +monotone--a habit of speech against which Hazlitt had often raged. But +now her words--flurried, breathless, begrudging as always--stirred him. +They could be believed. She was a child that way. She spoke quickly +thoughts that were uppermost in her mind. + +"I never thought I could be glad to see you. But I am." + +Hazlitt felt suddenly weak. Her face before him was something in a +dream. It was turned away and he could watch her breathing. Bewilderedly +he remembered a thousand Rachels, different from this one, who was glad +he had come. But the beauty of her burned away uncomfortable memories. +She was the Rachel of his loneliness. Out of George Hazlitt vanished the +vigor and directness of a young man who knows his own soul. There came a +vision--a thing uncertain and awesome, and he sat humbled before it. + +He reached her hand and closed his fingers over it. An awe squeezed at +his throat. Her hand lay without protest within his. He had never +touched her before. She had been a symbol and a dream. Now he felt the +marvel of the fact that she was a woman. Her hand, warm and alive, +astonished him with the news. + +Rachel, during his speechlessness, looked at him unbelievingly. The grip +of his fingers was bringing an ache into her heart. It was sad. The +night and the room were sad. She could feel sadness opening little +wounds in her breasts. And before she had been happy. She heard him +whispering, "I can't talk to you. I can't. Oh, you are beautiful!" + +His eyes made her think he was suffering. Then he was sad, too. She +stood up because his hand drew her. Why did he want her to stand up? His +body touched her and she heard him gasp. Her heart seemed adrift. She +was unreal. There was another Rachel somewhere else. He was saying, but +he was not talking to her, "Oh, Rachel, I love you. I love you, Rachel!" + +Still she waited unbelievingly, the ache in her dragging at her senses. +She had fallen asleep and was dreaming something that was sad. But his +face was suddenly too close. His eyes were too near and bright. They +awakened her. + +"Let me go, quick." + +His hands clung. For an instant she failed to understand his resistance. +He was saying jerkily, "No ... no!" + +She twisted out of his arms and stood breathless, as if she were +choking. Hazlitt looked at her, a bit pensively. His heart lost in a +dream and a rapture could only grimace a child's protest out of his +stare. He hadn't kissed her. But that would come soon. Not everything at +once. He must not be a brute. He smiled. His good-natured face glowed as +if in a light. Then he heard her talking, + +"Go away. At once. I never want to see you again. I'll die if I see you +again." + +Her hands were in her hair. + +"Go away. Please.... Oh, God, I can't stand you. You--horrify me!" + +The panic in Rachel's voice seemed to dull his ears to her words. He saw +her for a vivid moment against the opened window and then he found +himself alone, looking into a night that was haunted with an image of +her. He remembered her going, but it seemed to him he still saw her +against the window, his eyes bringing to him a vision of her face as she +had looked. + +He had grown white. In the memory of her face, as in an impossible +mirror, he saw a loathsome image of himself. Her eyes had blazed with +it. He sickened and his thought grew faint. Then the night came before +him and the echo of the words Rachel had spoken beat in his head. He +walked with his hat politely in his hand out of the door. + +On the stairs his eyes grew weak and warm. Tears rushed from them. He +stumbled and clutched at the banister. She had led him on. She had +looked at him with love. Love ... but he had dreamed that. What was it, +then? Her eyes burning toward him had told him he was loathsome. There +was something wrong with him. He wept. He put his hat on mechanically. +He dried his eyes. There was something wrong. + +On her bed Rachel lay mumbling to herself, mumbling as if the words were +a pain to her ears. "Erik Dorn ... Erik Dorn." + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +The world in which Erik Dorn lived was compounded of many surfaces. Of +them Anna, his wife, was the most familiar. It was a familiarity of +absorption. Weeks of intimacy passed between them, of lover-like +attentiveness during which Dorn remained unconscious of her existence. +Her unending talk of her love for him--words and murmurs that seemed an +inexhaustible overflow of her heart--passed through his mind as a part +of his own thought. Hers was a more definite contribution to the +emptiness of the life through which he moved. + +Yet in his unconsciousness of her there lived a shadowy affection. On +occasions in which they had been separated there had always awakened in +him an uneasiness. In his nights alone he lay sleepless, oppressed, a +nostalgia for her presence growing in him. With his eyes opened at the +darkness of a strange room he experienced then an incompleteness as if +he himself were not enough. The emptiness in which he was living became +suddenly real. He would feel a despair. Words unlike the sophisticated +patter of his usual thought would come to him.... "What is there ... I +would like something ... what?..." A sense of life as an unpeopled +vastness would frighten him vaguely. Night sounds ... strange, +shadow-hidden walls. They made him uneasy. Memories then; puzzling, +mixed-up pictures that had lost their outlines. Things that had left no +impression on his thought--sterile little incidents through which he had +moved with automatic gestures--returned like sad little outcasts +pleading with him. Faces he could not remember and that were yet +familiar peered at him in his sleeplessness with poignant eyes that +frightened. + +There would come to him the memory of the time he had been a boy and had +lain like this in his mother's home, startled with fears that sat like +insanities in his throat. The memory of his being a boy seemed to +restore him to the fears long forgotten. Words would come ... "I was a +boy ..." and he would lie thinking of how people grew old; of how he had +grown old without seeming to change, and yet changing--as if he had been +gently vanishing from himself and even now was moving slowly away. He +was like a house from which issued a dim procession of guests never +pausing for farewells. He had been a boy, a youth, a man ... each +containing days and thoughts. And they moved slowly away from +him--completed figures fully dressed. Slowly, without farewells, with +faces intensely familiar yet no longer known. Thus he would continue to +vanish from himself, remaining unchanged but diminishing, until there +were no more guests to forsake and he stood alone waiting a last +farewell--a curious, unimaginable good-bye to himself. Nothing ... +nothing. A long wait for a good-bye. And then nothing again. Already he +was half shadow--half a procession of Erik Dorns walking away from him +and growing dimmer. + +In the dark of the strange room, his eyes staring and fearful, he would +reach suddenly for Anna, embracing her almost as if she were beside him. +Her smile that forever shone upon him like the light of lilies and +candles from a sad, quiet altar; her words that forever flowed like a +dream from her heart, the warmth of her body that she offered him as if +it no longer existed for herself--to these his loneliness sought vainly +to carry him. And he would find himself tormented by a desire for her, +lying with her name on his lips and her image alone alive in the empty +dread of his thought. + +United again in their home, he lapsed into the unconsciousness of her, +sometimes vaguely startled by the tears he felt on her cheeks as they +lay together at night. Out of this unconsciousness he made continual +love to her, giving her back her endearments and caresses. Of this he +never tired. His kisses unaware of her, his tendernesses without meaning +to him, he yet felt in her presence the shadow of a desire. The love +that filled his wife seemed to animate his phrases with an amorous +diction that echoed her own. He would hold her in his arms, bestowing +kisses upon her, and watch as in wonder of some mysterious make-believe, +the radiance that his meaningless gestures brought to her. + +There were times, however, when Dorn became aware of his wife, when she +thrust herself before him as a far-away-eyed and beautiful-faced +stranger. He had frequently followed her in the street, watching her +body sway as she walked, observing with quickening surprise her trim, +lyre-like shoes, her silken ankles, the agile sensualism of her +litheness under a stranger's dress. He had noticed that she had coils of +red hair with bronze and gold lights slipping over it, that her face +tilted itself with a hint of determination and her eyes walked proudly +over the heads of the crowd. He watched other men glimpse her and turn +for an instant to follow with their stares the promise of her body and +lighted face. Dorn, walking out of her sight, got a confused sense of +her as if she were speaking to the street, "I am a beautiful woman. In +my head are thoughts. I am a stranger to you. You do not know what my +body looks like or what dreams live in me. I have destinations and +emotions that are mysterious to you. I am somebody different from +yourselves." + +On top of this sense of her had come each time a sudden vivid +picture--Anna in their bedroom attaching her garters to the tops of her +stockings; Anna tautening her body as she slipped out of her nightgown +... or a picture of her pressing his head against her breasts and +whispering passionately, "Erik, I adore you." The strangeness then would +leave her and again she was something he had absorbed. When he looked +for her she had vanished in the scribble of the crowd and he walked with +the same curious unconsciousness of her existence as of his own. + +There were times too in their home when Anna became a reality before his +eyes--an external that startled him. This was such a time now. Rachel +had come to visit them. She sat silent, fugitive-bodied amid overfed, +perspiring-eyed guests. And he stood looking at Anna and listening to +her. + +He wondered why he looked at Anna and not at Rachel. But his wife in +black velvet and silken pumps, like a well-limned character out of some +work of stately fiction, held his attention. He desired to talk to her +as if she were a stranger. She sat without surprise at his unusual +verbal animation in her behalf, listening to his banter with an intent, +almost preoccupied smile in her eyes. While he talked, asking her +questions and pressing for answers, he thought. "She's not paying any +attention to my words, but to me. Her love is like a robe about her, +covering her completely." Yet she seemed strange. Behind this love lived +a person capable of thinking and reasoning. Dorn, as sometimes happened, +grew curious about her thoughts. He increased his efforts to rivet her +attention, as if he were trying to coax a secret out of her. The +easiest way to arouse her was to say things that frightened her, to make +remarks that might give her the feeling he had some underlying idea in +his head hostile to their happiness. + +The company of faces in the room emitted laughter, uttered words of +shocked contradiction, pressed themselves eagerly forward upon his +phrases. A red-faced man whose vacuity startled from behind a pair of +owlish glasses exclaimed, "That's all wrong, Dorn. Women don't want war. +Your wife would rather cut off her arm than see you go to war. And mine, +too." + +The wife of the red-faced man giggled. A younger, unmarried woman posed +carelessly on the black piano bench in an effort to exaggerate the +charms of her body, spoke with a deliberate sigh. + +"No, I don't agree with you, Mr. Harlan. Women are capable of +sacrifice." + +She thrust forward a lavender-stockinged leg and contemplated it with a +far-away sacrificial light in her eyes. The red-faced one observed her +with sudden owlish seriousness. His argument seemed routed. + +"Of course that's true," he agreed. Mr. Harlan came of a race whose +revolutionary notions expired apologetically before the first platitude +to cross their path. "We must always bear in mind that women are capable +of sacrifice; that women ..." The lavender stocking was withdrawing +itself and Mr. Harlan stammered like an orator witnessing a sudden +exodus of his audience, "that women are really capable of remarkable +things," he concluded. + +Dorn was an uncommonly clever fellow, but a bit radical. He'd like to +think of something to say to him just to show him there was another side +to it. Not that he gave a damn. Some other time would do. The red face +turned with a great attentiveness toward the hoarsely oracular Mr. +Warren, his eyes dropping a furtive curtsy in the direction of the +vanished stocking. + +"I never agree with Dorn," Warren was remarking, "for fear of +displeasing him." + +He gazed belligerently at Anna whose eyes were attracting attention. She +was watching her husband in a manner unbecoming a hostess. A middle-aged +youth toying politely with the blue sash of a girl in a white dress--he +had recently concluded a tense examination of the two antique rings on +her fingers--saw an occasion for laughter and embraced it. The girl +glanced somewhat timidly toward Anna and addressed her softly, as if +desiring to engage in some conversation beyond the superficial +excitement of the moment. + +"I'm just mad about blue sashes," she whispered. "I think the sash is +coming back, don't you?" + +Anna nodded her head. Erik had resumed his talk, his eyes still on her. + +"Women are two things--theory and fact," he was saying. "The theory of +them demands war. If we get into this squabble you'll find them +cheering the loudest and waving the most flags. War is something that +kills men; therefore, it is piquantly desirable to their subconscious +hate of our sex." He smiled openly at Anna. "It's also something that +plays up the valor and superiority of man and therefore offers a +vindication for her submission to him." + +"Oh," the lavender stocking was indignantly in evidence, "how awful!" + +Dorn waited until the young woman had shifted her hips into a more +protesting outline. + +"I agree," the red face chimed in. "It's nonsense. Dorn's full of clever +nonsense. I quite agree with you, Miss Dillingham." Miss Dillingham was +the lavender stocking. The wife of the red face fidgeted, politely +ominous. She announced pertly: + +"I agree with what Mr. Dorn says." Which announcement her husband +properly translated into a warning and a threat of future conversation +on the theme, "You never pay any attention to me when there's anybody +else around." + +Dorn continued, "And it gives them a sense of generalities. Women live +crowded between the narrow horizons of sex. They don't share in life. +It's very sad, isn't it, Miss Williams?" Miss Williams removed her sash +gently from the hands of the elderly youth and pouted. She was always +indignant when men addressed her seriously. It gave her an +uncomfortable feeling that they were making fun of her. + +"Oh, I don't know," she answered. The elderly youth nodded his head +enthusiastically and whispered close to her ear, "Exactly." + +"The things that are an entirety to women," pursued Dorn, "milk bottles, +butcher bills, babies, cleaning days, hello and good-bye kisses, are +merely gestures to their husbands. So in a war they find themselves able +to share what is known as the larger horizon of the male. One way is +through sacrifice. They sacrifice their sons, lovers, husbands, uncles, +and fathers with a high, firm spirit, announcing to the press that they +are only sorry their supply of relatives is limited. The sacrificing +brings them in contact with the world in which their males live. That's +the theory of it." + +Anna's smile continued to deny itself to his words. It said to him, +"What does it matter what you say? I love you." And yet there was a +thought behind it holding itself aloof. + +"But the fact of woman is always denying her theory," he added. "That's +what makes her confusing. The fact of her weeps at departures, shell +shocks, amputations; grows timid and organizes pacifist societies. It's +a case of sex instinct versus the personal complex." + +The elderly young man straightened in his chair, removing his eyes from +Miss Williams with the air of one returning to masculine worldliness. + +"I don't know about that," he said. "It's all very well to talk about +such things flippantly. But when the time comes, we must admit ..." + +"That talk is foolish," interrupted Warren. He looked at Rachel and +laughed. "As a matter of fact, if anybody else but Dorn said it, I'd +believe it. But I never believe Dorn. Do you, Miss Laskin?" + +Rachel answered, "Yes." + +Dorn, piqued by the continual silence of his wife, felt a sudden +discomfiture at the sound of Rachel's voice. Was Anna aware he was +talking to her so as to avoid talking to Rachel? Perhaps. But Rachel's +presence was diluted by the company. He caught a glimpse of her dark +eyes opened towards him, and for a moment felt his words disintegrate. +He continued hurriedly: + +"War, in a way, is a noble business, in that it reduces us to a +biological sanity--much the same as does Miss Dillingham's lavender +stocking!" + +The company swallowed this with an abrupt stiffening of necks. Isaac +Dorn, who had been airing himself on the veranda, relieved a tension by +appearing in the doorway and moving quietly toward an unoccupied chair. +Anna reached her hand to the old man's and held it kindly. Miss +Dillingham, surveying the stretch of hose which had been honored in her +host's conversation, raised her eyes and replied quietly: + +"Mr. Dorn is too clever to be really insulting." + +The red-faced one clung to a sense of outrage. His cheeks had grown +slightly distended, and with the grimace of indignant virtue bristling +on his face, he turned the expression toward his wife for approval. She +nodded her head and tightened the thin line of her lips. + +"I only meant," laughed Dorn, "that it reduces us to the sort of sanity +that wipes out the absurd, artificial notions of morality that keep +cluttering up the thought of the race. War reminds us that civilization +and murder are compatible. Lavender stockings, speaking in generalities, +are reminders that good and evil walk on equally comely legs." + +Mr. Harlan, having registered indignation, now struggled vainly against +the preenings of his wit, and finally succumbed. + +"In these days you can't tell Judy O'Grady and the Colonel's lady apart +by their stockings, eh?" He hammered his point home with a laugh. Warren +winked at Rachel as if to inform her of the mixed company they were in, +and Mrs. Harlan endeavored to put an end to the isolated merriment of +her husband with a "John, you're impossible!" The elderly youth, +conscious of himself as the escort of a young virgin, lowered his eyes +modestly to her ankles. Dorn, watching his wife's smile deepen, nodded +his head at her. He knew her momentary thought. She labored under the +pleasing conviction that his risque remarks were invariably inspired by +memories of her. + +"Barring, of course, the unembattled stay-at-homes," he continued. "The +sanity of battlefields is in direct ratio to the insanity of the +non-combatants. You can see it already in the press. We who stay at +home endeavor to excuse the crime of war by attaching ludicrous ideals +and purposes to its result. Thus every war is to its non-combatants a +holy war. And we get a swivel-chair collection of nincompoops raving +weirdly, as the casualty lists pour in, of humanity and democracy. It +hasn't come yet, but it will." + +"Then you don't believe in war?" said the red face, emerging +triumphantly upon respectable ground. + +"As a phenomenon inspired by ideals or resulting in anything more +satisfactory than a wholesale loss of life, war is always a joke," Dorn +answered. He wondered whether Rachel was considering him a pompous ass. +"I have a whole-hearted respect for it, however, as a biological +excitement." + +The blue sash winced primly at the word biological, and appealed to her +escort to protect her somehow from the indecencies of life. The elderly +youth answered her appeal with a tightening of his features. + +"War isn't biological," he retorted in her behalf. + +Dorn, wearying of his talk, waited for some one of the company to +relieve him of the burden. But the elderly youth had subsided, and +fulfilling his functions as host--a business of diverting visitors from +the fact that there was no reason for their presence in his home--Dorn +was forced to continue: + +"I can conceive of no better or saner way to die than crawling around +in the mud, shrieking like a savage, and assisting blindly in the +depopulation of an enemy. But unless a man is forced to fight, I can +conceive of nothing more horrible than war. Don't you think that, Anna?" + +"You know what I think, Erik," she answered. "I hate it." + +He was startled by a sudden similarity between Rachel and Anna. She too +was looking at him with the indignant aloofness of his wife--with a rapt +attention seemingly beyond the sound of his words. He caught the two +women turn and smile to each other with an understanding that left him a +stranger to both. He thought quickly, "Anna is the only one in the room +intelligent enough for Rachel to understand." He felt a momentary pride +in his wife, and wondered. + +As the conversation, playing with the theme of war, spread itself in +spasmodic blurs about the room, bursting in little crescendoes of +conviction, pronouncements, suddenly serious and inviolable truths, Dorn +found himself listening excitedly. An unusual energy pumped notions into +his thought. But it was impossible to give vent to ideas before this +collection of comedians. He desired to look at Rachel, but kept his eyes +away. If they were alone, he could talk. He permitted himself the luxury +of an explosive silence. + +He sat for a time thinking. "Curious! She knows I have things to say to +her. They are unimportant but I can say them to no one else. She knows +I avoid looking at her. There must be something--an attraction. She's a +fool. I don't know. I should have put an end to our walks long ago." + +His vocabulary, marshaling itself under a surprising force, charged with +a rush through his thought. Sentences unrelated, bizarre combinations of +words--a kaleidoscopic procession of astounding ideas--art, life, war, +streets, people--he knew what they were all about. An illumination like +a verbal ecstacy spread itself through him. Under it he continued to +think as if with a separate set of words, "I don't know. She isn't +beautiful. A stupid, nervous little girl. But it hasn't anything to do +with her. It's something in me." + +He stood up, his eyes unsmiling, and surveyed the animated faces as from +a distance. Paper faces and paper eyes--fluttering masks suspended +politely above fabrics that lounged in chairs. They were unreal--too +unreal even to talk to. Beyond these figures in the room and the noises +they made, lay something that was not unreal. It pulled at the sleep in +him. He stood as if arrested by his own silence. The night outside the +window came into his eyes, covering the words in his brain and leaving +him alone. + +He heard Anna speaking. + +"What are you thinking about, Erik?" + +Her eyes seemed to him laden with forebodings. Yet she was smiling. +There was something that made her afraid. He turned toward Rachel and +found her standing as if in imitation of himself, her face lifted toward +the window, the taut line of her neck an attitude that brought him the +image of a white bird's wing soaring. He felt himself unable to speak, +as if a hand had been laid threateningly on his throat. Rachel was +indiscreet to stand that way, to look that way. There was no mistaking. +His thought, shaking itself free of words ... "In love with me. In love +with me!" He paused. A bewildering sense of infidelity. But he had done +nothing--only walk with her a few afternoons. And talk. "A stupid, +nervous little girl." It was some sort of game, not serious necessarily. +He stepped abstractedly toward his wife, aware that the conversation had +flattened. + +"I wasn't thinking," he answered, searching guiltily for an epigram. +"Won't you play?" + +Anna stood up and brought her eyes to a level with his own. Again the +light of foreboding, of unrevealed shadows flashed at him out of her +smile. She understood something not clear in his own head; nor in hers. +He grasped her hand as she passed and with a dolorous grimace of his +heart felt it unresponsive in his fingers. + +Anna was playing from a piano score of _Parsifal_. The music dropped a +curtain. Dorn became conscious of himself in an overheated room +surrounded by a group of awed and saccharine faces. Rachel was smiling +at him with a meaning that he seemed to have forgotten. He stared back, +pleasantly aware that a familiar sneer had returned to his eyes. In a +corner his father sat watching Anna and he noticed that the old man's +watery eyes turned in, as if gazing at images in his own thought. His +father's smile, as always, touched Dorn with an irritation, and he +hurried from it. + +The others were more amusing. The spectacle of the faces wilting into +maudlin abstractions under the caress of the music brought a grin to +him. The sounds had drugged the polite little masks and left them poised +morosely in a sleepy dream. The lavender stocking crept tenderly into +evidence. The owlish glasses focused with noncommittal stoicism in its +direction. The blue sash looked worried and the raised eyebrows of the +elderly youth asked unhappy questions. Music made people sad and caused +sighs to trickle from their ludicrously inanimate features. Melting +hearts under lacquered skins, dissolving little whimpers under +perfunctory attitudes. + +He remembered his own mood of a few moments ago, and explained to +himself. Something had given him a dream. The night shining through the +window, the curve of Rachel's neck. Rachel ... Rachel ... He grew +suddenly sick with the refrain of her name. It said itself longingly in +his thought as if there was a meaning beyond it. + +The playing had stopped. The listeners appeared to be lingering +dejectedly among its echoes. Rachel slipped quickly to her feet, her +arms thrust back as if she were poised for running. She passed abruptly +across the room. Her behavior startled him. The faces looked at her +curiously. She was running away. + +Anna followed her quietly into the vestibule and the company burst into +an incongruous babble. Dorn listened to their voices, again firm and +self-sufficient, chattering formalities. He watched Rachel adjusting her +hat with over-eager gestures. Her eyes were avoiding him. She seemed +breathless, her head squirming under the necessity of having to remain +for another moment before the eyes of the people in the room. + +"I must go," she said suddenly. Her hand extended itself to Anna. A +frightened smile widened her mouth. Dorn felt her eyes center excitedly +on him. A confused desire to speak kept him silent. He stood up and +entered the hall to play his little part as host. But Rachel was gone. +The door had closed behind her and he stared at the panels, feeling that +the house had emptied itself. Things were normal again. Anna was +speaking to her guests, smoothly garrulous. They were putting on hats +and saying good-bye. They would have to hurry to escape the rain. He +assisted with wraps, his eyes furtively watching the door as if he +expected to see it open again, with Rachel returning. + +"I've really had a wonderful time," the lavender stocking was shrilling. +He became solicitous and followed her to the door, walking with her +down the housesteps. A moist summer night, promising rain. + +But the street was empty of Rachel, and he returned. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +They were in their bedroom undressing. Outside, the night rustled with +an approaching storm. On the closed windows the rain began a rattle of +water. A wind filled the darkness. + +"What makes you act so strangely to-night, Erik?" + +She looked at him as she stood uncovering herself. She desired to speak +with a disarming casualness. Instead, her words came with a sound of +tears in them. He was always strange--always going away from her until +she had to close her eyes and love in the dark without trying to see +him. Now he might go to war and be killed. Something would happen. +"Something ... something ..." kept murmuring itself in her thought. + +"I love to hear you play to a crowd," he answered good-humoredly. + +"Why?" She could not get the languor out of her voice. + +"When people listen to music it always reminds me we are descended from +fish. God, what dolts! Minds like soft-bodied sea growths. I can +actually see them sometimes." + +"You always dislike my friends." + +She would argue with him, and in his anger his strangeness would go +away. + +"Your friends?" He seemed pleased at the chance of growing angry. "Allow +me to point out to you that the assemblage to-night had the distinction +of being my friends. I discovered the collection. I brought them to the +house first." + +"They think you're wonderful." She would get him angry that way. + +"A virtue, I admit. But it doesn't excuse their other stupidities." + +They seemed to have nothing to argue about. Anna loosened her hair. The +sight of it rolling in glistening bronzes and reds from her head +invariably gave her a desire to cover Erik's face in it. With his face +buried in the disordered masses of her hair she would feel an exquisite +fullness of love. + +"You don't think Rachel stupid, do you?" + +Dorn felt a relief at the sound of her name. His thought was full of +her, but he had been afraid to talk. + +"Miss Laskin," he replied, concealing his eagerness for the topic with a +drawl, "is partially insane." + +"Yes, you like insane people, though. I can always tell when you like +people. You never pay any attention to them then, but sort of come +hanging around me--as if you were apologizing to yourself for liking +them, and doing penance. Or you call them names." + +"Miss Laskin," Dorn answered, delighted to protract the conversation, +"is a vivid sort of imbecile suffering from vacuous complexities. An +hour alone in a room with her would drive even a philosopher to madness. +She's one of the kind of people given to inappropriate silences. She +reminds me of an emotion undergoing a major operation. Good Lord, Anna, +don't tell me you're jealous of her?" + +It was immaterial whether he denounced or upheld Rachel. To talk of her +even with indignation was a delight. + +Thunder rolled, and he became silent. Anna turned her nakedness to him. +Her eyes, grown dark, beheld a yearning and a sorrow. + +"Don't talk about people," she whispered. "I'm glad you hate them--all +of them." + +Her nudity always surprised Dorn. Her body seemed always to have grown +more beautiful and impersonal. A shout of rain sounded in the night and +a chill wind burst with a clatter in the darkness. He thought of Rachel +as he darkened the room. There came to him a picture of her walking in +the rain with her head raised and laughing. + +Anna lay for a moment, awed by the suddenness of the storm. She turned +quickly, her arms reaching hungrily about her husband. + +"I love you," she whispered. "Oh, I love you so much. My own, my +dearest!" + +She felt his lips touch hers, and closed her eyes. + +"Tell me...." + +Dorn murmured back to her, "I adore you." + +A little laugh came, and tears reached her cheeks. + +"You're so wonderful," she whispered. "Think of it! It's been the same +since the first night. You love me--just as you did." + +She paused questioningly--an old question to which he gave an old +answer. + +"I love you more." + +"I know it. I can feel it. You won't ever get tired of loving me?" + +"Never--never as long as I live." + +"Oh, you make me so happy!" + +A sigh almost like a moan came from her heart. + +"Oh, I'm a fool. I get frightened sometimes--when I hear you talk. +Something takes you away. You mustn't ever go away. Promise me. Listen, +Erik." She dropped into a panic. "Promise me you won't go to war." + +He laughed. + +"That was only talk," he whispered. "You should know my talk by this +time." + +"I'll never know you." + +"Please, Anna, don't. You hurt me when you say that." + +"And when you were silent," she went on softly, "I felt--I felt +something had happened. Erik, darling Erik. Oh, you're my whole life!" + +"I adore you, sweetest," he murmured. + +"I don't live except in you, Erik. And, oh, I'm a fool. Such a fool!" + +"You're wonderful," he interrupted. He was making responses in an old +ritual. + +"No, I'm not. I'll make you tired of me. Tell me, please. Tell me you +love me. I feel you've never told me it." + +"I love you more than everything else in life. More than everything." + +"Oh, do you, Erik?" + +She pressed herself closer to him, and he felt her body like the heat of +a flame avidly caress him. + +"I don't want you any different, though," she whispered. "When I see +other men I get horrified to think that you might become like them--if +you didn't love me. Dead, creepy things. Oh, men are horrible. Talk to +me, Erik." + +"I can't. I love you. What else is there to say?" His voice trembled and +her mouth pressed upon his. + +"I don't deserve such happiness," she said. Tears from her eyes fell +like warm wax on his shoulder. Her hands were fumbling distractedly over +him. + +"Erik," she gasped, "my Erik! I worship you." + +The storm pounded through the night, leaping and bellowing in a halloo +of sounds. Dorn tightened his arms mechanically about her warm flesh. +His lips were murmuring tensely, dramatically, "I love you. I love you." +And a sadness made a little warmth in his heart. He was alone in the +night. His arms and words were engaged in an old make-believe. But this +time he felt himself further away. There was no meaning.... + +He tried vainly to think of Anna, but an emptiness crowded even her name +out of his mind. His hands were returning her caresses, mimicking the +eager distraction of her own. His mind, removed as if belonging +elsewhere, was thinking aimless little words. + +There was a storm outside. Lightning.... The war was taking up too much +space in the paper. Crowding out important local news. The Germans would +probably get to Paris soon and put an end to it.... Why did Rachel run +away? Should he ask her? Sometime. When he saw her. Ask her. Ask her.... +His thought drifted into a blank. Then it said ... "The thing is +meaningless. Meaningless. Houses, faces, streets. Nothing, nothing. +There's nothing...." + +His wife lay silent, quivering with an ecstasy. Her arms were hungrily +choking him. Dorn closed his eyes as if to hide himself. His lips still +murmured in a monotone, vague as the voice of a stranger in his +ears--responses in an old ritual--"I love you, I love you! Oh, I love +you so much!..." + + + + +PART II + +DREAM + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +In the evening when women stand washing dishes in the kitchens of the +city, men light their tobacco and open newspapers. Later, the women +gather up the crumpled sheets and read. + +The streets of the city spell easy words--poor, rich--neither. + +Here in one part live the grimy-faced workers, their sagging, shapeless +women and their litters of children. Their windows open upon broken +little streets and bubbling alleys. Idiot-faced wooden houses sprawl +over one another with their rumps in the mud. The years hammer +away--digesting the paint from houses. The years grind away, yet life +persists. Beneath the grinding of the years, life gropes, shrieks, +sweats. And in the evening men light their tobacco and open newspapers. + +Around a corner the boxes commence. One, two, three, four, and on into +thousands stand houses made of stone, and their regimental masonry is +like the ticking of a clock. Unvarying windows, doors identical--a +stereotype of roofs and chimneys--these hold the homes of the crowds. +Here the vague faces of the streets, the hurrying, enigmatic figures +pumping in and out of offices and stores gather to sleep and breed. In +the evening the crowds drift into boxes. The multiple destinations +dwindle suddenly into a monotone. The confusions of the city's traffic; +the winding and unwinding herds that made a picture for the eyes of Erik +Dorn, individualize into little human solitudes. The stone houses stand +ticking away the years, and within them men and women tick. Doors open +and shut, lights go on and off, day and night drop a tick-tock across +miles of roofs. And in the hour of the washing of dishes men kindle +their tobacco and read the newspapers. + +Slowly, timidly, the city moves away from the little stone boxes. +Automobiles and trees appear. Here begin the ornaments. Marble, bronze, +carved and painted brick--a filigree and a scrollwork--put forth claims. +The lords of the city stand girthed in ornaments. Knight and satrap have +changed somewhat. Moat and battlement grimace but faintly from behind +their ornaments. The tick-tock sounds through the carouse. Sleek, suave +men and languorous, desirable women sit amid elaborations, sleep and +breed in ornamental beds. Power wears new masks. Leadership has improved +its table manners, its plumbing, and its God. + +Beautiful clocks, massive with griffiens and gargoyles, nymphs and +scrollwork--they shelter heroes. But heroes have changed. Destiny no +longer passes in the night--a masked horseman riding a lonely road. +Instead, an old watchmaker winds up clocks, sleek men and desirable +women. In the inner offices of the city the new heroes sit through the +day, watchmakers themselves, winding and unwinding the immemorial crowds +with new devices. But in the evening they too return to their ornamental +boxes, and under Pompeian lamps, amid Renaissance tapestries, open +newspapers. + +Alley box and manor, the tick-tock of the city has them all. Paved +streets and window-pitted walls beat out a monotone. Lust and dream turn +sterile eyes to the night. The great multiple tick-tock of the city +waits another hour to pass. + +Wait, it reads a newspaper. On the west side of the city a man named +Joseph Pryzalski has murdered a woman he loved, beating her head in with +an ax, and subsequently cut his own throat with a razor. At the inquest +there will be exhibited a note scribbled on a piece of wrapping-paper +still redolent with herring ... "God in heaven, forgive me! She is dead. +It is better. Oh, God, now my turn!" Deplorable incident. + +In the next column the exploits of three young men armed with guns. +Entering a bank, the three young men shot and killed Henry J. Sloane, +cashier; held half a dozen other names at bay, loaded their pockets with +money, and escaped in a black automobile. The police are, fortunately, +combing the city for the three young men and the black automobile. Thank +God for the police moving cautiously through the streets with a large, +a magnificent comb that will soon pick the three young men, their three +guns, and their symbolical black automobile out of the city. + +Next, the daily report of excitements in Europe. The Austrian army has +been annihilated. A part of the German army, seemingly the most +important part, has also been annihilated. Day by day the armies of the +Allies continue to devour, obliterate, grind into dust the armies of the +Kaiser. Bulletin--black type demanding quick eye--twenty thousand +unsuspecting Prussians walking across a bridge on the Meuse were blown +up and completely annihilated. This occurred on a Monday. In the teeth +of these persistent and vigorous annihilations, the Huns still continue +their atrocities. Shame! In Liege, on a Tuesday, the blood-dripping Huns +added another horror to their list of revolting crimes. Three citizens +of Liege were executed. They died like heroes. There are other items on +this general subject, including a message from the Pope. + +Alongside the war, as if in a next room, a woman has shot her lover on +learning he was a married man. "Beauty Slays Soul-Mate; Shoots Self." +... Annihilation on a smaller but more interesting scale, this. + +A street-car has crashed into a brewery wagon and at the bottom of the +column a taxi has run over a golden-haired little girl at play. + +But why has Raymond S. Cotton, wealthy clubman and financier and +prominent in north-shore society circles, disappeared? Society circles +are agog. Sometimes society circles are merely disturbed. But they are +always active. Society circles are always running around waving +lorgnettes and exclaiming, "Dear me, and what do you think of this? I am +all agog." The police are combing the city for a woman in black last +seen with the prominent Mr. Cotton in a notorious cafe. But a man is to +be hanged in the County Jail. "The doomed man ate a hearty breakfast of +ham and eggs and seemed in good spirits." Fancy that! + +"Flames Destroy Warehouse, Two Firemen Hurt." This, in small apologetic +type like a footnote on a timetable. Inconsiderate firemen who take up +important space on a crowded day! + +Apology ceases. Here is something that requires no apology. It is +extremely important. Wilbur Jennings, prominent architect, has defied +the world and departed for a Love Bungalow in Minnesota with another +man's wife. A picture of Wilbur in flowing bow tie and set jaws defying +the world. Also of his inamorata in a ball gown, eyes lowered to a rose +drooping from her hand. Various wives and chubby-faced children, and the +inamorata's Siberian hound, "Jasper." What he said. What she said. What +they said. Opinions of three ministers, roused on the telephone by +inquiring reporters. The three divines are unanimous. But Wilbur's tie +remains defiant. + +Arm in arm with Wilbur, his tie and his troubles, his epigrams and his +Love Bungalow, sits an epidemic of clairvoyants. There is an epidemic +of clairvoyants in the city. Five widows have been swindled. The police +are combing the city for ... a prominent professor of sociology on the +faculty of the local university interrupts. The prominent professor has +been captured in a leading Loop hotel whither he had gone to divert +himself with a suitcase, a handbook on sex hygiene, and an admiring +co-ed. + +This, waiting for an hour to pass, the city reads. Crimes, scandals, +horrors, holocausts, burglaries, arsons, murders, deceptions. The city +reads with a vague, dull skepticism. Who are these people of the +newspaper columns? Lusting scoundrels, bandits, heroes, wild lovers, +madmen? Not in the streets or the houses that tick-tock through the +night.... Somewhere else. A troupe of mummers wandering unseen behind +the great clock face of the city--an always unknown troupe of rascally +mummers for whom the police are continually combing and setting large +dragnets. + +In the evening men light their tobacco and read the little wooden +phrases of the press that squeal and mumble the sagas of the +lawbreakers. Women come from the washing of dishes and eating of food +and pick up the crumpled pages.... A scavenger digging for the disgusts +and abnormalities of life, is the press. A yellow journal of lies, +idiocies, filth. Ignoring the wholesome, splendid things of life--the +fine, edifying beat of the tick-tock. Yet they read, glancing dully at +headlines, devouring monotonously the luridness beneath headlines. They +read with an irritation and a vague wonder. Tick, say the streets, and +tock, say the houses; and within them men and women tick. To work and +home again. Home again and to work. New shoes grow old. New seasons +vanish. Years grind. Life sinks slowly away with a tick-tock on its +lips. + +Yet each evening comes the ragged twopenny minstrel--a blear-eyed, +croaking minstrel, and the good folk give him ear. No pretty words in +rhythms from his tongue. No mystic cadences quaver in his voice. Yet he +comes squealing out his song of an endless "Extra! All about the +mysteries and the torments of life. All about the raptures, lusts, and +adventures that the day has spilled. Read 'em and weep! Read 'em and +laugh! Here's the latest, hot off the presses, from dreamers and +lawbreakers. Extra!" + +Thus the city sits, baffled by itself, looking out upon a tick-tock of +windows and reading with a wonder in its thought, "Who are these +people?..." + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +At ten o'clock the courts of the city crowd up. The important gentlemen +who devote themselves to sending people to jail and to preventing them +from being sent to jail, appear with fat books under their arms and +brief-cases in their hands. They have slept well and eaten well and have +arrived at their tasks with clear heads containing arguments. These are +arguments vastly more important than poems that writers make or +histories that dreamers invent. For they are arrangements of words which +function in the absence of God. God is not exactly absent, to be sure, +since the memory of Him lingers in the hearts of men. But it is a vague +memory and at times unreliable. It would appear that He was on earth +only for a short interval and failed to make any decided impression. + +Therefore, at ten o'clock, the courts crowd up and the important +gentlemen bristling with substitute arrangements of words, address +themselves to the daily business of demonstrating whether people have +done right or wrong, and proving, or disproving also, how extensive are +the sins which have been committed. Arrangements of words palaver with +arrangements of words. There ensues a vast shuffling of words, a drone +and a gurgle of syllables. The Case of the State of Illinois Versus Man. +Order in the Court Room. "No talking, please...." "If it Please Your +Honor, the Issue involved in this case is identical with the Issue as +explicitly set forth in the Case of Matthews Versus Matthews, Illinois +Sixth, Chapter Eight, Page ninety two, in which in the Third Paragraph +the Supreme Court decided." The Court Instructs the Jury, "You are to be +Guided by the Law as given You in these instructions and by the Facts as +admitted in Evidence of the Case; the court Instructs the jury they are +the judges of the law as well as of the fact but the Court further +instructs the Jury before You decide for Yourselves that the Law is +Otherwise than as given you by the Court, you are to exercise great Care +and Caution in arriving at your decision...." "Gentlemen, have you +arrived at your verdict?" "We have." "Let the clerk be handed the +verdict." "We the Jury find the Defendant...." + +Thus the tick-tock of the great city grown stern and audible, grown +verbose and insistent, speaks aloud in the courts. And here huddled on +benches are the little troupes of mummers who have committed crimes. The +mysterious sprinkling of marionettes not wound up by the watchmaker. +Names that solidify for a moment into the ink headlines. Lusts, dreams, +greeds, and manias sitting sad-faced and dolorous-eyed listening to a +drone and a gurgle of words. Alas! The evil-doers and the doers of good +bear a fatuous resemblance to each other. God Himself might well be +confused by this curious fact. But fortunately there are arrangements of +words capable of adjusting themselves to confusion, capable of +tick-tocking in the midst of disorder. Tick, say the words and tock say +the juries. Tick-tock, the cell door and the scaffold drop. Streets and +windows, paintings of the Virgin Mary, beds of the fifty-cent +prostitutes, cannon at Verdun and police whistles on crossings; the Pope +in Rome, the President in Washington, the man hunting the alleys for a +handout, the languorous women breeding in ornamental beds--all say a +tick-tock. Behind the arrangements of words, confusion strikes a posture +of guilt, strikes a posture of innocence. God Himself were a dolt to +interfere. For if the song of the angels is somehow other than the +tick-tock of men, the song of the angels is a music for heaven and the +tick-tock of men is a restful drone in which the city hides the +mysteries non-essential to the progress and pattern of its streets. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +In and out of the crowded courtrooms of the city George Hazlitt pursued +his career. Buried in the babble of words, his voice sounded from day to +day with a firm, self-conscious vigor. To the thousand and one droners +about him, the law was a remunerative game in which one matched +platitude with bromide, legal precedent of the State of Illinois with +legal precedent of the State of Indiana; in which right and wrong were a +shuffle of words and the wages of sin dependent upon the depth of a +counselor's wits. + +There was in Hazlitt, however, a puritanical fervor which withstood the +lure of expediency. He entered the courts not to juggle with words, +fence for loopholes out of which to drag dubious acquittals for his +clients. His profession was a part of his nature. He saw it as a battle +ground on which, under the babbling and droning, good and evil stood at +unending grips. Good always triumphing. Evil always going to jail +despite habeas corpuses, writs, and duces tecums. + +To question the nobility of the Hazlitt soul would be a sidestepping. +There were among his friends, men of dubious integrity with elastic +scruples and pliable consciences. But skepticism thrust in vain at the +Hazlitt armor. In him had been authentically born the mania for +conformity. He was a prosecutor by birth. Against that which did not +conform, against all that squirmed for some expression beyond the +tick-tock of life, he was a force--an apostle with a sword. Men +pretending virtues as relentless as his own were often inclined to eye +him askance. Virtue breeds skepticism among the virtuous. But there was +a difference about Hazlitt. + +The basis of his philosophy was twofold. It embraced a rage against +dreamers and a rage against lawbreakers. Lawbreakers were men and women +who sacrificed the welfare and safety of the many for the sating of +their individual greeds and lusts. He viewed the activities of +lawbreakers with a sense of personal outrage. He, Hazlitt, was a part of +society--a conscious unit of a state of mind, which state of mind was +carefully written out in text-book editorials, and on tablets handed +down by God from a mountaintop. Men who robbed, cheated, beat their +wives, deserted their families, seduced women, shirked responsibilities, +were enemies on his own threshold. They must be punished, mentally, by +him; physically by the society to which he belonged. + +The punishing of evil-doers did more than eliminate them from his +threshold. It vindicated his own virtue. Virtue increases in direct +proportion with its ability to distinguish evil. The denunciation of +evil-doers was the boasting of George Hazlitt, "I am not one of them." +The more vigorous the denunciation, the more vigorous the boast. The +hanging of a man for the crime of murder was a reward paid to George +Hazlitt for his abstinence from bloodshed. The jailing of a seducer +offered a tangible recompense for the self-denial which he, as a +non-seducer, practiced. + +Apart from the satisfactions his virtue derived in establishing its +superiority by assisting spiritually in the punishment of the +unvirtuous, his rage against lawbreakers found itself equally on his +devotion to law. He perceived in the orderly streets, in the miles of +houses, in the smoothly functioning commerce and government of his day, +a triumph of man over his baser selves. The baser selves of man were +instincts that yearned for disorder. Of this triumph Hazlitt felt +himself a part. + +Disorder he thought not only illegal, but debasing. The same virtue +which prevented him from promenading in his pajamas in the boulevard +stirred with a feeling of outrage against the confusion attending a +street-car strike. His intelligence, clinging like some militant +parasite to the stability of life, resented all agitations, material or +spiritual, all violators who violated the equilibrium to which he was +fastened. + +Against dreamers his rage was even deeper and more a part of his fiber. +In the tick-tock of life Hazlitt saw a perfection--an evolution out of +centuries of mania and disorder. The tick-tock was a perfection whose +basic principle was a respect for others. This respect evolved out of +man's fear of man and insuring a mutual protection against his predatory +habits, was to Hazlitt a religion. He denied himself pleasures and +convenient expressions for his impulses in order to spare others +displeasure and inconvenience. And his nature demanded a similar +sacrifice of his fellows--as a reward and a symbol of his own +correctness. Such explanation of his conduct as, it is easier to follow +the desires of others than to give expression to the desires of one's +self, would have been, to Hazlitt, spiritual and legal sacrilege. + +In dreamers, the rising young attorney sensed a poorly concealed effort +to evade this primal responsibility toward him and the society of which +he was an inseparable part. Men who walked with their heads in the +clouds were certain to step on one's feet. Dreamers were scoundrels or +lunatics who sought to justify their unfitness for society by ridiculing +it as unworthy and by phantasizing over new values and standards which +would be more amiable to their weaknesses. There were political dreamers +and dreamers in morals and art. Hazlitt bunched them together, branded +them with an identical rage, and spat them out in one word, "nuts." + +Dreamers challenged his sense of superiority by hinting at soul states +and social states superior to those he already occupied. Dreamers +disturbed him. For this he perhaps hated them most. Their phantasies +sometimes lifted him into moments of disorder, moments of doubt as +revolting to his spirit as were sores revolting to his skin. Then also, +dreamers had their champions--men and women who applauded their lunatic +writings and cheered their lunatic theories. + +The punishment of lawbreakers vindicated his own virtue. But his rage +against dreamers was such that their punishing offered him no sense of +satisfactory vindication. His railing and ridicule against creatures who +yearned, grimaced--neurasthenics, in short--left him with no fine +feeling of the victorious sufficiency of himself. Thus to conceal +himself from doubts always threatening an appearance, it was necessary +for him to assume a viciousness of attitude not entirely sincere. So he +read with unction political speeches and art reviews denouncing the +phantasts of his day, and from them he borrowed elaborate invective. Yet +his invective seemed like a vague defense of himself who should need no +defense and thus again doubt raised a dim triumph in his heart. + +"Yes, I'm a reactionary," he would say. "I'm for the good old things of +life. Things that mean something." And even this definition of faith +would leave him unsatisfied. + +The paradox of George Hazlitt lay in the fact that he was himself a +dreamer. Champions of order and champions of disorder share somewhat in +a similarity of imaginative impulses. + +Six months had passed since Hazlitt had wept on the stairs as he left +Rachel's room. Dry-eyed now and clear-headed, he sat one winter +afternoon against his chosen background--the swarm and clutter of a law +court. His brief-cases were packed. His law books had been bundled back +to his office. + +He was waiting beside a vivid-faced young woman who sat twisting a +tear-damp handkerchief in her hands. The jury that had listened for +three weeks to the tale of the young woman's murder of a hospital +interne who had seduced and subsequently refused to marry her, had +sauntered out of the jury-box to determine now whether the young woman +should be hanged, imprisoned, or liberated. The excitements attending +the trial had brought a reaction to Hazlitt. He seemed suddenly to have +lost interest in the business of his defense of the wronged young woman. +This despite that he had for three weeks maintained a high pitch of rage +against the scoundrel who had violated his client and subsequently +driven her insane by even more abominable cruelties. + +Hazlitt's concluding remarks to the jury on the subject of dishonored +womanhood and the merciless bestiality of certain male types had been +more than a legal oration. He had expressed himself in it and had spent +two full days lost in admiration of the echoes of his bombast.... "Men +who follow the vile dictates of their lower natures, who sow the +whirlwind and expect to reap the roses thereby; cynical, soulless men +who take a woman as one takes a glove, to wear, admire, and discard; +depraved men who prowl like demons at the heels of virtue, fawning their +ways into the pure heart of innocence and glutting their beastly hungers +upon the finest fruits of life--the beauty and sacrifice of a maiden's +first love--are such creatures men or fiends, gentlemen of the jury?" +And then ... "spurned, taunted by the sneers of one of these vipers, her +pleadings answered with laughter and blows of a fist, the soul of +Pauline Pollard grew suddenly dark. Where had been sanity, innocence, +and love, now came insanity. Her girl's mind--like sweet bells jangled +out of tune--brought no longer the high message of reason into her +heart. We sitting here in this sunny courtroom, gentlemen, can think and +reason. But Pauline Pollard, struggling in the embrace of a leering +savage, listening to his fiendish mockeries of her virtue--the virtue he +had stolen from her--ah! the soul and brain of Pauline Pollard vanished +in a darkness. The law is the law, gentlemen. There is no one respects +it more than I. If this girl killed a man coldly and with reason +functioning in her mind, she is guilty. Hang her, gentlemen of the jury! +But, gentlemen, the law under which we live, you and I and all of us, +also says, and says wisely, that a mind not responsible for its acts, a +soul whose balance has been destroyed by the shrieking voices of mania, +shall not be held guilty...." + +The jury that had listened with ill-concealed envy to the recital of the +amorous interne's promiscuous exploits, listened to Hazlitt and +experienced suddenly a fine rage against the deceased. Out of the young +attorney's florid utterings a question fired itself into the minds of +the jurors. The deceased had done what they all desired to do, but dared +not. This grinning, unscrupulous fiend of a hospital interne had +blithely taken what he desired and blithely discarded what he did not +desire. The twelve good men and true bethought them of their wives whom +they did not desire and yet kept. And of the young women and the things +of flesh and spirit they desired with every life-beat in them and yet +did not take. Was this terrible denial which, for reasons beyond their +incomplete brains, they imposed upon themselves, a meaningless, +profitless business? The bland interne was dead and unfortunately beyond +their punishment. Yet the fact that he had lived at all called for a +protest--some definitely framed expression which would throw a halo +about their own submission to women they did not desire, and their own +denial to women they did desire. The law, whose arrangements of words +are omniscient, provided such a halo. + +Dr. Hamel, the interne under discussion, was dead and buried, and +therefore, properly speaking, not on trial. Nor yet was Pauline Pollard +on trial. The persons on trial were twelve good men and true who were +being called upon to decide, somewhat dramatically, whether they were +right in living in a manner persistently repugnant to them; whether +somebody else could get away with something which they themselves, not +daring to attempt, bitterly identified as sin. + +In thirty minutes the still outraged jury was to file in and utter its +dignified protest. Pauline Pollard would again be free. And twelve men +would return to their homes with a high sense of having meted out +justice, not to Pauline or her amorous interne, but to themselves. + +Enticing speculation, the yes or no of these twelve men, three days ago. +But now Hazlitt sat with an odd indifference in his thought. The crowd +waiting avidly for the dramatic moment of the verdict; living +vicariously the suspense of the defendant--depressed him. The newspaper +reporters buzzing around, forming themselves into relays between the +press table and the door, further depressed him. He felt himself +somewhere else, and the scene was a reality which intruded. + +There was a dream in Hazlitt which sometimes turned itself on like a +light and revealed the emptiness of life without Rachel, the emptiness +of courtrooms, verdicts, crowds. Yes, even the emptiness of the struggle +between good and evil. He sat thinking of her now, contrasting the +virginal figure of her with the coarseness of the thing in which he had +been engaged. There was something about her ... something ... something. +And the old refrain of his dream like a haunting popular ballad, started +again here in the crowded courtroom. + +He remembered the eyes of Rachel, the quick gestures of her full-grown +hands that moved always as in sudden afterthoughts. Virginal was the +word that came most often to his thought. Not the virginity that spells +a piquant preface to sensualism. She would always be virginal, even +after they were married. In his arms she would remain virginal, because +there was something in her, something beyond flesh. His heart choked at +the memory of it, and his face saddened. Something he could not see or +place in a circle of words, that did not exist for his eyes or his +thought, and yet that he must follow. Even after he had won her there +would be this thing he could not see; that trailed a dream song in his +heart and kept him groping toward the far lips of the singer. Yes, they +would marry. She had refused to see him twice since the night he had +wept on the stair, leaving her. But the memories of that night had +adjusted themselves. He had seen love in the eyes of Rachel as he held +her hand. She had laughed love to him, given him for an instant the +vision of beauty-lighted places waiting for him. The rest had been ... +neurasthenia. Thus he had forgotten her words and his tears and the +vivid moment when he had seen himself reflected in her eyes as a horror. +He had tried twice to see her. He would continue trying, and some day +she would again open the door to him, laughing, whispering ... "I'm so +lonely. I'm glad you've come." In the meantime he would continue sending +her letters. Once each week he had been writing her, saying he loved +her. No answers had come. But this, curiously, did not anger him. He +wrote not so much to Rachel as to a dream of her. She remained intact in +her silence ... as he knew her ... an aloof, virginal being whose +presence in the world was its own song. + +There was a commotion. Hazlitt looked about him and saw strange faces +light up, strange eyes gleam out of the electric-glowing dusk. Snow was +falling outside. Pauline's hand gripped his forearm. Her fingers burned. +Raps of a gavel for silence. The judge spoke. A sad-faced man, with a +heavy mustache combating his words, stood up in the jury-box and spoke. +In a vast silence a clerk beside the judge's bench cleared his voice, +moistened his lips, and spoke. + +So he had won another case. Pauline was free. Snow outside and rows of +lighted windows. She was overwrought. Let her weep for a spell. Snow +outside. Three weeks and one day. Everybody seemed happy with the +verdict. People were good at heart. A triumph for decency cheered them. +People were not revengeful at heart, only decent. Congratulations ... +"Thank you, thank you! No, Miss Pollard has nothing to say now. She is +too overcome. To-morrow...." The persistent press! What did they expect +her to say? Absurd the way they kept interviewing her. The snow would +probably tie up traffic. Eat downtown.... + +"If you're ready, Miss Pollard." + +"Oh, I must thank the jurors." + +Handshakes. Twelve good men with relaxed faces. "There, there, little +woman. Start over. We only did our duty and what was right by you." + +Everybody stretched his legs. Mrs. Hamel was sobbing. Well, she was his +mother. It would only have satisfied her lower instincts of vengeance to +have jailed Pauline. + +"All right, Miss Pollard." He took her arm. Curious, what a difference +the verdict had made in her. She was a woman like any other woman +now.... His overcoat might do for another season.... Pretty girl. Hard +to get used to the idea she wasn't a defendant. + +"This way, Miss Pollard".... Take her to a cab and send her home. If +she'd ever get started. What satisfaction did women find in kissing and +hugging each other? "Thank God, Pauline. Oh, I'm so glad".... Girl +friends. Well, she'd be back among them in a few days, and in a month or +so the thing would be over. + +At last! Hazlitt blinked. The whirl of snow and crowds emptying out of +buildings gave him a sense for an instant of having stepped into a +strange world. The sharp cold restored his wandering energies and a +realization of his victory in the courtroom brought him a belated glow. +He was young, on an upgrade, able to command success. + +Hazlitt felt a sudden lusty kinship toward the swarm of bodies +unwinding itself through the snowfall. A contact with other ... a +pleasant, comforting contact. What more was life, anyway? A warmth in +the heart that came from the knowledge of work well and honestly done. +Look the world squarely in the eyes and say, "You have no secrets and I +have no secrets. We're friends." + +"Shall we go to your office, Mr. Hazlitt?" + +Why there? Hazlitt smiled at the young woman. She was free. He patted +the gloved hand on his arm and was surprised to see her eyes grow alive +with tears. + +"I would like to talk to you--now that it's over. I feel lost. Really." +She returned his smile as one determined to be brave, though lost. + +The snow hid the buildings and left their window lights drifting. Faces +passing smiled as if saying, "Hello, we're all together in the same snow +with no secrets from each other.... All friends".... Hazlitt walked with +the girl through the streets. The traffic and the crowds were intimate +friends and he spoke to them by patting Pauline's hand. An +all's-well-with-the-world pat. + +"Eighth floor, please...." + +The elevator jiggled to a stop and they stepped into the corridor. +Scrawny-faced women were crawling patiently down the floor. They slopped +wet brushes before them, wrung mops out over pails, and crawled an inch +farther down the floor. Hazlitt smiled. This, too, was a part of +life--keeping the floors of the building scrubbed. He won law cases. +Old women scrubbed floors. It fitted into an orderly pattern with a +great meaning to its order. He paused for a moment to admire the +cleanliness of the washed surface. Homage to the work of others--of old +women on their knees scrubbing floors. + +"Well, it's all over, Miss Pollard." + +She was sitting beside the desk where she had sat the first time they +had discussed her defense. Hazlitt, unloading his brief-case, looked at +her. Uncommonly pretty. Trusting eyes. What a rotten fellow, the +interne! + +"I don't know why I wanted to come here." Pauline's eyes stared sadly +about the room. "I'm free, but ..." She covered her face and wept. + +"Now, now, Miss Pollard!" + +"Oh, it's still awful." + +"You'll forget soon." + +"I'll go away. Somewhere. Alone." A louder sob. + +"Please don't cry." + +Hazlitt watched her tenderly. The weeping increased. A lonesomeness and +a vagueness were in the girl's heart. The tick-tock of the city had a +foreign sound. She was a stranger in its streets. There had been +something else, and now it was gone. A wilderness, a tension, the +familiar face of Frankie Hamel telling her to go to hell one night and +stop bothering him with her damned wailing ... and Frankie dying at her +feet whispering, "What the devil, Pauline?" Then the trial. Hot and +cold hours. A roomful of silent, open-mouthed faces listening to her +weep, watching her squirm with proper shame and anguish as she told her +story to the jurors ... the details of the abortion. "And then I +couldn't stand it. I don't remember what happened. Oh, I loved him! I +don't remember. He cursed me. He called me a ... Oh, God, names. Awful +names! I told him I was going to kill myself. I couldn't live, disgraced +... without his love. I'd bought a gun to kill myself. And he laughed. I +don't remember after that; except that somehow he was ... he was dead. +And I wasn't...." + +These things were gone. The trial was over and done. Now there was +nothing left but the city with its street-cars and offices. + +"Oh, everything's so changed," she murmured. Hazlitt stood behind her +chair, hand on her shoulder. Poor child! The law could not free her from +the remorse for her crime and mistake. Lawlessness carried its own +punishment. Virtue its own rewards, sin its own torments. + +"You'll forget," he answered softly. The law sometimes punished. But +after all this was the real punishment ... beyond the power of the law +to mete out. Punishment of sin. Conscience. Poor child! Inexorable fruit +of evil. Despair, remorse.... + +"You must forget. You're young. You can begin over. Please don't cry." + +Thus Hazlitt comforted her who was weeping not with remorse for what had +been, but that it had gone. No word consciousness stirred her grief. An +unintelligible sorrow, it swelled in her heart and filled her with +helplessness. Life had gone from her. She was mourning for it. Mourning +for a murderess and a sinner who had gone, abandoned her and left her a +naked, uninteresting Pauline Pollard again--a nobody surrounded by +nobodies. And once it had been different. Lighted faces listening to her +in a room. Frankie whispering, "What the devil, Pauline?" + +A fresh burst of tears brought Hazlitt in front of her. Gently he moved +her hands from her face. + +"You mustn't," he began over again. + +"Oh, I won't ever be able to...." + +"Yes you will, little girl." + +"No, no!" + +She was standing. Snow outside. Rows of lighted windows drifting. +Thoughts slipped out of his head. Traffic probably tied up. + +"Please don't cry." + +She dropped her head against his shoulder and wept anew. It was nice to +have somebody asking her not to cry. It made it easier and more +purposeful to weep. + +Hazlitt sighed. Tears ... tears ... the live odor of hair. Arms that +felt soft. She was mumbling close to him, "I can't help it. Please +forgive me." + +"Yes, yes! There, there!" Of course he would forgive her. Forgiveness +made him glow. But as he spoke his voice depressed him. What should he +do? Could he help her? What was life, anyway? Snow outside and rows of +lighted windows drifting. Her body close, warm, and saddening. The +firmness of his nerves dissolved. He had his sorrow too ... Rachel. Far +away. Drifting like the snow outside. Rachel ... the odor of hair +brought her back. Should he cry? Her knees had touched him once like +this. She had held her arm about his shoulder once, like this. But, oh, +so different!... The girl seemed to come closer to him. + +He had been holding a stranger politely. Now the stranger relaxed. Soft, +warm, familiar body. He grew frightened. Somehow the clinging of the +girl's body, the murmur of her tears, brought a sorrow into his heart. I +am not Rachel, but I am like her.... What made him think that? Yes, she +was like her, warm, soft, and woman. Like her--like her. Why had they +kissed? And her hands clasping nervously at his shoulders? She was not +in love? Not Rachel. But she wanted something. And he too. Something +that was a dream song. Here were the lips of the singer, eager, reaching +to his own. Pressing, asking more. How had this happened? Should he +speak? But what? Nothing to say. Had he forgotten Rachel? Remembering +Rachel? Who was this? The questions blurred. Rachel, sang his heart. For +a moment he embraced the warm shadow of a dream. And then a woman was +offering herself to him. No dream now. Her thighs riveted themselves +against him. Under her clothes her body seemed to be moving, coming to +him. + +Hazlitt grew dizzy. He had been consoling her. No more. Now what? He +threw his strength into his embrace. Their bodies moved together. + +"Oh ..." A moan as if she were still weeping. Her lips parted in +desperate surrender. Her kiss took the breath out of him. + +"Dearest!" His voice carried him out of her arms. He knew suddenly that +but for the word and the familiar sound of his voice he would have +possessed her. But the word rang an alarm in his ears. Fright, nausea, +relaxed muscles. A wiliness in his thought.... "Do you feel better now?" + +She failed to hear. Her fingers still clutched. + +"There ... there, don't cry!" He felt cold. His hands on her arms +pressed them gently away, his fingers patting them with a fatherly +diapason. George Hazlitt, attorney-at-law. + +"Better now, Pauline?" An error to have called her Pauline. Look bad in +the record. Committed him to "Pauline." + +"Oh, George!" + +The thought of Rachel listened in amazement ... George ... Pauline. +Dearest! He must be careful. She had grown numb against him. A numb +woman sewed to his lapels. He lowered her as if she were lifeless and he +fearful of disturbing her. She looked harmless in a chair. Was it +possible to talk now? Not yet. Take her hand; careful not to squeeze it. +Pat it as he'd done in the street. An all's-well-with-the-world pat. + +Somebody rattled the doorknob. Hazlitt started eagerly. Relief. But, +good God, no lights in the office. The cleaners would come in and think +things. Her hair in disorder and her face smeared with weeping would +make them think things. An oath disentangled itself from his confusion. +The door opened. Two scrawny-faced women with mops and brooms.... + +"It's all right. Go ahead. We're just leaving. Are you ready, Miss +Pollard?" + +The Miss Pollard was a masterpiece. But did it deceive the mops and +brooms? Damn them! They walked arm in arm down the corridor. + +"I think the elevators have stopped. Wouldn't it be a joke if we had to +walk down?" + +She refused to answer. Witness remains silent. Why couldn't she be +interested in jokes?... the woman of it. Nothing had happened. She had +nothing to think about. Why not jokes? He frowned at the grilling of the +elevator door. An elevator bobbed up. + +In the street, "I'll get a cab, Miss Pollard." Take a firm stand and not +call her Pauline again. But she was silent. Nothing had happened. He +grew frightened. She was trying to bulldoze him by pretending. Bundle +her into a cab and get rid of her. + +Suddenly, as if he'd been thinking it out when he hadn't, "You must +forgive me for--that. I didn't mean to, please." + +Anything rather than her silence. Even an apology. Nothing had happened, +but he would apologize anyway to be on the safe side. She looked at him +and said, "Oh!" + +"Please, Miss Pollard, you make me feel like a cur." + +A chauffeur leaned forward from his seat and thrust open the cab door. +Pauline entered without hesitation. She might have the decency to +hesitate when he was apologizing for nothing. Hazlitt stuck his head in +after her. The thing was ludicrously unfinished and he was making an ass +of himself. She should have hesitated. + +"Tell your mother I hope she'll be better soon." + +"Where to, mister?" + +He gave an address and added, "Just a minute, please." + +Hazlitt reentered the cab with his head. The thing was still unfinished. +Wishing good health to her mother made it worse--as if he were trying to +cover up something. He must be frank. Drag everything into the open and +show he wasn't afraid. But she was weeping again. He paused in +consternation. Her hand reached toward him. A voice, vibrant and soft +with tears, whispered in the gloom of the cab. A love voice. "Good-by, +George!" + +He watched the tail light dart through the traffic and then began his +defense. Gentleman of the jury ... jury ... he had done nothing. It was +she who had suggested the office. A low, vulgar ruse to trap him. The +evidence was plain on that point. Overruled. But he had attempted only +to console her. Irrelevant and immaterial to the facts at issue in the +case. But she had flung her arms around him. Not he! Never he! The woman +was mad. Yes, a mad woman. Dangerous. She had done the same to the +interne. Overruled. Overruled. What? Frank Hamel, gentleman of the jury, +glutting his beastly hungers on the finest fruit of life--the innocence +and sacrifice of a maiden's first love. No, not Hamel. Hazlitt. Are such +creatures men or fiends? What was he thinking about Oh, yes, the +interne. Dead, buried ... we, the jury, find the defendant not +guilty.... But the dead interne was saying something. + +For moments George Hazlitt looked out upon a new world--a miserable +world--vast, blurred, upside down. People were moving in it. Dead +internes. They passed with faces intent upon their own solitudes. +Buildings were in it. They burst a skyrocket of windows into the night. +There was snow. It fell twisting itself out of the darkness. Familiar +faces, buildings, snow. Theater facades making a jangle of light through +the storm. Entrances, exits, cars clanging, figures hurrying, signs +sputtering confusion in the snow. All familiar, all a part of the great +tick-tock of the city. + +Hazlitt stopped and stared at the familiar night of the streets. A gleam +and a flurry were sweeping his eyes. Snow. But faces and buildings and +lights were a part of it. They swarmed and danced about him, sending a +shout to his heart. "We're upside down ... we're upside down ... heels +in air.... She made love to the interne as she did to you ... and the +fiend is dead. Lies ... lies ... but who gives a damn?" + +The horn of a motor screeched. A woman and a man pattered by on a run, +leaving a trail of laughter. From afar came the sound of voices--of +street evangels singing hymns on a corner. The soul of George Hazlitt +grew sick. Night hands fastened themselves about his throat. Upside down +... heels in air. The things he had said to the jury were lies. Lies and +disorder. Right and wrong. God in heaven, what were they, if not right +and wrong? + +The thing came to Hazlitt without words, with a gleam and a flurry as of +snow. He stood blind--a little snow-covered figure shivering and lost in +a lighted, crowded street. All because a woman, warm and clinging, had +kissed him on the mouth and moved her body. But once she had kissed +another man thus--on the mouth, with her body moving, and therein lay a +new world--a world of flying-haired Maenads and growling satyrs that +lived behind the tick-tock of windows. Standing in the snowstorm an +insane notion took possession of Hazlitt. It had to do with Evil. Order +was an accident. Men and women were evil. The tick-tock was a pretense. + +The notion passed. Doubt needs thought to feed upon, and Hazlitt gave it +none. Or he would have ended as Hazlitt and become someone else. He +walked again with a silence in his head. Another block, and life had +again focused itself into tableaux. The moment of doubt had shaken him +as if rough hands had reached from an alley and clutched wildly at his +throat. But it had gone, and the memory of it too was gone. Hands that +had nobody behind them; emotion that came without the stabilizing +outline of words. So the world stood again on its feet. Tick-tock, said +the world to George Hazlitt; and his brain gave an answer, "Tick-tock!" + +For the paradox of Hazlitt was not that he was a thinker, but a dreamer. +His puritanism had put an end to his brain. Like his fellows for whose +respect and admiration he worked, he had bartered his intelligence for a +thing he proudly called Americanism, and thought for him had become a +placid agitation of platitudes. But he could still dream. His emotions +avenged his stupidity. Walking in the street--he felt a desire to +walk--he shut himself in. It seemed to him now that his love had become +a part of the snow and the far-away dark of the sky. Rachel ... Rachel, +his thought called as if summoning something back. + +It came to him slowly--the image of the virginal one--doubly sweet and +beautiful now that he was unclean. How had it happened? She had been +weeping; he comforting her. Two strangers, they had sat in his office. +One a murderess weeping for her sins; the other a kindly hearted, +clean-minded attorney consoling her, pointing to her the way of hope. +And then like two animals they had stood sucking at each other's breath. +God, what could he do? Nothing. He was unclean. He recalled with a dread +the thought that had come to him in the embrace ... was she Rachel? Yes, +she had been Rachel and he had lowered his dream to her lips, as if in +the lust of a strange woman's kiss there lay the image of Rachel, the +virginal mystery of Rachel. If he had been man enough not to drag the +memory of Rachel into it, it would be easy now. But he would look +squarely at the facts, anyway. That must be his punishment and his +penance. Yes, say it ... it was with his love for Rachel he had embraced +and almost possessed the body of a stranger. + +Hazlitt quickened his walking. He was confronted with the intricate +business of forgiving himself. He felt shame, but shame was something +that could be walked off. Faster ... with an amorous mumble soothing him +and the hurt. After all, was it so important? Yes ... no. Forgive +himself, but not too quickly. He walked.... Words made circles in his +head--abject and sorrowful circles about the dream of the virginal one. + +A man with a curious smile stopped in front of him to light a pipe. +Hazlitt paused and looked at the street. He would take a car. His legs +were tired. The wind and snow put out the match of the man who was +lighting a pipe. Hazlitt looked at him. What was he smiling about? We're +all in the snow ... all without secrets in the snow. Hail fellows of the +street ... Curious, he should feel sad for a man who was smiling on a +street corner. Tiredness. The man was cursing the snow good-humoredly. +Suddenly the pipe was lighted and the man seemed to have forgotten it. +His eyes gleamed for an instant across Hazlitt's face, and with an +abrupt nod of recognition the man passed on. Walking swiftly, bent +forward, vanishing behind a flurry of snow. + +Hazlitt peered down the track for his car. He wondered how the man knew +him. It pleased his vanity to be recognized by people he couldn't place. +It showed he was somebody. Yes, George Hazlitt, attorney-at-law. He +recalled ... they had met once in an office. A newspaperman--editor or +something. Probably looking for news. Hazlitt was glad he had been +recognized. The man would think of him as he walked on in the snow--of +his victory in the courtroom and his future. That was part of life, to +be thought of and envied by others. + +Beside him a newsboy raised a shout ... "Extra! Pauline Pollard +acquitted!..." People would read about it in their homes. His name. +Wonder who he was. A voice across the street answered, "Extra! Germans +bombard Paris!..." The damned Huns! Why didn't America put an end to +their dirty business by rushing in? + +He stepped into the warm street-car and sat staring moodily out +of the window. He was a part of life, but there was something +beyond--a--mystery. "Extra!..." He should have bought a paper. There was +the newspaper fellow again, still walking swiftly, bent forward, staring +into the snow.... Oh, yes, Erik Dorn. He had met him once.... The car +passed on. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +Erik Dorn laughed as he walked swiftly through the snow in the street. +It seemed to him he had been laughing incessantly for a week, and that +he would continue to laugh forever. His thought played delightedly with +his emotions ... a precocious child with new fantastic toys. He was in +love. A laughable business! + +Five months of uncertainty had preceded the laugh. An irritated, +inexplicable moodiness as if the shadow of a disease had come into his +blood. On top of this moodiness a violence of temper, a stewing, +cursing, fuming about. A five months' quarrel with his wife.... + +His love-making had been somewhat curious. Walks with Rachel--a +whirligig of streets, faces, words. A dance and a flash of words, as if +he were exploding into phrases. As if his vocabulary desired to empty +itself before Rachel. His garrulity amazed him. Everything had to be +talked about. There was a desperate need for talk. And when there was +nothing to talk about for the moment, his words abhorring idleness, fell +to inventing emotions--a complete set of emotions for himself and for +Rachel. These were discussed, explained, and forgotten. + +Finally the strange talk that had ended a week ago--a last desperate +concealment of emotion and desire in a burst of glittering phrases. +Phrases that whirled like the exotic decorations about the wild body of +a dancer, becoming a dance in themselves, deriving a movement and a +meaning beyond themselves. Then the end of concealment. An exhausted +vocabulary sighed, collapsed. A frantic discarding of ornaments and the +nude body of the dancer stood posturing naively, timidly. Therewith an +end to mystery. The thing was known. + +It had happened during one of their walks. Leaden clouds over day-dark +pavements. Warehouses, railroad tracks, factories--a street toiling +through a dismantled world. Their hands together, they paused and +remained staring as if at a third person. He had reached out rather +impersonally and taken her hand. The contact had shocked him into +silence. It was difficult to breathe. + +"Rachel, do you love me?" + +She nodded her head and pressed his hand against her cheek. They walked +on in silence. This brought an end to talk. Talk concealed. There was +nothing more to conceal. His vocabulary sighed as if admitting defeat +and uselessness. At a corner grown noisy with wagons and trucks Rachel +stopped. Her eyes opened to him. He looked at her and said, as if he had +fallen asleep "I too am in love." He laughed dreamily. "Yes, I've been +since the beginning. Curious!" + +She might laugh at him. It was evident he had avoided making love to her +during the five months in fear of that. The only reason he hadn't +embraced, kissed, and protested affection five months ago was the +possibility that she would laugh--and perhaps go away. + +Even now, despite the absence of laughter, a part of the fear he had +still lingered. He was no longer Erik Dorn, man of words and mirror of +nothings. He had said he loved her. Avoiding, of course, the direct +remark. But he had indicated it rather definitely. It would undoubtedly +lessen him to her, make him human. She had admired him because he was +different. Now he was like everybody else saying an "I love you" to a +woman. Perhaps he should unsay it. Again, a dreamy laugh. But it made +him happy. A drifting, childish happiness. He looked at her. Her eyes +struck him as marvelously large and bright. Yet in a curious way he +seemed unaware of her. No excitement came to him. Decidedly there was +something unsensual about his love--if it was love. It might be +something else. It is difficult for an extremely married man to +distinguish offhand. He desired nothing more than to stand still and +close his eyes and permit himself to shine. Vague words traced his +emotions. A fullness. A completion. An end of nothing. Thrills in his +fingers. Remarkable disturbance of the diaphragm. To be likened to the +languorous effects of some almost stimulating drug. + +In a great calm he slowly forgot himself, his words, and Rachel. +Standing thus he heard her murmur something and felt his hand once more +against her cheek. A pretty gesture. Then she was walking down the dark +street, running from him. She had said good-bye. He awoke and cursed. A +bewildering sensation of being still at her side as if he had gone out +of himself and were following her. He remained thus watching the figure +of Rachel until it disappeared and the street grew suddenly cold and +empty. A strange scene mocked him. Strange smoke, strange warehouses, +strange railroad tracks. Cupid awaking in a cinder patch. + +He walked on, still bewildered. Nothing had happened to him. Instead, +something had happened to the streets. The city had suffered an +amputation. There was something incomplete about its streets and crowds. +His eye felt annoyed by it. He was not thinking of Rachel. He felt as if +she had suddenly ceased to exist and left behind her an unexistence. It +was this emptiness outside that for the moment annoyed and then +frightened him. An emptiness that had something to give him now. His +senses reached eagerly toward the figures of people and buildings and +received nothing. What did he want of them? They were a pattern, +intricate and precise, with nothing to give. Yet he wanted. Good God, he +wanted something out of the streets of the city. Then he remembered, as +if recalling some algebraic formula, "I'm in love." His laughter had +started at that moment. + +At home it continued in him. Anna had gone to visit relatives in +Wisconsin. He spent an hour writing her a long amorous letter. He was in +love with Rachel, but a new notion had planted itself in him. Whatever +happened, Anna must not be made unhappy. Love was not a reality. Anna +and her happiness were the realities that must be carefully considered. +This thing that had popped into life in the cinder patch was a +mood--comparable to the mood of a thirsty man taking his first sip of +water. + +" ... the memory of you comes before me," he scribbled to his wife, "and +I feel sad. I am incomplete without you. Dear one, I love you. The +streets seem empty and the hours drag...." + +In writing to his wife he seemed to recover a sense of virtue. He smiled +as he sealed the envelope. "It must be an old instinct," he thought. +"People are kindest to those they deceive. Thus good and evil balance." + +His father, sitting before a grate fire, desired to talk. He would talk +to him in circles that would irritate the old man and make his eyes +water more. + +"People don't live," he began. "To live is to have a dream behind the +hours. To have the world offering something." + +"Yes, my son. Something ..." + +"Then the people outside one take on meaningful outlines. There comes a +contact. One is a part of something--of a force that moves the stars, +eh?" + +The old man nodded, and mumbled in his beard. Dorn felt a warmth toward +his father. His stupidity delighted him. He would be able henceforth to +talk to the old man and say, "I love Rachel," and the old man would +think he was coining phrases for a profitless amusement. It would be the +same with Anna. He would be able to make love to Anna differently +hereafter. A rather cynical idea. He laughed and beamed at Isaac Dorn. +Did it matter much whom one kissed as long as one had a desire for +kissing? In fact, his desire for Rachel seemed at an end, now that he +had mentioned it to her. A handclasp, a silence trembling with emotion, +a sudden light in the heart--properly speaking, this was all there was +to love. The rest was undoubtedly a make-believe. As he walked out to +post the letter he tried to recall the emotions or ideas that had +inspired him to marry Anna. There had undoubtedly been something of the +sort then. But it had left no memory. Their honeymoon, of which she was +always speaking, even after seven years, with a mist in her eyes--good +Lord, had there been a honeymoon? + +He spent the next afternoon with Rachel. A silence of familiarity had +fallen upon them. There was a totality in silence. Walking through the +streets beside her, Dorn mused, "Undoubtedly the thing is over. It +begins even to bore a bit." He noted curiously that he was unconscious +of the streets. No tracing their pictures with phrases. They were +streets, and that was an end of it. They belonged where they were. + +His eyes dropped to his companion. A face with moonlight grown upon it. +Beautiful, yes. Sometime he would tell her. Pour it out in words. There +was a paradox about the situation. He was obviously somewhat bored. Yet +to leave her, to put an end to their strolling through the strange +moments, would hurt. Had he ever lived before? Banal question. "No, I've +never lived before. Living is somewhat of a bore, a beautiful bore." + +When they parted she stood looking at him as one transfixed. + +"Erik!" + +She made his name mean something--a world, a heaven. For an instant his +laughter ended and a sadness engulfed him. Then once more he was alone +and laughing. Rachel was walking away, something rather ridiculously +normal about her step. Yes, he would laugh forever. Lord, what a jest! +Like water coming out of a stone. Laugh at the crowds and buildings that +desired to annoy him by sweeping toward him the memory of Rachel saying +"Erik!" He diverted himself, as he hurried to his home, by staring into +people's eyes and saying, "This one has a dream. That one hasn't. This +one loves. The streets hurt him. That one is dead. The streets bury +him." + +On the third day the bombardment of Paris interfered with his plans. He +remained too late in the office to walk with Rachel. As he sauntered +about the shop, assisting and directing at the extras and replates, he +vaguely forgot her. Word had come from the chief to hold the paper open +until nine o'clock. If Paris failed to fall by nine everybody could go +home and spend the rest of the night wrangling with his wife or looking +at a movie. If it fell by nine there would be a final extra. + +"I hope the damned town falls five minutes after nine," growled Warren, +"if it's got to fall. Let it fall for the morning papers. What the hell +are they for, anyway? I've got a rotten headache." + +Dorn told him to run along. "I'll handle the copy, if there is any. A +history of Paris out of the almanac will answer the purpose, I guess." + +Warren folded his newspapers and left. Dorn sat scribbling possible +headlines for the next re-plate: "Germans Bombard Paris ..." and then a +bank in smaller type: "French Capital Silent. Communication Cut Off." He +paused and added with a sudden elation, "Civilization on Its Knees." + +The hum and suspense of the night-watch pleased him. He liked the idea +of sitting in a noisy place waiting to flash the news of the fall of +Paris to the city. And the next day the four afternoon papers would +carry a small box on the front page announcing to the public that, as +usual, each of them had been first on the street with the important +announcement. The fall of Paris! His thought mused. Babylon Falls.... +Civilization on Its Knees. The City Wall of Jericho Collapses. Carthage +Reduced to Ashes. Rome Sacked by Huns. Yes, there had been magnificent +headlines in the past. Now a new headline--Paris. There would be a +sudden flurry; boys running between desks; Crowley trying to shout and +achieving a frightful whisper; a smeared printer announcing some ghastly +mistake in the composing room; and Paris would be down--fallen. Nothing +left to do except grin at the idea of the morning papers cursing their +luck. He sat, vaguely hoping there might be tidal waves, earthquakes, +cataclysms. On this night his energies seemed to demand more work than +the mere fall of Paris would occasion. "Might as well do the thing up +brown and put an end to the world--all in one extra," he smiled. + +A messenger boy brought a telegram. He opened it and read, + +"I am going away. RACHEL." + +All a part of the night's work. Killing off Paris. Answering telegrams +to vanishing sweethearts. He stuffed the message into his pocket. On +second thought he tore it up. Anna was coming home the next day. "Wife +Finds Tell-tale Telegram...." Another headline. + +"Wait a minute, boy." + +The messenger lounged into an editor's chair. Dorn scribbled on a +telegraph blank: + +"Wait till Friday. I must see you once more. I will call for you at +seven o'clock Thursday. We have never been together in the night. ERIK." + +The messenger boy and the telegram disappeared. Still the laughter +persisted. There was a jest in the world. Paris seemed a part of it. +Everything belonged to it. + +"I wonder what the writers of Paris are saying," Crowley inquired. + +"Enjoying themselves, as usual," Dorn answered. "I'll tell you a secret. +We live in a mad and inspiring world." + +There was no final headline that night. Wednesday brought problems of +conduct. It was obvious that Rachel was going away because of Anna. Her +departure was a fact which presented itself with no finality. It +resembled an insincere thought of suicide. Rachel, having gone, would +still remain. The emotional prospects of the farewell closed his thought +to the future. He spent Wednesday waiting for a seven o'clock on +Thursday. An hour had detached itself from hours that went before and +that followed. At home in the evening he endeavored to avoid his wife. +His letters to her during her visit in Wisconsin had brought her back +violently joyous. She desired love-making. He listened to her pour out +ardent phrases and wondered why he felt no sense of betrayal toward her. +"Conscience," he thought, "seems to be a vastly over-advertised +commodity." He sat beside Anna, caressing her hand, smiling back into +her passion-filled eyes, and gently checking an impulse in him to +confide to her that he was in love with Rachel. It would be pleasant to +tell her that, provided she would nod her head understandingly, smile, +and stroke his hair; and answer something like, "You mean Rachel is in +love with you. Well, I can't blame her. I'm horribly jealous, but it +doesn't matter." An incongruous sanity warned him to avoid confessions, +so he contented himself by rolling the situation over on his tongue, +tasting the jealousy of his wife, the drama of the denouement, and +remaining peacefully smiling in his leather chair. + +Thursday arrived. The afternoon dragged. He sat at his desk wondering +whether he was sorrowful or not. The thought of meeting Rachel elated +him. The thought that she was leaving and that he would not see her +again seemed a vague thing. He put it out of his mind with ease and +devoted himself to dreaming what he would say, the manner in which he +would bid farewell. + +Walking now swiftly in the street toward Rachel's home his thought still +played with his emotions. It was this that partially caused his +laughter. Also, now that he was going to see her, there was again the +sense of fullness. An unthinking calm, complete and vibrant, wrapped him +in an embrace. The fullness and the calm brought laughter. His thought +amused him with the words, "There's a flaming absurdity about +everything." + +He delighted in dressing his emotions in absurd phrases, in words that +grimaced behind the rouge of tawdry ballads. Thinking of Rachel and +feeling the sudden lift of sadness and bewilderment in his blood, he +murmured aloud: "You never know you have a heart till it begins to +break." The words amused him. There were other song titles that seemed +to fit. He tried them all. "I don't know why I love you, but I do-o-o." +Delightful diversion--airing the mystic desires of his soul in the +tattered words of the cabaret yodelers. "Just a smile, a sigh, a +kiss...." A sort of revenge, as if his vocabulary with its intricate +verbal sophistications were avenging itself upon interloping emotions. +And, too, because of a vague shame which inspired him to taunt his +surrender; to combat it with an irony such as lay in the ridiculous +phrases. This irony gave him a sense of being still outside his emotions +and not a submissive part of them. "I am still Erik Dorn, master of my +fate and captain of my soul," he smiled. But perhaps it was most of all +the reaction of a verbal vanity. His love was not yet pumping rhapsodies +into his thought. Instead, the words that came seemed to him somehow +banal and commonplace. "I love you. I want to be with you all the time. +When we are together things grow strange and desirable." Amorous +mediocrities! So he edited them into a further banality and thus +concealed his inability to give lofty utterance to his emotions by +amusing himself with deliberately cheapened insincerities. "Saving my +linguistic face," he thought suddenly, and laughed again. + +Rachel was sad. They left her home in silence. + +"We'll go toward the park," he announced. It irritated him to utter +matter-of-fact directions. Why when he had had nothing to talk about had +he been able to talk? And now when there was something, there seemed +little to say? Words were obviously the delicate fruit of insincerity. +Silence, the dark flower of emotion. + +"I must go away." Rachel slipped her arm into his. He stared at her. She +seemed more sorrowful than tears. This annoyed. It was ungrateful for +her to look like weeping. But she was going from him. He tried to think +of her and himself after they had parted, and succeeded only in +remembering she was at his side. So he laughed quietly. + +"Yes, to-morrow the guillotine falls," he answered. "To-night we dance +in each other's arms. Immemorial tableau. Laughter, love, and song +against the perfect background--death. Let's not cheat ourselves by +being sad. To-morrow will be time enough." + +He realized he was collapsing into a pluck-ye-the-roses-while-ye-may +strain, and stopped, irritated. There was something he should talk to +her about--the causes of her departure. Plans. Their future. Was there a +future? Undoubtedly something would have to be arranged. But his mind +eluded responsibilities. + +"I'm happy," he whispered. "I talk like a fool because I feel like one. +Heedless. Irresponsible. You've given me something and I can only look +at it almost without thought." + +"It seems so strange that you should love me," she answered. "Because +I've loved you always and never dreamed of you loving." She had become +melting, as if her sadness were dissolving into caresses. "Let's just +walk and I'll remember we're together and be happy, too." + +Thoughts vanished from him. He released her hand and they walked in +silence with their arms together. A sleep descended. Their faces, +tranquil and lighted by the snow, offered solitudes to each other. + +It was now snowing heavily. A thick white lattice raised itself from the +streets against the darkness. The little black hectagonals of night +danced between its spaces. Long white curtains painted themselves on the +shadows of the city. The lovers walked unaware of the street. The snow +crowded gently about them, moving patiently like a white and silent +dream over their heads. Phantom houses stared after them. Slanting +rooftops spread wings of silver in the night and drifted toward the +moon. The half-closed leaden eyes of windows watched from another world. + +The snow grew heavier, winding itself about the yellow lights of street +lamps and crawling with sudden life through the blur of window rays. +Beneath, the pavements opened like white and narrow fans in a far-away +hand. Black figures leaning forward emerged for an instant from behind +the falling snow and disappeared again. + +Still the lovers moved without words--two black figures themselves, arms +together, leaning forward, staring with burning hearts and tranquil +faces out of a dream, as if they did not exist, had never existed; as if +in the snow and night they had become an unreality, walking deeper into +mists--yet never quite vanishing but growing only more unreal. Snow and +two lovers walking together with the world like a dream over their +heads, with life lingering in their eyes like a delicately absent-minded +guest--the thought drifted like a memory through their hearts. + +Then slowly consciousness of themselves returned, bringing with it no +relief of words. Their hearts seemed to have grown weak with tears, and +in their minds existed nothing but the dark vagueness of despair--the +despair of things that die with their eyes open and questing. Faces +drifting like circles of light in the storm. At the end of the street a +park. Here they would vanish from each other. The snow would continue +falling gently, patiently, upon an empty world. + +The cold of Rachel's fingers pressed upon his hand. Her face turned +itself to him. A moment of happiness halted them both as if they had +been embraced. A wonder--the why and where of her leaving. But an +indifference deprived him of words. + +"This is all of life," he muttered. Rachel staring at him nodded her +head in echo. They were standing motionless as if they had forgotten how +to live. Beyond this there were no gestures to make, nowhere to go. They +had come to a horizon--an end. Here was ecstasy. What else? Nothing. +Everything, here. Sky and night and snow had fallen about their heads in +an ending. They stood as if clinging to themselves. Dorn heard a soft +laugh from her. + +"I thought I had died," Rachel was murmuring. He nodded his head in +echo. + +A lighted window lost in the snow drew their eyes. People sat in a +room--warm, stiff figures. The lovers stood smiling toward it. Words, +soft and mocking, formed themselves in Dorn. A pain was pulling his +heart away. The ecstasy that had raised him beyond his emotions seemed +suddenly to have cast him into the fury of them. He would say mocking +things--absurd phrases to which he might cling. Or else he must weep +because of the pain in him. "Two waifs adrift in a storm, peering into a +bakery window at the cookies." That was the key. A laugh at the dolorous +asininity of life. "Face to face with the Roman Pop U Lace. We who are +about to die salute you." Laugh, a phrase of laughter or he would stand +blubbering like an imbecile. + +He struggled for the theatric gesture and found himself shivering at +Rachel's side, his arm clinging about her shoulders. Lord, what a jest! +After the moment they had lived through, to stand round-eyed and +blubbering before the gingerbread vision of joys behind a lighted +window. The whine of a barrel-organ. The sentimental whimpering of a +street-corner _Miserere_. And he must weep because of it--he who had +stood with his head thrust through the sky. His thought, like an +indignant monitor, collapsed with scoldings. Let it come, then! With a +sigh he gave himself to tears, and they stood together weeping. + +The little lighted room seemed an enchantment floating in the scurry of +the storm. It reached with warm fingers into their hearts, whispering a +broken barrel-organ lullaby to them. Life shone upon them out of the +lighted window and behind it the world of rocking-chairs and fireplaces, +wall pictures and table lamps, lay like a haven smiling a good-by to +them. Their hearts become tombs, closed slowly and forever upon a +vision. + +"The world will be a black sky and the memory of you like a shining star +that I watch endlessly." He listened to his words. They brought a dim +gladness. His phrases had finally capitulated to his love. He could talk +now without the artifice of banality to hide behind. Talk, say the +unsayable, bring his love in misty word lines before his eyes; look and +forget a moment. + +Rachel's voice at his side said, "I love you so. Oh, I love you so!" + +Yes, he could talk now. His heart wagged a tongue. The pain in him had +found words. The mystic desires and torments--words, words. + +"We'll remember, years later, and be grateful we didn't bury our love +behind lighted windows, but left it to wander forever and remain forever +alive. Rachel, my dear one." + +"I love you so!" she wept. + +More words ... "it would have been always the same. We've lived one +moment and in all of life there's nothing more than what we've had. +Lovers who grow old together live only in their yesterdays. And their +yesterdays are only a moment--till the time comes when their yesterdays +die. Then they become little, half-dead people, who wait in lighted +rooms, empty handed, fumbling greedily with trifles...." + +"I love you!" She made a refrain for him. "I don't know the things you +do. I only love you." + +"Rachel ..." He had no belief in what he was saying. The things he knew? +What? Nothing but pain and torment. Yet his heart went on wagging out +words: "All life is a parting--a continual and monotonous parting. And +most hideous of all, a parting with dead things. A saying good-by to +things that no longer exist. We part with living things, and so keep +them, somehow. Your face makes life for the moment familiar. Visions +bloom like sad flowers in my heart. Your body against mine brings a +torment even into my words. Oh, your weeping's the sound of my own +heart dying. Rachel, you are more wonderful than life. I love you! I +feel as if I must die when you go away. Crowds, streets, buildings--all +empty outlines. Empty before you came, emptier when you have gone." + +He paused. His thought whispered: "I'll remember things I say. I mustn't +say too much. I'm sad. Oh, God, what a mess!" + +They walked into the park. A sudden matter-of-factness came into Dorn's +mind. He had sung something from his heart. Yet he remembered with +astonishment it had been a wary song. He had not asked her to stay. Had +he asked her she would have remained. Curious, how he acquiesced in her +going. A sense of drama seemed to demand it. When he had received her +message the night in the office he had agreed at once. Why? Because he +was not in love? This too, a make-believe, more colored, more persuasive +than the others? Wrong. Something else. Anna. Anna was sending her away. +The figure of Anna loomed behind their ecstasies. It stood nodding its +head sorrowfully at a good-by in the snow. + +They were deep in the park. Trees made still gestures about them. The +ivory silhouettes of trees haunted the distance. A spectral summer +painted itself upon the barren lilac bushes. Beneath, the lawn slopes +raised moon faces to the night. Deep in the storm the ghost of a bronze +fountain emerged and remained staring at the scene. + +It was cold. The wind had died and the snow hung without motion, like a +cloud of ribbons in the air. The white park gleamed as if under the +swinging light of blue and silver lanterns. The night, lost in a dream +wandered away among strange sculptures. In the distance a curtain of +porphyry and bisque drew its shadow across the moon. + +Rachel pointed suddenly with her finger. + +"Look!" she whispered. She remained as if in terror, pointing. + +Three figures were converging toward them--black figures out of the +distant snow. Figures of men, without faces, like three bundles of +clothes, they came toiling across the unbroken white of the park, an air +of intense destinations about them. Above the desolate field of white +the three figures seemed suddenly to loom into heroic sizes. They reared +to a height and zigzagged across a nowhere. + +"See, see!" Rachel cried. She was still pointing. Her voice rang +brokenly. "They're coming for me, Erik. Erik, don't you see? People +wandering toward me. Horrible strangers. Oh, I know, I know!" She +laughed. "My grandmother was a gypsy and she's telling my fortune in the +snow. Things that will jump out of space and come at me, after you're +gone." + +The three men, puffing with exertion, converged upon the walk and passed +on with a morose stare at the lovers. Dorn sighed, relieved. He had +caught a strange foreboding sense out of the tableau of the white field +and the three converging black figures.... If he loved her why was he +letting her go? If he loved her.... + +He walked on suddenly wearied, saddened, uncertain. It was no more than +a dream that had touched his senses, a breath of a dream that lingered +for a moment upon his mirror. It would pass, as all things pass. And he +would fall back into the pattern of streets and faces, watching as +before the emptiness of life make geometrical figures of itself. Yes, it +was better to have her go--simpler. Perhaps a desire would remain, a +breath, a moonlit memory of her loveliness to mumble over now and then, +like a line of poetry always unwritten. Let her go. Beautiful ... +wonderful.... These were words. Was he even sad? She was--what? Another +woman. + +In the shadow of a snow-covered wall he paused. The snow had ended. + +"Come closer," he whispered. She remained silent as he removed her +overcoat. He dropped it in the snow and threw his own beside it. + +"We'll be warm for a minute against each other." + +She was a flower in his arms. She seemed to vanish and become mist. +Slowly he became aware of her touch, of her arms holding him and her +lips. She was saying: + +"I am yours--always--everywhere. I will be a shrine to you. And whenever +you want me I will come crawling on my knees to you." + +Dying, dying! She was dying. Another moment and the mist of her would be +gone. "Rachel.... Rachel. I love you. I send you away. Oh, God, why do I +send you away?" + +She was out of his arms. Undressed, naked, emptied, he stood unknown to +himself. No words. Her kiss alone lived on his lips. She was looking at +him with burning wild eyes. Expression seemed to have left her. There +was something else in her face. + +"I must look at you. To remember, to remember!" she gasped. "Oh, to +remember you! I have never looked at you. I have never seen you. It's a +dream. Who is Erik Dorn? Who am I? Oh, let me look at you...." + +The eyes of Rachel grew marvelously bright. Burned ... burned. + +Dorn stared into an empty park. Gone! Her coat still in the snow. His +own beside it. He stood smiling, confused. His lips made an apology. He +walked off. Oh, yes, their coats together in the snow. A symbol. He +stumbled and a sudden terror engulfed him. "Her face," he mumbled, "like +a mirror of stars." He felt himself sicken. What had her eyes said? Eyes +that burned and devoured him and vanished. "Rachel," he wept, "forever!" +He wondered why he spoke. + +The park, white, gleaming, desolate, gave him back her face. Out of the +empty night, her face. In the trees it drifted, haunting him. The print +of a face was upon the world. He went stumbling toward it in the snow. +He covered his eyes with his hands as he walked. + +"Her face," he mumbled, "her face was beautiful...." + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +In a dining-room of the city known as the Blue Inn, Anna Dorn sat +waiting for her husband. Opposite her a laughing-eyed man was talking. +She listened without intelligence. He was part of old memories--crowded +rooms in which lights had been turned off. They had danced together in +their youth. She had worn his fraternity pin and walked with him one +night under a moon and kissed him, saying: "I will always love you. The +other boys are different. You are so nice and kind, Eddie." And Eddie +had gone away east to continue a complacent quest for erudition in a +university. Almost forgotten days and places when there had been no Erik +Dorn, and when one debated which pumps to wear to the dance. Erik had +blotted them out. A whimsical, moody young Mr. Dorn, laughing and +carousing about the city and singling her out one night at a party.... +"We must get out of here or we'll choke to death. Come, we'll go down to +the lake and laugh at the stars. They're the only laughable things in +the world." + +She looked sadly at the man whose kindly voice sought to rally her out +of a gloom. Before the laughing stars there had been another day--other +stars, another Anna. All part of another world. Eddie Meredith and +another world sat dimly apparent across the white linen of the table. +Anecdotes of old friends they had shared, forgotten names and incidents +reached through the shadows of her thought and stirred an alien memory. +He hadn't changed. Ten years--and he was still Eddie Meredith, with eyes +that looked for simple pleasures and seemed to find them. He had always +found something to laugh about. Not the way Erik laughed. Erik's laugh +was something that had never ceased to hurt. Strange that Eddie's voice +had never grown tired of laughing during the ten years. + +The ache in her heart lightened and she listened with almost a +smile--the ghost of another Anna smiling. It was the other Anna who had +walked through youth with a joyous indifference to life, to everything +but youth. Buried now deep under years, Eddie warmed it back. Eddie sat +talking to the ghost that had been Anna Winthrop and that could not +answer him. + +He was a poor talker. She was too used to Erik. Simple, threadbare +phrases, yet she had once thought him brilliant. Perhaps he was--a +different kind of brilliance. She noted how his words seemed stimulated +with an enthusiasm beyond their sense. Trifles assumed an importance. +For moments she felt herself looking at the joyousness of an old friend +and forgetting. Then as always through the day and night.... "Erik, +Erik," murmured itself in her mind ... "he doesn't love me. Erik, dear +Erik!" Over and over, weaving itself into all she said and saw. +Sometimes it started a panic in her. She would feel herself grow dark, +wild. Often it seemed to bring death. Things would become vague and she +would move through the hours unaware of them. + +The joyousness of Eddie drifted away. She remained smiling +blankly at him. His words slipped past her ear. Inside, she was +wandering--disheveled thoughts were wandering through a darkness. At +night she lay beside him as he slept, with her eyes wide open and her +lips praying, "Dear Jesus, sweet brother Jesus, give Erik back to me!" +... Or she would crawl out of bed and walk into a deserted room to weep. +Here she could mumble his name till the anguish of her tears choked her. +As the cold streets grew gray she would hurry to bathe her face, even +rouging her cheeks, and return to their bed to wait for Erik to awake, +that she might caress him, warm something back in him with her kisses, +and perhaps hear him whisper her name as he used to do. But he drew +himself away, his eyes sometimes filling with tears. "It's nothing, +Anna, nothing. Please don't ask. I don't know what it is. My head or +something. I feel black inside...." And he would hurry to work, not +waiting for her to join him at breakfast. + +Then there had been nights when he held her in his arms thinking she was +asleep, and she felt his tears dropping over her face--tears of +silence. She would lie trembling with a wild joy, yet not daring to open +her eyes or speak, knowing he would move away. These moments, feigning +sleep and listening to Erik weeping softly against her cheek, had been +her only happiness in the four black months since the change had come to +him. He still loved her. Yes.... Oh, God, it was something else. Perhaps +madness. She would drift to sleep as his weeping ceased, long after it +ceased, and half dreams would come to her of nursing him through +terrible darknesses, of warming him with her life, of magically driving +away the things that were tormenting him out of his mind--great black +things. Through the day she hungered for his return from work, that she +might look at him again, even though the sight of him, dark and aloof, +tore at her heart till she grew faint. + +She had never thought of questioning him calmly. There had been no +suspicion of "someone else." That was a thing beyond even the wildest +disorder of her imaginings. It was only that Erik was restless, perhaps +tired of his home, of her too much loving and longing to go +somewhere--away. Her awe of his brain, of his strange, always +impenetrable character, adjusted itself to the change in him. There were +mysterious things in Erik--things she couldn't hope to understand. Now +these unknown things had grown too big in him. He was different from +other men, not to be questioned as one might question other men. So she +must wander about blindly, carefully, and drive things away. + +She came out of her sorrow reveries and smiled. Eddie was still talking. +The music of a violin, harp, and piano was playing with a rollicking +wistfulness through the clatter and laughter of the cafe. Eddie was +saying, "There, that's better. That makes you look like Anna. You were +looking like somebody else." + +His jolly eyes had a keenness. She must dissemble better. Erik would +come in a moment and Eddie must never think.... + +"I've heard about your husband, the lucky dog!" Eddie beamed at her +impudently. "Think," he exploded, "of meeting you accidentally after ten +years. Wow! Ten years! They say themselves quickly, don't they? By the +way, there's a curious fellow coming to meet me here. I'll drag him in. +If your Erik don't like it I'll sit on him till he does. His name's +Tesla--Emil Tesla. Bomb-thrower or something. I don't know exactly. He's +helped me with my collection. Oh, I forgot. You don't know about that. I +keep thinking that you know me. You see nothing has changed in me. I'm +still the same Eddie--richer, balder, foolisher, perhaps. It seems you +ought to know all about the ten years without being told. But I'll tell +you. I'm an art collector on the sly. Pictures--horrible things that +don't look like anything. I don't know why I collect them, honestly. +Pictures mean nothing to me. Never did. Particularly the kind I pick +up. But it's a habit that keeps me cheerful. Better than collecting +stamps. Cubist, futurist, expressionist. Ever see the damn things? I +gobble them up. I guess because they're cheap. Here he is--the young +fellow with the soft face." + +Meredith rose and jubilantly waved a napkin. A stocky man in loose +clothes nodded at him and approached. + +"Not Mrs. Erik Dorn," he repeated. Anna nodded. The sound of her +husband's name on others' lips always elated her, even now. She lost for +a moment the aversion she felt at the touch of Tesla's hand. It seemed +boneless.... They would all eat together. Anna was an old school friend. +Years ago, ah! many years. + +Tesla fastened a repugnantly appreciative eye upon her, as if he were +becoming privy to an exclusive secret. She frowned inwardly. An ugly man +with something bubbly about him. + +"I was telling Mrs. Dorn you were a bomb-thrower or something," Meredith +announced. His good spirits frisked about the table like a troupe of +frolicsome puppies. + +"Only an apprentice," Tesla's soft voice--a voice like his +hands--answered. "But why talk of such things in the presence of a +beautiful lady." He bowed his head at her. She thought, "An unbearable +man, completely out of place. How in the world could Eddie...." + +The music had changed. Muted cornets, banjos and saxophones were +wailing out a tom-tom adagio. People were rising from tables and moving +toward a dancing space. Eddie stood beside her bowing with elaborate +stiffness. + +"My next dance, Miss Winthrop." + +Anna looked up blankly. + +"Good Lord, have you forgotten your own name? Come on. You know Dorn, +don't you, Emil? Well, throw a fork at him when he shows up. Come, we +haven't danced together for ten years. The last time was...." + +"The last time was the senior prom," Anna interrupted quickly. "You see +I haven't forgotten." She stood mechanically. + +As they walked between tables and diners, he said, "I sure feel like a +boy again seeing you." + +"I'm afraid I've almost forgotten how to dance, Eddie. My husband +doesn't dance much." + +"Here we are! Like old days, eh? Remember Jimmie Goodland, my deadly +rival for your hand?" + +They were dancing. + +"Well, he's married. Three kids." + +"And how many children have you, Eddie?" + +"Me?" He laughed. "Have I forgotten to tell you that? Well, I'm still at +large, untrammeled, free. There've been women, but not _the_ woman." + +His voice put on a pleasing facetiousness. + +"Mustn't mind an old friend getting sentimental. But after you they had +to measure up to something--and didn't." + +Since the night Erik had singled her out at the party no man had spoken +to her that way. She listened slightly amazed. It confused her. His +eyes, as they danced, were jolly and polite. But they watched her too +keenly. Erik might misunderstand. Her love somehow resented being looked +at and spoken to like that. She hurried back to their first topic. + +"What became of Millie Pugh, Eddie?" + +"Married. A Spaniard or something. Two kids and an automobile. Saw them +in Brazil somewhere." + +"And Arthur Stearns?" + +"Fatter than an alderman. Runs a gas works or something in Detroit. +Married. One kid." + +Anna laughed. "You sound like an almanac of dooms." + +"Well, all married but me--little Eddie, the boy bachelor, faithful unto +death to the memories of his childhood. Do you remember the night we ran +Mazurine's out of ice-cream?" + +This was another world, another Anna. She closed her eyes dreamily to +the movement of the dance and music--delicious drugs. + +"Faster," she whispered. + +They broke into quicker steps. "Erik.... Erik.... my own. Love me again. +Come back to me...." Still in her thought, but fainter, deeper down. +Not words but a sigh that moved to the rhythm of the music. + +"And how may children have you?" + +She answered without emotion, as if she were talking with a distant part +of herself. "There was a little boy. He died as a baby. We haven't any." + +Deep, kindly eyes looking at her as they danced. "I'm so sorry, Anna." + +She whispered again, "Faster!" A shadow over his face. She must be +careful of his eyes--eyes that laughed, but keen, almost as keen as +Erik's. "My Erik ... my own...." It was all a dream, a nightmare of her +own inventing. Nothing had happened. Imaginings. Erik loved her. Why +else should he weep and kiss her when he thought her asleep? He loved +her, he loved her! + +Her face grew bright. Faster. Always to dance and dream of Erik. She +must tell Eddie.... + +"Erik is wonderful. I'm dying to have you meet him. Oh, Eddie, he's +wonderful!" + +Now she could laugh and enjoy herself. Something had emptied out of her +breasts--cold iron, warm lead. She was lighter, easy to bend and glide +to the music. Everything was easy. Her face lighted by something deeper +than a smile, she danced in silence. Eddie was far away--ten years away. +His eyes that were smiling at her were no eyes at all. They were part of +the music and movement that caressed her with the sweetness of life, of +being loved by Erik.... + +Tesla watched his friend lead the red-haired lady away to dance. For a +while there lingered about him the air of unctious submission that had +revolted Anna. Then it vanished. His face as he sat alone seemed to +tighten. The flabbiness of his eyes became something else. Diners at +other tables caught glimpses of him while they ate. A commanding figure, +rugged, youthful-faced. Features that made definite lines, compelling +lines, in the blur of other features. A man of certainties, yet with +something weak about him. His eyes were like a child's. They did not +quite belong in his face. There, eyes should have gleamed, stared with +intensities. Instead, eyes purred--abstract, tender eyes; the kind that +attracted women sometimes because they were almost like a women's eyes +dreaming of lovers. + +"Hello, Tesla!" + +Again the fawning lights, smiles, bowings. This was Dorn--a Somebody. +Somebodies always changed Tesla. There was a thing in him that smirked +before Somebodies, as if he were a timorous puppy wagging its tail and +leaping about on flabby legs. + +"Mrs. Dorn is sitting here with a friend. They're dancing. We're all at +this table, Mr. Dorn." + +Dorn caught the eager innuendo of his voice. He knew Tesla vaguely as a +radical, an author of pamphlets. Tesla continued to talk, a sycophantic +purr in his words.... The war was financed by international bankers. +Didn't he think so? America was being drawn in by Wall Street--to make +the loans to the Allies stand up. But something was going to happen. The +eyes of the workers were opening slowly all over the world. In Russia +already a beginning of realities. Ah, think of the millions dying for +nothing, advancing or improving nothing by their death. Soldiers, +heroes, workingmen, all blind acrobats in another man's circus. But +something was happening. Revolution. This grewsome horseplay in Europe's +front yard would start it. And then--watch out! + +The voice of Emil Tesla, eager, fawning, had yet another quality in it. +It promised, as if it could not do justice to the things it was saying +and must be careful, soft, polite. Dorn felt the man and his power. Not +a puppy on flabby legs but a brute mastiff with a wild bay that must +come out in little whines, because the music was playing, because he was +talking to Somebody. A man physically beaten by life, his body scraping, +bowing; his words mumbling confusedly in the presence of other words. +Yet a powerful man with a tremendous urge that might some day hurl him +against the stars. He had something.... + +To Tesla's sentences Dorn dropped a yes or no. Tesla needed no replies. +He purred on eagerly before his listener, seeming to whine for his +appreciation and good will, yet unconscious of him. A waiter brought +wine. Dorn stared at the topaz tint in his glass. His eyes had changed. +They no longer smiled. A heaviness gleamed from them. The thing in his +heart would not go. Heavy hands turning him over and over, as if life +were tearing him, crowds and streets pulling at him. There had been no +rest since Rachel had gone. + +He sat almost oblivious of Tesla. In the back of his brain the city +tumbled--an elephantine grimace, a wilderness of angles, a swarm of +gestures that beat at his thought. But before his eyes there were no +longer the precise patterns of another day. He was no longer outside. He +had been sucked into something, the something that he had been used to +refer to condescendingly as life. People sitting in a room like this had +been furniture that amused him. Now they were alive, repulsive, with a +meaning to them that sickened him. Streets had once been stone and +gesture. Now they, too, were meanings that sickened. A sanity in which +he alone was insane, surrounded him; a completion in which he alone +seemed incomplete. Men and women together--tired faces, lighted +faces--all with destinations that satisfied them. And he wandering, +knocked from place to place by heavy hands, pushed through crowds, +dropped into chairs. Time itself a torment into which he kept thrusting +himself deeper. + +The change in Erik Dorn had come to him with a cynicism of its own. It +laughed with its own laughter. A mind foreign to him spoke to him +through the day.... "You would smile at life, Erik; well, here it is. +Easy for a sleeper to smile. But smile now. Life is a surface, eh? +shifting about into designs for the delectation of your eyes. Watch it +shifting then. Darkness and emptiness in a can-can. Watch the tumbling +streets that have no meanings. No meanings? Yet there's a torment in +them that can hoist you up by your placid little heels and swing you +round ... round, and send you flying. A witch's flight with the scream +of stars whistling through it. Flight that has no ending and no +direction ... no face of Rachel at its ending. Burning eyes, devouring +eyes ... face like a mirror of stars. There's a face in the world and +you go after it, heels in air, tongue frozen, breathing always an +emptiness that chokes. Easy for sleepers to dawdle with words and say +carelessly life is this, life is that. What the hell's the difference +what life is? It means nothing to me. People and their posturings mean +nothing. But what about now? A contact, a tying up with posturings, and +the streets and crowds tearing you into gestures not your own...." + +Aloud he would say, "My love for her has given me a soul and I've become +a fool along with other fools." + +He did not think of Rachel in words. There were moments of dream when he +made plans--a fantastic amorous rigmarole of Rachel and himself walking +together over the heads of the world; child dreams that substituted +themselves for the realities he demanded. But these were infrequent. He +was learning to avoid them as one avoids a drug that soothes and then +doubles the hunger of the nerves. + +As now in the cafe, listening to Tesla, watching with dark eyes the +scene, there was a turning of heavy hands in him to which he must not +give thought. Watch the cafe, listen to Tesla, talk, eat and spit out a +disgust for the things of which he was a part--things from which he +demanded Rachel and a surcease to the pain in him. And that only stifled +with the emptiness of her. + +Out of the wretchedness of garbled emotions that had become the whole of +Erik Dorn, his vocabulary arose with a facile paint brush and painted +upon his thought. His phrases wandered about looking for subjects as if +he must taunt himself with details that forever brought him loathing. + +Before he had seen pictures complete, rhythmic pictures of streets and +crowds, pleasantly blurred and in motion. Now he saw them as if life was +in a state of continual pause--an arrested cinematograph; grotesquely +detailed and with the meaning of motion out of it. A picture waiting +something to set it moving. This something he could not give it. +Helplessly his words continued to trace themselves over the outlines of +scenes about him, as if trying to stir them into a life. + +This scene consciousness had become almost a mania in the four months. +But in the mechanical, phraseological movement of his thought he was +able to hide himself. Thus he listened to Tesla and looked at the cafe. +The inn was filled with people--elaborately dressed women and shiningly +groomed men--grouped about white-linened, silver-laden tables; an +ornamental grimacing little multitude come to the cafe as to some grave +rite, moving to the tables with an unctious nonchalance. Women dressed +in effulgent silks, their flesh gleaming among the spaces of exotic +plumage, gleaming through the flares of luxurious satin distortions. A +company that gestured, grimaced with the charm of lustful marionettes. +Flesh reduced to secrecy. Lust, dream in hiding. From the secret world +they inhabited, moist bodies beckoned with a luscious, perverse denial +of artifice. + +The picture of it shot into his eyes, arousing a hate in his thought. He +heard Tesla ... "life has changed with the industrialization of society. +It is no longer a question of who shall run the court. The court is an +atrophied institution, a circus surviving in the backyard of history. +It's a question of who shall run the factory. Democracy is a thing that +touches only politicians. The factory touches people. Democracy cleared +the way but it's not a way in itself. It's still the court idea of +government. Steam, gas, and electricity made the French revolution +obsolete even before it was ended. This war ... good God, Dorn, blood +pouring over toys we've outgrown!..." + +Still fawning voiced, but with a bay underneath. Dorn listened and +remained elsewhere--among a turning of heavy hands. Yet he thought of +Tesla, "He makes an impression on me. I'll remember his words. A man of +power, rooted in visions." He replied suddenly, "I'm convinced the weak +will rule some day, if that's what you're driving at. The race can +survive only as long as its weakest survive. Christianity started it. +Socialism will carry it a step further. The fight against the +individual. What else is any institutionalism? A struggle to circumvent +the biological destiny of man, which is the same as the biological +destiny of fish--extinction. That's what we're primarily engaged in. The +race must protect its weak, so it invents laws to curb the instincts and +power of its strong. And we obey the laws--a matter of adjusting +ourselves ludicrously to our weaknesses and endowing these adjustments +with high names. Bolshevism will be the law of to-morrow and wear even a +higher name than Christianity. Yesterday it was, 'only the poor shall +inherit heaven, only crippled brains and weaker visions shall see God.' +To-morrow the slogan will have been brought down to earth. Yes, they'll +run the factories--your masses. There's the strength in them of +logic--a logic opposed to evolution. They'll run the factories as they +now run heaven--an Institution nicely accommodated to their fears and +weaknesses." + +Dorn paused. He was not thinking. People said things. An automatic box +of phrases in him released answers. Tesla was replying, not so +fawningly, the bay beneath his soft words mastering his sycophantic +tones. Let him talk. He had something to talk about. He saw something. +There was a new tableau in Tesla's brain. Let him keep murmuring things +about it--suavely, unctuously letting off steam. + +Like a man returning drearily to his game of solitaire, Dorn fastened +his eyes again upon the scene. Looking at things would keep him from +thinking. To think was to cry out. He had learned this. His eyes, dark +and heavy, fastened themselves upon the walls of the inn lost in +shadows, painted with nymphs and satyrs sprawling over tapestried +landscapes. He devoured their details, his heart searching in them for +the mystery of Rachel and finding only a deeper emptiness--insistently +naked bodies of nymphs lying like newly bathed housemaids amid stiff +park sceneries. Miracles of photographic lechery. Would people about him +look like that naked? Thank God they were dressed! An ankle in silk was +better than a thigh in sunlight. An old saw ... beauty lay in the +imagination. Women removed their beauty with their clothes. The nymphs +on the wall reminded one chiefly that they were careful to scrub their +legs all the way up. + +He sighed and watched the eyes of diners look at the walls. Her face--a +mirror of stars. What else was there but her face? Other faces, of +course. A revulsion of other strange faces. Men studying the naked +figures on the walls with profound but aloof interest, eyeing the women +near them shrewdly as they turned away. Women with serious, +unconcentrated eyes upon the paintings, turning tenderly towards their +escorts. He would die of looking at faces that were not hers. A +love-sick schoolboy. God, what an ass! Tesla was becoming an +insufferable bore. What in God's name did he have to do with masses +raising their skinny arms from a smoking field and crying aloud, +"Bread!" Tesla had a lot to do with it. The skinny arms, the smoking +field, and the balloon with the word "bread" in it were Tesla's soul. +But his soul was different--heavy hands turning. + +Dorn drank wine from his glass. Anna, dancing with a plump, laughing +stranger, flitted through the distance. A deeper turning over of iron in +his heart at the glimpse of her. The scene no longer could divert him. +The thought of Anna dropped like a curtain upon a picture. What could he +do? What? At night he grew sick lying beside her. It wasn't conscience. +There was nothing wrong about loving someone else. But there was an +uncanniness about it. Lying beside a woman who didn't know what was in +his mind. He would lie thinking, "Oh, Rachel, I love Rachel," repeating +almost idiotic love words for Rachel in his mind. And Anna would smile +patiently at him, unaware. That was the most intolerable thing. The fact +she didn't know. And also the fact that he must remain inarticulate. He +must sit with his heart choking him and his head in a blaze, and keep +stuffing words back down his throat. Through the day he tormented +himself with the thought, "I must tell her. I can't keep this thing up +any longer." But when he saw her it was impossible to tell her. A single +phrase would end it. He held the phrase on his lips--as if it were a +knife balanced over Anna's heart. "I love Rachel." That would end it. +But it was impossible. He couldn't say it. Why? He sat, trying to get a +glimpse of her dancing again and tried to avoid answering himself. It +was something he mustn't answer. He must get away from his damned +thought. His eyes fastened themselves upon the fountain in the center of +the room. It was Anna that tormented him, not Rachel. Anna ... Anna.... +The tension broke. He was looking at the fountain surmounted by a marble +nude crouched in a posture of surprise; probably disturbed by her +nudity. It was necessary for nudity to be disturbed by itself. Did +virgins eyeing themselves in mirrors blush with shame? Unquestionably. +The nude peered into the water of a large tiled basin. A gush of water +over her managed to veil her unsuccessfully in an endless spray. Water +filled the air with an odorless spice. + +" ... the first blow will come out of Russia, Dorn. The Russians have +not been side-tracked into the phantasms of democracy. They still think +straight. Civilization hasn't crippled them with phrases. They are still +what you would call biological. And dreams live in them. Yes, I know +what you'll say ... heavy dreams. But here in America there are no +dreams--yet. Nothing but paper. Paper thoughts. Paper morals. Everything +paper. Russia will send out fire to burn up this paper. Destroy it. +Leave nothing behind--not even ashes." + +True enough. Why answer it? But what difference did it make if paper +burned? Was man after all a creature consecrated to institutions, doomed +to expend himself upon institutions? A hundred million nervous systems, +each capable of ecstasies and torments, devoting themselves to the +business of political brick-laying. Always yowling about new bricks. +Politics--a deformity of the imagination; a game of tiddledy-winks +played with guns and souls. + +He breathed with relief. Abstractions were a drug. But his thinking +ended. Blue electric lights cast an amorous glow--an artificial +moonlight--upon tables surrounding the fountain. Beneath the cobalt +water of the basin, colored fish gliding like a weaving procession of +little fat Mandarins. The remainder of the room also blue from shaded +lights. That was why they dubbed it the Blue Inn. Blue lights made the +Blue Inn. The air was heavy with the uncoiling lavender tinsel of +tobacco smoke. A luxurious suppression as about some priapic altar ... +artificial shadows, painted lights, forlorn fountain ripplings. + +"Oh, Erik, I've been dancing. This is Mr. Meredith. I once told you +about him. The music is simply wonderful here." + +Tesla, flabby-eyed and almost maliciously polite, as if he would expose +the innate absurdity of politeness, tipped over a water glass in his +floppings. Anna, still alive with the joyousness that had come to her, +seated herself beside her husband. Her hand rested eagerly on his arm. +He must love her ... must. Must. It had been only a nightmare she'd +invented. Oh, God, did anything matter as long as they loved each other? + +"Tired, dearest?" + +He looked at her and tried to lighten his eyes. + +"Yes, a little. The damned war." + +"I'm so sorry." + +She mustn't ask him to dance. He was tired. She would coddle him. He was +only a baby--tired, sleepy, sad. She must ask no questions. Only love. +Before her love the darkness of his face would clear away as before +sunshine. + +"I'm so happy, Erik darling!" + +Her fingers quivered on his arm. He looked at her and smiled out of +misty eyes. Of all the unbearable things in an unbearable world her +happiness was the most unbearable. She nodded, as if she understood. Her +pretense of understanding was a ghastly business. But Anna smiled. Poor +Erik, he was only a boy. If only they were alone! If Eddie and Tesla and +the whole world would go away and leave her with him, to kiss his eyes +and stroke his hair. Sleep, baby, sleep.... What a crazy, wild thing, +thinking that Erik no longer loved her. No longer loved her! Dear God, +she was only a part of him. He must love her.... Must! + +The talk kept on--words bubbling from Tesla, Eddie frisking with +laughter. + +"You must dance with me, Erik. It's been so long since we danced." +There--she shouldn't have asked. She didn't mean to. Her eyes +apologized. When he answered, "No, I'm tired," there was wine from a +glass that warmed the little coldness his words dropped into her. + +Listening to her, answering with words he tried to soften and make +alive, Dorn tried to occupy himself with the details of the scene again. +Could he keep on living as two persons--one of them turning over and +over in a fire that consumed him--and the other making phrases, +gestures, as if there were no fire consuming him? If he kept his eyes +working, perhaps. He hated Anna. But that was because he couldn't bear +the thought of her suffering. He hated her because he must be kind to +her. + +Meredith was ordering the dinner. Dorn stared out over the room. + +Anna was watching him with her senses. Why didn't he speak to her as +Eddie did? Perhaps he was going mad. His eyes suffered. He looked at +things and seemed to hurt himself with looking. She kept her voice +vibrant with a hope of joyousness. "I mustn't give in to the nightmare. +It's only imagining...." + +"Erik, dearest, do eat something. Let me order for you." + +Talk, talk! Dorn listened. Anna was saying, "Eddie thinks as you do +about the war, Erik. Isn't that odd?" Yes, that anybody should be able +to think as he did. He was a God. A super-God. If only she hated him. A +moment of hate in her eyes would be heaven. + +"A plain case of accepting an evil and making the best of it," laughed +Meredith. "If we go in all I ask is for God's sake let's keep our eyes +open and not slobber around." + +Soft remonstrances from Tesla with polite references to Wall Street. +Food on platters. An air of slight excitement with Anna directing the +talk and serving. What made her so vivacious? The sight of an old +friend, Meredith? Meredith ... oh, yes, school days, long ago. A wild +hope unfolded itself in Dorn. He looked at the man anew. Fantastic +notion. But throw them together, day and night. Cafes, dancing, music, +propinquity. He was her type--kindly, unselfish, prosperously elate +over life. He'd help her on with her wraps and be polite over doorways. +Perhaps. He turned to his wife and laughed softly. A way out. Give her +to the man. Give her away. End her love for him--her damned, torturing +love that made him turn over inside and weep at night when she was +asleep; that hounded him like an unclean memory. It was only her love +that made him unclean. He looked at her with his eyes lighted. + +"Dancing makes a difference, doesn't it, dear? I'd dance myself, only my +legs are tired." + +He smiled as he spoke with the unctuousness of a villain administering +poison in a bouquet of roses. But a way to get rid of her love. He +didn't mind her, but the thing in her. That was the whole of it. Why +hide from it? God, if he could only kill it he'd be free. Otherwise he'd +never be free. Even if he went away there'd be the thought of her +love.... Anna's face bloomed with joy at his words. + +"We'll come here another night when you're not tired, honey." + +"Yes," he answered, "make a party of it. How about that, Mr. Meredith?" + +"Surest thing." + +They forgot Tesla. + +"Oh, Erik!" She embraced his arm with both her hands. Under the table +she pressed her thigh trembling against him. + +The music from the platform had changed. Cornets, banjos, saxophones, +again. The boom and jerk of voices arose as if in greeting. Foreheads +of diners glistening with a fine sweat. Sweat on the backs of women's +necks, on their chins, under their raised arms; gleaming on the cool +intervals of breasts, white and bulbous breasts peeping out of a secret +world. + +"If I may, Anna...." + +Eddie was taking her away. The plot was working. Dorn's heart warmed +toward the man. A rescuer, a savior. He nodded his head at his wife. He +must make it look as if he were sorry it wasn't he going to dance with +her; smile with proper wistfulness; shake his head sadly. + +Anna, suddenly beside herself, laughed, and, leaning over touched his +hair quickly with her lips. Damned idiot, he'd overdone it! No. Perhaps +she was guilty. Apologizing for impulses away from him toward Meredith? +He sat hoping feverishly, caressing a diagnosis as if he could establish +it by repeating it over and over. + +Tesla again, this time on art. Art of the proletaire. Damn the +proletaire and Tesla both! He had a plot working out. Would their hands +touch, linger, sigh against each other? Of course. They were human--at +least their hands were. And then, dances every night. What a miserable +banal plot! Another day-dream. Forget. Beyond Tesla's soft voice ... an +opening and shutting of mouths swollen in delicious discomforts. Look at +them. Identify mouths. Tell himself the angles they made. People ... +people ... a wriggling of bodies in a growing satiety of tepid lusts. + +"True art, Dorn, is something beyond decoration. Dreams made real. But +the right kind of dreams--things that touch people. The other art was +for sick men. That is--men sickened of life. The new art will be for +healthy men, men reaching out of everything about them. And we must give +them bread, soup, and art." + +Yes, that might as well be true as anything else. Anything was truth. +Anything and everything. Here he was in a scene that had no relation to +him. Yet he wasn't detached. + +"Speaking of art, Dorn, we've found a new artist, a wonder. She's going +to do some things for _The Cry_. I got her interested. I must tell +Meredith about her. Maybe you know her--Rachel Laskin. One of her things +is coming out in the next issue. I'll send you a copy." + +Coolly, amazedly, Dorn thought, "What preposterous thing makes it +possible for this man to talk of Rachel as if she were a reality ... +like the people in the cafe? To him she's like the people in the cafe. +He knows her like the people in the cafe." + +He answered carelessly, "Oh, yes; Miss Laskin. I remember her well. That +reminds me: you don't happen to have her address? I've got some things +she left at the office we can't use." + +Tesla dug an address out of a soiled stack of papers. His pockets seemed +alive with soiled papers. Rachel's address was a piece of soiled paper +like any other piece of soiled paper. Mumbling silently, Dorn sighed. +Just in time. Anna again, and Meredith. He looked at them, recalling his +plot. Were they in love? Tesla--the blundering idiot--"I was telling +Dorn of a new artist I've found, Eddie. Rachel Laskin, a sort of Blake +and Beardsley and something else. Thin lines, screechy things. You'll +like them." + +"Oh, yes, I always like them," Meredith smiled. + +And Anna, "Oh, I know Rachel Laskin well. We're old friends. She's a +charming, wonderful girl. I liked her so much. Where is she?" + +"In New York." + +"I'll have to look at her work," Meredith added. "That's me. Always +looking at other people's work and saying, fine, great, and never +knowing a thing about it. Ye true art collector, eh, Emil?" + +Anna went on, "Erik was amused with her. She is rather odd, you know, +and sort of wearing on the nerves. But you can't help liking her." + +An amazing description of a face of stars. Dorn smiled. + +Tesla said, "I only saw her once. A nervous girl, and she seemed upset." + +More from Anna: "I hope she'll come back to Chicago. She was such fun. I +really miss her...." + +All mad. Babbling of Rachel. Dorn stared cautiously about him. The +torment in him became a secret swollen beyond its proper dimensions. +They would look at him now and understand that he was not Erik Dorn, but +somebody else huddled up, burning and flopping around inside. Love was a +virulent form of idiocy. It meant nothing to people outside. Everything +inside. Anna talking about Rachel started a panic in him. She was +playing with memories of Rachel. Do you remember this? and that? As if +he, of course, had forgotten her. Yes, there was an "of course" about +it. A gruesome "of course." Gruesome--an excellent word. It meant Anna +petting and laughing over a knife that was to plunge itself into her +heart. When? Soon ... soon. He had an address copied from a soiled piece +of paper. + +They bundled out of the cafe. Waiters, wraps. Eddie helped with the +wraps. Alien streets, dark waiting buildings, lights, and then +good-nights. The moments whirled mysteriously away. What did the moments +matter? He was going to Rachel. Ah! When had he decided that? He didn't +remember reaching any decision in the matter. + +They entered a cab alone. The cab rolled away over snow-packed streets. +But he couldn't leave Anna. Yes he could. Why not? No. Impossible. A +faint thought like a storm packed into a nutshell.... "I will." + +"You were wonderful to-night, Erik. When I see you with other men I just +thank God for you." + +That was the intolerable thing--his wonderfulness, his damned +wonderfulness. It existed in her. He couldn't leave it behind. + +Her hand lay warm in his. + +"Kiss me, dearest!" + +He kissed her and laughed. He was happy, then? Oh, yes, he was going to +Rachel. Simple. Four months of misery, making a weeping idiot out of +himself. And now, a decision had been reached. His head on her shoulder, +she wanted it so, she was whispering caresses to him. This was Anna. But +it would soon be Rachel. What difference did such things make? One +woman, another woman.... + +"You're like Jimmie was." + +Happy tears filled her eyes, to be noted and remembered now that he was +going to Rachel. Jimmie was a baby who had died--his baby. Offspring was +a more humorous word. To be noted and remembered. What a dream! + +"I'm so happy, Erik. Everything seems wonderful again when you smile and +laugh like this. Your cheeks make such a nice little curve and your head +on my shoulder, where it belongs ... for always and ever...." + +Let her sing. He could stand it. What did it matter? But would she die +when he left. He would have to say something outright. God, what a thing +to say outright. Kill not only her but the wonderful selves of him that +lived in her. That didn't mean anything. Anyway, it was rather silly to +waste time thinking.... To-night, after the ride ... going to Rachel. +He had her address. He would walk up, ring the bell. She would answer +and her face would look in surprise at him. + +"My Erik, my own sweet little one!" + +Dreaming of Jimmie, of him and Jimmie together.... "I don't ever want to +move. I want us to keep on riding like this forever and ever...." + +Quite exquisite tragedy. A bit crude. But reality was always rather +crude. Crude or not, what was more exquisite than happiness laughing +with an unseen knife moving toward its heart? At least he was an +appreciative audience. With his head on her shoulder. Why not? Life +demanded that one be an audience sometimes ... sit back and listen to +the fates whispering. What a ride! Dark waiting houses moving by. Seven +years together, growing closer and more subtly together--yet not +together at all. Anyway, he was sick of living that way. Even without +Rachel ... a mess. Night lies. Passion lies. A dirty business. No, not +that. She was beautiful. Anna, not Rachel. He was the unclean one. + +"Are you happy, beloved?" + +"Yes." + +Lord, what an answer to give her. A prayer! Insufferably exquisite gods +of drama--she was praying. Tears rushing from her eyes. + +"Sweet Jesus ... sweet brother Jesus ... thanks for everything. Oh, I've +been so unfaithful. Not to believe. Thanks for my wonderful Erik." + +He must kill her, swiftly, before she could know that prayers were vain. +Easier to kill her body than to listen to this. How, though? With his +hands about her throat. Murder was an old business. It would be mercy to +her. But he was too much a coward. A cowardly audience listening to +words ... far away from him. + +"Beloved ... darling. Oh, it's so good to have you back again." + +"Don't talk." He put his arm tightly around her, his fingers fumbling at +her bare neck. But that was only a pretense, a bit of insipid +melodrama--his fingers. He was an actor frightened by his part. + +The taxi driver was demanding $4.50--an outrage. + +"That's too much, Erik." + +But he paid. Should he tell him to wait? He would need him in a few +minutes. No, too cold-blooded to tell him to wait. And anyway, Anna was +listening. He was still an audience. He would jump on the stage and +begin acting later. Soon. + +"Keep the change." + +"Thanks, sir." + +An insane world ... a polite and jovial taxi-cab driver carrying +lunatics about the streets. + +"Oh, dear, look! Father's sitting up." She was disappointed. "And I +wanted to kiss and hug you before we went upstairs." + +Dorn unlocked the door of his house. He still had a house and could +unlock its door without its meaning anything. To-morrow he would have no +house. That was the difference between to-day and to-morrow. The old man +would be there. That would make it easier. He shivered. "I'm going to do +something then".... This was alarming. + +Anna's arms were around him before he could remove his coat. She clung, +laughing, kissing. Let her.... "The doomed man ate a hearty breakfast of +ham and eggs and seemed in good spirits." Reporters, with a sense of the +dramatic, usually wrote it that way. Ham and eggs were a symbol. Should +he mull around for extenuating epigrams--a fervid rigmarole on the +mysteries and ethics of life? Or strike swift, short?... "Death was +instantaneous. The drop fell at 10:08 A.M. sharp." Always sharp. Damn +his reporters! + +"Anna ..." + +She bloomed at the sound of her name. + +"I want to talk, Anna." + +"No, let's not talk. I'm so happy.... Aren't you up rather late, +father?" + +Thank God she was getting nervous. One can't kill a smile. + +"Anna, come to me." + +An old phrase of their love-making. He hadn't meant to use it. But +phrases that have been used for seven years get so they say themselves. +She moved quickly toward him. His father--smiling beyond her shoulder. +Now for the slaughter.... + +"Do you love me enough to make me happy, Anna?" + +"I would give my life for you." + +He was deplorably calm--too calm. His eyes were looking at books on +shelves, at chairs, at pictures on the walls, as if everything was of an +identical importance. + +"I know, but that isn't it." + +"What then, Erik?" + +He couldn't say it. Particularly with his father smiling--an irritating +old man who would never die. Should he fall at her feet and whimper? He +couldn't. Her face was his, her eyes his. It wasn't leaving Anna. +Himself, though. Yes, he was confronting himself. Seven years of selves. +All wonderful. Everything he had said and done for seven years lived in +Anna. So he must kill seven years of himself with a phrase. No. Yet he +was talking on. It soothed him, untightened the agony in him. + +"Listen, Anna. I can't tell you, but I must. My words circle away from +me. They run away from what I want to tell you. Anna ... I must go +away--leave you." + +Tears in his eyes, over his face. His voice, warm, blurring with tears. +He choked, paused. + +"Erik...." + +A white sound. Something bursting. + +"If I stay, I'll go mad." + +"No ... no ... Erik ..." + +Still white sounds, only whiter. Blank sounds, caused by speechlessness. +Sounds of speechlessness. + +"I may come back, if you'll take me back sometime...." + +A man was always an imbecile. Imbecility is a trademark. But there were +no sounds now. His eyes tried to turn away from her. A face had ceased +to live and give forth sounds. He remained looking at it. A cold, +emptied face, like a picture frame with a picture recently torn out of +it. + +"Anna, for God's sake, hate me. Hate me. Loathe me the rest of +your life. I've lied and lied to you--nothing but lies.... No, +that's not true. But now it is. Think of me as vile when I go +away.... Otherwise..." + +Tears blubbered out of him. + +... "otherwise I'll die thinking of you. Don't look at me that way. Yell +at me.... You've known it. I can't help it.... It's something. I can't +help it." + +Behind this voice he thought: "It's not me alone. Nights of love ... +kisses ... Jimmie ... seven years.... Little things. Oh, God, little +things. We're all leaving her--pulling ourselves out of her." + +"Where are you going, my son?" + +Could he lie now? Yes, anything that made it easier. + +"Nowhere. Anywhere. I must go. Otherwise I'll choke to death. Take care +of her. There's money. All hers. I'll write later about it. Anna ... +don't please." + +The thing was a botch. Wrong, all wrong. But that didn't matter. His +coat and hat mattered more than phrases. Looking for a coat and hat when +he should be winding up the scene properly. These were preposterous +banalities that distinguished life, unedited, from melodrama. Where was +his hat? His hat ... hat ... Life, Fate, Tragedy had mislaid his +insufferable hat. Ah ... on the floor. + +She was standing staring at him. Would she die on her feet? Quick, +before the shriek. It was coming ... a madness that would frighten him +forever if he heard it. What a scoundrel he was! Why deny it? But in a +few years he would be dead and no longer a scoundrel, and all this so +much forgotten dust. + +"Write to us, my son. And come back soon." + +He closed the door softly behind him and started to walk. But his legs +ran. It had been easy ... easy. He stumbled, sprawled upon the iced +pavement, bruising his face. He picked himself up unaware that he had +stopped running. Night, houses, streets, what matter? In a few +years--dust. But he had left in time. That was the important thing. +Another minute and he would have heard her. A terrible unheard sound. +He had left it behind. He had left her unfinished. Why was he running? +Oh, yes--Anna. + +He paused and held his eyes from staring back at his house. His eyes +would pull him back to the door. Little things--oh, the little things +made hurts. He must turn a corner. Light does not travel around corners. + +Gone. The house was gone with all its little things. One jerk and he had +ripped away.... + +He walked slowly. A coldness suddenly fell into him. Rachel. He had +forgotten about Rachel. Never a thought for Rachel. Disloyal. Where +was she--the mirror of stars? Nowhere. He didn't love her. Was he +insane? He loved Anna, not Rachel. He must go back. The thing was +lopsided--pretense. He'd been pretending he was in love with Rachel. +Love ... schoolboy business. Mirror of stars! Something scribbled on a +valentine. That was love. Rachel. No.... There was another face. Cold, +emptied--a circle of deaths. Anna's face. But he must remember Rachel +because he was going to Rachel--remember something about her. Say her +name over and over. But that wasn't Rachel. That was a word like ... +like pocketbook. Something about her.... + +Ah! yes. Her coat lying in the snow. He sighed with a determined effort +at sadness ... her little coat in the snow! + + + + +PART III + +WINGS + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +"Boom, boom," said the city of New York, "we have gone to war!" + +And all the other cities, big and little, said a boom-boom of their own. +A mighty nation had gone to war. + +A time of singing. Songs on the lips of crowds. Lights in their eyes. +High-pitched, garbled words, brass bands, flags, speeches.... Mine eyes +have seen the coming of the glory of the Lord but we don't want the +Bacon, All we Want is a Piece of the Rhine(d).... A brass monkey playing +"Nearer, My God, to Thee" on a red banjo.... _Allons, les enfants_ ... +_le jour de gloire est arrive!_ You tell 'em, kid! Store fronts, +cabarets, hotel lobbies, sign-boards, office buildings all become +shining citadels of righteousness beleaguered by the powers of darkness. +Newspaper headlines exploding like firecrackers on the corners. A +bonfire of faces in the streets. A bonfire of flags above the streets. + +Boom, boom!... societies for the relief of martyred Belgium. Societies +for Rolling Cigarettes, Bandages, Exterminating Hun Spies, Exterminating +Yellow Dogs and Slackers.... Wah, don't let anybody be a slacker! A +slacker is a dirty dog who does what I wanna do but am afraid to do. +Who lies down. Who won't stand up on his hind legs and cheer when he's +supposed to.... Societies for Knitting Sweaters, Giving Bazaars, +Spotting Hun Propaganda. A bonfire of committees, communes, Jabberwocks, +clubs, Green Walruses, False Whiskers, Snickersnees, War Boards, and +Eagles Shrieking from their Mountain Heights with an obligato by the +Avon Comedy Four--I'm a Jazz Baby.... + +A mighty nation had gone to war. Humpty Dumpty and the March Hare +wheeled out the Home Guards. Said the Debutante to her Soldier Boy in +the moonlight, "To Hell with the chaperone, War is War...." Somebody +lost Eighty Hundred Billion Dollars trying to build aeroplanes out of +Flypaper and a new kind of Cement. And the Press, slapping Fright Wig +No. 7 on its bald head, announced to the Four Winds, " ... once more +glory, common cause, sacrifice, welded peoples of America, invincible +host, lay common blood, altar liberty, sacred principle, government of +the people by the people for the people perish earth" ... And the +Pulpits obliged with an "O God who art in Heaven girthed in shining +armor before Thee Thy cause Liberty Humanity Democracy Thy blessing +inspire light of sacrifice brave women and hero men give us strength O +Lord not falter see way of Righteousness stern hearts bear great burden +Thou has given us carry on till powers of darkness routed virtue again +triumphant. Thy will done on earth as it is in Heaven...." + +And the soldiers entraining for the cantonments--clerks and salesmen, +rail-splitters and window-washers with the curve of youth on their +faces--the soldiers said, "Whasamatter with Uncle Sam? Rah ... Wow ... +Good-bye ... We'll treat 'em rough ... ashes to ashes and dust to dust +if the Camels don't get you the Fatimas must...." And in the cantonments +the soldiers said, " ... this lousy son of a badwoman of a shavetail +can't put nothin' over on me ... say ... oh, I hate to get up in the +morning, oh, how I long to remain in bed...." And in France the soldiers +sang " ... there are smiles that make you happy there are smiles that +make you sad.... The Knights of Columbus are all right but the Y. M. C. +A. is a son of a badwoman of a grafting mess...." + +"Yanks Land in France ... Yanks in Big Battle ... Yanks Sink Submarines" +... bang banged the headlines. Don't eat meat on Tuesdays and Thursdays. +Help the Red Cross buy Doughnuts for the Salvation Army and keep an eye +on Your Austrian Janitor.... Elephants, tom-cats, and chorus-girls; a +hallelujah with a red putty nose, Seventy-six Thousand Press Agents +Walking on their Hands, Jabberwocks, Horned Toads, and Prima Donnas ... +here comes the Liberty Loan Drive ... + +A mighty nation had gone to war. Boom! Boom! + +And in a moon-lighted room overlooking a fanfare of roofs, Erik Dorn +whispered one night to Rachel, + +"You have given me wings!" + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +Time to get up. An oblong of sunlight squeezing through beneath the +drawn blind and slapping itself boldly on the gloomy carpet ... "shame +on all sleepy heads. Here's another day...." + +Rachel smiled as she opened her eyes. She lay quietly, smiling. It was +as it was yesterday--as the day before. One opened one's eyes and life +came quickly back with a "Hello, here I am--where you left me." So one +lay, fearful to move, like a cup of wine that is too full and mustn't be +joggled with even a kick at the bed sheets. + +One lay and smiled. Thoughts and stockings side by side somewhere on the +floor. Put on stockings in a minute. Put on thoughts in a minute. Dress +oneself up in phrases, hats, skyscrapers, and become somebody. + +Rachel's eyes livened slowly. Pleasant to be nobody--a bodyless, +meaningless smile awake in the morning. Opened eyes on a pillow. A deep, +deep sigh on a pillow. An oblong of sunshine on the floor. A happy bed. +A happy ceiling. A happy door. Nothing else. Nobody else. + +But a hat, a blue straw hat with a jauntily curved brim, sat on a +candlestick and winked. Which reminded one that one was alive. After +all, one was somebody. Time to get up. All the king's horses and all the +king's men demanded of one to arise and get dressed and go out and be +somebody. Rachel kicked at the sheets. Protest against the Decrees of +Destiny. " ... those are my feet kicking. Hello, here I am." + +There was a note on the pillow adjacent. It read: "At eight o'clock +to-night I'll return. Please don't get run over in the streets. ERIK." + +Well, why not kiss the note, embrace the pillow and sigh? Why try to be +anything but an idiot?... "Yes, Mr. Erik Dorn, I will be very careful +and not let myself get run over in the streets." + +Rachel's head fell on the adjacent pillow and she lay whispering, "I +love you," until the sound of her voice caused her to laugh.... Time to +get up. Dear me! She closed her eyes and rolled herself out of bed.... +"Ouch!..." She sat up on the floor, legs extended, and stared at a shoe. +Alas! a shoe is a crestfallen memory. A crestfallen yesterday lurks in +old shoes. Shoes are always crestfallen. Even the shoes of lovers +waiting under the bed weep and snivel all night. But why sit naked on +the floor, stark, idiotically naked on the floor with legs thrust out +like a surprised illustration in _La Vie Parisienne_ and toes curling +philosophically toward a shoe?... "I'll do as I please. Very well." + +Sanity demanded clothes. But a sudden memory started her to her feet. +She stood up lightly and hurried toward the large oval mirror.... "Your +breasts are white birds dreaming under the stars. Your body is like the +Queens of China parading through the moon...." + +She looked at herself in the mirror. Yes. But why not the Emperors of +Afghanistan Walking on Their Hands? Thus ... "my Body is like the +Presidents of the United States Riding Horseback...." + +She placed her hands on her slim hips and tautened her figure. When Erik +was away all one could do was play with the things he had said. Was she +as beautiful as he thought? A joyousness flowed through her. The mirror +gave her back a memory of Erik. She was a memory of Erik. + +When she looked at herself in the mirror she saw only something that +lived in the admiring eyes of Erik. Beautiful legs, beautiful body and +"eyes like the courts of Solomon at night, like circles of incense." ... +All were memories of Erik. + +She whispered softly to the figure in the mirror, "Erik knows your eyes. +They are the beckoning hands of dreams." Thus Erik spoke of them. "I +mustn't laugh at myself. I am more beautiful than anything or anybody in +the whole world. There is nobody as beautiful as the woman Erik Dorn +loves." + +If she were only in a forest now where she could run, jump in the air, +scream at birds, and end by hurling herself into dim, cool water. +Instead, an absurd business of fastening her silk slip. + +She seated herself on the bed, her stockings hanging from her hand, and +fell again to listening to Erik. His word made an endless echo in her +head.... "Perins a droll species. A sort of indomitable ass. Refuses to +succumb to his intelligence. If you think he's in love with your Mary +you're a downright imbecile. The man adjusts his passions to his phrases +as neatly as a pretty woman pulling on her stockings...." She didn't +like Erik to refer to pretty women pulling on their stockings. What an +idiot! If Erik wanted to he could go out and help all the pretty women +in New York pull on their stockings. As if that had anything to do with +their love. Somebody else's stockings! A scornful exclamation point. Now +her skirt, waist, shoes, and hat, and she was somebody. + +Somebody walking out of a house, in a street, looking, smiling, swinging +along. The beautiful one, the desired one out for a promenade, +embarrassed somehow by the fact that she was alive, that people looked +at her and street-cars made frowning overtures to her. This was not her +world. Yet she must move around in it as if she were a fatuous part of +its grimacings and artifices. Shop windows that snickered into her eyes +... "shoes $8 to-day. Hats, $10.50.... Traveling-cases only $19...." She +must be polite and recognize its existence by composing her features, +wearing a hat, saying "pardon me" when she trod on anyone's feet or +bumped an elbow into a stomach. A stranger's world--gentlemen in straw +hats; gentlemen in proud uniforms marching off to war; a fretwork of +gentlemen, signs, windows, hats, and automobiles and a lot of other +things, all continually tangling themselves up in front of her nose. A +city pouring itself out of the morning sky and landing with a splash and +a leap of windows around her feet. Thus the beautiful one, out for a +promenade and moving excitedly through a superfluous world. + +She plunged into a perilous traffic knot and emerged unscathed. But that +was wasting time. Time--another superfluous element, a tick-tock for the +little wingless ones to crawl by. Then she remembered--a moon-lighted +room ... "you have given me wings!" Her thought traced itself excitedly +about the memory. This had happened. That had been said. Yesterday, +to-day and to-morrow--all the same. Memories mixing with dreams. Wings! +Yes, wings that beat, beat on the air and left one moving behind a blue +dress, under a jaunty hat like all other jaunty hats. But something else +moved elsewhere. There were two worlds for her. But not for Erik. One +world for Erik. Where would his wings take him? Beyond life there was +still life. A wall of life that never came to an end or a top. That was +the one world for Erik. Hurl himself against it, higher, higher. Soar +till the superfluous ones became little dots on a ribbon of streets. + +Tears came into her eyes. The strange world drifted away--a flutter of +faces. A silence seemed to descend upon the streets as if their roaring +were not a noise but the opened mouth of a dumb man. Erik had come to +her. Arm in arm, smiling tears at him she walked through the spinning +crowd in a path hidden from all snickering windows and revolving faces. +A dream walk. These were her wings. + +Consciousness returned. She rubbed her eyes with the knuckles of her +hands and laughed softly. She must not excite herself with hysterical +worries. Wondering about Erik. There had been days when she had moved +like a corpse through the streets, a corpse always finding new and +further deaths. Death days with her heart tearing at empty hours, with +time like a disease in her veins. Days before he had come. Now all life +was in her. Why invent new causes of grief? She must talk sane words to +herself. But the sane words bowed a polite adieu and putting on their +hats walked away and sat down behind the snickering windows.... Other +words arrived quickly, breathlessly.... There was something in his eyes +that frightened, something that did not rest with her but seemed to +reach on further. In the midst of their ecstasies his eyes, burning, +unsatisfied, making her suddenly chill with fear, would whisper to her, +"There is something more." In each other's arms it was she who came to +an ending, not he. His kisses, his "I love you," were the clawing of +fingers high up on the wall. For her they were the obliteration, the +ending beyond life. + +The street unraveled itself about her with a bang of crowds and a whirl +of flags, a zigzag of eyes like innumerable little tongues licking at +the air. The tension of her thought relaxed. She remembered that when he +walked in streets he was always making pictures. She thought of his +words.... "It's a part of me that love hasn't changed, except to +increase. A pestiferous sanity keeps demanding of me that I translate +incoherent things into words. The city keeps handing itself to me like a +blank piece of paper to write on. And I scribble away." + +She would do as he did, scribble words over faces and buildings as she +walked. The city was a ... a swarm of humanity. Swarm of humanity. My +God, had she lost the power of thought? Imagine telling Erik, "A crowd +of people I saw to-day reminded me of a swarm of humanity." There was no +sanity in her demanding words. Because there was no incoherence outside. +Things weren't incoherent but non-existent. The city was no mystery. +There was nothing to translate. It was an alien, superfluous world. That +was the difference between them. To Erik it was not alien or +superfluous. Even in their ecstasies there was still a world for him, +like some mocking rival laughing at him, saying, "You can embrace +Rachel. But what can you do to me? See if you can embrace me and swallow +me with a kiss...." + +That's why he stayed away till eight o'clock, moving among men, writing, +talking, doing work on the magazine. But there was nothing for her to +do. She inhabited a world named Erik Dorn, a perfect world in which +there was no room even for thought. + +Erik had written her a note from the office once ... "my heart is a +dancing star above the graves of your absence...." But that was almost a +lie because it was true only for one moment. Things occupied him that +could not occupy her. + +Another block. Four more blocks. Noisy aliveness of streets that meant +nothing. She thought, "People look at me and envy me because I'm in a +hurry as if I had somewhere important to go. People envy everybody who +is in a hurry to get somewhere. Because for them there are no +destinations--only halting places for their drifting. Perhaps I should +go home and paint something so as to have it to show him when he comes; +or sit down somewhere and think up words to give him. I won't be able to +talk to-night. I must just be ... without thinking ... of anything but +him. Why doesn't he sometimes mention Anna? Is he afraid it might offend +me to remind me of Anna? Would it? No. Many people live in the world. +Another woman lived in Erik Dorn and he was unaware of her as the sky +is unaware of me. And she died. But she isn't dead. Only her world died. +Her sky fell down...." + +Tears came to Rachel's eyes. Her hands clenched.... "Anna, Anna, forgive +me! I'm so happy. You must understand...." + +She felt a revulsion. She had thought something weak, silly. "Who is +Anna that I must apologize to her? A woman. A woman Erik never loved. Do +I ask apologies of her for having lived with him--kissed him?" + +There was a luncheon appointment with Mary James. Mary would bring a +man. Perrin, maybe. Mary always brought a man. Without a man, Mary was +incomplete. With a man she was even more incomplete. Mary insisted on +lunching. Rachel hurried toward the rendezvous. She thought, "People can +make me do anything now. Mary or anybody else. I was able once to walk +over them. Now they lead me around. Because nothing matters. And people +don't sicken me with their faces and talk. They're like noises in +another room that one hears, sometimes sees, but never listens to or +looks at. They ask questions. And you sit in a secret world beyond them +with your hat and dress, properly attentive." + +Here was the hotel for the rendezvous. Mary out of breath, + +"Rachel! Hello! Wait a minute. Whee! What do you think you're doing? +Pulling off a track meet or something? Been tryin' to catch up to you +for an hour." + +Rachel looked at her. She was a golden-haired monkey full of words. + +"Charlie's at the Red Cat." A man. "We're going to lunch there. What in +God's name's the matter with you?" A pause in the thick of the crowd. +"Heavens, Rachel, are you well? I mean...." + +Rachel laughed. If you laughed people thought you were making answers. + +They arrived at the Red Cat. Small red circular tables. Black walls. A +painstaking non-conformity about the decoration. A sprinkling of diners +saying, "We eat, but not amid normal surroundings. We are emancipated +from normal surroundings. It is extremely important that we eat off +little red circular tables instead of big brown square tables in order +to conform with our mission, which is that of non-conformity." + +Mary led the way to a table occupied by a tall, broad-shouldered youth +with a crooked nose and humorously indignant eyes. He resembled a +football player who has gone into the advertising business and remained +a football player. Mary referred to him with a possessive "Charlie." + +Charlie said, "Why do you always pick out these joints to eat in, Mary? +Been sittin' here for ten minutes scared to death one of these females +would begin crawlin' around on the walls. There's a waiter here with +long hair and two teeth missin' that I'm goin' to bust in the nose if +he doesn't stop." + +"Stop what, Charlie?' + +"Oh, lookin' at me...." + +The luncheon progressed. Olives, watery soup, delicate sandwiches.... + +An air of breathlessness about Rachel seemed to discommode her friends. +Charlie, piqued at her inattentiveness, essayed a volubility foreign to +his words. He was not so "nice a young man" as Hazlitt. But he boasted +among friends that girls had had a chance with him. They could stay +decent if they insisted but he let them understand it wouldn't do them +any good so far as marrying them was concerned because he wasn't out for +matrimony. There was too much to see. + +Mary interspersed her eating with quotations from advanced literature, +omitting the quotation marks. A slim, shining-haired girl--men adored +her hair--pretty-faced, silken-ankled, Mary had a mission in life. It +was the utilizing of vivacious arguments on art, God, morals, economics, +as exciting preliminaries for hand-holding and kissing with eyes closed, +lips murmuring, "Ah, what is life?" Technically a virgin, but devoted +exclusively to the satisfying of her sex--a satisfying that did not +demand the completion of intercourse but the stimulus of its suggestion, +Mary utilized the arts among which she dabbled as a bed for artificial +immoralities. In this bed she had managed for several years to remain an +adroitly chaste courtesan. Her pride was almost concentrated in her +chastity. She guarded it with a precocious skill, parading it through +conversation, hinting slyly of it when its existence seemed for the +moment to have become unimportant. Her chastity, in fact, had become +under skillful management the most immoral thing about her. She had +learned the trick of exciting men with her virginity. + +The thing had become for her an unconscious business. After several +years of it she evolved into a flushed, nervous victim of her own +technique. She managed, however, to preserve her self-esteem by looking +upon the perversion of her normal sexual instincts into a species of +verbal nymphomania as an indication of a superior soul state. Radical +books excited her mind as ordinarily her body might have been excited by +radical caresses. Amateur theatricals, publicity work for charitable +organizations, an allowance from her home in Des Moines, provided her +with a practical background. + +Charlie was her latest catch. Later he would hold her hand, slip an arm +around her, press her breasts gently and with a proper unconsciousness +of what he was doing, and she would let him kiss her ... while music +played somewhere ... preferably on a pier. Then she would murmur as he +paused, out of breath, "Ah, what is life, Charlie?" And if instead of +playing the game decently Charlie abandoned pretense and made an +adventurous sortie, there would ensue the usual denouement ... "Charlie +... Oh, how could you? I'm ... I'm so disappointed. I thought you were +different and that love to you meant something deeper and finer +than--just that." And she would stand before him, her body alive with a +sexual ardor that seemed to find its satisfaction in the discomfiture of +the man, in his apologetic stammers, in her own virtuous words; and +reach its climax in the contrite embrace which usually followed and the +words, "Forgive me, dearest. I didn't mean.... Oh, will you marry me?" + +These were things in store for Charlie. But he must listen first. There +were essential preliminaries--a routine of the chase. Her trimly shod +foot crawled carefully against his ankle. There were really two types of +men. Men who blushed when you touched their ankle under the table, and +men who pretended not to blush. Charlie blushed with a soup-spoon at his +lips. He glanced nervously at Rachel but she seemed breathlessly asleep +with her eyes open--a paradoxical condition which baffled Charlie and +caused him to withdraw disdainfully from further consideration of her. + +Rachel, eating without hunger, was remembering an actress in vaudeville +making a preliminary curtain announcement to her "Moments from Great +Plays" ... "Lady Godiva accordingly rode na-aked through the streets of +Coventry, but, howevah, retained her vuhtue...." + +"Oh, but Charlie, you're not listening," explained Mary. "I was saying +that chastity in woman is something man has insisted upon in order to +show his capacity for waste. He likes the world to know that all his +possessions are new and that he can command the purchase of new things +because it shows his capacity for waste by which his standard of +respectability is gauged in the eyes of his fellows...." + +Charlie lent an ear to the garbled veblenisms and gave it up. The +mutterings and verbal excitements of women in general were mysteries +beyond Charlie's desire to comprehend. They had, for Charlie, nothing to +do with the case. It was pleasing, though, to have her talk of chastity. +Chastity had a connection with the case. It was closely related to +unchastity. He nodded his head vaguely and focused his attention on +questing for the foot under the table that had withdrawn itself. The +long-haired waiter with the missing teeth was an annoyance. He turned +and glowered at him. + +"Don't you think so, Rachel?" Mary pursued. + +A monkey chattering. Another monkey kicking at her toes under the table. +A room full of monkeys and all the monkeys looking at her, talking to +her, kicking her foot, inspired by the curious hallucination that she +was a part of their monkey world. Rachel laughed and eyes turned to her. +People were always startled by laughter that sounded so sudden. There +must be preliminaries to laughter so as to get the atmosphere prepared +for it. + +"Rachel, I'm talking to you, if you please." + +Mary, puckering her forehead very importantly, was informing her that +Mary existed and was demanding proof of the fact. That was the secret of +people. They didn't really exist to themselves until somebody recognized +them and proved they were alive--by answering their questions. People +lived only when somebody talked to them--anybody. The rest of the time +they went along with nothing inside them except stomachs that grew +hungry. + +She answered Mary, "Oh, there are lots of things you don't know." And +laughed, this time careful of not sounding too sudden. She meant there +was something that lived behind hours, there was a dream world in which +the words and faces of people were ridiculously non-existent. But Mary +was a literal-minded monkey and thought she was referring to quotations +from books superior to the ones she used. + +"Oh, is that so?" said Mary. + +Charlie, also literal-minded and still after the foot, echoed Rachel, +"You bet your life it is." + +"And I suppose you know all about them, Miss Laskin." Very sarcastic. An +inflection that had made her a conversational terror in the Des Moines +High School. + +Mary was always conscious of not having read enough and of therefore +being secretly inferior to more omnivorous readers. She did not think +Rachel read much, but Rachel was different. Rachel was an artist and +had ideas. Mary respected artists and was always sarcastic toward them. +It usually made them talk a lot--particularly male artists--and thus +enabled her to find out what their ideas were and use them as her own. +Nevertheless, despite her most careful parrotings the artists always +managed to have other ideas always different from the ones she stole +from them. Fearing some devastating rejoinder from Rachel--Rachel was +the kind of person who could blurt out things that landed on you like a +ton of bricks--she sought to fortify Charlie's opinion of her by +replacing her foot against his ankle. + +"Well, what are they, Rachel?" + +What were the things Mary knew nothing about? A large order. Rachel's +tongue began to wag in her mind. Stand up and make a speech. Fling her +arms about. High-sailing words. Absurd! A laugh would answer. Laughs +always answered. Rachel laughed. She would suffocate among such people, +exasperating strangers with inquisitive faces and nervous feet. + +At the conclusion of the luncheon Charlie had reached a new stage in his +amorous maneuverings. He had paid no further attention to Rachel, +although vividly conscious of her. But Mary offered definite horizons. A +bird in the hand. There was something exciting about Mary not to be +encountered in the Junos and Aphrodites of his cabaret quests. Mary +appeared virtuous--and yet promised otherwise. She used frank +words--lust, chastity, virginity, sexuality. Charlie quivered. The +words sticking out of long, twisted sentences, detached themselves and +came to him like furtively indecent caresses. Mary promised. So he +agreed to go with her to the Players' Studio where she was rehearsing in +some kind of nut show. + +"You must come too, Rachel. Frank Brander has done some gorgeous +settings for the next bill." + +Long hours before eight o'clock. + +"I've got some important things on at the office," Charlie hesitated. + +"Yes, I'll go," Rachel answered. This, mysteriously, seemed to decide +Charlie. He would go too. + +In the buzzing little auditorium of the Players' Studio, Charlie +endeavored to further his quest. But the atmosphere seemed, +paradoxically enough, a handicap. A free-and-easy atmosphere with men +and women in odd-looking rigs sauntering about. The place was as immoral +as a honky-tonk. Charlie stared at the young women in smocks and bobbed +hair, smoking cigarettes, sitting with their legs showing. They should +have been prostitutes but they weren't. Or maybe they were, only he +wasn't used to that kind. Too damn gabby. Mary had jumped up on the +small stage and was talking with a group of young men and women. He +moved to follow, but hesitated. He didn't have the hang of this kind of +thing. The sick-looking youths loitering around, casually embracing the +gals and rubbing their arms, seemed to know the lingo. Charlie sat down +in disgust and yielded himself to a feeling of stiffly superior virtue. + +In a corner Rachel listened to Frank Brander. + +"We've got quite a promising outfit here, Miss Laskin. Why don't you +come around and help with the drops or something? The more the merrier. +We're putting on a thing by Chekov next week and a strong thing by +Elvenah Jack. Lives down the street. Know her? Oh, it isn't much." He +smiled good-naturedly at the miniature theater. "But it's fun. I'll show +you around." + +Rachel submitted. Brander was a friend of Emil Tesla. He drew things for +_The Cry_. He had a wide mouth and ugly eyes that took things for +granted--that took her for granted. She was a woman and therefore +interested in talking to a man. He held her arm too much and kept saying +in her thought, "We've got to pretend we're decent, but we're not. We're +a man and woman." But what did that matter? Long hours before eight +o'clock. + +On the stage Brander became a personality. A group of nondescript faces +deferred to him. A woman with stringy hair and an elocutionist's mouth, +grew dramatic as he passed. They paused before Mary. Brander had stopped +abruptly in his talk. He turned toward Mary and stared at her until she +began to grow pink. Rachel wondered. Mary wanted to run away, but +couldn't. Brander finally said shortly, "Hello, you!" His eyes blazed +for an instant and then grew angry. + +"Come on, Miss Laskin." He jerked her and she followed. In the wings +half hidden from the group that crowded the tiny stage Brander said, "Do +you know that girl?" + +Rachel nodded. + +"She's no good," he grinned. "I like women one thing or the other. She's +both. And no good. I got her number." + +Rachel noticed that he had moved his hand up on her arm and was gently +pressing the flesh under her shoulder. He kept saying to her now in her +thought, "I've got a man's body and you've got a woman's body. There's +that difference between us. Why hide it?" His voice became soft and he +said aloud, "Don't you like men to be one kind or the other? And not +both?" + +Rachel looked at him blankly. She must pretend she didn't know what he +was talking about. Otherwise she would begin to talk. He was a man to +whom one talked because he demanded it. His face, ugly and boyish, +seemed to have rid itself of many expressions and retained a certainty. +The certainty said, "I'm a man looking for women." + +Brander laughed. + +"Oh, you're one of the other kind," he said. "Beg pardon. No harm done. +Let's go out front." + +Out front in the half-lighted auditorium Brander suddenly left her. She +saw him a few minutes later standing close to a nervous-voiced woman who +was saying, "Oh, dear! Dear me! I'll never get this part. I won't! I +just know it!" + +Brander was toying idly with a chain that hung about the woman's neck. +He was looking at her intently. Mary approached, bearing Charlie along. +She began whispering to Rachel, "That man's a beast. I hate him. He +thinks he's an artist, but he's a beast. You'll find out if you're not +careful." + +Rachel asked, "Who?" + +"Brander," Mary answered. + +Charlie interrupted, indignation rumbling in his voice, + +"A bunch of freaks, all of them. I don't see why a decent girl wants to +hang around in a dump like this." + +He was more grieved than indignant. A woman with dark hair and long +gypsy earrings had suddenly laughed at him when he sat down beside her. +Mary patted his arm. + +"I know, Charlie. But you don't understand. My turn in a few minutes, +Rachel. We'll wait here till the Chekov thing comes on. Do you know +Felixson? He's got a wonderful thing for the bill after this. A +religious play. Awfully strong. That's him with the bushy hair. You must +know him." + +Charlie grunted. + +"You don't mean you act in this damn joint?" + +"Oh, I'm just helping out for next week. It's lots of fun, Charlie." + +Rachel stood up suddenly from the uncomfortable bench seat. + +"I must go," she murmured. "I'm sorry." + +Turning quickly she walked out of the place. Behind her Charlie laughed. +"A wild little thing." + +Mary with her body pressed closely against him combated an influence +that seemed at work upon Charlie. + +"She's changed a great deal, poor girl," said Mary. + +"What is she?" + +"An artist. She says wonderful things sometimes. Awfully strong things +and just hates people." + +"A nut," agreed Charlie. + +"Oh, she's sort of strange. Puts on a lot, of course." Mary felt +uncomfortable. Rachel had managed to leave behind a feeling of the +unimportance of everybody but Rachel. She was leaning against Charlie +for vindication. His body, trembling at the contact, provided it; but +his words annoyed her. + +"Well, she's different from the gang in here--I'll say that for her." + +"Oh, let's forget her," Mary whispered. "I don't like this place. +Really, I ..." She hesitated and thought, "Rachel thinks she's +mysterious and enigmatic and everything, but she's an awful fool. She +can't put it over on me." Yet she sat, despite the vindication of +Charlie's amorous embarrassment, and wondered, parrot fashion, "Ah, what +is life?" + +Outside Rachel was walking again. The memory of her meeting with Mary, +of Brander's ugly appealing face that whispered frankly of his sex, was +dead in her. Little toy people playing at games. Erik hated them. Erik +said ... well, it was something too indecent to repeat. She couldn't get +used to Erik's indecent comparisons. But they were like that--the toy +people in the little toy village. She didn't hate them the way Erik did. +Some of them were just playing. But there were others. Why think of +them? Walk, walk. Just be. A perfect circle.... "There's nothing to do. +I don't want anything. To-night he'll talk to me. And I'll make real +answers." Why did she want to be kissed? Kisses were for people like +Mary. "Oh, he'll kiss me and I'll become alive." + +It was late afternoon. Still, long hours before eight o'clock. It +pleased Erik when she told him how empty the day had been. But she +mustn't harp too much on that. It would sound as if she were making +demands on him. No demands. He was free. They weren't married. A crowd +was solidifying in 10th Street. She walked slowly, watching the people +gathering at the corner. The office of _The Cry_ was there. She +remembered this and hurried forward. + +Something was happening. An excitement was jerking people out of their +silences. Blank, silent faces around her suddenly opened and dropped +masks. Bodies drifting carelessly up and down the street broke into +runnings. + +Around the corner people were shouting, pressed into a ball of wild +faces and waving arms. It was in front of the office of _The Cry_ that +something was happening. + +"Kill the dirty rascal! Make the son-of-a----kiss the flag!" + +Words screeched out of a bay of sound. + +"Kill him! Kill the son-of-a---- String him up!" + +On the edge of the ball that was growing larger and seeming about to +burst into some wild activity, Rachel stood tip-toed. She could see two +burly-looking men dragging a bloody figure out of a doorway. Blood +dropped from him, leaving stains on the top step. The two men were +twisting his wrists as if they wanted them to come off. Yet they didn't +act as if they were twisting anybody's wrists off. They seemed to be +just waiting. + +It was Tesla between them. His face was cut. One of his arms hung limp. +Blood began to spurt from his wrists and drop from his fingers as if he +were writing something on the top step in a foolish way. At the sight of +him the noises increased. The ball of faces grew angrier. Policemen +swung sticks. They yelled, "Back, there! Everybody back!" Runners were +coming from all directions as if the city had suddenly found a place to +go and was pouring itself into 10th Street. + +"Hey ... hey ... they've got him!" + +Nobody asked who, but came running with a shout. + +The street broke over Rachel. Tesla vanished. Roaring in her ears, faces +tumbling, lifting in a wildness about her. A make-believe of horror. Her +thought gasped, "Where am I? What is this?" Her feet were carrying her +into the boiling center of a vat of bodies. Then she saw Tesla again, +standing above them. A blood-smeared man with a broken arm, his head +raised. But he was somebody else. + +Caught in the pack she became far away, seeing things move as with an +almost lifeless deliberateness. Tesla's face was the center. His swollen +eyes were trying to open. His paralyzed mouth was trying to form itself +back into a mouth. A mist covered him as if the raging street and the +many voices focused into a film and hid him. Behind this film he was +doing something slowly. Then he became vivid. He was shouting, + +"Comrades ... workers ..." + +A roar from the street concealed him and his voice. But the vividness of +him lingered and emerged again. + +"Comrades!" + +A fist struck against his mouth. His head wabbled. Another fist struck +against his eye. The two men holding his wrists were striking into his +uncovered face with their fists. A gleeful, joyous sound went up. Rachel +stared at the wabbling head of Tesla. The street laughed. Fists hammered +at an uncovered face. People were coming on a run to see. A bell +clanged. Beside her a man shrieked, "Make him kiss the flag, the dirty +anarchist!" + +Things slowed again. A film was over the scene. Tesla was being dragged +down the steps. His head kept falling back as if he wanted to go to +sleep. Then something happened. A laugh, high like a scream, lit the +air. It made her cold. The men dragging Tesla down the steps paused, and +their fists moving with a leisureliness struck into his face, making no +sound and not doing anything. It was Tesla who had laughed. The fists +kept moving through a film. But he laughed again--a high laugh like a +scream that lit the air with mystery. + +When the pack began to sift and sweep her into strange directions she +felt that Tesla was still laughing, though she could no longer hear him. +The street became shapeless. Something had ended. A bell clanged away. +People were again walking. They had dull faces and were quiet. She +caught a glimpse of the step on which Tesla had stood behind a mist and +cried, "Comrades!" She remembered often having stood on the step herself +in coming to the office of _The Cry_. This made her sicken. It was her +wrists that had been twisted, her uncovered face that had been struck +by fists. + +The emotion left her as a hand tugged eagerly at her arm. It pulled her +up on the crowded curbing. + +"Good God, Rachel, what are you doing here?" + +She looked up and saw Hazlitt in uniform. He kept pulling her. Why +should Hazlitt be pulling her out of a crowd in 10th Street? She tried +to jerk away. She must run from Hazlitt before he began talking. He +would make her scream. + +Turning to him with a quiet in her voice she said carefully: + +"Please let me go. You hurt my arm." + +But his hand remained. His eyes, shining and indignant, prodded at +her.... The street was quiet. Nothing had happened. Unconscious +buildings, unconscious traffic, faces wrapped in solitudes--these were +in the streets again. She turned and looked with amazement at her +companion. People do not fall out of the sky and seize you by the arm. +There was something stark about Hazlitt pulling her out of the street +mob and holding her arm. He was an amputation. You pulled yourself out +of a filth of faces and sprawled suddenly into a quiet, cheerful street +holding an arm in your hand, as if it had come loose from the pack. It +seemed part of some arrangement--Tesla, the pack, Hazlitt's arm. Her +amazement died. Hazlitt was saying: + +"I knew you'd be in that mob. I thought when I saw them haul that dirty +beggar out ..." + +He halted, pained by a memory. Rachel nodded. The curious sense of +having been Tesla came again to her. He had laughed in a way that +reminded her of herself. She would laugh like that if they struck at her +face. Her eyes turned frightenedly toward Hazlitt. What was he going to +do? Arrest her? He was in uniform. But why should he arrest her? His +eyes had the fixed light of somebody performing a duty. He was arresting +her, and Erik would come home and not find her. Her lithe body became +possessed of an astounding strength. With a vicious grimace she tore +herself from his grip and confronted him, her eyes on fire. + +"Please, Rachel. Come with me till I can talk. You must ..." + +A white-faced Hazlitt, with suffering eyes. Then he was not arresting +her. The street bobbed along indifferently. + +"I'm going away in an hour. You'll maybe never see me again. But I can't +go away till I've talked to you. Please." + +It didn't matter then. She would be home in time. And it was easier to +obey the desperate whine of his voice then run into the crowd. He would +chase after her, whining louder and louder. They entered a hotel lobby. +Hazlitt picked out a secluded corner as if arranging for some rite. He +was going to do something. Rachel walked after him, annoyed, +indifferent. What did it matter? This was George Hazlitt--a name that +meant nothing and yet could talk to her. + +Sitting opposite her the name began, "Now you must promise me you won't +get up and run away till I'm through--no matter what I say." + +She promised with a nod. She must be polite. Being polite was part of +the idiotic penalties attached to adventuring outside her real world, in +unreal superfluous streets. What had made Tesla laugh? His laugh had not +been unreal. Almost as if it were a part of her. Blood dropping from his +fingers. A bleeding man. + +"I'm leaving for France, Rachel. I couldn't go away without seeing you. +I've spent a week trying to find you and this morning they told me to +inquire at _The Cry_." + +Was he apologizing for Tesla? She remembered the faces that had swept by +in 10th Street. His had been one of them. Hazlitt had twisted Tesla's +wrists and struck into his uncovered face. + +Rachel slipped to her feet and stared about her. A hand caught at her +arm and pulled her into the chair. + +"You promised. You can't leave till you hear me." + +She sank back. + +"Give me five minutes. I'm unworthy of them. But I've found you and must +talk now. I can't go across without telling you." + +She looked up. Tears almost in his eyes. His voice grown low. He seemed +to be whispering something that didn't belong to the sanity of the hotel +lobby and the two large potted palms in the corner. + +"I'm unclean. I've been looking for you to ask you to forgive me." + +Hazlitt's hands crept over his knees. + +"Oh, God, you must listen and forgive me." + +This was a mad monkey uttering noises too unintelligible for even an +attentive hat, dress, and pair of shoes to make anything of. + +"Rachel, I love you. I don't know how to say it. There's something I've +got to say. Because ... otherwise I can't love you. I can't love you +with the thing unsaid." + +He looked bewilderedly about him and gulped, his face red, his eyes +tortured. + +"It's about a woman." + +"Perhaps," she thought, "he's going to boast. No, he's going to cry. +What does he want?" + +The sound of his voice made her ill. If he were going to make love why +didn't he start instead of gulping and covering his face and choking +with tears in a hotel lobby as if he were an actor? + +"I was drawn into it. I couldn't help it. One afternoon in my office +after the trial. Then she kept after me. The thought of you has been +like knives in me. I've loved you all through it and hated myself for +thinking of you, dragging you into it. I dragged the thought of you down +with me. But she wouldn't let me go. God, I could kill her now. I broke +away after weeks. She got somebody else. I've been living in hell ever +since--on account of you. I'm unclean and can't love you any more. If it +hadn't been for my going across I'd not have come to you. But the war's +given me my chance. I can't explain it. I went in to--to wipe it out. +But I had to find you and tell you. I didn't want to think of dying and +having insulted you and not ..." + +He stopped, overcome. Rachel was nodding her head. She must make an +answer to this. It was a riddle asking an answer. + +"For God's sake, Rachel, don't look like that. Oh, you're so clean and +pure. I can't tell you. You're like a star shining and me in the mud. +You've always hated me. But it's different now. I'm going to France to +die. I don't want to live. If you forgive me it'll be easier. That's why +I had to talk, Rachel, forgive me. And then it won't matter what +happens." + +She let him take her hand. It was an easy way to make an answer. A +desire to giggle had to be overruled. The words he had spoken became +absurd little manikins of words, bowing at each other, striking idiotic +postures before her. But he had done something and for some astounding +reason wanted her to forgive him for what he had done. He was a fool. An +impossible fool. He sat and looked like a fool. Not even a man. + +Hazlitt raised her hand to his face. Tears fell on it. Rachel felt them +crawling warmly over her fingers. They were too intimate. + +"You make me feel almost clean again. Your hand's like something clean +and pure. If I come back...." + +He stared at her in desperation. He seemed suddenly to have forgotten +his intention to die in France. He recalled Pauline. Was he sorry? No. +It was over. Not his fault. All this to Rachel was a ruse. Clever way to +get her sympathy. Not quite. But he felt better. + +He became incomprehensible to Rachel. The things he had said--his +weeping, gulping--all part of an incomprehensible business. She nodded +her head and looked serious. It was something that had to do with a +far-away world. + +"Good-bye. Remember, I love you. And I'll come through clean because of +you...." + +She held out her hand and said, "Good-bye." + +But he didn't go. Now he was completely a fool. Now there was something +so completely foolish about him that she must laugh. The light in his +face detained her laughter. + +"You forgive me ... for ..." + +She nodded her head again. It seemed to produce a magical effect--this +nodding of her head up and down. His eyes brightened and he appeared to +grow taller. + +"Then if I die, I'll go to heaven." + +She winced at this. An unbearable stupidity. But Hazlitt stood looking +at her for an instant quite serious, as if he had said something noble. +He saluted her, his hand to his cap, his heels together, and went away. + +The memory lingered. Hazlitt had always been incomprehensible. His +stupidity was easy enough to understand. But something under it was a +mess. Now he was a fool. Stiff and idiotic and making her feel ashamed +as if she were sorry for him.... Tesla came back and stood on a step +dropping blood from his fingers. Brander came back and whispered with +his ugly face. Hazlitt, Tesla, Brander--three men that jumped out at her +from the superfluous streets. Like the three men in the park walking +horribly across the white park in the night.... An idiot, a bleeding +man, and an ugly face. But they had passed her and gone. They were +things seen outside a window. + +Her eyes looking at a clock said to her, "Two hours more. Oh, in two +hours, in two hours!" + +She sat motionless until the clock said, "One hour more, one more hour!" + +Then she stood up and walked slowly out of the hotel. Things had changed +since she had left the streets. The strange world full of Marys, +Hazlitts, and Teslas had added further superfluities. A band of music. +Soldiers marching. Buildings waving flags and crying, "Boom, boom! we +have gone to war!..." + +She came to her home. A red-brick house like other red-brick houses. But +her home. What a fool she had been to leave it. It would have been +easier waiting here. She walked into the two familiar rooms filled with +the memory of Erik--two rooms that embraced her. Her hat fell on the +bed. She would have to eat. Downstairs in the dining-room. Other +boarders to look at. But Erik would have eaten when he came. He +preferred eating alone. + +Rachel took her place at one of the smaller tables and dabbled through a +series of uninteresting dishes. An admiring waitress rebuked her ... +"Dearie, you ain't eating hardly anything." + +She smiled at the waitress and watched her later bringing dishes to a +purple-faced fat man at an adjoining table. The fat man was futilely +endeavoring to tell secrets to the waitress by contorting his features +and screwing up his eyes. He reminded Rachel of Brander, only Brander +told secrets without trying. She finished and hurried out. She would be +hungry later, but it didn't matter. Erik would be there then. + +In the hallway Mrs. McGuire called, "Oh, Mrs. Dorn!" + +Being called Mrs. Dorn always frightened her and made her dizzy. She +paused. Some day Mrs. McGuire would look at her shrewdly and say, +"You're not Mrs. Dorn. I called you Mrs. Dorn but I know better. Don't +think you're fooling anybody. Mrs. Dorn, indeed!" + +But Mrs. McGuire held out her hand. + +"A letter for your husband. Do you want to sit in the parlor, Mrs. Dorn? +You know I want all my boarders to make themselves entirely at home." + +"Thank you," said Rachel. "You're so nice. But I have some work to do +upstairs." + +Escaping Mrs. McGuire was one of the difficult things of the day. A +buxom, round-faced woman in black with friendly eyes, Mrs. McGuire had a +son in the army and a sainted husband dead and buried, and a childish +faith in the friendliness and interest of people. Rachel hurried up the +stairs. In her room she looked at the letter. For Erik. Readdressed +twice. From Chicago. She stood holding it. It said to her, "I am from +Anna. I am from Anna. Words of Anna. I am the wife of Erik Dorn." + +Anna was a reality. Long ago Anna had been a reality. A background +against which the dream of Erik Dorn raised itself. She remembered +sitting close to Anna and smiling at her the first time she had visited +Erik's home. Why had she gone? If only she had never seen Anna! Her +tired, sad eyes that smiled at Erik. Rachel's fingers tightened over the +envelope. She laughed nervously and tore the letter. He was hers. Anna +couldn't write to him. + +A pain came into her heart as the paper separated itself into bits in +her fingers. She felt herself tearing something that was alive. It was +cruel to tear the letter. But it would save Erik pain. ... To read +Anna's words, to hear her cries, see her sad tired eyes staring in +anguish out of the writing--that would hurt Erik. + +She dropped the bits into the waste-paper basket and stood wide-eyed +over them. She had dared. As if he had belonged to her. What would he +say? But he wouldn't know. Unless Mrs. McGuire said, "There was a letter +for you, Mr. Dorn." Why hadn't she read the letter before tearing it up? +Perhaps it was important, saying Anna had died. When Anna died Erik +would marry her. She would have children and live in a house of her own. +Mrs. Rachel Dorn, people would call her. This was a dream.... Mrs. +Rachel Dorn. He would laugh if he knew; or worse, be angry. But ... "Oh, +God, I want him. Like that. Complete." Anna had had him like that. The +other thing. Not respectability. But the possession of little things. + +She would have to tell him about the letter. She couldn't lie to him, +even silently. The clock on the dresser, ticking as it had always +ticked, said, "In a half-hour ... a half-hour more." + +She sprang from the bed and stood listening. + +Someone was coming down the hall. Strange hours fell from her. Now Erik +was coming. Now life commenced. The empty circle of the day was over. + +Her body grew wild as if she must leap out of herself. Her eyes hung +devouringly upon the blank door--a door opening and Erik standing, +smiling at her. It was still a dream. It would never become real. She +would always feel frightened. Though he came home a hundred thousand +times she would always wait like now for the door to open with a fear +and a dream in her heart. But why did he knock? + +She opened the door with a feverish jerk. Not Erik. A messenger-boy +blinking surprised eyes. + +"Mrs. Dorn?" + +"Yes." + +"Sign here, second line." + +A blank door again. The message read: + +"I'll be home late. Don't worry. ERIK." + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +Warren Lockwood was a man who wrote novels. He had lived in the Middle +West until he was thirty-five and begun his writing at his desk in a +real-estate office of which he had been until then a somewhat bored half +owner. + +During the months Erik Dorn had been working on the staff of "the _New +Opinion_--an Organ of Liberal Thought," he had encountered Lockwood +frequently--a dark-haired, rugged-faced man with a drawling, +high-pitched masculine voice. Dorn liked him. He talked in the manner of +a man carefully focusing objects into range. Lockwood was aware he had +gotten under the skin of things. He talked that way. + +The change from the newspaper to the magazine continued, after several +months, to irritate Dorn. The leisureliness of his new work aggravated. +There was an intruding sterility about it. The _New Opinion_ was a +weekly. From week to week it offered a growing clientele finalities. +There were finalities on the war, finalities on the social unrest; +finalities on art, life, religion, the past, present, and future. A +cock-sure magazine, gently, tolerantly elbowing aside the mysteries of +existence and holding up between carefully manicured thumb and +forefinger the Gist of the Thing. The Irrefutable Truth. The Perfect +Deduction. + +There were a number of intelligent men engaged in the work of writing +and editing the periodical. They seemed all to have graduated from an +identical strata. Dorn, becoming acquainted with them, found them +intolerable. They appealed to him as a group of carefully tailored +Abstractions bombinating mellifluously in a void. The precision of logic +was in them. The precision of even tempers. The precision of aloof eyes +fastened upon finalities. Theoretical radicals. Theoretical +conservatives. Theoretical philosophers. Any appellation preceded by the +adjective theoretical fitted them snugly. Of contact with the +hurdy-gurdy of existence which he as a journalist felt under the ideas +of the day, there was none. Life in the minds of the intellectual staff +of the _New Opinion_ smoothed itself out into intellectual paragraphs. +And from week to week these paragraphs made their bow to the public. +Mannerly admonitions, courteous disapprovals. A style borrowed from the +memory of the professor informing a backward class in economics what the +exact date of the signing of the Magna Charta really was. + +Lockwood was the exception. He wrote occasional fictional sketches for +the magazine. Dorn had been attracted to him at first because of the +curious intonations of his voice. He had not read the man's +novels--there were four of them dealing with the Middle West--but in the +repressed sing-song of his voice Dorn had sensed an unusual character. + +"He's a good writer, an artist," he thought, hearing him talking to +Edwards, one of the editors. "He talks like a lover arguing patiently +and gently with his own thoughts." + +After that they had walked and eaten together. The idea of Warren +Lockwood being a lover grew upon Dorn. Of little things, of things +seemingly unimportant and impersonal, the novelist talked as he would +have liked to talk to Rachel--with a slow simplicity that caressed his +subjects and said, "These are little things but we must be careful in +handling them, for they're a part of life." And life was important. +People were tremendously existent. Dorn, listening to the novelist, +would watch his eyes that seemed to be always adventuring among secrets. + +Once he thought, "A sort of mother love is in him. He keeps trying to +say something that's never in his words. His thoughts are like a lover's +fingers stroking a girl's hair. That's because he's found himself. He +feels strong and lets his strength come out in gentleness. He's found +himself and is trying to shape secrets into words." + +In comparing Lockwood with the others on the staff of the magazine he +explained, "There's the difference between a man and an intellect. +Warren's a man. The others are a group of schoolboys reducing life to +lessons." + +There grew up in Dorn a curious envy of the novelist. He would think of +him frequently when alone, "The fellow's content to write. I'm not. He's +found his way of saying what's in him, getting rid of his energies and +love. I haven't. He feels toward the world as I do toward Rachel. An +overpowering reality and mystery are always before him; but it gives him +a mental perspective. What does Rachel give me? Desires, ambitions--a +sort of laughing madness that I can't translate into anything but +kisses. I'm cleverer than I was before. I talk and write better. There's +a certain wildness about things as if I were living in a storm. Yes, I +have wings, but there's no place to fly with them. Except into her arms. +There must be something else." + +And he would rush through the day, outwardly a man of inexhaustible +energies, stamping himself upon the consciousness of people as a +brilliant, dominating personality. Edwards, with whom he discussed +matter for editorials and articles, had grown to regard him with awe. + +"I've never felt genius so keenly before," Edwards explained him to +Lockwood. "The man seems burning up. Did you read his thing on Russia +and Kerensky? Lord, it was absolutely prophetic." + +Lockwood shook his head. + +"Dorn's too damn clever," he drawled. "Things come too easily to him. +He's got an eye but--I can't put my finger on it. You see a fella's got +to have something inside him. The things Erik says cleverly and +prophetically don't mean anything much, because they don't mean anything +to him. He makes 'em up as he goes along." + +Edwards disagreed. He was a younger man than Lockwood, with an +impressionable erudition. Like his co-workers he had been somewhat +stampeded by Dorn's imitative faculties, faculties which enabled the +former journalist to bombinate twice as loud in a void three times as +great as any of his colleagues. + +"Well, I've met a lot of writing men since I came East," he said. "And +Dorn's the best of them. He's more than a man of promise. He's opened +up. Look what he's done in the new number. Absolutely revolutionized the +liberal thought of the country. You've got to admit that. He's a man +incapable of fanaticism." + +"That's just it," smiled Lockwood. "You've hit it. You've put your +finger on it. He's the kind of man who knows too damn much and don't +believe anything." + +The friendship between Lockwood and Dorn matured quickly. The two men, +profoundly dissimilar in their natures, found themselves launched upon a +growing intimacy. To Lockwood, heavy spoken, delicate sensed, naive +despite the shrewdness of his forty-five years, Erik Dorn appealed as +some exotic mechanical contrivance might for a day fascinate and +bewilder the intelligence of a rustic. And the other, in the midst of +magnificent bombinations that amazed his friend, thought, "If I only +had this man's simplicity. If on top of my ability to unravel mysteries +into words I could feel these mysteries as he does, I might do +something." + +At other times, carried away by the strength of his own nature, he would +find himself looking down upon Lockwood. "I'm alive. He's static. I live +above him. There's nothing beyond me. I can't feel the things out of +which he makes his novels, because I'm beyond them." + +He would think then of Lockwood as an eagle of a rustic painstakingly +hoeing a field. On such days the disquiet would vanish from Dorn's +thought. He would feel himself propelled through the hours as if by some +irresistible wind of which he had become a part. To live was enough. To +live was to give expression to the clamoring forces in him. To sweep +over Edwards, hurl himself through crowds, pulverize Warren, bang out +astounding fictions on the typewriter, watch the faces of acquaintances +light up with admiration as he spoke--this sufficed. The world +galvanized itself about him. He could do anything. He could give vision +to people, create new life around him. This consciousness sufficed. Then +to rush home from a triumphant day, a glorious contempt for his fellows +lingering like wine in his head--and find Rachel--an eagle waiting in a +nest. + +Joy, then, become a mania. Desires feeding upon themselves, devouring +his body and his senses and hurling him into an exhausted sleep as if +death alone could climax the madness of his spirit--these Dorn knew in +the days of his strength. + +But the days of disquiet came, confronting him like skeletons in the +midst of his feastings upon life. The ecstasy he felt seemed suddenly to +turn itself inward and demand of him new destinations. On such days he +had fallen into the habit of going upon swift walks through the less +crowded streets of the city. During his walking he would mutter, "What +can I do? What? Nothing. Not a thing." As if secret voices were debating +his destiny. + +Restless, vicious spoken, venting his strainings in a skyrocket burst of +phrases upon the inanity and stupidity of his fellow creatures for which +he seemed to possess an almost uncanny vision, he fled through these +days like the victim of some spiritual satyriasis. No longer a wind at +his heels riding him into easy heights, he found himself weighted down +with his love, and strangely inanimate. + +The direction in which he was moving loomed sterilely before him. His +love itself seemed a feverishly sterile thing. His work upon the +magazine, his incessant exchange of intolerant adjectives with admiring +strangers--these became absurdly petty gestures, absurdly insufficient. +There was something else to do. As he had longed for Rachel in the black +days before their coming together, he longed now for this something +else. Without name or outline, it haunted him. Another face of stars, +but this time beyond his power to understand. Yet it demanded him, as +Rachel had demanded him, and towards it he turned in his days of +disquiet, inanimate and bewildered. + +"I must find something to do," he explained to himself, "that will give +me direction. People must have a monomania as a track for their living, +or else there is no living." + +Then, as was his custom, he would begin an unraveling of the notion. + +"Men with energies in them wed themselves quickly to some consuming +project, even if it's nothing more than the developing of a fish market. +Rachel isn't a destination. She's a force that fills me with violence +and I have no direction in which to live to use this violence. I don't +know what to do with myself. So I'm compelled to live in the violence +itself. In a storm. A kind of Walkyrie on a broomstick. But, good God, +what else is there? Sit and scribble words about fictitious characters. +Bleat out rhapsodies. Art is something I can spit out in conversation. +If I do anything it's got to be something too difficult for me to do. My +damned cleverness puts me beyond artists who find a destination for +their energies in the struggle to achieve the thing with which I begin. +If not art, then what? War, politics, finance. All surfaces meaning +nothing. If I did them all there'd still be something I hadn't done. I +want something that's not in life. Life's too damned insufficient. I +want something out of it." + +Rachel had thought at first that his fits of brooding restlessness came +from a memory of Anna. But phrases he had blurted cut half-consciously +had given her a sense of their causes. The thought of Anna had died in +him. Neither consciousness of her suffering nor memory of the years they +had lived together had yet awakened in him. He had been moving since the +night he had walked out of his home and there had been no looking back. + +Undergoing a seeming expansion of his powers, Erik Dorn had become a +startling, fascinating figure in the new world he had entered. The +flattery of men almost as clever as himself, the respect, appreciation +of political, literary, and vaguely social circles, of stolid men and +eccentric acquaintances, were continually visited upon him. He was a +personality, a figure to enliven dinner parties, throw a glamour and a +fever into the enervated routine of sets, cliques, and circles. + +He had made occasional journeyings alone and sometimes with Rachel into +the homes of chance acquaintances, and had put in fitful appearances at +the various excitements pursued by the city's more radical +intelligentsia--little-theater premiers, private assemblings of shrewd, +bored men and women, precious concerts, electric discussions of +political unrest. From all such adventurings he came away with a sense +of distaste. Friendships, always foreign to his nature, had become now +almost an impossibility. He felt himself a procession of adjectives +exploding in the ears of strangers. + +With Warren Lockwood alone he had been able to achieve a contact. In +the presence of the novelist there was a complement of himself both in +the days of his disquiet and strength. Together they took to frequenting +odd parts of the city, visiting lonely cafes and calling upon strangers +known to the novelist. The man's virile gentleness soothed him. He was +never tired of watching the turns of his naivete, delighting as much in +his friend's unsophisticated appreciation of the arts as in the vivid +simplicity of his understanding of people and events. + +He had finished a stormy conference with the directors of the magazine +on the subject of a new editorial policy toward Russia--new editorial +policies toward Russia had become almost the sole preoccupation of the +_New Opinion_--when Lockwood arrived at the office, resplendent in the +atrocities of a new green hat and lavender necktie. + +"There's a fella over on the east side you ought to meet," Lockwood +explained. "I was going over there and thought you'd like to come +along." + +He leaned over, seriously confidential. + +"If you can lay off a while in this business of revolutionizing the +liberal thought of the whole country, Erik, I'll tell you something. +Between you and me, this man we're going to see is the greatest artist +in America. I know." + +Lockwood waved his hand casually as if dismissing once and for all an +avalanche of contradictions. Dorn hesitated. It was one of his days of +disquiet; and he had left a note with Rachel saying he would be home at +eight. It was now six. + +"If you've got a date," went on Lockwood, "call it off. Lord, man, you +can't afford missing the greatest artist in the world." + +Dorn frowned. He might telephone. But that would mean explanations and +the pleading sound of a voice saying, "Of course, Erik." He would send a +message, and scribbled it on a telegraph blank: + +"I'll be home late. Don't worry. + +"ERIK." + +"We'll make a night of it," he laughed. + +Lockwood looked at him, shrewdly affectionate. + +"What you need," he spoke, "is a good drink and some fat street woman to +shake you out of it. You look kind of tied up." + +"I am," grinned Dorn. "Wound up and ready to bust." + +Lockwood nodded his head slowly. + +"Uh-huh," he said, as if turning the matter over carefully in his +thought. "Why don't you buy a new hat like I do when I get feeling sort +of upside down? Buying a new hat or tie straightens a man out. Come on!" +He laughed suddenly. "This artist's name is Tony. He's an old +man--seventy years old." + +They entered the street, Lockwood watching his companion with dark, +fixed eyes as if he were slowly arriving at some impersonal diagnosis. + +"A lot of fools," he announced abruptly, waving his hand at the crowds. +"They don't know that something important's happening in Russia." He +pronounced it Rooshia. Dorn saw his eyes kindle with a kindliness as he +denounced the rabble about them. + +"What do you figure is happening in Rooshia?" he inquired of the +novelist. + +"I don't figure," smiled Lockwood. "I feel it. Something important that +these newspaper Neds around this town haven't got any conception of. +It's what old Carl calls the rising of the proletaire." He chuckled. +"Old Carl's sure gone daft on this proletaire thing." His face abruptly +hardened, the rugged features becoming set, the swart eyes paying a +far-away homage. "But old Carl's a great poet--the greatest in America. +God, but that old boy can write!" + +Dorn nodded. In the presence of the novelist the unrest that had held +him by the throat through the day seemed to ebb. There was companionship +in the figure beside him. They walked in silence for several blocks. The +day was growing dark quickly and despite the crowds in the streets, +there seemed an inactivity in the air--the wait of a storm. + +Into a ramshackle building on the corner of a vivaciously ugly street +Lockwood led his friend in quest of the greatest artist. An old man in a +skull cap, woolen shirt, baggy trousers and carpet slippers appeared in +a darkened doorway. With his long white beard he stood bent and +rheumatic before them, making a question mark in the gloom of the hall. + +"Hello, Tony," Lockwood greeted him. "I've brought a friend of mine +along to look at your works." + +The old man extended thin fingers and nodded his head. Dorn entered a +large room that reminded him of a tombstone factory. Figures in clay, +some broken and cracked, cluttered up its floor and walls. In a corner +partly hidden behind topsy-turvy busts and more figures was a cot with a +blanket over it. Dorn after several minutes of silence, looked +inquiringly at his friend. The works of art, despite an obvious vigor of +execution, were openly banal. + +"He's got some more in the basement," announced Lockwood with an air of +triumph. "And there's some stuck away with the family upstairs. The +whole street here's full of his works." + +The old man nodded. + +"He doesn't talk much English," went on Lockwood. "But I'll tell you +about him. I got the story from him. He's the greatest artist in the +world." + +As Dorn moved politely from figure to figure, the old man like a museum +monitor at his heels, Lockwood went on explaining in a caressing +sing-song: + +"This old boy came to New York when he was in his twenties. And he's +been living here ever since and making statues. He's working right now +on a statue of some general. Been working for fifty years without +stopping, and there's nobody in this town ever heard of him or come near +him. Get this picture of this old boy, Erik, buried in this hole for +fifty years making statues. Working away day after day without anybody +coming near him. I brought a sculptor friend of mine who kept squinting +at some of the things the old boy did when he first came over and +saying, 'By God, this fella was an artist at one time.' Get the picture +of this smart-aleck sculptor friend of mine saying this old boy was an +artist." + +The eyes of Warren Lockwood grew hard and seemed to challenge. He +extended his arm and waved his hand gently in a further challenge. + +"The fools in this town let this old boy stay buried," he whispered, +"but he fooled them. He kept right on making statues and giving them +away to the folks that live around here and hiding them in the basement +when there wasn't anybody to take them." + +Lockwood grasped the arm of his friend excitedly and his voice became +high-pitched. + +"Don't you get this old man?" he argued. "Don't you get the figure of +him as an artist? Lord, man, he's the greatest artist in the world, I +tell you!" + +Dorn nodded his head, amused and disturbed by the novelist's excitement. +The old sculptor was standing in the shadow of the figures piled on top +of each other against the wall. He wore the air of a man just awakened +and struggling politely to grasp his surroundings. + +"A sort of altruistic carpenter," thought Dorn. "That's what Warren +calls an artist. Works diligently for nothing." + +The respect and awe in the eyes of his friend halted him. + +"Yes, I get him," he added aloud. "Living with a dream for fifty years." + +Lockwood snorted and then with a quiet laugh answered: "No, that isn't +it. You're not an artist yourself so you can't quite get the sense of +it." He seemed petulent and defeated. + +They left the old man's studio without further talk. It had started to +rain. Large spaced drops plumbed a gleaming hypotenuse between the +rooftops and the streets. They paused before a basement restaurant. + +"It looks dirty," said Lockwood, "but let's go in." + +Here they ordered dinner. During their eating the noise of thunder +sounded and the splash of the storm drifted in through the dusty +basement windows. A thick-wristed, red-fingered waitress slopped back +and forth between their table and an odorous kitchen door. Lockwood kept +his eyes fastened steadily upon the nervous features of his friend. He +thought as the silence increased between them: "This man's got something +the matter with him." + +Gradually an uneasiness came over the novelist, his sensitive nerves +responding to the disquiet in the smiling eyes opposite. + +"You're kind of crazy," he leaned forward and whispered as if confiding +an ominous, impersonal secret. "You've got the eyes of a man kind of +crazy, Erik." + +He sat back in his chair, his hands holding the edge of the table, his +chin tucked down, as if he were ruminating, narrow-eyed, upon some +involved business proposition. + +"I get you now," he added slowly. "I'll put you in a book--a crazy man +who kept fooling himself by imitating sane people." + +Dorn nodded. + +"Insanity would be a relief," he answered. "Come on." + +He stood up quickly and looked down at his friend. + +"Let's keep going. I've got something in me I want to get rid of." + +In the doorway the friends halted. The grave, melodious shout of the +rain filled the night. The streets had become dark, attenuated pools. +The rain falling illuminated the hidden faces of the buildings and +silvered the air with whirling lines. + +As they stood facing the downpour Dorn thought, "Rachel's waiting for +me. Why don't I go to her? But I'd only make her sad. Better let it get +out of me in the rain." + +Holding his friend's arm he stood staring at the storm over the city. +Through the sparkle and fume of the rain-colored night the lights of +cafe signs burned like golden-lettered banners flung stiffly into the +downpour. About the lights floated patches of yellow mist through which +the rain swarmed in flurries of gleaming moths. There were lights of +doors and windows beneath the burning signs. The remainder of the street +was lost in a wilderness of rain that bubbled and raced over the +pavements in an endless detonation. + +He spoke with a sudden softness: "I didn't get your artist, Warren, but +you don't get this storm. It's noise and water to you." + +The novelist answered with a sagacious nod. + +"There's something alive in a night like this," Dorn went on, "something +that isn't a part of life." + +He pulled his friend out of the doorway. They walked swiftly, their +shoes spurting water and the rain dripping from their clothes. Dorn felt +an untightening. His eyes hailed the scene as if in greeting of a +friend. He became aware of its detail. He smiled, remembering the way in +which he had been used to hide his longing for Rachel in the desperate +consciousness of scenes about him. Now it was something else he was +hiding. Beneath his feet he watched the silver-tipped pool of the +pavement. Gleaming in its depths swam reflections of burning lamps, like +the yellow script of another and wraith-like world staring up at him out +of a nowhere. The rest was darkness and billowy stripes of water. People +had vanished. Later a sound of thunder crawled out of the sky. A vein +of lightning opened the night. Against its blue pallor the street and +its buildings etched themselves. + +"Stiff, unreal, like a stage scene," murmured Dorn. "Another world." + +The rain flung itself for an instant in great ghostly sheets out of the +lighted spaces. He caught a glimpse in the distance of a hunched, moving +figure like some tiny wanderer through tortuous fields. Then darkness +resumed, seizing the street. A wind entered the night outlining itself +in the wild undulations of the rain reaching for the pavements. + +Dorn forgot his companion, as they pressed on. Disheveled rain ghosts +crowded around him. The fever that had burned in him during the day +seemed to have become a part of the storm. The leap and hollow blaze of +the lightnings gave him a companionship. His eyes stared into the +inanimate bursts of pale violet outlines in the dark. His breath drank +in the spice of water-laden winds. The stumble of thunder, the lash and +churn of rain were companions. The something else that haunted him was +in the storm. He turned to Lockwood, who seemed to be lagging, and +shouted in his ear: + +"Great, eh? Altar fires and the racket of unknown gods." + +Lockwood, his face filmed with water, grunted indignantly: + +"Let's get out of this." + +The night was growing wilder. Dorn's eyes bored into the vapors and +steam of the rain. + +"We're in a good street," he cried again. "A nigger street." + +A blinding gust of light brought them to a halt. Thunder burst a horror +of sound through its dead glare. Dorn stiffened and stared as in a dream +at a face floating behind the glass of a door. A woman's face contorted +into a stark grimace of rapture. Its teeth stood out white and +skull-like against the red of an open mouth. + +Silence and darkness seized the street. Rain poured. The sound of a +laugh like some miniature echo of the tumult that had torn the night +drifted to them. Lockwood had started for the door. + +"Come on," he called, "this is crazy." + +Dorn followed him. The streaming door opened as they approached and two +figures darted out. They were gone in an instant and in pursuit of them +rushed a rollicking lurch of sound. Dorn caught again the shrill +staccato of the laugh, and the door closed behind them. + +Dancing bodies were spinning among the tables. Shouting, swinging noises +and a bray of music spurted unintelligibly against the ears of the +newcomers. A chlorinated mist, acrid to the eye, and burning to the +nose, crawled about the room. Dorn, followed by Lockwood, groped his way +through the confusion toward a small vacant table against a wall. From +here they watched in silence. + +A can-can was in progress. The dancers, black and white faces glued +together, arms twined about each other's bodies, tumbled through the +smoke. Waiters balancing black trays laden with colored glasses sifted +through the scene. At the tables men and women with faces out of focus +sat drinking and shouting. Niggers, prostitutes, louts. The slant of red +mouths opened laughters. Hands and throats drifted in violent fragments +through the mist. The reek of wine and steaming clothes, the sting of +perspiring perfumes and the odors of women's bodies fumed over the +tumble of heads. Against the scene a jazz band flung a whine and a +stumble of tinny sounds. Nigger musicians with silver instruments glued +to their lips sat on a platform at the far end of the room. They danced +in their chairs as they played, swinging their instruments in crazy +circles. A broken, lurching music came from them, a nasal melody that +moaned among the laughters. + +Dorn's fingers lay gripped about the arm of his friend. His senses +caught the rhythm of the scene. His eyes stared at the dancing figures, +blond heads riveted against black satin cheeks; bodies gesturing their +lusts to the quick whine and stumble of the music; eyes opening like +mouths. + +"God, what an orgie!" he whispered. "Look at the thing. It's insane. A +nigger hammering a scarlet phallus against a cymbal moon." + +His words vanished in the din and Lockwood remained with eyes drawn in +and hard. When he turned to his friend he found him excitedly pounding +his fist on the table and bawling for a waiter. A man, seemingly asleep +amid confusions, appeared and took his order. + +"There's a woman in here I've got to find," Dorn shouted. + +"You're crazy, man." + +"I saw her," he persisted, talking close to his friend's ear. "I saw her +face in the door. You wait here." + +Lockwood seized his arm and tried to hold him, but he jerked away and +was lost in a pattern of dancing bodies. Lockwood watching him +disappear, frowned. He felt a sudden uncertainty toward his friend, a +fear as if he had launched himself into a dark night with a murderer for +a companion. + +"He's crazy," he thought. "I ought to get him out of here before +anything happens." + +He sat fumbling nervously with the stem of a wine-glass. Outside, the +rain chattered in the darkness and the alto of the wind came in long +organ notes into the din of the cafe. He caught sight of Dorn pulling an +unholy-looking woman through the pack of the room. + +"Here she is--our lady of pain!" + +Dorn thrust the creature viciously into a seat beside Lockwood. She +dropped with a scream of laughter. The music of the nigger orchestra had +stopped and an emptiness flooded the place. Dorn bellowed for another +glass. Lockwood looked slowly at the creature beside him. She was +watching Dorn. In the swarthy depths of her eyes moved threads of +scarlet. Beneath their lashes her skin was darkened as if by bruises. An +odd sultry light glowed over the discolorations. Her mouth had shut and +her cheeks were without curves, following the triangular corpse-like +lines of her skull. Her lips, like bits of vermilion paper, stared as +from an idol's face. She was regarding Dorn with a smile. + +He had grown erratic in his gestures. His eyes seemed incapable of +focusing themselves. They darted about the room, running away from him. +The woman's smile persisted and he turned his glance abruptly at her. +The red flesh of her opened mouth and throat confronted him as another +of her screaming laughs burst. The laugh ended and her gleaming eyes +swimming in a gelatinous mist held him. + +"A reptilian sorcery," he whispered to Lockwood, and smiled. "The face +of a malignant Pierrette. A diabolic clown. Look at it. I saw it in the +lightning outside. She wears a mask. Do you get her?" He paused +mockingly. Lockwood shifted away from the woman. Erik was drunk. Or +crazy. But the woman, thank God, had eyes only for him. She remained, as +he talked, with her sulphurous eyes unwaveringly upon his face. + +"She's not a woman," he went on in a purring voice. "She's a lust. No +brain. No heart. A stark unhuman piece of flesh with a shark's hunger +inside it." + +He leaned forward and took one of her hands as Lockwood whispered, + +"Christ, man, let's get out of here." + +The woman's fingers, dry and quivering, scratched against Dorn's palm. +He felt them as a hot breath in his blood. + +"What's the matter, Warren?" he laughed, emptying a wine-glass. "I like +this gal. She suits me. A devourer of men. Look at her!" + +He laughed and glared at his friend. Lockwood closed his eyes nervously. + +"I've got a headache in this damned place," he muttered. + +"Wait a minute." Dorn seized his arm. "I want to talk. I feel gabby. My +lady friend doesn't understand words." The sulphurous eyes glowed +caresses over him. "You remember the thing in Rabelais about +women--insatiable, devouring, hungering in their satieties. The prowling +animal. Well, here it is. Alive. Not in print. She's alive with +something deeper than life. Wheels of flesh grinding her blood into a +hunger for ecstasies. She's a mate for me. Come on, little one." + +He sprang from the table, pulling the woman after him. + +"Wait here, Warren," he called, moving toward the door. It opened, +letting in a shout and sweep of rain, and they were gone. + +"A crazy man," muttered the novelist, and remained fumbling with the +stem of his glass. + +Outside Dorn held the body of the woman against him as they hurried +through the storm. Her flesh, like the touch of a third person, struck +through his wet clothes. + +"Where we going?" he yelled at her. + +She thrust out an arm. + +"Up here." + +They came breathless up a flight of stairs into a reeking room lighted +by a gas jet. + + * * * * * * + +In the cafe, Lockwood waited till the music started again. Then he rose +and, slapping his soggy hat on his head, walked out of the place. The +rain, sweeping steadily against the earth, held him prisoner in the +doorway. He stood muttering to himself of his friend and his craziness. +Gone wild! Crazy wild with a mad woman in the rain. Long ago he might +have done it himself. Yes, he knew the why of it. The rain fuming before +him made him sleepy. He leaned against the place and waited. The storm +faded slowly into a quiet patter. Starting for the pavement, Lockwood +paused. A hatless figure had jumped out of a doorway across the street +and was running toward him. + +"It's Erik," he muttered, and hurried to meet him. + +Dorn, laughing, his clothes torn and his face smeared with blood under +his eye, drew near. He took his friend's arm and walked him swiftly +away. At the corner Dorn stopped and regarded the novelist. + +"I've had a look at hell," he whispered, and with a laugh hurried off +alone. Lockwood watched him moving swiftly down the street, and yawned. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +It was near midnight. Rachel's eyes, brightened with tears, watched her +lover bathing his face. + +"It seemed so long," she murmured, "till you came." + +"That damned Warren Lockwood led me astray," he smiled. He dried his +face and came toward her. She dropped to the floor beside him as he sat +down and pressed her cheeks against his knees. His hands moved tenderly +through her loosened hair. + +"You told me to be careful about getting run over," she smiled sadly, +"and you go out and get all cut up in a brawl. Oh, Erik, +please--something might have happened." + +"Nothing happened, dearest." + +She asked no further questions but remained with her face against his +knees. This was Rachel whose hair he was stroking. Dorn smiled at the +thought. After a silence she resumed, her voice softened with emotion: + +"Erik, I've been lying to you--about my love. It's different than I said +it was. I've said always what you've wanted me to say. You've always +wanted me to be something else than a woman--something like a dream. +But I can't. I love you as--as Anna loved you. Oh, I want to be with you +forever and have children. I'm nothing else. You are. I can't be like +you. For me there's only love for you and nothing beyond." + +"Dear one," he answered, "there's nothing else for me." + +"Now you're telling me lies," she wept. "There is something I can't give +you; and that you must go looking for somewhere else." + +"No, Rachel. I love you." + +"As you loved Anna--once." + +"Don't! I never loved Anna--or anyone. Or anything." + +"I can't help it, Erik. Forgive me, please. I love you so. Don't you see +how I love you. I keep trying to be something besides myself and to give +other names to the things I feel. But they're only sentimental things. +My dreams are only sentimental dreams--of your kissing me, holding me, +being my husband. Oh, go way from me, Erik, before I make you hate me! +You thought I was different. And I did too. I _was_ different. But +you've changed me. Women are all the same when they love. Differences go +away." + +She looked up at him with tear-running eyes. + +"Different than other people! But now I'm the same. I love you as any +other woman would. Only perhaps a little more. With my whole soul and +life." + +"Foolish to talk," he whispered back to her. "Words only scratch at +things. I love you as if I had never seen you or kissed you." + +"But I'm not a dream, Erik. Oh, it sounds silly. But I want you." + +He raised her and held her lithe body close to him. The feeling that he +was unreal, that Rachel was unreal, rested in his thought. There was a +mist about things that clung to them, that clung about the joyousness in +his heart. + +"There's nothing else," he whispered. "Love is enough. It burns up +everything else and leaves a mist." + +His arms tightened. + +"Erik dear, I'm afraid." + +His kiss brought a peace over her face. She had waited for it. She +looked up and laughed. + +"You love me? Yes, Erik loves me. Loves me. I know." + +She watched his eyes as he spoke. The eyes of God. They remained open to +her. She began to tremble and her naked arms moved blindly toward his +shoulders. + +"This is my world," she whispered. "I know, Erik. I know everything. You +are too big for love to hold. The sun doesn't fill the whole world. +There are always dark places. I know. Don't hide from me, lover." + +She smiled and closed her eyes as her lips reached toward him. + +The eyes of Erik Dorn remained open and staring out of the window. There +was still rain in the night. + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +Erik Dorn to Rachel, September, 1918: + +" ... and to-night I remember you are beautiful, and I desire you. My +arms are empty and there is nothing for my eyes to look at. Are you +still afraid. Look, more than a year has gone and nothing has changed. +You are the far-away one, the dream figure, and my heart comes on wings +to you.... I write with difficulty. What language is there to talk to +you? How does one converse with a dream? Idiot phrases rant across the +paper like little fat actors flourishing tin swords. I've come to +distrust words. There are too many of them. Yet I keep fermenting with +words. Interlopers. Busybody strangers. I can't think ... because of +them.... Alas! if I could keep my vocabulary out of our love we would +both be better off. Foolish chatter. I thought when I sat down to write +to you that the sadness of your absence would overcome me. Instead, I am +amused. Vaguely joyous. And at the thought of you I have an impulse to +laugh. You are like that. A day like a thousand years has passed. +Dead-born hours that did not end. Chill, empty streets and the memory of +you like a solitude in which I sat mumbling to phantoms. And now in the +darkness my heart sickens with desire for you and the night sharpens +its claws upon my heart. Yet there is laughter. Words laugh in my head. +The torment I feel is somehow a part of joyousness. The claws of the +night bring somehow a caress. Even to weep for you is like some dark +happiness whose lips are too fragile to smile. Dear one, the dream of +you still lives--an old friend now, a familiar star that I watch +endlessly. You see there are even no new words. For once before I told +you that. It was night--snowing. We walked together. I remember you +always as vanishing and leaving the light of your face burning before my +eyes. I shall always love you. Why are you afraid? Why do you write +vague doubts into your letters? I will be with you soon. You are a +world, and the rest of life is a mist that surrounds you.... I have +nothing to write. I discover this as I sit staring at the paper. I +remember that a year has passed, that many years remain to pass. Dear +one, I know only that I love you, and words are strangers between us." + + * * * * * * + +Rachel to Erik, September end, 1918: + +" ... when I went away you were unhappy and restless. Now that I have +gone you are again happy and calm. Oh, you're so cruel! Your love is so +cruel to me. I sit here all day, a foolishly humble exile, waiting for +you. I keep watching the sea and sometimes I try to feel pain. When your +letter comes I spend the day reading it.... I am beautiful and you +desire me. Oh, to think me beautiful and to desire me, suffices. You do +not come where I am. Nothing has changed, you write with a joyous +cruelty. In your lonely nights your dream of me still brings you +torments and I am a star that you watch endlessly. I laugh too, but out +of bitterness. Because what you write is no longer true and we both have +known it for long. I am no longer a dream or a star, but a woman who +loves you. Yes, nothing has changed, except me. And you remedy that by +sending me away. When you send me away I too become unchanged in your +thought. I am again like I was on the night we parted in the white park +and you can love me--a memory of me--that remains like a star.... + +"But here I am in this lonely little sea village. There is no dream for +me. I am empty without you and I lie at night and weep till my heart +breaks, wondering when you will come. It were better if I were dead. I +whisper to myself, 'you must not write him to come to you, because he is +too busy loving you. He weeps before the ghost of you. He sits beside an +old dream. You must not interrupt him. Oh, my lover, do you find me so +much less than the dream of me, that you must send me away in order to +love me? My doubts? Are they doubts? We have grown apart in the year. On +the night it snowed and I went away from you you said, 'people bury +their love behind lighted windows....' Dearest, dearest, of what do I +complain? Of your ecstasies and torments of which I am not a part, but a +cause? Forgive me. I adore you. I am so lonely and such a nobody without +you. And I want you to write to me that you long for me, to be with me, +to caress me and talk to me. And instead you send phrases analyzing your +joyousness. Oh, things have changed. I am no longer Rachel, but a woman. +I feel so little and helpless when I think of you. Strangers can talk to +you and look at you but I must sit here in exile while you entertain +yourself with memories of me. You are cruel, dear one, and I have become +too cowardly not to mind. This is because I have found happiness--all +the happiness I desire--and hold it tremblingly. And you have not found +happiness but are still in flight toward your far-away one, your dream +figure. I cannot write more. I worship you and my heart is full of +tears. I will sit humbly and look at the sea until you come." + + * * * * * * + +Rachel to Frank Brander, September: + +" ... I answer your letter only because I am afraid you would +misunderstand my silence. I send your letter back because I cannot throw +it away. It would make the sea unclean. As you point out, I am the +mistress of Erik Dorn and he may some day grow tired of me, at which +time you are prepared to be my friend and protect me from the world. I +will put your application on file, Mr. Brander, if there is a part of my +mind filthy enough to remember it." + + * * * * * * + +Rachel to Emil Tesla: + +" ... I was glad to hear from you. But please do not write any more. I +am too happy to read your letters. I never want to draw pictures for +_The Cry_ again. I hope you will be freed soon. I can think of nothing +to write to you." + + * * * * * * + +Erik Dorn to Rachel, November, 1918: + +"DEAREST ONE! + +"Beneath my window the gentle Jabberwock has twined colored tissue-paper +about his ears and gone mad. He shrieks, he whistles, he blows a horn. +The war, beloved, appears to have ended this noon and the Jabberwock is +endeavoring to disgorge four and a half years in a single shriek. 'The +war,' says the Jabberwock, in his own way, 'is over. It was a rotten +war, nasty and hateful, as all wars are rotten and hateful, and +everything I've said and done hinting at the contrary has been a lie and +I'm so full of lies I must shriek.' + +"Anybody but a Jabberwock, dear one, would have died of apoplexy hours +ago. But the Jabberwock is immortal. Alas! there is something of pathos +in the spectacle. Our gentle friend with tissue-paper around his ears +prostrates himself before another illusion--peace. Says the shriek of +the Jabberwock beneath my window, 'The Hun is destroyed. The menace to +humanity is laid low. The powers of darkness are dispelled by the breath +of God and the machine-guns of our brave soldats. The war that is to end +war is over. Hail, blessed peace!' + +"Why do I write such arid absurdities to you? But I feel an impulse to +scribble wordly words, to stand in a silk hat beside the statue of +Liberty and gaze out upon the Atlantic with a Carlylian pensiveness. +Idle political tears flow from my brain. For it is obvious that the war +the Jabberwock has so nobly waged has been a waste of steel and powder. +Standing now on his eight million graves with the tissue-paper of +Victory twined about his ears, the Jabberwock is a somewhat ghastly, +humorous figure. He has, alas! shot the wrong man. To-morrow there will +be an inquest in Paris and the Jabberwock will rub his eyes and discover +that the corpse, God forgive him, is that of a brother and friend and +that the Powers of Darkness threatening humanity are advancing upon him +... out of Moscow. I muse ... yes, it was a good war. War is never +pathetic, never wholly a waste. Maturity no less than childhood must +have its circuses. But the Jabberwock ... Ah! the Jabberwock ... the +soul of man celebrating the immortal triumph of righteousness ... the +good Don Quixote has valiantly slain another windmill and your Sancho +Panza shakes his head in wistful amusement. + +"I did not send you this letter yesterday and many things have happened +since I wrote it. I will see you in a few days. It has been decided that +I go to Germany for the magazine. Edwards insists. So do the directors, +trusting gentlemen. I will stop at Washington and try to get two +passports and then come on to you, and we will wait together until the +passports are issued. Another week of imbecile political maneuverings in +behalf of the passports and I will again be your lover, + + "ERIK." + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +"We've been separated almost three months," he thought, looking out of +the train window. "I'll see her soon." + +There were four men in the smoking-compartment. They were discussing the +end of the war. Dorn listened inattentively. He was remembering another +ride to Rachel. Looking out of a train window as now. Whirling through +space. A locomotive whistle wailing in the prairies at night like the +sound of winds against his heart. + +The memories of the ride drifted through his mind. He saw himself again +with the tumult of another day sweeping toward Rachel. What had he felt +then? Whatever it was, it was gone. For he felt nothing now but a +sadness. He had telegraphed. She would be waiting, her face alight, her +hands trembling. He had started from Washington elatedly enough. But now +in the smoking-compartment where the men were discussing the end of the +war he felt no elation. He was thinking, "It'll be difficult when we see +each other." He became aware that he was actually shrinking from the +meeting. The voices of the men about him began to annoy and he returned +to his seat in the train. + +Early evening. Another two hours and the train would stop to let him +off. Dear, dear Rachel! He had wept tormented by a loneliness for her. +Now he was coming to her with sadness. There had been another ride when +he had come to her in a halloo of storms. Things change. + +The porter brushed him and removed his grips to the platform. The far +lights of a village sprinkled themselves feebly in the darkness. This +was where Rachel was waiting. + +Dorn stepped from the train. It became another world, lighted and human. +He looked about the dingy little station. Rachel was walking toward him. + +"She looks strange and out of place," he thought. + +They embraced. Her kisses covering his lips delighted him unexpectedly. +He found himself walking close to her in the night and feeling happy. +They entered a darkened wooden house and Rachel led the way upstairs. + +"I can't talk, Erik." + +She held his hand against her cheek. + +"No, don't kiss me. Let me look at you. Sit over here. I must look at +you." + +She laughed softly, but her eyes, unsmiling, stared at him. He remained +silent. The sadness that had fallen upon him in the train returned now +like a hurt in his heart. He had expected it to vanish at the sight of +her. But her kisses had only hidden it. She came to his side after a +pause and whispered gently, + +"Perhaps it would have been better if you hadn't come, dearest. I've +become almost used to being alone." + +He embraced her and for the moment the sadness was hidden again. +Rachel's hands crept avidly to his face, holding his cheeks with hot +fingers. + +"Erik, oh, Erik, do you love me? I'm not afraid to hear. Tell me." + +"Yes, dear one. You are everything." + +"What makes you cry?" + +He kissed her lips. + +"I don't know," he whispered. "Only it's been so long." + +"Oh, you are so sad." + +Her voice had grown thin. Her eyes, dry, burning, haunted the dark room. +She removed herself from his arms and stood with her hand in her hair. +She looked at the dark sea that mirrored the night outside the window. +Turning to him after a pause she murmured: + +"I had forgotten Erik Dorn was here." + +A sudden stride, the gesture of another Rachel, and she had thrown +herself on the bed. + +"Oh, God!" she sobbed. "I knew, I knew!" + +Dorn, kneeling on the floor, pulled her head toward him. He whispered +her name. Why was he sad, frightened? A thought was murmuring in him, +"You must love her." + +"Rachel, I love you. Please. Your tears. Dearest, what has happened? +Tell me." + +"Don't ask that." Her tears came anew. "But you come to me sad, as if I +were no longer Rachel to you." + +The thought kept murmuring, "You must love her...." + +"Beautiful one," he said softly, "you're weeping because something has +happened to you." + +The thought murmured, "because something has happened to you, not her." + +"No, no, Erik!" + +"Then why? If you loved me you would be happy." + +Absurd sentences. They would deceive no one. + +A belated emotion overcame him. Now he was happy. His arms grew strong +about her. He would say nothing, but lie beside her kissing her until +the tears ended. This was happiness. He watched her lips begin to smile +faintly. Her face touched him as if she had sighed. She whispered after +a long silence, "Oh, I thought you had changed." + +He laughed and pulled her to her feet. His head thrown back, his eyes +amused and warm, he asked, "Do I seem changed now?" + +He waited while she regarded him. Why was he nervous? Must he answer the +question too? + +"No," she said, "you are the same." + +Her face shining before him. Her head quickly lifted. + +"I was a fool. Look, Erik, I am happy--happier than anybody on earth." + +She dropped to her knees, kissing his hand. + +"I am so happy, I kneel...." + +They stood together in the window and laughed. + +"There's a wonderful old woman here. We've talked a great deal, about +everything, and you. You don't mind? To-morrow we'll lie all day on the +shore. Oh, Erik. Erik!" + +"We'll never be alone again, Rachel." + +"Never!" she echoed. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +A calm had fallen upon Erik Dorn, an unconsciousness of self. He +sprawled through the sunny days, staring at the sea with Rachel or +walking alone to the fishing-boats at the other end of the village, or +sitting with Mama Turpin, the old woman in whose cottage they lived. +With Mama Turpin he held interminable talks that rambled on through the +night at times. Religion was Mama Turpin's favored topic. Her round body +in a rocking-chair, her seamed, vigorous face raised toward the sky, the +old woman would fall into a dream and talk quietly of her God. She would +begin, her voice coming out of the dark reminding Dorn of a girl. + +"Yes, I have always known this here one thing. Everybody must have a +religion. Because there's something in everybody that's way beyond their +selves to understand. And there's nobody to give it to excepting God. +Some God, anyways...." + +Rachel, sitting in the shadows, would listen with her eyes upon Erik. +The fear that he had brought her was growing in her heart, making her +thought heavy and her gestures slow. She would listen, almost asleep, to +his words. + +" ... Yes, Mama Turpin, religion comes to all people. But not for long. +We all get a flame in us at some time and it burns until it burns itself +out, and then we sit and forget to wonder about things...." + +Talk perhaps for her to understand. But why should he hint when words +outright were easier? Rachel carried questions in her heart. + +Among the fishermen Dorn listened sometimes to stories of great catches +and storms. He was usually silent watching them empty their nets on the +shore and remove the catch into basins and pails. The men accepted his +interest in their work with a pleased indifference. + +Rachel sometimes walked with him or stretched beside him on the sand. +But he felt an uneasiness in her presence. Her eyes questioned him +silently and seemed to answer their own questions. + +Since the evening of his coming there had been no scenes. He was +grateful for this. But the eyes of Rachel sometimes haunted him at night +as she lay asleep beside him. What spoke in her eyes? He felt calm when +alone, at peace with himself. But at night while she slept he would +become sleepless and a sadness would enter him. Thoughts he did not seem +to be thinking would move through his head. "Things pass. Years pass. +The sea and the stars remain the same. But men and women change. Life +eats into men and women--eats things away from them...." + +In his sadness there would come to him a memory of Anna. Thoughts of +Anna and Rachel would mingle themselves.... Anna had once lain beside +him like this. He remembered now. Her body was different from +Rachel's--softer, warmer ... a woman named Anna had lived with him. Now +a woman named Rachel. And to-morrow, what? There were yesterdays. These +were not sad. Things already dead were not so sad. But things that are +to die.... + +His heart would grow weak, seeming to dissolve. Something unspoken in +the night. Tears in his heart. Calm in his thought. He would figure it +out sometime. His words were alert little busy-bodies. They could follow +things into difficult crevices. But was there anything to figure out? He +was growing old and a to-morrow was haunting him. Some day he would +close his eyes slowly and in the slow closing of his eyes the world +would end. Erik Dorn would have ended. Was there such a thing as ending? +Yes, things were always ending. Now he was different than the night he +had lain beside Rachel and whispered, "You have given me wings." But +how? He felt the same. Change came like that. Leaving one the same. He +would write things from Europe that would startle. He could write.... +But, something unspoken in the night. He must say it to himself.... "You +must love her...." Then that was it. He no longer loved her. + +He lay listening to her breathing. An end to his love. Preposterous +notion! How, since the thought of parting from her wrenched at his +heart? "If I went away from Rachel I would die." Unquestionably +sincere.... "I'd die." Not, of course, die. But feel death. Yet, there +was something changed. But a man doesn't remain an ecstatic lover. There +comes a time. Well, he loved her like this--quietly, happily, and if he +went away from her he would feel an end had come to his life. The other +love had been words flying in his head. Nice to have felt as he had. But +life--practical, material rush of hours. Words had flown in his head +once. He smiled. "Wings, what are they?" He remembered having spoken and +thought a great deal about wings. Now the idea seemed somewhat absurd. +They were not a part of life. Inventions. An invention. A phrase to +explain an unusual state of physical and mental excitement.... Sleep +intruded and the sadness melted out of him. As he closed his eyes his +hand reached dreamily for Rachel and lay upon her shoulder. + +A week of silence followed. Dorn talked. Politics, economics, the coming +peace treaty. Rachel listened and made replies. Yet their words seemed +only the part of a silence between them. A letter from Washington +interrupted them. A passport was being issued for Erik Dorn, but the +bureau was not issuing passports for women and would have to deny Mrs. +Rachel Dorn ... "enclosed please find $1 deposit made for Mrs. Dorn at +this office." + +"Well, that ends it," he laughed. "Perhaps I shouldn't have lied about +your being Mrs. Dorn. God is a jealous God and punishes liars." + +"You must go on," Rachel said. "Perhaps I'll get one later." + +"No, we'll both wait. I couldn't go without you." + +Rachel regarded him tenderly. They were sitting on Mama Turpin's porch. + +"Yes, you will," she said. + +He shook his head, pleased at the opportunity for sacrifice. He hoped as +he smiled that Rachel would plead with him to go alone. In her pleading +she would point out all the things he was giving up by not going. She +might even say, "You must go, Erik. You can't sacrifice your career." + +Then he could shrug his shoulders, remain silent for a moment as if +weighing his career beside his love for her, and smile suddenly and say, +gently, "No. It's ended. Please, it's ended and forgotten." A laugh, a +bit too casual, would leave the thing on the proper plane. Later there +would be times when he could grow thoughtful and abstract and Rachel, +looking at him, would know that he had sacrificed--his career. + +On Mama Turpin's porch Dorn's thoughts rambled in silence. Rachel had +said nothing. He looked at her and grew confused before the straightness +of her eyes, as if she knew the tawdry little plot moving through his +mind. Then an irritation ... why didn't she plead? Did she think it was +nothing to give up his plans? Was it anything? No. He endeavored to +evade his own questioning, but his thoughts mocked him with answers.... +"I'm playing a game with her. I want her to feel sorry and grateful for +my not going and to feel that I've made a sacrifice for her. Because I +could cherish it against her ... later. Have something I could pretend +to be sad about. It would give me an excuse to scold her.... Merely by +looking at her I could remind her that she is indebted to me for a +sacrifice. Make-believe sacrifice gives one the unconsciousness of +virtue without any of its discomforts. I'm irritated because she refuses +to play her part in the farce and so makes me seem cheap. She knows I'm +lying but she can't figure out how or what about. So she looks at me and +says to herself, 'Erik has changed. He's different.' She means that I've +become an actor and able to offer her cheap things. But she doesn't know +that in words." + +As he sat thinking, an understanding of himself played beneath his +thoughts. He was irritated with her. The passport business was something +he could hang his irritation on. It offered an opportunity to make the +petulant, indefinable aversion he sometimes felt toward her into a +noble, self-laudatory emotion. + +He stood up abruptly. Make amends by being truthful and putting an end +to the theatrics.... "Listen, Rachel, it's foolish for us to take this +seriously. I don't give a damn about going, and I never did. It would +bore me. It means nothing to me, and it's no sacrifice or even +inconvenience. Please, I mean it. Put it out of your head." + +He leaned over and took her hands. + +"I love you...." + +Despite himself there was a note of sacrifice. He frowned. His "I love +you" had startled him. He had said it as one pats a woman reassuringly +on the shoulder. More, as one turns the other cheek in a forgiving +Christian spirit. He was not an actor. He had become naturally cheap. + +Rachel smiled wanly at him and kissed his hands. He noticed that she +looked thin about the face and that her eyes seemed ill with too much +weeping. He wondered when it was she wept. When she was alone, of +course. For a moment the thought of her flung across the bed and weeping +stirred him sensually. Then ... what made her cry so much? Good God, +what did she want of him? He was giving up.... Again he frowned. "I've +become a cad," he thought. "I can't think honestly any more. Thoughts +act themselves in my head. I've gotten to thinking lies and thinking +them naturally without trying to lie...." + +"I'm going for a walk," he announced, and went off toward the shore +where the fishing-boats were drifting in becalmed. + +Mama Turpin came out on the porch. Rachel smiled at the old woman. + +"It's peaceful here, Mama Turpin." + +"Yes, honey. My work's all done for the day now." + +"Nothing ever changes here," Rachel murmured. "The sea is just the same +as when I came. I think I'll be leaving soon, Mama Turpin. Mr. Dorn will +stay on for a little while. I have some work I must get back to." + +She paused and shaded her eyes from the setting sun. + +"It's been wonderful down here. I'll never forget it. Perhaps some day +I'll come back to visit again." + +She arose and sighed. + +"What's the matter, honey?" the old woman asked, watching her. + +Rachel waited till her lips could smile again. Then she said: + +"Oh, I hate to leave it here. But I have so much work to do." + +She entered the house swiftly. In her room she lay on the bed, her face +in the pillow as if she were waiting for tears. But none came. She lay +in silence until it grew dark and she heard Erik outside asking Mama +Turpin where she was. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +It was dawn when they awoke. Rachel opened her eyes first. A lassitude +filled her. She remained quiet for moments and then sat up and stared at +Erik. His face was flushed and he was sleeping lightly, his eyes almost +open. + +"Erik," she whispered. When he looked at her she leaned over and kissed +him. + +"Last night was wonderful," she murmured. + +He smiled sleepily. + +"I want to lie in your arms for just a minute. And then we'll get up, +Erik." + +Her head sank against his shoulder and she remained with her eyes +closed. He murmured her name. Over Rachel's face a curious light spread +itself. She sat up and turned her eyes to him. + +"My dear one, my lover!" + +Dorn regarded her with a sudden confusion. Her eyes and voice were +confusing. Women were strange. Her eyes were large, burning, devouring +... "I will be a shrine to you always. Let me look at you. I have never +looked at you...." Why was he remembering that? He felt himself grow +frightened. Her eyes were saying something that must not be said. His +arms reached out. Crush her to him. Hold her tightly. Sing his love to +her.... + +She had slipped from the bed and was standing on the floor, shaking her +head at him. Her face seemed blank. Dorn sat up and blinked ludicrously. +She had jumped out of his arms. He laughed. Coquetting. But her eyes had +been strange.... + +"Listen, Erik, do you mind if I spend the morning alone? I have some +letters to write and things. Then I'll meet you on the beach and we'll +go swimming and lie on the sand together. Will you?" + +He nodded cheerfully and swung himself out of bed. His calm had +returned. The memories of the curiously abandoned, shameless Rachel of +the night lingered for a moment questioningly and then left him. + +They ate breakfast together and Dorn strode off alone. He felt surprised +at himself. He had forgotten all about his trip to Europe. + +"The sun and the rest here are doing me good," he thought. "I'm getting +normal. But a little stupidity won't hurt." + +The morning slipped away and he returned to the beach from a walk +through the village. It was early afternoon and the sands were deserted. +The sea lay like a great Easter egg under the hot sun, a vast and +inanimate daub of glittering blue, green, and gold. He seated himself on +the burning sand and stared at it. Years could pass this way and he +could sit dreaming lifeless words, the sea like a painted beetle's back, +the sea like a shell of water resting on a stenciled horizon. A wind was +dying among the clouds. It had blown them into large shapeless virgins. +Puffy white solitudes over his head. He looked down and saw Rachel +coming toward him. She was carrying a woolen blanket over her arms. + +She approached and appeared excited. Her face flushed. + +"Shall we go in?" + +He nodded. Her voice disturbed him. He would have preferred her calm, +gentle. Particularly after last night. She unloosened her clothes +quickly and hurried nude toward the water. Dorn, after an uneasy survey +of the empty beach, watched her. In the glare of the sun and sand her +body seemed insistently unfamiliar. He would have preferred her +familiar. He joined her and they pushed into the water together. Her +excited manner depressed him. + +"Let's swim," he called. + +A blue, singing moment under the water and they were up, swimming slowly +into the unbroken sheet of the sea. Rachel came nearer to him, the water +sparkling from her moving arms. + +"Do you like it, Erik?" + +He laughed in answer. Her head was turned toward him and he could see +her dark eyes smiling against the water. + +"Wouldn't it be nice," she said softly, "to swim out together like +lovers in a poem? Out and out! And never come back!" + +Her voice, slipping across the water, became unfamiliar. They continued +moving. + +"Yes," he answered at length, smiling back at her. "It would be easy. +And I'm willing." + +They swam in silence. He began to wonder. Were they going out and out +and never coming back? Perhaps they were doing that. One might become +involved in a suicide like that. He closed his eyes and his head moved +through the coldness of the water. What matter? What was there to come +back to? All hours were the same. He might wait until a thousand more +had dragged themselves to an ending. Or swim out and out. When he grew +tired he would kiss her and say, "It is easier to make our own endings +than to wait for them." The sun would be shining and her eyes would sing +to him for an instant over the water. + +"We'd better turn now, Erik." + +"No," he smiled. "We're lovers in a poem." + +She came nearer. + +"Come, we must go back, Erik." + +"No." + +He answered firmly. It pleased him to say "no." He felt a superiority. +He could say "no" and then she would plead with him and perhaps finally +persuade him. + +"Not now, Erik. Some other time, maybe...." + +"But it would be a proper ending," he argued. "What else is there? You +are unhappy. And perhaps I am too. Come, it will be easy." + +For a moment a fright came into him. She was not pleading. She was +silent and looking at him as they drifted. What if she should remain +silent? "I don't want to die," he thought, "but does it matter?" He +wondered at himself. He had spoken of dying. Sincerely? No. But if she +remained silent they would keep swimming until there was nothing left to +do but die. Then he was sincere? No. He would drown as a sort of casual +argument. Good God! Her silence was asking his life. What matter? He +cared neither to live nor to die. He looked at her with an amused smile +in his eyes. His heart had begun to beat violently. + +A sudden relief. She had turned and was swimming toward the shore. He +hesitated. Absurd to turn back too hurriedly. He waited till she looked +behind her to see if he were coming. Her looking back was a vindication. +She had believed then that he might go on, out and out.... He could +follow her to the shore now.... + +The swim had exhausted them. Rachel threw herself on the sand, Dorn +covering her with the blanket. They lay together, the whiteness and the +blaze of the sky tearing at their eyes. Her hair had spread itself like +a black fan under her head. + +The oven heat of the day dried the burn of the sun into a chalked and +hammering glare--an unremitting roar of light that seemed to beat the +world into a metallic sleep. The sea had stiffened itself into a dead +flame. Molten, staring sweeps of color burst upon their eyes with a +massive intimacy. The etched horizon, the stagnant gleaming arch of the +water, and the acetylene burn of the sand gave the scene the appearance +of a monstrous lithograph. + +The figures of the lovers lay without life. Rachel had turned her head +from the glare. Through veiling fingers Dorn remained staring at the +veneer of isolation about them. Waves of heat crept like ghost fires +across the nakedness of the scene. He thought of the sun as a pilgrim +walking over the barren floor of an empty cathedral. Over him the +motionless smoke-bellied clouds hung gleaming in the dead fanfare of the +sky. He thought of them as swollen white blooms stamped upon a board. As +the moments slipped, he became conscious that Rachel was talking. Her +voice made a tiny noise in the grave torpitude of the day. + +"It's like listening to singing, Erik. What are you thinking of?" + +"Nothing. I like the way the heat tightens my skin and pinches." + +"Do you remember," she asked softly, "once you said beauty is an +external emotion?" + +He answered drowsily, "Did I? I'm tired, dearest. Let's nap awhile." + +"No. I want to hear you talk just a little." + +He pressed his face into his arm, drawing his clothes carelessly over +him for protection. + +"I can't think of anything to say, Rachel, except that I'm content. The +sun brings a luxurious pain into one's blood...." + +"Yes, a luxurious pain," she repeated quietly. "Please let's talk." + +"Too damn hot." + +"I always expect you to say things. As if you knew things I didn't, +Erik. I've always thought of you as knowing everything." + +"Ordinarily I do," he mumbled. + +"Wonderful Erik...." + +Flattery was annoying. There were times for being wonderful and times +for grunting at the sand. + +"My vocabulary," he mumbled again, "has curled up its toes and gone to +sleep." + +His eyes grew heavy. + +Drowsily, "I'm an old man and need my sleep." + +He felt Rachel's hand reaching gently for his head. + +A cool gloom squatted on the sand about him when he opened his eyes. The +scene was a stranger. The sea and sand, dark strangers. His body felt +stiffened and his skin hurt. He sat up and stared about with parched +eyes. + +The sun had gone down. A hollow light lingered in the sky, an echo of +light. He turned toward the blanket beside him. Rachel was gone. She had +left the blanket in a little heap, unfolded. Why hadn't she wakened him? +She must be on the beach somewhere, waiting. + +In the distance he saw the shapeless figures of the fishermen moving +from their grounded boats. Staring about at the deserted scene he felt +unaccountably sad. It would have been pleasant to have wakened and found +Rachel sitting beside him. + +A sheet of paper was pinned on the blanket. He noticed it as he slipped +painfully into his shirt. He continued to dress himself, his eyes +regarding the bit of paper. His heart had grown heavy at the sight of +it. + +When he was dressed he folded the blanket carefully and removed the +note. A pallor in his thought. Something had happened. He had fallen +asleep under a glaring sun. Rachel stretched beside him. Now the glare +of the sun was gone and the sea and the sand were vaguely unreal, dark, +and unfriendly. The little blanket was empty. + +He sat wondering why he didn't read the note. But he was reading it. He +knew what it said. It said Rachel had gone and would never come back. A +very tragic business.... "You do not love me any more as you did. You +have changed. And if I stayed it would mean that in a little while +longer you would forget all about me. Now perhaps you will remember." + +Quite true. He had taught her such paradoxes. He would remember. That +was logical ... "to remember how you loved me makes it impossible to +remain with you. Oh, I die when I look at you and see nothing in your +eyes. It is too much pain. I am going away.... Dearest, I have known for +a long time." + +His eyes skipped part of the words. Unimportant words. Why read any +further? The thing was over, ended. Rachel gone. More words on the other +side of the paper. His eyes skimmed ... "you have been God to me. I am +not afraid. Oh, I am strong. Good-bye." + +Still more words. A postscript. Women always wrote postscripts--the +gesture of femininity immortalized by Lot's wife. Never mind the +postscript. Tear the paper into bits. It offended his fingers. Walk over +to the water's edge and scatter it on the sea. + +He had lain too long in the sun. Probably burn like hell to-night. "Here +goes Rachel into the sea." Soft music and a falling curtain. + +He read from one of the scraps.... "Erik, you will be grateful +later...." Let the sea take that. And the "good-bye, my dear one...." A +patch of white on the darkened water, too tiny to follow. Would she be +waiting when he came back to the room? No, the room would be empty. A +comb and brush and tray of hairpins would be missing from the +dressing-table. + +A smile played over Dorn's face. His movements had grown abstract as if +he were intensely preoccupied with his thoughts. Yet there were no +thoughts. He walked for moments lazily along the water's edge kicking at +the sand, his eyes following the last of the paper bits still afloat. +They vanished and he sighed with relief.... "It's all a make-believe. +The sea, Rachel, the war. Things don't mean anything. Last night there +was someone to kiss. To-night, no one. But where's the difference. +Nothing ... nothing.... Will I cave in or keep on smiling? Probably cave +in. One must be polite to one's emotions. The sea says she's gone," his +thought rambled, "dark empty waters say she's gone. Rachel's gone. Well, +what of it? Like losing a hat. Does anything matter much? An ending. +Leave the theater. Draw a new breath. Remember vaguely what the actors +said or what they should have said. All the same. What was in the +postscript? Not fair to throw it away without reading it. Should have +read carefully. Took her hours to pick the right words. Night ... night. +It'll be night soon." + +His words left him and he walked faster. He began to run. She would be +waiting in their room. On the bed ... crying ... "I couldn't leave you, +Erik. Oh, I couldn't." And later they would laugh about it. + +Mama Turpin was on the porch. He slowed his run. To rush breathless past +the old woman would make a bad impression, if nothing had happened. + +"Good evening, Mr. Dorn." + +Of course she was upstairs. Or would Mama Turpin say good-evening? + +"Hello," he called back casually, and walked on, his legs jumping ahead +of him. + +The room was empty. More than empty, for the comb and brush and tray of +hairpins were missing. His eyes had swept the dressing-table as he came +in. They were gone. + +There would be another note. Why didn't she leave it some place where he +could find it at a glance, instead of making him hunt around? Hunt +around. Under the bed. On the chairs. No note. Good God, she was insane! +Going away--why should she go away?... "we'll have a long talk about it +and straighten it out, of course, but ..." The insanity of the thing +remained. Gone! + +He stopped and felt his head aching. The sun ... "you won't find me if +you look for me. Please don't try. One good-bye is easier and better +than two. Erik, Erik, something has died for always...." + +Then he had read it. That had been in the postscript. He had given it a +glance, not intending to follow the words. Unimportant words. + +"Died for always," he mumbled suddenly. + +... His head pressed against the pillow in the dark room, he began to +weep. The odor of her hair was still in the pillow. Yes, the dream had +died. And she had run from its corpse, leaving behind the faint odor of +her hair on a pillow. How, died? Better to have her gone.... Tears +burned in his eyes. He repeated aloud, "better...." + +An agony was twisting itself about his heart. His face moved as if he +were in pain. With his fists he began to beat the bed. It had gone away. +It had come and smiled at him for a moment, lifted him for a moment, and +then gone away as if it had never been. But it would come back. He +would weep and pound on the bed with his fists and bring it back. The +face of stars, eyes burning, devouring, eyes kindling his soul into +ecstasies. + +"Rachel!" he cried aloud. + +Silence. His tears had ended. He lay motionless on the bed, his body +suddenly weak, his thought tired. Someone had shouted a name in his +ears. A dead man had shouted the name of Rachel. It was the cry of an +Erik Dorn who was dead. He'd heard it in the dark room. An old, already +forgotten Erik Dorn who had laughed in a halloo of storms, heels up, +head down. Madness and a dream. Wings and a face of stars. They had +vanished with an old and almost forgotten Erik Dorn who had called their +name out of a grave. So things whirled away. + +He arose and stood looking out of the window. Night had come ... "dark +rendezvous of sorrows. Silent Madonna of the spaces...." He whispered to +see if there were still phrases in him. His lips smiled against the +window. Phrases ... words ... and the rest was a make-believe once more. +A pattern precise and meaningless. His little flight over. Now it was +time to walk again. + +Anna had stood one night staring at him. He remembered. Oh, yes, he'd +run away quickly for fear he might hear her shriek. And then, Rachel. +But these things were passed. It was time to walk. Did he still love +her? Yes. It would have been easier to walk with her--calmly, placidly, +their hands sometimes touching. Forgetting other days and other kisses +together. But he would not lie to himself. An end to that now. Love made +a liar of a man. At the beginning and at the end--lies. The ache now was +one of memory, not of loss. The pain was one of death. Dead things hurt +inside him. Afterward his heart would carry them about unknowingly. The +dead things would end their hurt. But now, leaden heavy, they kept +slipping deeper into him as if seeking graves that did not yet exist. + +Standing before the window, Dorn's smile grew cold. + +"A make-believe," he whispered, "but not quite the same as it was +before. A loneliness and an emptiness. Ruins in which once there was +feasting. And now, nothing ... nothing...." + + + + +PART IV + +ADVENTURE + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +Long days. Short days. Outside the window was an ant-hill street. And an +ant-hill of days. In the stores they were already selling calendars for +the next year. Outside the window was a flat roof. By looking at the +flat roof you remembered that Mary James was married. Unexpectedly. You +came out of the ant-hill street, climbed the stairs, and sat down and +looked at the flat roof. Long days, short days turned themselves over on +the flat roof, and turned themselves over in your heart. + +Occasionally an event. Events were things that differed from putting on +your shoes or buying butter in the grocery store. There was an event +now. It challenged the importance of the flat roof. Hazlitt was sitting +in the room and talking. Rachel listened. + +An eloquent event. But words jumbled into sound. Loud sounds. Soft +sounds. They made her sleepy, as rain pattering on a window made her +sleepy, or snow sinking out of the sky. There were sleepy words in her +mind that had nothing to do with the event. Then the event came and +mingled itself, mixed itself into the words ... "no sorrow. No remorse. +The dead are dead. Oh, most extremely dead! So I'll sit by my sad +little window and listen to this unbearable creature make love. The +idiot'll go 'way in an hour and I'll be able to draw. Funny, my thoughts +keep moving on, despite everything. Like John Brown's soul, or +something. Words get to be separate, like the snickers of dead people. +You think as one adds figures. Thoughts add, and draw pictures the same +way. A line here. A line there. And you have a face. Curve a line up and +the face laughs. Curve it down and the face weeps. You lie dead. Always +dead. You lie dead in the street. The day tears your heart out. The +night tears your eyes out. And when somebody passes, even a banana +peddler, your eyes jump back, your heart jumps back, and you look up and +snicker and say, 'It's all right. I'm just lying here for fun. I'm dead +for fun.... He still loves me. I must answer him.'" + +She spoke aloud: + +"No, George, I hear you. But I don't love you. I can't say it more +plainly, can I?" + +Her thoughts resumed. "Dear me. He talks almost as well as Erik. Lord, +he thinks I'm a virgin. His pure and unfaltering star. Well, well! Why +am I amused? Is life amusing, after all? Am I really happy? Alas! my +heart is broken. I must not forget my heart is broken. You forget +sometimes and begin snickering and somebody rings the bell and hands you +a telegram reading, 'Your heart is broken.' Rachel of the broken heart! +It was all very beautiful. This talk of his somehow brings it back ... +Oh, God. That was a line curved down. What eloquence! There, now, I must +speak. I'll have to tell him again." + +Aloud she went on, "You're mistaken in me, George." + +A flurry of silent words halted her.... "Ye gods, what a speech; she is +not all his fancy painted him. Indeed! Not mistaken. His heart tells +him. Poor boy! Poor little clowns who pay attention to what their hearts +say! I mustn't be rude." + +She interrupted him, "If you'll listen to me, George ..." + +Then, "What'll I say? If only he inspired something by his eloquence--a +phrase, at least. But my heart snickers at him. Ah! the dead are +wonderfully dead. I'll tell him I'm not a virgin. That'll be surprising +news. But how? Like a medical report? The woman was found not to be a +virgin. The thing seems to hinge on that. Why in God's name does he keep +virgining?" + +"No, George," she answered aloud, "I'm sorry. I don't believe in +love...." Listen to her! "You see, I've been in love myself. Indeed I +have. That's why you find me changed." + +He protested and her words followed silently. "My laughing makes him +angry. But I must laugh. Love is something to laugh over, isn't it? Oh, +God, why doesn't he go 'way?" The flat roof vanished. There was a rising +event in the room and the flat roof bowed good-bye and walked away. + +"Yes, I was in love for quite a while with a man," she answered him. +"And I'm in love with him yet--in a way. But we've parted. He had to go +to Europe." Nevertheless he still thought she was a virgin. He'd started +another virgining speech. There would have to be a medical report. "We +lived together for over a year. We weren't married, of course, because +he had a wife. You see, you're terribly mistaken." He must be impressed +by her calm. "Because what I really am is a vampire. I lured a man from +his wife, lived with him, and cast him aside." + +The event jumped to its feet. No room to talk for a moment, so her +thought resumed, "I'm lying. He thinks I'm lying. I should have +confessed in tears. With a few 'Oh, Gods.' Amusing! Amusing! That was +Erik's favorite word. I'm beginning to understand it now. But there's +nothing to be amused about ... in itself an amusing circumstance ... but +you look at the banana peddler and snicker. Will he hit me? Oh, very +red-faced. Speechless. I'd better talk. If he hit me.... He'll start in +a minute...." + +"Yes, you know him, George," she cried suddenly. "And if you doubt me +you can ask a lot of people. Ask Tesla or Mary James or Brander or New +York." She'd make him believe. God, what an idiot! She'd claw his eyes +out with words. Throw roofs on him. But it was a good thing Erik was in +Europe, or he'd be killed. + +"Yes. I've told you in order to get rid of you. I'd rather be rid of +you than keep my good name in your estimation. So now, run along and do +your yelling outside. I'm sick of you." + +She paused on a high gesture.... "He's going to hit me. Strike a woman. +War has brutalized him. Dear me!" But he asked a question ominously and +she answered, + +"Erik Dorn. Yes. Erik Dorn." + +This made it worse. It was bad enough without a name. But a name made it +realler. And very ominous. She moved toward a chair. + +"I'll sit still and then he won't hit me. If I'm calm, serene like a nun +facing the wrath of God. This is melodrama. He can squeeze my shoulders +all he wants. What good will it do him? If I giggled now he'd kill me. +Sorry? Oh, so I must be sorry. Because I've offended him. Dear God, what +a mess!" + +She twisted out of his grasp and cried. + +"No, I'm not sorry. You fool! I'm glad I was his woman. I'll always be +glad, as long as I live. Leave me alone. You're a fool. I've always +thought of you as a fool. You make me want to laugh now. You're a clown. +I'll give myself to men. But not to you. I gave myself to Erik Dorn +because I love him. If he wants me again I'll come to him not as a +lover, because he doesn't love me any more--but as a prostitute. Now do +you know me? Well, I want you to. So you'll go way and never bother me +again...." + +That was a good speech. She stood dramatically silent as hands seized +her shoulder again. "He hurts me. Why this? Oh, my shoulder! Does he +want to? Oh, God, this is me! He'll let me go in a minute if I don't +move. Very still. Silent ... I don't want him to cry. Can't he see it's +amusing? If he'd only look at me and wink, I'd kiss him. No, he's a +fool. I'll not say anything more. Let him cry! His life is ruined. Dear +me, I have ruined his life. His love. I was his dream. Through the war +... rose of no-man's land. Amusing, amusing! He looks different. +Contempt. He has contempt for me. And horror. Oh, get out, get out, you +fool! You sniveling nincompoop, get out! I want to draw pictures, and +forget. Console him ... for what? I don't know, I don't know. He's +going. Thank God! Oh, I don't know anything. Poor man, he should know +better than to have dreams. Dreams are for devils, not for men or women. +Dreams ... dreams ... I don't know ... I'll draw a picture. But I don't +want to. He'll never come back. I'm sad again. The flat roof says +something. Is it Erik? Dear Erik! Poor Erik! I love you. But I'll begin +crying. Pretty tears, amusing tears. Erik mine, dead for always. But +it's not as bad as it was. Another month, year, ten years. Oh, it chokes +me. I can't help it. Your eyes are the beckoning hands of dream. Whose +eyes? Mine ... mine.... Mine ... I know. I know. I must keep on dying, +keep on dying. But I'm not afraid. Look, I can laugh! Amusing that I +can laugh ... Oh, God ... God...." + +Beside her window looking out on the ant-hill street Rachel covered her +face with her hands. When she removed them she caught a glimpse of the +figure of Hazlitt walking as if it were a blind man in zig-zags down the +pavement. + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +The thing that had been buried in Emil Tesla and that used to rumble +under his fawning words, had come to life one day with two men twisting +his wrists and hammering at his uncovered face. He had laughed. + +The two men came into his office to seize him. When he started to +protest they walked up to him slowly as if to shake hands. Instead, they +began beating him. For a moment he wondered why the two men hated him so +violently. He stood looking into their faces and thinking, "They're like +me." + +The visitors, however, saw no resemblance. They twisted his arm till it +broke. Then they kept on battering at him with their fists till he fell +to the floor. While he lay on the floor they kicked him, and his muscles +grew paralyzed. + +He never remembered the walk downstairs. But in the open he saw a crowd +of faces drifting excitedly beneath him. This was a scene he remembered +later. + +It was while looking at the faces that he had grown strong. He laughed +because it occurred to him at the moment he was unconquerable. Later, in +prison, he often thought, "I have only my life to lose. I'm not afraid +of that. When they hit me they were hitting at an idea. But they could +only hit me. They couldn't touch the idea. I'll remember when I come +out--they can only hit me. If they end by shooting me they'll not touch +the idea even then. That's something beyond their fists and guns. I'll +remember I'm only a shadow." + +A year passed and Tesla came out. He returned to the office of _The +Cry_. His friends noticed a change. He had grown quiet. He no longer +bubbled with words. His eyes looked straight at people who spoke to him. +His manner whispered, "I'm nothing--a shadow thrown by an idea. I don't +argue, and I'm not afraid. I'm part of masses of people all over the +world and cannot be destroyed." + +The new Tesla became a leader. Among the radicals whose intellects were +groping noisily with the idea of a new justice he often inspired a fear. +His smile disquieted them and their arguments. His smile said, "Here, +what's the use of arguing? There is no argument. It isn't words we must +give the revolution, but lives. I'm ready. Here's mine." + +When he looked at men and women who vociferated in the councils of +radical pamphleteers, workers, organizers, theorists, new party +politicians, Tesla thought, "That one's afraid. He's only a logician. +His mind has led him into revolution. If he changed his mind he would +become a conservative.... There's one that isn't afraid. He's like me. +His mind helps him. But no matter what his mind told him he would +always be in the revolution. Something in him drives him...." + +For the rabble of artists and near-artists drifting by the scores into +radical centers, Tesla held a respectful dislike. + +"He's in revolt because he must find something different than other +people," he thought of most of them. "The revolution to him means only +himself. It's something he can use to make himself felt more by people. +And also he's a revolutionist because of the contrariness in him that +artists usually have. Especially artists who, when they can't create new +things, make themselves think they're creating new things by destroying +old things." + +Of himself Tesla thought, "I'll fight and not mind if I'm killed. +Because people will still be left alive, and so the idea of which I'm a +part will continue to live." + +In the days before his going to prison Tesla had felt the need of +writing and talking his revolution. This was because of an impatience +and intolerance toward the enemy. Now that was gone. The enemy had +become a blatant, trivial thing. The things it said and did were +unimportant. He read with amusement the rabid denunciations of the +radicals in the press of the day. The grotesque hate hymns against the +new Russia, the garbled shriekings and pompous anathemas that fell +hourly upon the heads of all suspects, inspired no argument in him. + +Tesla's days were busy with organization. He had almost ceased his +activities as pamphleteer, although still editor of _The Cry_. With a +group of men, silent as himself, he worked at the radicalization of the +factories and labor unions. Each day men left Tesla to seek employment +in shops throughout the country, in mines and mills. Their duties were +simple. Tesla measured them carefully before sending them on.... This +one could be relied upon to work intelligently, to talk to workingmen at +their benches and during noon hours without antagonizing, or, worse, +frightening them. Another was dubious. His eyes were too bright. He +would be discovered and arrested by the company. But he might do some +good. The arrest of a radical always did some good to the cause. Where +would Christianity have been without the incompetent agitators who +blundered into the clutches of the Roman law and the amphitheater? + +Aloud he would say, "Work carefully. Remember that the revolution is for +all; that the workers, no matter what they say to you, are comrades. +Remember that strikes are better than fights. The time hasn't come yet +for fighting. What we must do is put into the hearts of the workers the +knowledge that there is nothing in common between them and their bosses. +The workers are the producers. They work and make no money. The bosses +are the exploiters. They don't work and make all the money. If you get +the workers to thinking this they'll want more money themselves and +declare strikes. By strikes we can paralyze industry and give the +workers consciousness of their power. This is only a step; but the first +and most important step. Make strikes. Make dissatisfaction. But don't +argue about fighting and revolution." + +Over and over Tesla repeated his instructions through the days. He spoke +simply. Men listened to him and nodded without questioning. They saw +that his eyes were unafraid and that if he was sending them upon +dangerous missions, he would some day reserve a greater mission for +himself. Tesla had become a leader since he had laughed on the step +overlooking the pack of faces. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +At his desk in _The Cry_ office Tesla was preparing the April issue of +the magazine for the printer. It was night. A garrulous political poet +named Myers was revising proofs at a smaller desk. Brander and a tall, +thin woman stood talking quietly to each other in a gloomy corner of the +office. Rachel, who had returned to the place after a hurried supper +with Tesla, waited listlessly. He had promised to finish up in a +half-hour, but there was more work than he had figured. + +"We're reprinting a part of the article on the White Terror in Germany +that Erik Dorn has in the _New Opinion_," Tesla said. Rachel nodded her +head. Later Tesla asked her, "This Dorn, what is he? His writing is +amusing, sometimes violent, but always empty. He doesn't like life much, +eh?" + +"I don't know," said Rachel. + +"Yes," Tesla smiled. "He hates us all--reds and whites, radicals and +bourgeoisie. Yet he can write in a big way. But he isn't a big man. He +has no faith. I remember him once in Chicago. He hasn't changed." + +Rachel's eyes remained steadily upon the socialist as he cleared his +desk. He stood up finally and came to where she was sitting. + +"It's necessary to have something besides self," he said softly. "I was +born in a room that smelled bad. Perhaps that's why the world smells bad +to me now. I still live there. It's good to live where there are smells. +Our radicals sit too much in hotel lobbies that other people keep clean +for them." + +Brander thrust his large figure between them, the tall, thin woman +moving vaguely about the room. + +"Sometimes I think you're a fake, Emil," he said. "You're too good to be +true." + +He grinned at Rachel. + +"By the way," he went on, looking at her, "I brought something to show +you." His hands dug a paper out of his coat pocket. "You see, I've +preserved our correspondence." + +He held out a letter. Rachel's eyes darkened. + +"Oh, there's no hurry," Brander laughed. "So long as you keep the +application on file, you know." + +Tesla, listening blankly, interrupted: + +"It's late. We should go home. I'll go home with you, Rachel, and talk." + +The thin woman, watching Brander anxiously, approached and seized his +arm. + +"All right," the artist whispered. "We'll go now." + +Rachel felt a relief as Brander passed out of the door with the woman. + +"He disturbs you," Tesla commented. She nodded her head. Words seemed +to have abandoned her. There was almost a necessity for silence. They +walked out, leaving Myers still at his desk. + +In the deserted streets Rachel walked beside Tesla. She felt tired. +"He's never tired," she thought, her eyes glancing at the stocky figure. +He wasn't talking as he said he would. + +The night felt sad and cold. A dead March night. If not for Emil, what? +"Perhaps I'll kill myself. There's nothing now. I'm always alone. No +to-morrows." + +In the evenings she came to the office to meet Emil for supper because +there was nothing else to do. Emil seemed like an old man, always +preoccupied, his eyes always burning with preoccupations. After supper +he usually walked home with her, talking to her of poor people. There +seemed no hatred in him, no argument. Poor people in broken houses. +Christ came and gave them a God. Now the revolution would come with +flaming embittered eyes but wearing a gentle smile for the poor people +in broken houses, and give them rest and happiness. + +But to-night he was silent. When they had walked several blocks he began +to talk without looking at her. + +"Come with me," he asked. "I live alone in a little house. We can be +happy there. You have nobody." + +Rachel repeated "Nobody." + +She looked at him but his eyes avoided her. + +"My mother died long ago," he went on. "She was an old woman. She used +to live in this house where I live. We were always poor. I had brothers +and sisters. They've all gone somewhere. Things happened to them. I have +only my work now. Nobody else. But I'm alone too much. Since we have +seen each other I have been thinking of you. Brander has told me +something but that doesn't matter. I would like to marry you." + +He paused and seemed to grow bewildered. + +"Excuse me," he mumbled. Rachel took his hand and held it as they +walked. Tears in her whispered "Nobody ... nobody." The homely face of +Tesla was looking at her and saying something with its silence: "I am +not for you as Erik was. But that is gone. Dead for always...." + +He was kind. It would be easy to live with him. But not married. A chill +drifted through her. It didn't matter what she did. Life had ended one +afternoon months ago. She remembered the sun shining on the sand, the +burning sea, and Erik asleep. The memory said "I am the last picture of +life." + +It would be easy with Tesla. He loved elsewhere ... a wild gentle +thing--people. Poor people in broken houses. He would give her only +kindness and companionship. And if he would let her cry to-night and +make believe she was a child crying.... + +They had taken a different direction. This was the neighborhood where +Tesla lived. Rachel looked about her in fear. She remembered the +district. Now she was coming to live here in these streets where people +begin to give forth an odor. + +As she walked beside Tesla his silence became dark like the scene +itself. She had always thought of him as somewhat strange. Now she +understood why he had seemed strange to her. Because he carried an +underworld in his heart. In his nose there was always the odor of the +streets from which he had sprung, and in his mind there was always the +picture of them. Other things did not fool him. + +"Is it far?" she asked. + +He looked at her, smiling. + +"No," he said. "Do you want to go?" + +She pressed his hand. It would be better. But her heart hurt. That was +foolish. Emil was somebody different. Not like a man, but an old man--or +an old background. There would be things to think about--Revolution. +Before, revolution was people arguing and being dragged to jail. +Sometimes people fighting. But it was something else--a thing hidden and +spreading--and here in the dark street about them where Emil lived. + +Emil seemed to vanish into a background. She walked and thought of the +streets in which Emil lived. Here in the daytime the rows of sagging +little houses were like teeth in an old man's mouth. From them arose +exhalations of stagnant wood, decaying stairways; of bodies from which +the sweats of lust and work were never washed. Soft bubbling alleys +under a stiff sun. The stench like a grime leadened the air. Something +to think about in places like this. Revolution crawling up and down soft +alleys ... something in the mud waiting to be hatched. + +In this street lived men and women whose hungers were not complicated by +trifles. In this way they were, as they moved thick-faced and unsmiling, +different from the people who lived in other streets and who had +civilized their odors and made ethics of their hungers. The people who +lived here walked as if they were being pushed in and out of the sagging +houses. Shrieking children appeared during the daytime and sprawled +about. They rolled over one another, their faces contorted with a +miniature senility. They urinated in gutters, threw stones at one +another in the soft alleys, ran after each other, cursing and gesturing +with idiot violence. They brought an awkward fever into the street. +Oblivious of them and the debris about them, barrel-shaped women +strutted behind their protuberant bellies, great flapping shoes over the +pavements. They moved as if unaccustomed to walking in streets. + +When it grew dark the men coming home from the factories began to crowd +the street. They walked in silence, a broken string of shuffling figures +like letters against the red of the sky. Their knees bent, their jaws +shoved forward, their heads wagged from side to side. They vanished +into the sagging houses, and the night came ... an unwavering gloom +picked with little yellow glows from windows. The houses lay like +bundles of carefully piled rags in the darkness. The shrieking of the +children died, and with it the pale fever of the day passed out of the +air. There were left only the odors. + +There were odors now, coming to them as they walked. Invisible banners +of decay floating upon the night. Stench of fat kitchens, of soft +bubbling alleys, of gleaming refuse. Indefinable evaporations from the +dark bundles of houses wherein people had packed themselves away. They +came like a rust into her nose. + +She was moving into a new world. Drunken men appeared and lurched into +the darkness with cursings and mutterings. Sometimes they sang. The +smoke of the factory chimneys was now invisible, but the chimneys, like +rows of minarets, made darker streaks in the gloom. And in the distance +blast furnaces gutted the night with pink and orange flares. Figures of +girls not yet shaped like barrels came into the street and stood for +long moments in the shadows. Rachel watched them as she passed. They +moved away into the depths of the soft alleys and vanished. It was late +night. The exhalations of alleys and houses increased as if some great +disintegration was stewing in the night. A new world.... + +Rachel's fingers reached for Tesla's hand. She felt surprised. There was +no thought of Erik. This about her was a world untouched by the shadow +Erik had left behind. So she could live here easily. And Emil was not a +man like Erik. Erik, who stood alone, stark, untouched by life. Emil was +a background. It would be easy. Her fingers, tightly laced in his, grew +cold. Erik would come back. "Come back," murmured her thought. "Oh, if +he should come back! No, I mustn't fool myself. It's over. And I can +either live or die. I'll live a little while. Why? Because I still love +him. Erik mine!" + +But it didn't sadden her to walk up the dark steps of Tesla's house. +"Erik, good-bye!" Not even that mattered. Erik was gone. That was all +something else. Not gone. Oh, God, no! Only Erik had died. She still +lived with a dead name in her heart. But here were odors--strange +people. + + * * * * * * + +It was barely furnished but clean inside. Later Rachel sat, her head in +Tesla's arms, and wept. She was not sad. Her thought faltered, reaching +for words, but drifting away. This is what had become of her--nothing +else but this. + +Tesla looked quietly at her and kept murmuring, "Little girl, the world +is big. There are other things than self. Must you cry? Cry, then. I +know what sadness is." + +His hands moved gently through her loosened hair and he smiled +sorrowfully. + +"Dear child," he whispered, "you can always cry in my arms and I will +understand. It is the way the world sometimes cries in my heart. I +understand.... Yes ... yes...." + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +A kaleidoscope of cities. A new garrulity. Words like busy little brooms +sweeping up after a war. A world of foreigners. Europe was running about +with empty pockets and a cracked head. England had had a nose-bleed, +France a temporary castration, and the president of the United States +was walking around in Paris in an immaculate frock-coat and a high silk +hat. The President was closeted in a peace conference mumbling +valorously amid lifted eyebrows, amused shoulder shruggings, ironic +sighings. A long-faced virgin trapped in a bawdy house and calling in +valiant tones for a glass of lemonade. + +Erik Dorn drifted through a haze of weeks. This was London. This, Paris. +This, Rotterdam. And this, after a long, cold ride standing up in a +windowless coach, Berlin. But all curiously alike. People in all of them +who said, "We are strangers to you." + +There was nothing to see. No impressions to receive. More cities, more +people, more words and a detachment. The detachment was Europe. In his +own country there was no detachment. He was a part of crowds, +newspapers, buildings. Here he was outside. Familiar things looked +strange. The eyes busied themselves trying to forget things before +them, scurrying after details and worried by an unrelation in +architecture, faces, gestures. + +It was mid-December when he sat in a hotel room in Berlin one night and +ate blue-colored fish, boiled potatoes, and black, soggy bread. He had +been wandering for days through snow-covered streets. Now there was +shooting in the streets. + +"Germany is starving," said an acquaintance. "Our children are dying off +by the thousands, thanks to the inhuman blockade." + +But despite even the shooting in the streets Dorn noticed the Germans +had lost interest in the war. The idea of the war had collapsed. In +England and France the idea was still vaguely alive. People kept it +alive by discussing it. But even there it had become something +unnatural. + +One thing there was in common. Only a few people seemed to have been +killed. London was jammed. Even though the newspapers summed it up now +and then with "a generation has been killed." Paris, too, was jammed. +And Berlin now, jammed also. The war had been fought by people who were +dead. And the people who were alive were living away its memory. + +In Berlin a week, and he thought, "A circus has pulled down its tent, +carted off its gaudy wagons, its naphtha lights, and its boxes of +sawdust. And a new show is staking out the lot." + +The new show was coming to Berlin. Fences and building walls were +plastered with its lithographs ... "The Spirit of Bolshevism Marches +... Beware the Wrecker of Mankind...." Posters of gorillas chewing on +bloody knives, of fiends with stringy hair setting the torch to +orphanages and other nobly drawn edifices labeled "Kultur, Civilization, +Humanitat...." The spielers were already on the job. Machine-guns barked +in the snow-covered streets. A man named Noske was a _Bluthund_. A man +named Liebknecht was a _Schweinhund_. + +In his hotel room Dorn, eating blue-colored fish, spoke to an +acquaintance--an erudite young German who wore a monocle, whose eyes +twinkled with an odd humor, and who under the influence of a bottle of +Sekt was vociferating passionately in behalf of a thing he called _Welt_ +Revolution. + +"I don't understand it yet, von Stinnes," Dorn smiled. "I will later. So +far I've managed to do nothing more than enjoy myself. Profundity is +diverting in New York, but a bore in Berlin. There's too much of it. +Good God, man, there are times when I feel that even the buildings of +the city are wrapped in thought." + +Von Stinnes gestured with an almost English awkwardness. His English +contained a slight French accent. His words, amused, careless, carried +decision. He spoke knowingly, notwithstanding the Sekt and the smile +with which he seemed to be belying his remarks. Thus, the Majority +Socialists were traitors. Scheidemann had sold the revolution for a kiss +from Graf Rantzau. The masses.... "Ah, m'sieur, they are arming. There +will be an overthrow." And then, Ludendorff had framed the +revolution--actually manufactured it. All the old officers were back. +Noske was allowing them to reorganize the military. The thing was a +farce. Social Democracy had failed. The country was already in flames. +There would be things happening. "You wait and see. Yes, the +Spartikusten will do something ..." + +Dorn nodded appreciatively. He felt instinctively that he had stumbled +upon a man of value and service. But he listened carelessly. As yet the +scene was more absorbing than its details. The local politik boiling +beneath the collapse of the empire had not yet struck his imagination. +There were large lines to look at first, and absorb. + +Snow in unfamiliar streets, night soldier patrols firing at shadows, +eager-eyed women in the hotel lobbies, marines carousing in the Kaiser's +Schloss--a nation in collapse. Teutonia on her rump, helmet tilted over +an eye, hair down, comely and unmilitary legs thrust out, showing her +drawers and laughing. Yes, the Germans were laughing. Where was there +gayety like the Palais de Danse, the Fox Trot Klubs, Pauligs; gayety +like the drunken soldiers patrolling Wilhelmstrasse where a paunchy +harness-maker sat in Bismarck's chair? + +Gayety with a rumble and a darkness underneath. But such things were +only wilder accents to laughter. If the detachment would leave him, if +he could familiarize himself, he could lay hands on something; dance +away in a macabre mardi-gras. + +Two bottles of Sekt had been emptied. A polite Ober responded with a +third. Von Stinnes grew eloquent. + +"Not before March, Mr. Dorn. It will come only then. This that you hear +now, pouf! Hungry men looking for crumbs with hand-grenades. The +revolution is only picking its teeth. But wait. It will overturn, when +it comes. And even if it does not overturn, if it fails, it will not +end, but pause. You hear it whispering now in the streets. Hungry men +with hand-grenades. Ah, m'sieur, if you wish we will work together. I am +a man of many acquaintances. I am von Stinnes, Baron von Stinnes of a +very old, a very dissolute, a very worthless family. I am the last von +Stinnes. The dear God Himself glows at the thought. I will work for you +as secretary. How much do you offer for a scion of the nobility?" + +"Three hundred marks." + +"A month?" + +"No, weekly," laughed Dorn, "and you buy half the liquor." + +Von Stinnes bowed. + +"An insult, Mr. Dorn. But I overlook it. One becomes adept in the matter +of overlooking insults. You will need me. I am known everywhere. I was +with Liebknecht in the Schloss when he slept in the Kaiser's bed. Ho! it +was a symbol for you to see him crawl between the sheets. Alas! he +slept but poorly, with the marines standing guard and frowning at the +bed as if it were capable of something. For me, I would have preferred +beds with more pleasant associations. And when Bode tried to be dictator +in his father's chamber in the Reichstag--yes," von Stinnes closed his +eyes and laughed softly, "he seized the Reichstag with a company of +marines. And he sat for two days and two nights signing warrants, +confiscation orders. Until a soldier brought him a document issued by +Eichorn the mysterious policeman who was dictating from the Stadt House. +And poor Bode signed it. He was sleepy. He could not read with sleep. It +was his own death warrant. It was I who saved him by taking him to the +house of Milly. He slept four days with Milly, in itself a feat." + +Von Stinnes swallowed another glass of wine. His eyes seemed to belie +his unsteady, careless voice. His eyes remained intent and mocking upon +Dorn. + +"You have come a few weeks too late. There were scenes, dear God, to +make one laugh. In the Schloss. Yes, we bombarded the Schloss--but after +we had captured it. The Liebknecht ordered. Everything was done in +symbols. Therefore the symbol of the bombardment of the Schloss. So we +rushed out one night and opened fire, and when we had knocked off the +balcony and peeled the plaster from the walls, we rushed in again and +sang the _Marseillaise_. What wine, m'sieur! Ho, you have come a few +weeks too late. But there will be other comedies. And I will be of +service. I belong to three officers' clubs. One of them is respectable. +Women are admitted. The other two ... women are barred. And look...." He +slapped a wallet on the table and extracted a red card, "'member of the +Communist Partei--Karl Stinnes,'" he read. "Listen, there are 75,000 +rifles in Alexander Platz, waiting for the day." + +"Where did you learn your English, von Stinnes?" + +"Oxford. Italian in Padua. French, m'sieur, in Paris. During the war." +The baron laughed. "Ah, _pendant la guerre, m'sieur, en Paris_." + +"And now," Dorn mused, "you are a Spartikust." + +The baron was on his feet, a wine glass raised in his hand. + +"_Es lebe die Welt Revolution_," he cried, "_es lebe das Rate +Republik!_" + +"What did you do in Paris, von Stinnes?" + +"Pigeons, my friend. I played with pigeons and with vital statistics and +made love to little French girls whose sweethearts were dying in the +trenches. And in London. But I talk too much. Yes, my tongue slips, you +say. But I am lonely and talk is easy.... I drink your health ... +_hein!_ it was a day when we met...." + +Dorn raised his glass. + +"To the confusion of the seven deadly virtues!" he laughed. + +"I drink," the baron cried. "We will make a tour. We will amuse +ourselves. I see that you understand Germany. Because you understand +there is something bigger than Germany; that the world is the head of a +pin spinning round in a glass of wine. I have been with the other +correspondents. Pigs and donkeys. The souls of shopkeepers under the +vests." + +The baron seated himself carefully and pretended an abrupt seriousness. + +"I have made up my mind to die behind the red barricades. Perhaps in +March. Perhaps later. Another glass, m'sieur. Thanks. I shall die +fighting for the overthrow of the tyranny of the bourgeoisie ... Noske +and his _parvenu_ Huns. Ho! Dorn, we will amuse ourselves in a crazy +world, eh, what? The tyranny of the bourgeoisie!" + +The baron laughed as he rolled over the phrase. + +"There will be great deal to enjoy," Dorn smiled. The wine was making +him silent. + +"Yes, to enjoy. To laugh," the baron interrupted. "I cannot explain now. +But you seem to understand. Or am I drunk? _Ein galgen gelachter, nicht +wahr?_ I will take quarters at the hotel. I know the management well. I +saved the place from being looted in the November excitement. Have you +seen the Kaiser Salle? His Majesty dined there once. A witless popinjay. +Liebknecht is a man. Flames in his heart. But a poor orator. He will be +killed. They must kill him. A little Jew, Haase, has brains. You will +meet him. And the Dadaists--they know how to laugh. The cult of the +absurd. Perhaps the next emperor of Germany will be a Dada. An Ober +Dada--who knows? Once the world learns to laugh we may expect radical +changes. And in Muenchen I know a dancer, Mizzi. Dear God, what legs! You +must come there to see legs. Faces in the Rhineland. Ankles in Vienna. +But legs, dear God, in Muenchen! It is the Spanish influence. Let us +drink to Mizzi...." + +The wine was vanishing. The baron paused out of breath and sighed. His +face that seemed to grow firmer and more ascetic as he drank, took on a +far-away shrewdness as if new ideas had surprised it. + +"I've felt many things," Dorn spoke, "but thought nothing yet. So far +Europe has remained strange. I am in a theater watching a pantomime. I +have entered in the middle of the second act and the plot is a bit +hidden. But we will have to find some serious work to do. I must meet +politicians, leaders; listen to laments and prophecies...." + +"All in time, all in time," the baron interrupted. "Am I not your +secretary? Well, then, trust me. You will talk to-morrow with Ebert. We +begin thus at the bottom. Of all men in Germany who know nothing, he +knows least. Thursday, Scheidemann. Treachery requires some shrewdness. +The man is not quite an imbecile. If your Roosevelt were a Socialist he +would be a Scheidemann. Daumig, Pasadowsky, Erzburger--rely upon me, +m'sieur. And Ludendorff. Ah, there we have real work. If Ludendorff will +talk now. He is supposed to be in Berlin. I will find him and arrange +for you. And so on. You will meet all the great minds, all the big +stomachs. I will take you to Radek who is hiding with a price on his +head. And Dr. Talheimer on the Rote Fahne, if they do not arrest him too +soon. Bernstorff is in the hotel. A man with too much brains. Yes, an +intelligent bungler. He will die some day with a sad smile, forgiving +his enemies. And if we need women, mention your choice. Mine runs to the +married woman of title. A small title is to be preferred. It is a slight +insurance against disease. Others prefer the gamins. There is not enough +difference to quarrel about. Or do you want a little red in your amours? +A _sans culotte_ from Ehrfurst or Spandau? In Essen you will find +Belgian women. They will love for nothing. For that matter, a bottle of +wine and a bar of chocolate and you can have anyone. There is no virtue +left, thank God. And yet, for variety, I sometimes think there should be +a little. Ah, yes, yes! I miss the virgins of my youth. Another bottle, +eh? Where's the button? What do you think of German plumbing? It is our +Kultur. We are proud of our plumbing. It was the ideal for which we +fought. To introduce our plumbing throughout Europe--make a German +bathroom of the world." + +A sound of heavier firing in the streets interrupted. The two sat +listening, the baron's face alive with an odd humor. + +"_Es lebe die Welt Revolution_," he whispered. "Do you hear it? Only a +murmur. But it starts all over Germany again. Workingmen with guns. You +will see them later. I among them. Stay in Europe, my friend, and see +the ghost of Marat rising from a German bathtub." + +"Who are shooting?" Dorn asked. + +"Shadows," the baron laughed. "The government wishes to impress the good +burgher that there is danger. So the government orders the soldiers to +shoot at midnight. The good burgher wakes and trembles. _Mein Gott, das +Bolshevismus treibt! Gott sei dank fuer den Regierung._ ... So the good +burgher gives enthusiastic assent to the increase in the military +budget. Dear God, did he not hear shooting at midnight? But they play +with more than ghosts. Noske's politik will end in another color. +To-night there are only shadows to shoot at. To-morrow ... remember what +I tell you...." + +The telephone rang and Dorn answered. A voice in English: + +"The gentlemen will have to put out the lights. The Spartikusten are +coming." + +"Thank you...." + +"What did he say?" + +"We must put out the lights." + +The baron laughed. + +"It is nonsense. Come, your hat. We will go have a look." + +They hurried down to the lobby. An iron door had been drawn across the +entrance of the hotel. In the lobby the shooting seemed a bombardment of +the building. A group of American and English correspondents were +lounging in the heavy divans, drinking gin and talking to a trio of +elaborately gowned women. The talk was in French. + +"Hello, Dorn," one of the Englishmen called. Dorn approached the table, +von Stinnes following, and whispering, "I will request the porter to +open the gate." + +"Baron von Stinnes, Mr. Reading." + +The Englishman shook hands and smiled. + +"I know the baron, Dorn. Rather old friends, what? Have a drink, damn +it!" + +"Later, if you please," von Stinnes bowed stiffly. Reading beckoned Dorn +aside with an air of secrecy. Walking him to another part of the lobby +he began whispering: + +"I'd let that blighter alone if I were you, Dorn. I'm just telling you +because you're rather new to these bloody swine." + +Dorn nodded. + +"I see," he said, and walked back to von Stinnes. Reading resumed his +place with the party. + +"Perhaps it was a timely warning," the baron murmured as Dorn drew near +him. The gate had been opened and the two emerged. "I make a guess at +what Reading told you," the baron pursued. + +"It is immaterial," Dorn answered. "I engage you not for your honesty +and many virtues, but because you're amusing...." + +"Thus you relieve my conscience," von Stinnes sighed. + +The wide avenue was deserted. Moonlight lay on the new-fallen snow. A +line of soldiers wheeled suddenly out of the Brandenburger Tor and came +marching quickly toward the walkers. + +"_Weiter gehen, weiter gehen_," a voice from the troop called. Two +detached themselves from the ranks and approached rapidly. + +"_Ausweise...._" + +Von Stinnes glared through his monocle and answered in German, "What is +the matter with you? Are you crazy? I am Baron von Stinnes. My friend is +a member of the American Commission." + +Dorn extracted a bit of stamped paper--his special credentials from the +German Foreign Office. The soldier glanced at it without troubling to +read.... + +"_Sehr gut, mein Herrschaften_," he mumbled. Dorn caught a glimpse of +his face. Its importance had vanished. The line of soldiers marched on. +When they had turned a corner the sound of firing suddenly resumed. + +"Shadows again," chuckled von Stinnes. + +Snow-covered streets, moonlight, waiting buildings, cold and +shadows--here was reality. The thing under the gay tumult of the cafes. +Under the baron's laughter. They were passing a stretch of empty shop +windows. + +"It's cold," Dorn muttered. The baron looked at him with a smile. + +"It is cold everywhere in Germany," he said quietly. "Men's hearts are +cold with hunger and fear. Brains are confused. Stomachs empty. The top +has been knocked off. The soldiers in the streets are the sad little +remains of a dead Germany. The new Germany lies cold and hungry in a +workingman's bed. Life will come out of the masses. And I am always on +the side of life. Not so? The old is dead. We drink wine to the new." + +The sound of dance music drifted out of a cafe. + +"Shall we stop?" the baron hesitated. + +Dorn shook his head. + +"Enough cafes. The streets are better. Dark windows." + +They walked in silence through the snow, the baron humming a Vienna +waltz as the blurred echoes of machine-gun fire rose in the night around +them. + +... Hours later Dorn lay sleepless in his bed. The smoke of wine was +slipping out of his thought. + +"I'm alone," he murmured to himself. An emotionless regret came to him. + +"There are still years to live." He wrapped himself closer in the +silk-covered quilts. "But how? Does it matter? I have loved, and that +is over. Rachel is ended. Haven't thought of her for weeks. And now, I +am like I was, only older and alone; yet not sad. So people adjust +themselves to decay. Senses that could have understood and wept at +sorrow die, along with the things whose death causes sorrow. Ergo, there +is no sorrow. Wings gone, tears gone, everything gone. Empty again, yet +content. I want nothing.... No desires...." + +His brain was mumbling sleepily as the cold wind from the opened window +swept pleasantly through the room. + +"Women to divert me. Wine to make me glad. And a companion--the baron. +Droll tragedian! And scenes for my eyes. Yes, yes.... They keep shooting +outside. Still shooting after five years. Shooting each other. The world +speaks a strange language. What imbecility! Yet life is in the masses. +It'll come out, perhaps. From Russia. Russians--a pack of idealists ... +a pack of illiterate Wilsons with whiskers. I'm like the baron. I admire +revolution. Why? Because it diverts." + +He closed his eyes for moments. Still no sleep, and his thought resumed, +"Rachel, I once loved you. I can say it now without hurt. Empty memories +now--like drawings in outline. And some day even the outlines will leave +me." + +A curious ache came into his heart. "Ah, she still touches me--still a +little. Poor dear one! What a farce! A glorious farce! The nights when +she whispered. Her face, I remember, yes, a little. Ghosts! Your eyes +are the beckoning hands of dream. That was the best sentence.... The +rest were good too--sometimes." + +He smiled sleepily on his pillow ... "still shooting. It will be amusing +here. Some day when we're old, Rachel and I will see each other again. +Old eyes questioning old eyes. Old eyes saying, 'So much has died. Only +a little more remains to die.' Sleep ... I must sleep now. To-morrow, +work, work! And forget. But nothing to forget. It forgets itself. It +says good-bye. A sun gone down. What is it old Carl wrote?... 'The past +is a bucket of ashes, a sun gone down ... to-morrow is another +day....'" + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +The detachment vanished. Streets familiarized themselves. + +"_Ich steh auf den Standpunkt_," said the politicians; and the racket of +machine-guns offered an obligato. + +The new garrulity that had seemed strange to Dorn lost its strangeness. +It became the victrola phrases of a bewildered diplomacy. But the +diplomacy was not confined to frock-coats. It buzzed, snarled up and +down the factory districts, in and out of the boulevard cafes and the +squat resident sectors. + +The German waiting for the knife of Versailles to fall was vomiting a +vocabulary of fear, hope, threat, despair. Under cover of a confused +Social Democracy the German army was slowly reorganizing itself. + +It was three months after his arrival in Berlin that Dorn wrote his +curious sketch of the German situation. The three months had witnessed a +change in him. He had become a workman--industrious, inquisitive, +determined. Under the guidance of von Stinnes he had managed to +penetrate the heart of German _politik_. Tours through the provinces, +daily interviews with celebrities, statesmen, leaders of the scores of +political factions; adventures under the surface of the victrola phrases +pouring from the government buildings and the anti-government buildings, +had occupied even his introspections. Seemingly the empire had turned +itself into a debating society. Life had become a class in economics. + +Three months of work. Unfocused talents drawn into simultaneous +activity. And Dorn arose one morning to find himself an outstanding +figure in the turmoil of comment and commentators about him. Von Stinnes +had wheedled his history out of him for publication in Berlin. Its +appearance was greeted with a journalistic shout in the capitol. +Radicals and conservatives alike pounced upon it. Haase, leader of the +Independent Socialists, declaimed it almost in full before the National +Assembly in Weimar. + +Dorn had put into it a passionate sense of the irony and futility of his +day. Its clarity arrested the obfuscated intellect of a nation groping, +whining, and blustering under the shadow of the knife of Versailles. + +The writing of it had rid him for the time of Rachel, of Anna, of the +years of befuddling emptiness that had marked his attitudes toward the +surfaces of thought about him. The emotionless disillusion of his nature +had finally produced an adventure for him--the adventure of mental +fecundity. + +He had gone to Weimar to write. Here the new government of Germany had +assembled. Delegates, celebrities, frock-coats, strange hair formations; +messiah and magician had come to extricate the nation from its unhappy +place on the European guillotine. The narrow streets stuttered with +argument.... Von Stinnes and a girl named Mathilde Dohmann accompanied +him to the town. The Baron, bored for the moment with his labors, had +immersed his volatile self in a diligent pursuit of Mathilde. He had +discovered her among communist councils in Berlin and naively attached +her as a part of Dorn's secretarial retinue. + +"She will be of service," he announced. + +Dorn, preoccupied with the scheme of his history, paid little attention +to her. Arrived in Weimar he became entirely active, viewing with +amusement the Baron's sophisticated assault upon the ardent-voiced, +red-haired political spitfire whom he called Matty. Alone in an old +tavern room, he gave himself to the arrangements of words clamoring for +utterance in his thought. Old words. Old ideas. Notions dormant since +years ago. Phrases, ironies remembered out of conversations themselves +forgotten. The book was finished towards the middle of March--a history +of the post-war Germany; with a biography between the lines of Erik +Dorn. Von Stinnes had forthwith produced two German scholars who, under +his direction, accomplished the translation with astonishing speed. +Excerpts from the thin red-and black-covered volume found their way +overnight into the press of the nation. Periodicals seized upon the +extended brochure as a _Dokument_. In pamphlet form the gist of it +started upon the rounds of Europe. The garrulity of the day had been +given for the moment a new direction. + + * * * * * * + +"We will go to Munich. There will be a revolution in Munich. I have news +from secret sources." + +Baron von Stinnes, lounging wearily in front of a chess-board, spoke and +raised a cup of mocha to his lips. Dorn, picking his way through a +German novel, looked up gloomily and nodded. + +"Anywhere," he agreed. "Munich, Moscow, Peking." + +In a corner of the room Mathilde was curled on the luxurious hotel divan +watching through half-closed eyes the figures of the men. The Baron +turned toward her and frowned. In return her face, almost asleep, became +vivid with a sneer. The Baron's love-making had gone astray. + +"Matty is going to try to carry a million marks into Munich for the +Communists," he announced. + +The girl stared von Stinnes into silence. + +"How do you know that?" she asked slowly. + +He lowered his cup and with a show of polite deliberation removed his +monocle and wiped it with a silk handkerchief. + +"I know many things," he smiled. "The money comes from Dr. Kasnilov and +will be brought to Dr. Max Levine in Munich, and the good Max will buy a +garrison of Landwehr with it and establish the soviet republic of +Bavaria." + +"You know Levine?" + +"Very well," smiled the Baron. + +Mathilde sat up. Her voice acquired a vicious dullness. + +"You will not interfere with me, von Stinnes." + +"I, Matty?" The Baron laughed and resumed his mocha. "I am heart and +soul with Levine. If Dorn cannot go I will have to go alone. It is +necessary I be in Munich when the Soviets are called out." + +"You will not interfere with me, von Stinnes," the girl repeated, "or I +will kill you." + +"You have my permission, Fraeulein. The logical time for my death is long +past." + +Mathilde's sharp young face had grown alive with excitement. She sat +with her eyes unwaveringly upon the Baron as if her thought were groping +desperately beneath the smiling weariness of the man. + +"Mr. Dorn," she spoke, "von Stinnes is a traitor." + +Dorn smiled. + +"If one million marks will cause a revolution, I'll take them to Munich +myself," he answered. "I'm sick of Berlin. I need a revolution to divert +me." + +"I fear I am in the way," von Stinnes interrupted. He arose with +formality. "Mathilde would like to unburden herself to you, Dorn. I am, +she will inform you, a secret agent of Colonel Nickolai, and Colonel +Nickolai is the head of the anti-bolshevist pro-royalist propaganda in +Prussia." He paused and smiled. "I will meet you in the lobby when you +come down." + +He walked toward the door, halting before the excited face of the girl. + +"Ah, Matty, Matty," he murmured, "you will not in your zeal forget that +I love you?" + +He bowed whimsically and passed out. Dorn laid aside his book and +approached the divan. In the week since their return from Weimar he had +become interested in the moody, dynamic young creature. The fact that +she had resisted the expert persuasions of the Baron--a subject on which +the nobleman had discoursed piquantly on their ride to Berlin--had +appealed to him. + +"Karl is a good fellow," he said, seating himself next to her. "And if +it happens he is employed by Noske and Nickolai it doesn't alter my +opinion of him." + +"He is a scoundrel," she answered quietly. + +"That is impossible," Dorn smiled. "He is merely a man without +convictions and therefore free to follow his impulses and his employers. +I thank God for von Stinnes. He has made Europe possible. A revolution +alone could rival him in my affections." + +The girl remained silent, and Dorn watched her face. He might embrace +her and make love. It would perhaps flatter, please her. She fancied him +a man of astounding genius. She had practically memorized his book. +Thus, one had only to smile humorlessly, permit one's eyes to grow +enigmatic, and think of a proper epigram. He recalled for an instant the +two women who had succumbed to his technique since he had left America. +They blurred in his memory and became offensive. Yet Matty had been of +service and perhaps her moodiness was caused by a suppressed affection. +As an amorous prospect she was not without interest. As a reality, +however, she would obviously become a bore. In any case there was +nothing to hinder polite investigation, mark time with kisses until von +Stinnes brought on his promised revolution. He thought carefully. +Pessimism was the proper note. Dramatize with an epigram the emptiness +of life. His forte--emptiness. Not love but a hunger to live. + +"Matty, I regret sadly that you are not a prostitute." + +Startling! + +"It would save me the trouble of having to fall in love with you, dear +child." + +She smiled, a sudden amusement in her eyes. + +"You too, Mr. Dorn. I had thought different of you." + +"As a creature beyond the petty agitations, eh?" + +"As a man." + +"It is possible for a Man, despite a capital M, to love." + +"Yes, love. It is possible for him only to love. And you do not." + +"Much worse. I am sad." + +"Why?" + +"Perhaps because it is the only emotion that comes without effort." + +"So you would fall in love with me to forget that I bore you." + +"A broader ambition than that. To forget that living bores me, +Mathilde." + +"There is someone else you love, Mr. Dorn." + +"There was." He smiled humorlessly. "Do you mind if I talk of love? I +need a conversational antidote." + +"And if you talk of love you may be spared the trouble of having to make +love," she laughed quietly. "But I would rather talk of von Stinnes. I +am worried." + +"You are young," Dorn interrupted, "and full of political error. I am +beginning to believe von Stinnes. The most terrible result of the war +has been the political mania it has given to women." + +Mathilde settled back on the divan and stared with mocking pensiveness +at her shoes. Dorn, speaking as if he desired to smile, continued: + +"Do you know that when one has loved a woman one grows sad after it is +ended, remembering not the woman, but one's self? The memory of her +becomes a mirror that gives you back the image of something that has +died--a shadow of youth and joy that still bears your name. It is the +same with old songs, old perfumes. All mirrors. So I walk through life +now smiling into mirrors that give back not myself, but someone +else--another Dorn." + +He arose and looked down at her. + +"Does that interest you?" + +"I understand you." + +"There are many ways of making love. Sorrowful phrases are the most +entertaining, perhaps." + +"You make me think you have loved too much." + +"Yes, it would be difficult to kiss you. I would become sad with memory +of other kisses. Because you are young--as I was then." + +"Was it long ago?" + +"Things that end are always long ago." + +"Then it was only yesterday." + +"Yes, yesterday," he laughed, pleased with the ironic sound of his +voice. "And what is longer ago than yesterday?" + +She had risen and stood before him, an almost boyish figure with her +fists clenched. + +"I have something else I am in love with," she whispered. "I am in love +with----" + +"The wonderful revolution, I know." + +"Yes." + +"And some day in the future you, too, will look into a mirror and see +not yourself but a glowing-faced girl that was in love with what was +once called the revolution." + +"But if things end it is only because we are too weak to hold them +forever. So while we are strong we must hold them twice as eagerly." + +"Sad. All most deplorably sad, Mathilde. Hands shuffle us into new +combinations, when we would prefer the old. Thus you, too, will some day +listen to the cry that rises from all endings." + +"You are designing. You wish to make me sad, Mr. Dorn. And succeed." + +"Only that I may contemplate the futility of your love and smile. As I +cannot quite smile at my own. We do not smile easily at corpses." + +His hands covered her fingers gently. + +"I will give myself to you, if you wish," she whispered. + +"And I prefer you like this," he smiled. "If you will come close to me +and lay your head against me." He looked down at her as she obeyed. +"There is an odor to your hair. And your cheek is soft. These things are +similar things. You are almost like a phantom." + +"Of her." + +"No. She is forgotten. It's something else. A phantom of something that +once lived in me, and died. It comes back and stares at me sometimes out +of the eyes of strange women, out of the sounds of music. Now, out of +your hair." + +"And you do not want me, Erik?" + +"I want you. But I prefer to amuse myself by fancying that you are +unattainable." + +"I've liked you, Erik. The rest does not matter to me. I grew old +during the war, and careless. My father and two brothers died. And +another man." + +"So we both need diversion." + +"Yes." + +"Diversion," he murmured, "the little drug. But what is there to drugs? +No, come; we are lovers now." + +"We will go to Munich together." + +"Yes." + +"And will you carry the money for Levine? They would never search you +and they might recognize and search me. And besides, von Stinnes would +not dare interfere if it was you, even if he is a spy, because he likes +you too well." + +Her voice had become eager and vibrant. Dorn smiled ruefully, the faint +mist of a sigh in his thought. The girl had worked adroitly. Of course, +he was someone to carry the money to the Munich radicals. + +"It is just an ordinary-looking package. The station will be under a +guard and all the roads coming in, too. They are expecting the +revolution and ..." She paused and grew red. Dorn's eyes were looking at +her banteringly. "You are thinking I have tricked you," she cried, "and +that it was only to use you as a ... as a carrier that I ... Well, +perhaps it is true. I do not know myself. I told you you could have me. +Yes, I give myself to you now ... now.... Do you hear?" + +She laughed with bitterness. + +"I have never given myself before. I would rather you smiled and were +kind. But if you wish to laugh ... and call it a bargain ... it does not +matter." + +She had stepped away from him and stood with kindled eyes, waiting. + +"One can be chivalrous in the absence of all other impulses, Mathilde. +And all other impulses have expired in me. So I will take the package. +We will start to-morrow early. And as for the rest ... I will spare you +the tedium of martyrdom." + +He moved toward the door. "Come, we'll go downstairs. Von Stinnes will +be getting impatient." + +Mathilde came to him swiftly. He caught a glimpse of her face lighted, +and her arms circled his neck. She was looking at him without words. A +coldness dropped into his heart. There had been three of them +before--he, Mathilde, and a phantom. Now there were only Mathilde and +himself. + +"She was not tricking," he thought, and felt pleased. "At least not +consciously." + +Her arms fell from him and she stared frightenedly. + +"Forgive me, Erik. I thought you loved me. And I would have liked to +make you happy...." + +He nodded and opened the door. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +They sat in the compartment of the train crawling into Munich. The Baron +drooped with sleep. Dorn stared wearily out of the window. Springtime. A +beginning of green in the fields and over the roll of hills. Formal +sunlight upon factories with an empty holiday frown in their windows. + +"I hear shooting," he smiled at Mathilde. "We're probably in time." + +The girl nodded. Despite the sleepless night sitting upright in the +compartment, her eyes were fresh and alive. The desultory crack of a +rifle drifting out of the town as if to greet them brought an impatience +into her manner. The train was moving slowly. + +"Yes, we're in time," she murmured. "See, the white guards are still in +possession." + +A group of soldiers with white sleeve-bands over the gray-green of their +uniforms passed in an empty street. + +"There will be white guards at the station, too," she went on. "The +attack will come to-night. It must." + +She looked intently at von Stinnes who, opening his eyes suddenly, +whispered, "Ah, Mathilde ... there was once another Muenchen...." + +An uproar in the station. A scurry of guards and soldiers. White +sleeve-bands. Machine-guns behind heaped bags of sand. A halloo of +orders across the arc of the spacious shed. Passengers pouring out of +the newly arrived train, smiling, weeping, staring indifferently. + +The officer desired the passengers to line themselves up against the +train. A suggestive order, and confusion. Whispers in the crowd.... +"Personally, I prefer the guillotine.... No, no, madame. There is no +danger. These are good boys. Soldiers of the government. You can tell by +the sleeve-bands. White. Merely baggage inspection." + +Dorn waited his turn. A group of soldiers approached slowly, delving +into pockets for weapons, peering into opened pieces of baggage. Babble, +expostulation, eager politeness of innocent travelers, and outside the +long crack of rifles, an occasional rip of a machine-gun. The group of +soldiers paused before him. + +"I am an American," he spoke in English, "with the American commission." + +The announcement produced its usual effect. Bows, salutes, smiles. He +pulled out his passport and foreign-office credentials. An officer +stepped forward and glanced at them. + +"Very good," in courteous English, "you will pardon for the delay. We +are having a little trouble here." + +He indicated the city with a nod of his head and smiled wryly. In German +he continued sharply, "Gottlieb, Neuman, you will escort this gentleman +and his friends to whatever place they wish to go. Take my car at post +10." + +Two soldiers saluted. The officer bowed with a smile. The travelers +moved off with their escort toward the street. Mathilde kept her eyes on +von Stinnes as they entered a gray automobile. + +"Von Stinnes and I will sit in the back," she whispered to Dorn. + +The Baron nodded. + +"Careful of your Leugger," he whispered, "the soldiers will see it. You +can shoot me just as easily if you keep it hidden. I have frequently +fired through my pocket." + +In a hotel room a half-hour later, Mathilde, grown jubilant as a child, +was clapping her hands and laughing. + +"It was too simple!" she cried. + +Dorn drew a small suitcase from under the bed and opened it. + +"Here it is," he laughed. He removed an oblong package. His eyes sought +von Stinnes, standing near the window leisurely smoking a cigarette. + +"You will find Levine in the Gambrinus Keller," von Stinnes spoke +without turning around. "I advise you to go at once, Matty, before the +streets crowd up." + +He wheeled and held an envelope toward the girl. + +"Take this. It will make it easier for you to get in. They are very +careful right now. It's a letter of credentials from Dr. Kasnilov." + +Mathilde opened the envelope mechanically, her eyes seeking the thought +under the Baron's smile. + +"Thanks," she spoke in German. "I will go now. I will see you after. At +dinner to-night. Here." + +She walked quickly from the room, the oblong package under her arm. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +The thing hiding in the alleys and shops of the world--the dark, furtive +hungers that Russia was thawing into life, emerged on a bright April day +in the streets of Munich. Working men with guns. A sweep of +spike-haired, deep-eyed troglodytes from the underworld of labor. +Factories, shops, and alleys vomited them forth. Farm hovels and +stinking bundles of houses sent them singing and roaring down the +forbidden avenues, past the forbidden sanctuaries of satrap and burgher. + +From behind curtained windows the upper world looked on with amazement +and disgust. A topsy-turvy April morning. A Spring day gone mad. Here +were the masses celebrated in pamphlet and soap-box oration. An ungodly +spectacle, an overturning. Grinning earth faces, roaring earth voices +come swaggering into the hallowed precincts of civilization. Workingmen +with guns marching to take possession of the world. An old tableau +decked with new phrases--the underfed barbarian at the gate of the +grainary. + +The singing and the roaring continued through the morning. + +"_Es lebe die Welt Revolution!_ _Es lebe das Rate Republik!_ _Hoch!_ +_die soviet von Bayern_ ... _Hoch!_ _Hoch!_" + +From the twisting, blackened streets, "_Hoch!_" Men and women squeezing +aimlessly around corners. Closely packed drifts of bobbing heads. A +crack of rifles dropping punctuations into the scene. "_Hoch!_ _Hoch!_" +from faces clustered darkly about the grimacing, inaudible orators in +the squares. + +Red flags, red placards like a swarm of confetti on the walls and in the +air. A holiday war.... The morning hours marched away. + +With noon, a silence gradually darkened the scene. A silence of +shuffling feet and murmuring tongues. The revolution had sung its songs. +An end of songs and cheerings. Drifting, silent masses. An ominous, +enigmatic sweep of faces. Red placards under foot in cubist designs down +the streets. + +The afternoon waned, the hundred thousands closed in. Darkness was +coming and the pack was welding itself together. Rifles were beginning. +Machine-guns were beginning. Holiday was over. Quieter streets. The +orators become audible. Still faces, raised and listening. The orators +had news to give.... One of the garrisons had gone over to the soviets. +Two garrisons had vanished. Treachery. A long murmur ... treachery. The +armies of General Hoffmann were marching upon Munich ... twenty +kilometers from Munich. They would arrive in the night. ... "We will +show them, comrades, whether the revolution has teeth to bite as well as +a song to sing." + +A growl was running through the twilight.... _Es lebe das Rate +Republik!_ A fierce whisper of voices. Workingmen looking to their guns, +massing about the government buildings. A new war minister in the +uniform of a marine, speaking from a balcony. Workingmen with guns, +listening. Women drifting back to the hovels and stinking bundles of +houses. In the cafes, satraps and burghers eating amid a suppressed +clamor of whispers, plans. The foolishness was almost over. The armies +of General Hoffmann were coming ... Twenty kilometers out.... Arrive at +night. The corps students themselves would saber the swine out of the +city.... + +Night. Darkened streets. Tattered patrols hurrying through mysteriously +emptied highways, shouting, "Indoors! Inside, everybody!" Suddenly from +a distance the bay of artillery. Workingmen with guns were storming the +cannon of the artillery regiment outside the city. A haphazard +cross-fire of rifles began to spit from darkened windows ... an upper +world showing its teeth behind parlor barricades. + +In the shadows of the massive government buildings an army was forming. +No ranks, no officers. Easy to drift through the sunny streets singing +the _Marseillaise_ and the International ... to mooch along through the +forbidden avenues dreaming in the daylight of a new world ... with red +flags proclaiming the new masters of earth. Hundred thousands, then. But +now, how many? Too dark to see, to count. An army, perhaps. Perhaps a +handful.... + +Feverish salutes in the shadows.... "_Gruss Gott, genosse!_" + +Was it alive? Did the revolution live? What was happening in the empty +streets? Who was shooting? And the armies of Hoffmann? _Gruss Gott, +genosse._ Under Rupprecht the armies had lain four years in the +trenches. Great armies, swinging along like a single man, that had once +battered their way almost into Paris against the English, against the +French. + +"_Gruss Gott, genosse._ _Hoffmann kommt_ ... _Ja wohl, Gruss Gott!_" + +Now twenty kilometers away and coming down the highroad against +Munich--against the drifting little clusters of lonely men whispering in +the shadows--the great armies of the Kaiser, an iron monster clicking +down the road toward Munich. Would there be artillery to meet them? +_Gruss Gott, genosse, wer shusst dort?_ No, they had only guns, old guns +that might not shoot. Old knives at their belts.... Darkness and +rifle-spattered silences. Where was the revolution? The shadows +whispered, "_Gruss Gott...._" + +The shadows began to stir. A voice was talking in the night. High up +from a window. Egelhofer, the communist. No, Levine. Who? A light in +the window.... Egelhofer, thin-faced, tall, black-haired. Egelhofer, the +new war minister. 'Shh! what was he saying?... "_Vorwaerts, der +Banhoff...._" + +Yes, the armies of Hoffmann had come. The shadows stirred wildly. +Forward ... _es lebe die Welt Revolution!_ This time a battle-cry, +hoarse, shaking. Men were running. Workingmen with guns, guns that would +shoot ... _"Der Banhoff ... der Banhoff...."_ + +The shadows were emptying themselves. A pack was running. Two abreast, +three abreast, in broken strings of men. Groups, solitary figures, +hatless, bellowing. The revolution was moving. The empty streets filled. +An army? A handful? Let God show in the morning. Workingmen with guns +were running through the night. Munich was shaking.... "_Der Banhoff, +genosse, vorwaerts!_" + +The revolution was emptying itself into the great square fronting the +station. Little lights twinkling outside the ancient weinstubes began to +explode. There must be darkness. Pop!... pop!... a rattle of glass. A +blaze of shooting. The railroad station was firing now. + +"_Es lebe das Rate Republik!_" from the darkness in the streets. A sweep +of figures across the open square. Arms twisting, leaping in sudden +glares of flame. The revolution hurled itself with a long cry upon the +barricades of thundering lead. + +In the single lighted window of the government buildings a face still +spoke ... _"Ich bin Egelhofer, ihr Krieg's minister ... Ich komm...."_ + +Waving a rifle over his head, the war minister rushed from the building. +A marine from Kiel. A new pack loosened itself from the shadows. A war +minister was leading. + +Moving swiftly through the streets, Dorn hurried to the seat of the new +government--the Wittelbacher Palais. Von Stinnes was waiting there. He +had been delayed in joining the Baron by the sudden upheaval about the +hotel. + +The wave had passed. Almost safe now to skirt the scene of battle and +make a try for the Palais. As he darted out of the darkened hotel +entrance, the thing seemed for a moment under his nose. An oppressive +intimacy of tumult. + +"They're at the station," he thought. "I'll have to hurry in case they +fall back." + +He ran quickly in an opposite direction followed by the leap of firing. +Several blocks, and he paused. Here was safety. The revolution a good +half-mile off. He walked slowly, recovering breath. The street was +lighted. Shop windows blinked out upon the pavements. A few stragglers +walked like himself, intent upon destinations made serious by the near +sound of firing. An interesting evening, thus far. A stout, red-faced +man with a heavily ornamented vest followed the figure of a woman. Dorn +smiled. Biology versus politics.... "Excuse me, pretty one, you look +lonely...." A charwoman. Black, sagging clothes. Dorn passed and heard +her exclaim, "Who, me? You ask me to go with you? Dear God, he asks me! +I am an honest workingwoman. Run along with you!" The woman, walking +swiftly, drew alongside. She was chuckling and muttering to herself, a +curious pride in her voice, "He asked me, dear God--me!" + +The abrupt sound of rifle-fire around the corner startled her. Dorn +halted. The woman turned toward him, puzzled. + +"They are shooting a whole lot to-night," she spoke in German. + +"Quite a lot," he answered. + +She looked back at the red-faced man who had remained where she had left +him. + +"What do you think of that dunce?" she whispered, and hurried on. + +Dorn followed leisurely in the direction of the Palais. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +A rabble of dictators, ministerial fledglings, freshly sprouted +governors, organizers, departmental heads, scurried through the dimly +lighted corridors of the old Palais. Dorn, with the aid of a handful of +communist credentials that seemed to flow endlessly from the pockets of +the Baron, passed the Palais guard--a hundred silent men squatting +behind a hastily erected barricade of sandbags. + +Within he stumbled upon von Stinnes. The Baron drew him into a large +empty chamber. + +"We must be careful," he whispered. His voice buzzed with an elation. +"Already two ministries have fallen. There is talk now of Levine. He's +of the extreme left. I thought you would like to see it. It has its +amusing side." He laughed softly. "I was with the men in the streets for +a while. There was something there, Dorn. Life, yes ... yes ... It was +amazing. But here it is different. What is it the correspondents say? +'All is confusion, there is nothing to report.' ... Yes, confusion. +There are at present three poets, one lunatic, an epileptic, four +workingmen and a scientist from Vienna, and two school teachers. They +are the Council of Ten. Look, there is _Muhsam,_ the one with the red +vandyke. A poet. He used to recite rhymes in the Cafe Stephanie." + +The red vandyke peered into the room. "Stinnes, you are wanted," he +called. "I have my portfolio. I am the new minister to Russia. I leave +for Moscow to-morrow." + +"Congratulations!" the Baron answered. + +A tall, contemplative man with a scraggly gray beard--an angular +Christ-like figure--appeared. He spoke. "What are you doing here, +Muhsam? There is work inside." + +"And you!" angrily. + +"I must think. We must grow calm." He passed on, thinking. + +"Landerdauer," smiled the Baron, "the Whitman translator." + +"Yes," the vandyke answered, "we have appointed him minister of +education. What news from the station, Stinnes?" + +"It is taken." + +Dorn followed the Baron about the corridors, his ears bewildered by the +screechings from unexpected chambers of debate. He listened, amused, to +the volatile von Stinnes. + +"They are trying for a coalition. Nikish is at the top. A former +schoolmaster. The communists under Levine won't come in. The workingmen +are out overthrowing the world, and the great thinkers sit in conference +hitting one another over the head with slapsticks. Life, Dorn, is a +droll business, and revolution a charming comedy, _nicht wahr?_ But it +will grow serious soon. Munich will be cut off. Food will vanish. Aha! +wait a minute...." + +He darted after a swaggering figure. Dorn watched. The baron appeared to +be commanding and entreating. The figure finally, with a surly shake of +his head, hurried off. The Baron returned. + +"That was Levine," he said. "He won't come in unless Egelhofer is +ratified as war minister. Egelhofer is a communist. Wait a minute. I +will tell them to make Egelhofer minister. I will make a speech. We must +have the Egelhofer." + +He vanished again. Dorn, standing against a window, watched frantic men +scurry down the corridor bellowing commands at one another.... + +"Yesterday they were garrulous little fools buzzing around cafe tables," +he thought. "To-night they boom. Rodinesque. And yet comic. Yes, +comedians. But no more than the troupe of white-collared comedians in +Wilhelmstrasse or Washington. The workers were different. There was +something in the streets. Men in flame. But here are little matches." + +He caught sight of Mathilde and called her name. She came and stood +beside him. Her body was trembling. + +"Did you spend the money?" he asked softly. + +"Yes, but they will buy the garrisons back again. They have more funds +than we. Oh, we need more." + +"Who will buy them back?" + +"The bourgeoise. They have more money than we. And without the garrisons +we are lost." + +She wrung her hands. Dorn struggled to become properly serious. + +"There, it may come out very fine," he murmured. "Anyway, von Stinnes is +making a speech. It should help." + +"Stinnes...." + +"Yes, trying to bring Egelhofer in as war minister. He talked with +Levine...." + +"I don't understand," she answered. "He is doing something I don't +understand, because he is a traitor." + +She became silent and moved closer to Dorn. + +"Oh, Erik," she sighed, "I must cry. I am tired." + +He embraced her as she began to weep. Von Stinnes emerged, red-faced and +elated. + +"It is settled," he announced. "Hello! what's wrong with Matty?" + +"Tired," Dorn answered. + +"We will go to the hotel." + +They started down the corridor. A group of soldiers emerged from a +chamber, blocking their way. + +"Baron von Stinnes," one of them called. The Baron saluted. + +"You are under arrest by order of the Council of Ten." + +Von Stinnes bowed. + +"Go to the hotel with Matty, Dorn. I will be on soon." + +To the soldiers he added, "Very well, comrades. Take me to comrade +Levine." + +"We have orders...." + +"To Levine, I tell you," he interrupted angrily. "Are you fools?" + +He removed a document quickly from his coat pocket and thrust it under +the soldiers' eyes. + +"From Levine," he whispered fiercely. "Now where is Levine?" + +The soldiers led the way toward the interior of the Palais. + + * * * * * * + +Outside, Dorn supported the drooping figure of the girl. Runners passed +them crying out, "It is over! We have taken the station!" + +They arrived at the hotel. The lobby was thronged with people. A +chocolate salesman from Switzerland was orating: "They have erected a +guillotine in Marien Platz. They are shooting down and beheading +everybody who wears a white collar." + +The hotel proprietor quieted the crowd. + +"Nonsense!" he cried. "Ridiculous nonsense! We are safe. They are all +good Bavarians and will hurt nobody." + +Dorn led Mathilde to his room. She threw herself on the bed. + +"So tired!" she whispered. + +"But happy," he added. "Your beloved masses have triumphed." + +"Don't. I'm sick of talking...." + +"Too much excitement," he smiled. + +They became silent. Dorn, watching her carelessly in the dimly lighted +room, began to think.... "Disillusionment already. The dream has died in +her. A child's brain overstuffed with slogans, it begins now to ache and +grow confused. Tyranny, injustice, seem far away and vague. The +revolution in the streets has blown the revolution out of her heart. +There will be many like that to-morrow. The over-idealized idealists +will empty first. The revolution was a dream. The reality of it will eat +up the dream. Justice to the dreamer is a vision of new stars. To the +workingman--another loaf of bread." + +"Of what are you thinking, Erik?" + +"Of nothing ... and its many variants," he answered. + +"We've won," she sighed. "Oh, what a day!" + +He noted the listlessness in her voice. + +"Yes," he said, "another sham has had heroic birth. Out of workingmen +with guns there will rise some day a new society which will be different +than the old, only as to-morrow is different than to-day. The rivers, +Mathilde, flow to the sea and life flows to death. And there is nothing +else of consequence for intelligence to record." + +"You talk like a German of the last century," she smiled. "Oh, you're a +strange man!" + +This pleased him. He thought of words, a ramble of words--but a knock at +the door. Von Stinnes entered. He was carrying a basket. + +"Food," he announced cheerfully. "With food in our stomachs the world +will seem more coherent for a while." + +He busied himself arranging plates of sandwiches on a small table. + +"Mathilde asleep?" + +He walked to the bed and leaned over her. The girl's eyes were closed. + +"Poor child, poor child!" the Baron whispered. He caressed her head +gently. "We will not wake her up. But eat and leave her food. Do you +mind if we go out for a while? It is still early and it will be hard to +sleep to-night. I know a cafe where we can sit quietly and drink wine, +perhaps with cookies." + +Their eating finished, Dorn accompanied his friend into the street. + +"It seems as if nothing had happened," he said, as they walked through +the spring night. "People are asleep as usual, and there is an odor of +summer in the dark." + +Von Stinnes silently directed their way. After a half-hour's walk he +paused in front of an ancient-looking building. + +"We are in Schwabbing now," he said, "the rendezvous of the Welt +Anschauers. I think this place is still open." + +He led the way through a narrow court and entered a large, +dimly-lighted room. Blank white walls stared at them. Von Stinnes picked +out a table in a corner and ordered two flasks of wine from a stout +woman with a large wooden ring of keys at her black waist. + +They drank in silence. Dorn observed an unusual air about his friend. He +thought of Mathilde's suspicions, and smiled. Yet there was something +inexplicable about von Stinnes. There had been from the first. + +"Inexplicable because he is ... nothing," Dorn thought. "A chevalier of +excitements, a Don Quixote of disillusion...." + +"You are thinking of me," the baron smiled over his wine-glass, "as I am +thinking of you. Here's to our unimportant healths, Erik." + +Dorn swallowed more wine. To be called Erik by his friend pleased him. +He looked inquiringly at the humorous eyes of the man, and spoke: + +"You are cut after my pattern." + +The Baron nodded. + +"Only I have had more opportunities to exercise the pattern," he +replied. "For the pattern, dear friend, is scoundrelism. And I, God +bless me ..." He paused and gestured as if in a hopelessness of words. + +"There is quality as well as quantity in scoundrelism," Dorn suggested. +He was thinking without emotion of Anna. + +"I have decided to remain in Munich," von Stinnes spoke, "and that +means that I will die here." + +"The day's melodrama has gone to your head," Dorn laughed. + +"No. There are people in Munich who know me quite well--too well. And +among their virtues they number a desire for my death. In Berlin it is +otherwise. Then too, this business of to-day can't last. It is already +topheavy with thinkers, and will eventually evaporate in a dozen +executions. It may come back, though. I cannot forget the workingmen who +stormed the Banhoff." + +He paused and drank. + +"Yes, I have decided to stay and play awhile. There will be a few weeks +more. One will find extravagant diversions in Munich during the next few +weeks. I am already Egelhofer's right-hand man. I will organize the +Soviet army, assist in the conduct of the government, try to buy coal +from Rathenau in Berlin, make speeches, compose earth-shaking +proclamations, and end up smoking a cigarette in front of a Noske +firing-squad.... Do not interrupt. I feel it is a program I owe to +humanity. And in addition, I am growing weary of myself." + +Dorn shook his head. + +"Romantics, friend. I do not argue against them." + +"I wonder," von Stinnes continued, "if you realize I am a scoundrel. I +have thought at times that you did, because of the way you smile when I +talk." + +"Scoundrels are creatures I do not like. And I like you. Ergo, you are +not a scoundrel, von Stinnes." + +The Baron laughed. + +"A convenient philosophy, Erik. Well, I was in the German intelligence +and worked in Paris during the second year of the war. Prepare yourself +for a confession. My secrets bore me. And a little cocotte of a countess +betrayed me. It is a virtue French women have. They are not to be +trusted, and love to them is something which may be improved by the +execution of a lover. But there was no execution. To save my skin I +entered the French intelligence--without, of course, resigning from the +German. Thus I was of excellent service to the largest number. To the +French I was invaluable. German positions, plans, maneuvers, at my +finger tips.... And to the Germans, unaware of my new and lucrative +connection, I was also invaluable. Again positions, plans, maneuvers. I +was transferred to Italy by the French and ... But it's a complicated +narrative. I haven't it straight in my own mind yet. Do you know, I wake +up at night sometimes with the rather naive idea that I, von Stinnes, +who prefer Turkish cigarettes to women, even brunettes ... But I +stammer. It is difficult to be amusing, always. I think sometimes at +night that I was personally responsible for at least half the +casualties of the war." + +"Megalomania," said Dorn without changing his smile. + +"Yes, obviously. You hit it. A distorted conscience image. Ah, the +bombardments I have perfected. The hills of men I have blown up. +Frenchmen, Germans, Italians. Yes, a word from me ... I pointed the +cannon straighter.... But disregarding the boast ... you will admit my +superiority as a scoundrel." + +"It is immaterial," Dorn answered. "If you betrayed the French, you made +amends by betraying the Germans, and vice versa. As for the Italians ... +I have never been in Italy." + +Von Stinnes laughed. + +"You do not believe me, eh?" + +"You are lying only in what you do not say," Dorn laughed. + +"Yes, exactly. I will go on, if it amuses you." + +"It is better conversation than usual." + +"I am now with the English," von Stinnes continued. "They play a curious +game outside Versailles, the English. They have entrusted me with a most +delicate mission." He paused and drained his glass. "It is quite +dramatic. I tell it to you because I am drunk and weary of secrets. Five +years of secrets ... until I am almost timorous of thinking even to +myself ... for fear I will betray something to myself. But--it is droll. +The million marks you so gallantly carried in for Matty, they were +mine, Erik." He laughed. "I gave them to Dr. Kasnilov, and a very +mysterious Englishman gave them to me...." + +"Gifts of a million are somewhat phenomenal," Dorn murmured. + +"I stole only a hundred thousand," von Stinnes went on, "which, of +course, everyone expected." + +"But why the English, Karl?" + +"A little plan to separate Bavaria from Prussia, and help break up +Middle Europe. You know feeling between the two provinces is intense. +There was almost a mutiny in the second war year. And anything to help +it along. To-morrow, Franz Lipp the new foreign minister of the Soviets +will telegraph to Berlin recalling the Bavarian ambassador; there _is_ +one, you know--a figurehead. And the good Franz will announce to the +world that Bavaria has declared its independence of Prussia. This will +be a politic move for the Soviets as well as England. For the +bourgeoisie in Bavaria dislike Prussia as much as the communists dislike +her. But I bore you with intrigue. We have had our little revolution for +which you must allow me to accept an honest share of credit.... Let us +have another flask." + +"An interesting story," Dorn agreed. + +"You still smile, Erik?" + +"More than ever." + +"Ah, then truly, we are of the same pattern." + +Von Stinnes stared at him sadly. + +"You are my first companion in five years," he added. + +"As you are mine," Dorn answered. "Here ... to the success of all your +villainies and our friendship." + +"Which is not one of them," the Baron murmured. "You believe me?" + +"Of course." + +"Ah! it is almost a sensation to be believed ... for speaking the truth. +I feel as if I have committed some exotic sin. Yes, confession is good +for the soul." + +"Shall we go back to the hotel?" + +The Baron leaned forward and grasped Dorn's hand feverishly. + +"I do not wish to joke any more," he whispered. "I have told you the +truth. And you still smile at me. You are a curious man. I have for long +sat like an exile surrounded by my villainies and smiling alone at the +world. But it is impossible to live alone, to become someone whom nobody +knows, whom trusting people mistake for someone else. I have wanted to +be known as I am ... but have been afraid. Ah! I am very drunk ... for +you seem still amused." + +Dorn squeezed his hand. + +"Yes, you are my first friend," he said. The Baron followed him to his +feet. They were silent on the way to the hotel. Von Stinnes walked with +his arm linked in Dorn's. Before the latter's room he halted. + +"Good night, sweet prince," he mumbled drowsily, "and may angels guard +thy sleep." + +Alone, he moved unsteadily down the hall. + +Mathilde was gone. Moving about the room, Dorn found a note left for +him. He read: + + +"A man was here asking for you. An American officer. I met him in the +lobby and mentioned there was an American here and he asked your name. +When I told him he seemed to be excited. He said his name is Captain +Hazlitt and he is in the courier service on his way from Paris to +Vienna. I do not like him. Please be careful. + + "MATHILDE DOHMANN." + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +In the days that followed Dorn sought to interest himself in the details +of the situation. The thing buzzed and gyrated about him, tiring his +thought with its innumerable surfaces. Revolution. A new state. New +flags and new slogans. + +"I can't admire it," he explained to Mathilde at the end of the first +week, "because its grotesqueries makes me laugh. And I cannot laugh at +it because its intensity saddens me. To observe the business sanely is +to come to as many conclusions as there are words." + +Mathilde had recovered some of her enthusiasm. But the mania that had +illuminated her thought was gone. She spoke and worked eagerly through +the days, moving from department to department, helping to establish +some of the innumerable stenographic archives the endless stream of +soviet pronouncements and orders were beginning to require. But at night +her listlessness returned. + +"There is doubt in you too," Dorn smiled at her. "I am sorry for that. +It has been the same with so many others. They have, alas! become +reasonable. And to become reasonable ... Well, revolution does not +thrive on reason. It needs something more active. You, Mathilde, were a +revolutionist in Berlin. Now you are a stenographer. Alas! one collapses +under a load of dream and finds one's self in an uninteresting Utopia, +if that means anything. Epigrams lie around the street corners of Munich +waiting new text-books." + +They were walking idly toward the cafe von Stinnes had appointed as a +rendezvous. It was late and the dark streets were deserted. The shops +had been closed all week. The Revolution was struggling in poorly +ventilated council-rooms with problems of economics. Beyond the +persistent rumors that the city, cut off from the fields, would starve +in another two days and that the legendary armies of Hoffmann were +within a stone's throw of the Hofbrau House, there was little +excitement. "My employers," von Stinnes had explained on the fourth day, +"are waiting to see if the Soviet can stand against the Noske armies +from Prussia. The armies will arrive in a few weeks. If the Soviet can +defeat them and thus establish its authentic independence, my employers +in Versailles will then finance the Bavarian bourgeoisie and assist in +the overthrow of the Communists. On the one condition, of course, that +the bourgeoisie maintain Bavaria as an independent nation. And this the +bourgeoisie are not at all averse to doing. It sounds preposterous, +doesn't it? You smile. But all intrigue is preposterous, even when most +successful." + +"I quite believe," Dorn had answered. "I've long been convinced that +intrigue is nothing more than the fantastic imbecilities unimaginative +men palm off on one another for cleverness." + +Now, walking with Mathilde, Dorn felt an inclination to rid himself of +the week's political preoccupation. Mathilde was beginning to have a +sentimental influence upon him. + +"Perhaps if she loved me something would come back," he thought. "Anyway +it would be nice to feel a woman in love with me again." + +An innocuous sadness sat comfortably in his heart. Later he would +embrace her. Kiss ... watch her undress. Things that would mean +nothing.... But they might help waste time, and perhaps give him another +glimpse of ... He paused in his thought and felt a dizziness enter his +silence. Words spun. "The face of stars," he murmured under his breath, +and laughed as Mathilde looked inquiringly up at him. + +The cafe was deserted. Von Stinnes, alone in a booth, called "Hello" to +them as they entered. + +"We have the place almost to ourselves," he said. "There are some people +in the other room." + +He looked affectionately at the two as they sat down, and added, "How +goes the courtship?" + +"Gravely and with cautious cynicism," Dorn answered. "We find it +difficult to overcome our sanities." + +He smiled at the girl and covered her hand with his. Her eyes regarded +him luminously. They sat eating their late meal, von Stinnes chatting of +the latest developments.... A mob of communist workingmen had attacked +the poet Muhsam while he was unburdening himself of proletarian oratory +in the Schiller Square. + +"They chased him for two blocks into the Palais," the Baron smiled, "and +he lost his hat. And perhaps his portfolio. They are beginning to +distrust the poets. They want something besides revolutionary iambics +now. Muhsam, however, is content. He received a postal card this +afternoon with a skull and cross-bones drawn on it informing him he +would be assassinated Friday at 3 P.M. It was signed by 'The Society for +the Abolition of Monstrosities.' He is having it done into an +expressionist placard and it will undoubtedly restore his standing with +the Council of Ten. Franz Lipp, the foreign minister, you know, has +ordered all the telephones taken out of the foreign office building. +It's an old failing of his--a phobia against telephones. They send him +into fits when they ring. He has incidentally offered to sign a separate +peace with the Entente. A crafty move, but premature. And the burghers +have been ordered under pain of death to surrender all firearms within +twenty-four hours." + +The talk ran on. Mathilde, feigning sleep, placed her head on Dorn's +shoulder. + +"You play with the little one," whispered von Stinnes. "She is in love." + +Dorn placed his arm around her and smiled at her half-opened eyes. + +A man, walking unsteadily across the empty cafe, stopped in front of the +booth. + +"I've been looking for you," he said. "You don't remember me, eh?" + +Dorn looked up. An American uniform. An excited face. + +"My name's Hazlitt. Come out here." + +Von Stinnes leveled his monocle witheringly upon the interloper and +murmured an aside, "He's drunk...." + +Dorn stood up. + +"Yes, I remember you now," he said. The man's tone had oppressed him. +"What do you want?" + +He detached himself from Mathilde and stepped into the room. Hazlitt +stared at him. + +"I owe you something," he spoke slowly. "Come out here." + +Watching the man as he approached, Dorn became aware of a rage in +himself. His muscles had tightened and a nervousness was shaking in his +words. The man was a stranger, yet there was an uncomfortable intimacy +in his eyes. + +Hazlitt stood breathing heavily. This was Erik Dorn--the man who had had +Rachel. Wine swept a flame through his thought. God! this was the man. +She was gone, but this was the man. Shoot him down like a dog! Shoot him +down! Kill the grin of him. He'd pay. He'd killed something. Shoot him +down! There was a gun under his coat--army revolver. Better than +shooting Germans. This was the man. + +"You're going to pay for it," he spoke. "Go on, say something." + +Dorn's rage hesitated. A mistake. What the devil was up? + +"Oh, you've forgotten her," Hazlitt whispered. Shoot him! Voices inside +demanded wildly that he shoot. Not talk, but kill. + +"Rachel," he cried suddenly. His eyes stopped seeing. + +Dorn jumped for the gun that had appeared and caught his arm in time. +Rachel--then this was something about Rachel? Hazlitt ... Rachel. What? +A fight over Rachel? Rachel gone, dead for always. Get the gun away, +though.... + +They were stumbling across the room, twisting and locked together. He +saw von Stinnes rise, stand undecided. Mathilde's face, like something +shooting by outside a car window. And a strong man trying to kill him +... for Rachel. A Galahad for Rachel. + +His thought faded into a rage. A curse as the man grabbed at his throat. +The gun was still in the air. His wrist was beginning to ache from +struggling with the thing. This was part of the idiocy of things. But he +must look out. Perhaps only a moment more to live. The man was weeping. +Mumbling ... "you made a fool out of her ... You dirty...." + +As they continued their stumbling and clutching, a fury entered Dorn. +He became aware of eyes blazing against him--drunken, furious eyes that +were weeping. With a violent lunge he twisted the gun out of the man's +hand. There was an instant of silence and the man came hurling against +him. + +Dorn fired. Down ... "my head ..." He lay still. The body of Hazlitt +sprawled over him. For a moment the two men remained embraced on the +floor. Then the body of Hazlitt rolled slowly from on top. It fell on +its back--a dead face covered with blood staring emptily at the ceiling. + +Dorn, with the edge of an iron table foot embedded in his head, lay +breathing unevenly, his eyes closed. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +The blinds were drawn. Cheering drifted in through the open window. +Mathilde sat in a chair. She was watching him. + +"Hello!" he murmured. "What's up?" + +"Erik ..." + +She fell to her knees beside the bed and began to weep. He lay quietly +listening to her. Bandages around his head. A lunatic with a gun. Yes. +Rachel. The man had been in love with Rachel. Pains like noises in his +ears. + +"You mustn't talk...." + +"I'm all right. Where's von Stinnes?" + +"'Shh...." + +He smiled feebly. She was holding his hand, still weeping. A memory +returned vividly. A man with blazing eyes. He had lost his temper. But +there had been something more than that. Two imbeciles fighting over a +thing that had died for both of them. Clowns at each other's throat. A +background unfolded itself. Against it he lay watching the two men. Here +was something like a quaint old print with a title, "Fate...." + +"Bumped my head," he murmured. But another thought persisted. It moved +through the pain in his skull, unable to straighten itself into lines +of words. It was something about fighting for Rachel. He would ask +questions. + +"What happened, Mathilde? Where'd he go?" + +"You mean the man? 'Shh.... Don't talk now." + +"Come, don't be silly." + +The thinness of his voice surprised him. + +"What became of the fool?" + +"He's dead." + +"Dead?" + +"Yes, you shot him. Now be quiet." + +"Good God, so I did. I remember. When he jumped at me." + +A sinking feeling almost drifted him away. He felt as if he had become +hungry. The man was dead.... "I killed him. Well ... what of it?" + +He opened his eyes and looked at the room. It was day--afternoon, +perhaps. + +"The doctor says you'll be all right in a few days. But you must be +quiet...." + +"Von Stinnes," he murmured. "There'll be trouble. Call him, will you?" + +Mathilde turned away. Now the pain was less. He could hear cheering +outside. A demonstration. Workingmen marching under new flags. + +"Von Stinnes is under arrest, Erik." + +"What for? A new government?" What a crazy business. + +"No. Don't talk, please. Later...." + +He was too weak to sit up. + +"Things will have to be straightened out," he muttered. "The fool was an +American officer. There'll be trouble." + +"No, don't worry. Von Stinnes has fixed things." + +His eyes grew heavy and closed. Sleep ... and let things, fixed or +unfixed, go to the devil. + +When he awoke again the room was lighted. Mathilde, standing by the +window, turned as he stirred. + +"Are you awake?" + +"Yes, and hungry." + +She brought a tray to his bed. He raised himself carefully, his head +unbearably heavy. Mathilde watched him with wide eyes as he sipped some +broth. + +"What did they arrest the Baron for?" he asked. + +She waited till he had finished, and cleared the bed, sitting down on +the edge. Her face lowered toward him till her lips touched and kissed +him. + +"For murder," she whispered. Another kiss. "Now you must be quiet and +I'll tell you. He gave himself up when the police came. We carried you +out first. And then I left him." + +"But," Dorn looked bewilderedly into the eyes of the girl. + +"It was easier for him than for you. They would take you away for trial +to America. But he will be tried here. And he will come out all right. +Don't worry. We thought your skull was fractured, but the doctor says +it was only a hard blow." + +She lowered her head beside him on the pillow and whispered, "I love +you! Poor Erik! He is defenseless--with a broken head." + +"You are kind," he answered; "von Stinnes, too. But we must set matters +right...." + +"No, no, be still!" + +He grew silent. It was night again. In the morning he would be strong +enough to get up. A misty calm, the pain almost gone, veins throbbing +and a little split in his thought ... but no more. + +"I will sleep by you," Mathilde spoke. She stood up and removed her +waist and shoes. He watched her with interest. Another woman curiously +like Anna, like Rachel--like the two creatures in Paris. Shoulders +suddenly bare. Possessive, unashamed gestures.... She lay down beside +him with a sigh. + +"Poor Erik! I take advantage of a broken head." + +"No," he smiled. + +They lay motionless, her head touching his shoulder timidly. + +"I could live with you forever and be happy," she whispered. + +"We will see about forever--when it comes." + +"Do you like me--perhaps--now?" + +He would have preferred her silent. Silence at least was an effortless +lie. To make love was preposterous. How many times had he said, "I love +you?" Too many. But she was young and it would sound pretty in her ears. + +"Mathilde, dear one." + +Her arm trembled across his body. + +It was difficult, but he would say it.... "Yes, in an odd sort of way, +Mathilde, I love you...." + +"Ah! you are only being polite--because I have fed you broth." + +"No. As much as I can love anything...." + +"Later, Erik. 'Shh! Sleep if you can. Oh, I am shameless." + +She had moved against him. He thought with a smile, "What an original +way of nursing a broken head!" + +Later, tired with a renewed effort to straighten out words about the +fool and Rachel and himself, he closed his eyes. Mathilde was still +awake. + +"I'll see von Stinnes in the morning," he murmured drowsily. "Von +Stinnes ... a gallant friend...." + +... Someone knocking on the door aroused him. Dawn was in the room. + +"Matty," he called. She slept. He found himself able to rise and his +legs carried him unsteadily to the door. A tall marine, outside. + +"Herr Erik Dorn?" + +Dorn nodded dizzily. + +The man went on in German. "I come from Stinnes. I have a letter for +you." + +He took the letter from his hand and moved hurriedly to a chair. + +"Thanks," vaguely. The marine saluted and walked off. Mathilde had +awakened. + +"What are you doing?" + +She slipped out of bed and hurried to him. + +"A letter," he answered. He allowed her to help him back to his pillow. +Reclining again, his dizziness grew less. + +"I'll read it for you," she said. + +"No. Von Stinnes...." + +"It may be important." + +"I'll be able to read in a moment." + +She shook her head and slipped the envelope from his weakening fingers. + +"I know about von Stinnes. Don't be afraid. May I?" + +He nodded and she began to read: + + +"DEAR ERIK DORN: + +"I write this at night, and to-morrow I will be ended. You must not +misunderstand what I do. It is a business long delayed. But I have made +a full confession in writing for the Entente commission--ten closely +written pages. A masterpiece, if I have to boast myself. And in order to +avoid the anti-climax which your sense of honor would undoubtedly +precipitate, I will put a period to it in an hour. A trigger pulled, and +the nobility of my sad country loses another of its shining lights. I am +overawed by the quaint justice of life. I end a career of villainy with +a final lie. It would really be impossible for me to die telling a +truth. The devil himself would appear and protest. But with a lie on my +lips, it is easy. Indeed, somehow, natural. But I pose--a male Magdalene +in tears. Do not misunderstand--too much. You are my friend, and I would +like to live a while longer that we might amuse ourselves together. You +have been an education. I find myself even now on this auspicious +midnight writing with your words. But I mistrust you, friend. You would +deny me this delicate martyrdom if I lived. For you are at bottom +lamentably honorable. So now, as you read this, I am dead (a sentence +out of Marie Corelli) and the situation is beyond adjustment. Please +accept my service as gracefully as it is rendered. The confession, as I +said, is a masterpiece. It would please my vanity if sometime you could +read it. For in this, my last lie, I have extended myself. Dear friend, +there is a certain awe which I cannot overcome--for the drama, or +comedy, finishes too perfectly. You once called me a Don Quixote of +disillusion. And now, perhaps, I will inspire a few new phrases. Let +them be poignant, but above all graceful. I would have for my epitaph +your smile and the whimsical irony of your comment. Better this than the +hand-rubbing grunt of the firing-squad returning to barracks after its +labors. Alas! that I will not be near you to hear it. But perhaps there +will come to me as I submit myself to the opening tortures of hell, an +echo of your words. And this will bring me a smile with which to cheat +the devil. I bequeathe to you my silver cigarette-case. You are my +brother and I say good-bye to you. + + "KARL VON STINNES." + +"No postscript?" Dorn asked softly. + +Mathilde shook her head. There was silence. + +"Will you find out about him, please?" he whispered. + +The girl dressed herself quickly and left the room without speaking. +Alone, Dorn lay with the letter in his hand. + +He spoke aloud after minutes, as if addressing someone invisible. + +"I have no phrases, dear friend. Let my tears be an epigram." + + + + + +PART V + +SILENCE + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +The sea swarmed under the night. A moon road floated on the long dark +swells. From the deck of the throbbing ship Dorn looked steadily toward +the circle of moving water. In the salon, the ship's orchestra was +playing. A rollicking sound of music drifted away into the dark monotone +of the sea. + +A romantic mood. A chair on an upper deck. Stars and a moon road over +the sea. Better to sit mumbling to himself than join in the chatter of +the cabin. The gayly lighted salon alive with laughter, music, and +voices touched his ears--a tiny music-box tinkling valiantly through the +dark sweep of endless yesterdays, endless to-morrows that sighed out of +the hidden water. The night was an old yesterday, the sea an old +to-morrow. + +A sadness in his heart that kept him from smiling, a strange comedy of +words in his thought, a harlequin with the night sitting on his lap. +There were things to remember. There were memories. Unnecessary to +think. Words formed themselves into phrases. Phrases made dim pictures +as if the past was struggling fitfully to remain somehow alive.... His +good-bye to Mathilde. And long, stupid weeks in Berlin. The girl had +been absurd. Absurd, an impulsive little shrew. With demands. Four +months of Mathilde. Unsuspected variants of boredom. Clothed in her +unrelenting love like an Indian in full war dress. Yet to part with her +had made him sad. + +The sea rolled mystically away from his eyes. + +"An old pattern," his thought murmured, "holding eternities. And the +little music keeps tinkling downstairs. A butterfly of sound in the +night. Like a miniature of all living. Ah, I'm growing sentimental. +Sitting holding hands with the sea. She was sad when I left her. What of +it? Von Stinnes. Dear friend! No sadness there. He was right. New +phrases, graceful emotions. What an artist! But Warren couldn't write +the story. It has to be played by a hurdy-gurdy on a guillotine." + +He let his words wander gropingly over the water until a silence entered +him. Thus life wandered away. The sea beat time to the passing of ships, +changing ships. But always the same beat. It was the constancy of the +stars that saddened him. September stars. The stars were yesterdays. +Yes, unchanging spaces, unchanging yesterdays, and a ship's orchestra +dropping little valses into the dark sea. He opened a silver +cigarette-case--an heirloom with a crest on it. Von Stinnes again. +Curious how he remembered him--a memory neither sad nor merry--but final +like the sea. A phantom of word and incident that bowed with an +enchanting irony out of an April day. The other, the fool with the +gun.... Good God, he was a murderer! He smiled. Von Stinnes, a +melancholy Pierrot doffing his hat with a gallant snicker to the moon. +Hazlitt, a pantaloon. Yet tragic. Yes, there was something in the cafe +that night--two men hurling themselves drunkenly against the taunting +emptiness of life. The rage had come because he had remembered Rachel. A +sudden mysterious remembering. A remembering that she was gone. It had +torn for a moment at his heart, shouted in his ears and driven him mad. + +Something had taken Rachel out of him. Time had eaten her image out of +him. He had remembered this in the cafe. But why had he fired at the +stranger? Because the man's eyes blazed. Because he had become for an +instant an intolerable comrade. + +"We fought each other for what someone else had done to us," Dorn +murmured. "Not Rachel but someone that couldn't be touched. Absurd!" +Hazlitt slipped like a shadow out of his mind--an unanswered question. + +The throbbing ship with its tinkling orchestra, its laughing, chattering +faces, was carrying him home over a dark sea. At night he sat alone +watching the circle of water. Four vanished nights. Four more nights. He +sighed. The sadness that lay in his heart desired to talk to him. He +struggled to change his thinking. Ideas that were new to him arose at +night on the ship. + +"Not now," he whispered. He was postponing something. But the night and +the rolling sea were swallowing his resistance. Words that would tell +him the pain in his heart waited for him.... "Anna. Dear God, Anna! It's +that. But why Anna now? It was easy before." + +Words of Anna waited for him. He stared into the dark. + +"I want her. I must go back to her. Anna, forgive me!" + +A murmur that the darkness might understand. The long rolling sea +listened automatically. Weak fool! Yet he felt better. He could think +now without hiding from words that waited. + +His heart wept in silence. The unbidden ones came.... Anna--standing +looking at him. A despair, a death in her face. Something tearing itself +out of her. What pain! But no sound. An agony deeper than sound in her +eyes. He trembled at the memory. The crucified happy one.... + +Dear God, would he always have to remember now? Other pictures were +gone. They had drifted away leaving little phrases dragging in his +thought. Now Anna had found him. Not a phantom, but the thing as he had +left it, without a detail gone. The gesture of her agony intact. His +thought shifted vainly away. He knew she was standing as he had left +her--horribly inanimate--and he must go back. He would hold her in his +arms, kiss her lips, kneel before her weeping for forgiveness. Ah! he +would be kind. At night he would sit holding her head in his arms, +stroking her hair; whispering, "Forget ... forget! A year or two of +madness--gone forever. But years now waiting for us. New years. +Everything is gone but us. That brought me back. Mists blew away. Dear +Anna, I love you." + +He was making love to Anna, his wife. A droll finale. Tears came in his +eyes. There lay happiness. She would move again. The rigid figure that +he had left behind and that was waiting rigidly, would smile again. He +plunged desperately into the dream of words to be. The music from the +salon had ended. Better, silence. Nothing to remind one of the fugitive +tinkle of life. A dark, interminable sea, a moon road, a sigh of rolling +water and a ship throbbing in the night. + +"Dear Anna, I love you." And she would smile, her white face and eyes +that were constant as the stars. Constant, eternal. Love that was no +mystery but a caress of sea nights. Forgive him. And her sorrow would +heal under his fingers. It would end all right. The two years--the +halloo of strange sterile things--buried under the smile of her eyes ... +deep, sorrowful, beautiful. Words to be. "Anna we will grow old +together, holding to each other and smiling; lovers whom the years make +always younger." Words that were to heal the strange sadness that had +come to him and start a dead figure into life. + +He stood up and walked to the rail, staring into the churn of water +underneath. + +"It's slow," he murmured. "Four more days." + +Anna's love would hide the world from him. But a fear loosened his +heart. The smell of sea whirled in his veins. + +"Perhaps," he thought dreamily, "perhaps there will be nothing. She will +say no." + +He hesitated, straightened with a sigh. + +"A wife deserter, a seducer, a murderer. I mustn't expect too much, eh, +von Stinnes?" + +He smiled at the night. The sound of the Baron's name seemed to bring a +strength into him. He walked toward his berth, his head unnecessarily +high, smoking at his cigarette and humming a tune remembered from the +Munich cafes. + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +There were people in New York who came to Erik Dorn and said: "Tell us +about Europe. And Germany. Is it really true that...." As if there were +some inner revelation--a few precious phrases of undistilled truth that +the correspondent of the _New Opinion_ had seen fit to withhold from his +communications. + +The skyscrapers were intact. Windows shot into the air. Streets bubbled +with people. A useless sky clung tenaciously to its position above the +roof-gardens. The scene was amiable. Dorn spent a day congratulating +himself upon the genius of his homeland. He felt a pride in the +unbearable confusion of architecture and traffic. + +But in the nine months of his absence there had been a change; or at +least a change seemed to have occurred. Perhaps he had brought the +change with him. It was evident that the Niagara of news pouring out of +Europe into the press and periodicals of the day had inundated the +provincialism of his countrymen. People were floundering about in a daze +of facts--groping ludicrously through labyrinths of information. + +It had been easy during the war. Democracy-Autocracy; a tableau to look +at. Thought had been unnecessary. In fact, the popular intelligence had +legislated against it. The tableau was enough--a sublimated symbol of +the little papier-mache rigmarole of their daily lives, the immemorial +spectacle of Good and Evil at death grips, limelighted for a moment by +the cannon in France. The unreason and imbecility of the mob crowned +themselves. Thought became _lese majeste_. + +Dorn returned to find the tableau had suffered an explosion. It had for +some mysterious reason glibly identified as reaction burst into +fragments and vanished in a skyrocket chaos. Shantung, Poland, little +nations, pogroms, plebiscites, Ireland, steel strikes, red armies, +Fourteen Points, The Truth About This, The Real Story of That, the +League of Nations, the riots in Berlin, in Dublin, Milan, Paris, London, +Chicago; secret treaties, pacts, betrayals, Kolchak--an incomprehensible +muddle of newspaper headlines shrieked from morning to morning and said +nothing. The distracted mob become privy for the moment to the vast +biological disorder eternally existent under its nose, snorted, yelped, +and shook indignant sawdust out of its ears. + +In vain the editorial Jabberwocks came galloping daily down the slopes +of Sinai bearing new tablets written in fire. The original and only +genuine tableau was gone. The starry heavens which concealed the Deity +Himself had become a junkpile full of its fragments. + +"In the temporary collapse of the banalities that conceal the world +from their eyes," thought Dorn, "they're trying to figure out what's +really what around them--and making a rather humorous mess of it." + +He went about for several days dining with friends, conferring with +Edwards and the directors of the _New Opinion_, and slowly shaping his +"experiences abroad" into phonograph records that played themselves +automatically under the needles of questions. + +At night, he amused himself with reading the radical and conservative +periodicals, his own magazine among them. + +"The thing isn't confined to the bloated capitalists alone," he laughed +one afternoon while sitting with Warren Lockwood in the latter's rooms. +"The radicals are up a tree and the conservatives down a cellar. What do +you make of it, Warren?" + +"I haven't paid much attention to it," the novelist smiled. "I've been +busy on a book. What's all this stuff about Germany, anyway? I read some +things of yours but I can't figure it out." + +Dorn exploded with another laugh. + +"You're all a pack of simpletons and bounders, still moist behind the +ears, Warren. The whole lot of you. I've been in New York three days and +I've begun to feel that there isn't a remotely intelligent human animal +in the place. I'm going to retreat inland. In Chicago, at least, people +know enough to keep their mouths shut. I'll tell you what the trouble +is in a nutshell. People want things straight again. They want black and +white so's they can all mass on the white side and make faces at the +evil-doers who prefer the black. They don't want facts, diagnosis, +theories, interpretations, reports. They want somebody to stand up and +announce in a loud, clear voice, 'Tweedledum is wrong. Tweedledee is +right, everything else to the contrary is Poppycock.' Thus they'd be +able to put an end to their own thinking and bury themselves in their +own little alleys and be happy again. You know as well as I, it makes +them miserable to think. Restless, irritable, indignant. It's like +having bites--the more they're scratched the worse they itch. It's the +war, of course. The war has been a failure. The race has caught itself +red-handed in a lie. Now everybody is running around trying to confess +to everybody else that what he said in the past was a lie and that the +real truth is as follows. And there's where the trouble begins. There +ain't no such animal." + +"I see," said Lockwood, smiling. + +"Yes, you do," Dorn grinned. "You don't see anything. The trouble is ... +oh, well, the trouble is as I said that the human race is out in the +open where it can get a good look at itself. The war raised a +curtain...." + +"What about the radicals, though? They seem to be saying something +definite?" + +"Yes, shooting one another down by the thousands in Berlin--as they will +some day in New York. Yes, the radicals are definite enough.... The +revolution rumbling away in Germany isn't a standup fight between +Capital and Labor. It's Radical _versus_ Radical. Just as the war was +Imperialist _versus_ Imperialist. One of the outstanding lessons of the +last decade is the fact that the world's natural enemies haven't yet had +a chance at each other, being too busy murdering among themselves. It's +coming, though. Another tableau. All this hysteria and uncertainty will +gradually simmer down into another right-and-wrong issue--with life +boiling away as always under a black and white surface." + +"Do you think we're going to go red here?" Lockwood asked pensively. + +"It'll take a little time," Dorn went on. He had become used to reciting +his answers in the manner of a schoolmaster. "But it's bound to happen. +Bolshevism is a logical evolution of democracy--another step downward in +the descent of the individual. Until the arrival of Lenine and Trotzky +on the field, there's no question but what American Democracy was the +most atrocious insult leveled at the intelligence of the race by its +inferiors. Bolshevism goes us one better, however. And just as soon as +our lowest types, meaning the majority of our politicians, thinkers, and +writers, get to realizing that bolshevism isn't a Red Terror with a bomb +in one hand and a dagger in the other, but a state of society surpassing +even their own in points of weakness and abnormal silliness, they'll +start arresting everybody who isn't a bolshevist. Capital will put up a +fight, but capital is already doomed in this country. It isn't respected +for its strength, vision, and creative powers. It is tolerated to-day +for no other reason than that it has cornered the platitude market. I'm +telling you, Warren, that when we get it drummed into our heads that +bolshevism isn't strong and powerful, but weaker, more prohibitive, more +sentimental, more politically inefficient, and generally worse than our +own government, we'll have a dictator of the proletaire in Washington +within a week." + +Lockwood sighed unhappily and lighted a pipe. + +"If you were talking about men and women maybe I could join you," he +answered. "But I got a hunch you're just another one of those newspaper +Neds. The woods are full of smart alecks like you and they make me kind +of tired, because I never can figure out what they're talking about. And +I'll be damned if they know themselves. They think in big hunks and keep +a lot of words floating in the air.... What old Carl calls 'Blaa ... +blaa....'" + +The two friends sat regarding each other critically. Dorn nodded after a +pause. + +"You're right," he smiled. "I'm part of the blaa-blaa. I heard them +blaa-blaa with guns in Munich one night. And up in the Baltic. You're +right. Anything one says about absurdity becomes absurd itself. And +talking about the human race in chunks is necessarily talking absurdly. +Tell me about that fellow Tesla." + +"They deported him to Rooshia," Lockwood answered. "There was quite a +romance about the girl. That was your girl, wasn't it?" + +"Yes, Rachel. She wouldn't tag along, eh?" + +"No. I suppose they wouldn't let her. I don't know. There was a lot of +stuff in the newspapers." + +The novelist seemed to hesitate on the brink of further information. His +friend smiled understandingly. + +"It doesn't matter, Warren. Go ahead. Shoot." + +"Cured, eh?" + +"No--dead." + +Lockwood nodded sagely, his mouth half open as if his words were staring +at Dorn. + +"Well, there isn't much I know. I met a little girl the other day--Mary +James; know her?" + +"Yes." + +"She was quite excited. She told me something about an artist that used +to hang around Tesla. It seems that he kidnapped her and carted her to +Chicago. This James girl was all upset." + +An interruption in the person of Edwards the editor occurred. The talk +lapsed once more into world problems with Lockwood listening, +skeptically open-mouthed. + +Late in the evening Edwards suddenly declared, "You're making a big +mistake leaving New York, Erik. You've got a market now. Your stuff +went big." + +"I'm through," Dorn answered. He arose and took his hat. "I'm leaving +for Chicago to-morrow." + +He paused, smiling at Lockwood. + +"I'm going home." + +The novelist nodded sagely and murmured, "Uh-huh. Well, good-night." + +Making his way slowly through the night crowds and electrophobia of +lower Manhattan, Dorn felt peacefully out of place. His thought had +become: "I want to get back to where I was." In the midst of the +mechanical carnival of Broadway he caught a memory of himself walking to +work with a stream of faces--of a sardonic Erik Dorn to whom the street +was a pattern; to whom the mysteries tugging at heels that scratched the +pavements were the amusing variants of nothing. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +"Eddy." + +"Yes, dear." + +"I have some news for you." + +The round, smiling face of Eddy Meredith that refused to change with +age, beamed at Anna. + +"Erik's back." + +The beam hesitated. + +"He wrote. He's coming to see me." + +"Anna...." + +"Yes, dear, I know. It sort of frightens me, too. But," she laughed +quietly, "there is nothing to be frightened about. He didn't give any +address or I would have written him telling him." + +"He must know you're divorced," Meredith spoke nervously. + +"I don't know if he does, Eddy." + +She reached her hand out and placed it over his, her eyes glancing at +the figure of Isaac Dorn. He was asleep in a chair. + +"Please, dearest, don't worry," she whispered. + +"It'll be hard for you." + +Meredith's face acquired an abnormal expression. + +"Maybe you'll feel different." He sighed, and Anna shook her head. +"When's he coming?" + +"To-morrow night." + +"Did he say anything in the letter?" + +She stood up and went to a desk. + +"Here it is." A smile touched her lips. "He always wrote curious +letters. Words and words when there was nothing to say. And a single +phrase when there was something." She read from a sheet of paper--"'Dear +Anna, I am coming home. Erik.'" + +In the corner Isaac Dorn opened his watery eyes and stared at the +ceiling. + +"Are you awake, father?" + +"Yes, Anna." + +"Did I tell you I'd heard from Erik?" + +The old man mumbled in his beard. + +"He'll be out to-morrow night," she said, smiling at him. He nodded his +head, stared at her, and seemed to doze off again. + +"Father is failing," Anna whispered. Meredith had arisen. His face had +grown blank. He walked toward the hall, saying, "I'll go now." + +Anna came quickly to him. Her hands reached his shoulders and she stood +regarding him intently. + +"There's nothing any more, dear. It all ended long ago. Perhaps I'll be +sad when I see him. But sad only for him." + +Meredith smiled and spoke with an effort at lightness. + +"Remember, I don't hold you to anything. I want you only to be happy. In +your own way. Not in my way. And if it will mean happiness for you to +... for you to go back, why ..." He shrugged his shoulders and continued +to smile with hurt eyes. + +"Eddy...." Her face came close to his. He hesitated until her arms +closed tightly around him. He felt her warm lips cling and open. + +"You've never kissed like that before, Anna." There was almost a fear in +his voice. + +"Because I never knew I wanted you," she whispered, "till now--till this +minute; till you said about my going back." + +Her face was alive with emotion. A laugh, and she was in his arms again. +They stood embraced, murmuring tenderly to each other. + +Later in her bedroom Anna undressed slowly. Her thoughts seemed to be +quarreling with her emotions, her emotions with her thoughts. This was +Erik's room--ancient torture chamber. Something still clinging to its +walls and furniture. Ah, nights of agony still in the air she breathed. +Her words formed themselves quietly. They came to peer into her +heart--polite visitors standing on tiptoe before a closed cell that hid +something. + +"Is there anything?" she murmured. "No. I'm different." + +She thought of the day she had come out of a grave and resumed living. +It had seemed as if she must learn to walk again, to breathe, to +discover anew the meanings of words. At first--listless, uncertain. Then +new steps, new meanings. Her mind moved back through the year. She had +wept only once--on the night of the divorce. But that was as one weeps +at an old grave, even a stranger's grave. The rest had been Eddy. + +"I've changed. And I've been happier in many ways." + +She was talking to herself. Why? "I'm a different Anna." But why think +of it? It was settled. + +She lay in the bed and her eyes opened at the darkness. Here was where +she had lain when she had died. Each night, new deaths. Here the lonely +darkness that had once choked her, torn at her eyes and made her scream +aloud with pain. Things on the other side of a grave. Memories become +alien. Things of long ago, when the whisper of the dark came like an +insanity into her brain. "Erik gone! Erik gone! Gone!" A word that beat +at her until she died--to awake in the morning and stumble once more +through a day. + +Now she regarded the dark quietly. Black. It had no shape. It lay +everywhere about her. But it did not burn nor choke. A peaceful, +harmless dark that could only whisper as if it were asking something. +What was it asking? Long arms of night reaching out for something. But +there was nothing to give, even if she wanted to. Not even tears. +Nothing to give, even though it whispered for alms. Whispered, "Erik ... +Erik!" But there was no little memory. No big memory. Dead. Torn out of +her. So the dark whispered to a dead thing in her that did not stir. A +smile like a tired little gesture passed over her. "Poor Erik, poor +Erik!" she murmured. "He must be thinking things that are no more." + +She grew chill for an instant.... The memory of agonies, of the screams +her love had uttered as it died. + +"Poor Erik!" + +She buried her cool cheek restlessly in the pillow. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +Everything the same as it had been. As if he had stepped out of the +office for a walk around the block and come back. But a sameness that +had lost its familiarity. Old furniture, old faces, intensely a part of +his consciousness, yet grown strange. It was like forgetting suddenly +the name of a life-long friend. + +His entrance created a stir of excitement. He had spent the preceding +two days arranging with the chief for his return. Barring the +Nietzschean who had functioned in his absence, none had expected him. + +He pushed open the swinging door with an old gesture, and walked to his +desk. Here he sat fumbling casually with proofs and the contents of +pigeonholes. An old routine saying, "Pick me up." Familiar trifles +rebuked him. The staff sauntered up one by one to greet him. Crowley, +Mortinson, Sweeney. + +"Well, glad to see you back. We've sure missed you around here." + +Handshakes, smiles, embarrassed questions. A few strange faces to be +resented and ignored. A strange locker arrangement in a corner to be +frowned at. But the rest of it familiar, poignant--a world where he +belonged, but that somehow did not seem to fit as snugly as once. +Handshakes in the hall. A faint cheer in the composing-room as he +sauntered for the first time to the stone. Slaps on the back. Busy men +pausing to look at him with suddenly lighted faces. "Well, Mr. Dorn, +greetings! How are ye? You're looking fine...." + +His world. It was the same, only now he was conscious of it. Before he +had sat in its midst unaware of more than a detail here, a gesture +there. Now he seemed to be looking down from an airplane--a strange +bird's-eye view of things un-strange. + +He returned to his desk. The scene again reached out to embrace him. +Familiar colored walls, familiar chatter and flurry of the afternoon +edition going to press. He felt its embrace and yet remained outside it. +There were things in him now that could never be a part of the +unchanging old shop. + +During a lull in the forenoon he leaned back in his chair and stared +into the pigeonholes. Memories like the unfocused images of a dream one +remembers in the morning jumbled in his thought. The scene around him +made things he recalled seem unreal. And the things he recalled made the +scene around him seem unreal. He tried to divert himself by remembering +definitely.... "We lay in a moon-lighted room and I whispered to her: +'You have given me wings.' I held a gun and pulled the trigger as he +jumped at me.... Then von Stinnes took the blame.... There's a +restaurant in Kurfursten Damm where Mathilde and I.... What a night in +Munich!... at the Banhoff. What do I remember most? Let me see.... Yes +... there was a note pinned on the blanket saying she was gone and I ... +But there's something else. What? Let me see...." + +He tried to evoke clearer pictures. But the sentences that passed +through his mind seemed sterile, impotent. The past, set in motion by +his effort, evaded him. Its details blurred like the spokes of a swiftly +turning wheel. He smiled. + +"A sinner's darkest punishment is forgetting his sins," he murmured to +himself. He thought of the evening before him. "Better not think of +that. Read proofs." He had deferred his meeting with Anna until he +should be able to come to her from his desk in the office. + +As the day passed an impatience seized him. The unfinished event brought +a fear with it.... "I must put it out of my mind until to-night." But it +remained and grew. + +In the afternoon he sat for an hour talking to Crowley and Mortinson. He +listened to them chuckle at his anecdotes. Their faces beaming with +affectionate interest seemed nevertheless to say, "All this is +interesting, but not very important. Not as important as sitting in the +office here and sending the paper to press day after day." + +The words he was uttering bored him. He had heard them too often. Yet he +kept on talking, trying to bury his impatience and fear in the sound of +his voice. His anecdotes were no longer memories. They seemed to have +become complete in themselves, related to nothing that had ever +happened. He wondered as he talked if he were lying. These things he was +saying were somehow improvisations--committed to memory. He kept on +talking, eagerly, amusingly. + +The afternoon passed. A walk through familiar streets and it was time +for dinner. + +"I'm not hungry. I'll eat, though." + +Yes, the evening ahead was important--very important. That accounted for +the tedium of the day. But it would be dark soon. There would be a +to-morrow. There had been other important evenings. It was not necessary +to get too nervous. He had writhed before in the embrace of interminable +hours, hours that seemed never to arrive. Then suddenly they came, +looming, swelling into existence like oncoming locomotives that opened +with a sudden rush from little discs into great roaring shapes. And once +arrived they had seemed to be present forever. But suddenly the roaring +shapes were little discs again. Hours died as people died--with an +abrupt obliteration. Yet each new moment, like each new face, became +again interminable. Time was an endlessness whose vanishing left its +illusion unchanged. + +But now it was night. + +"At the end of this block is a house. Two doors more. I have no key. +Ring the bell. God, but I'm an idiot. She'll answer the door herself. +What'll I say? That's her step. Hello? No. Walk in. Naturally." + +He stopped breathing. The door opened. His legs were made of whalebone. +But there was a new odor in the hallway.... And something new here in +her face. He stood looking at the woman with whom he had lived for seven +years and when he said her name it sounded like that of a stranger. His +features had a habit of smiling. An old habit of narrowing one of his +eyes and turning up the right corner of his lips. He stood unconscious +of his expression, his smile a mask that had slapped itself +automatically over his face. + +But they must talk. No, she had him at a disadvantage. Her silence could +say everything for her. His silence could say nothing. He reached +forward and took her hands. + +"Anna...." + +She was different. A rigidness gone. When he had left her she was +standing, stiffened. Now her hands were limp. Her face too, limp. Her +eyes that looked at him seemed blind. + +"I've come back, as you see." + +That was banal. One did not talk like that to a crucified one. Her hands +slipped away and she preceded him into the room. He looked to see his +father, but forgot to ask a question about him. Anna was standing +straight, looking straight at him. Not as if he were there, but as if +she were alone with something. + +"You must let me talk first, Erik." + +Willingly. It was difficult to breathe and talk at the same time. He sat +down as she moved into a chair opposite. + +Something was happening but he couldn't tell yet. She was changed. Older +or younger, hard to tell. But changed. It was confusing to look at +someone and look at a different image of her. The different image was in +his mind. When she talked he could tell. + +"Did you know that I had gotten a divorce, Erik?" + +That was it, then. She wasn't his wife any more. A sort of hocus-pocus +... now you are my wife, now you aren't my wife. + +"No, Anna." + +"Four months ago." + +"I was in Germany...." Mathilde, von Stinnes, _es lebe die Welt +Revolution_, made a circle in his head. + +"Yes, I know. I'm sorry you didn't find out." + +It was impossible. Something impossible was happening. Of course, he had +known it would happen. But he had fooled himself. A clever thing to do. +He was talking like a little boy reciting a piece from a platform. + +"I've come back to you because everything but you has died. I begin with +the end of what I have to say. I came back from Europe ... because I +wanted you...." + +She interrupted. "I wrote you a letter when I found out about her. I +sent it to New York." + +"I never got it." + +"I'm sorry." + +Quite a formal procedure thus far. A letter had miscarried. One could +blame the mails for that. And a divorce. Yes, that was formal too ... +"whereas the complainant further alleges ..." He felt that his legs were +trembling. If he spoke again his voice would be unsteady. He did not +want that. But someone had to speak. Not she. She could be silent. + +"Anna"--let his voice shake. Perhaps it would help matters. "You've +changed...." + +"Yes, Erik...." + +"I haven't much right to ask for anything else...." + +Why in God's name could he think clearly and yet only talk like a +blithering fool? He would pause and gather his wits. But then he would +start making a speech ... four-score and seven years ago our +forefathers.... + +"I'm sorry you came, Erik...." + +This couldn't be Anna. He closed his mouth and stared. A dream full of +noises, voices, Anna saying: + +"We mustn't waste time regretting or worrying each other about +things.... It's much too late now." + +He wanted to say. "It is impossible that you do not love me because you +once loved me, because we once lay in each other's arms ... seven +years." But there was no Anna to say that to. Instead, a stranger-woman. +An impulse carried him away. He was kneeling beside her, burying his +face in her lap. It didn't matter. There was no one to see. Perhaps her +hand would move gently over his hair. No, she was sitting straight. +Still alone with something. She was saying: + +"I'm sorry. Please, Erik, don't." + +"I love you." + +"No. No! Please, let's talk...." + +He raised his face. It was easier now that he was crying. He wouldn't +have to be grammatical ... or finish sentences. + +"I understand, Erik. I was afraid of this. For you. But you mustn't. +'Shh! it's all over." + +"No, Anna. It can't be. You are still Anna." + +"Yes. But different." + +He stood up. + +"Really, Erik," she was shaking her head and smiling without expression, +"everything is over. I would rather have written it to you. I could have +made it plain. But I didn't know where to reach you." + +He let her talk on and stood staring. Her face was limp. There was +nothing there. He was looking at a corpse. Not of her, but somehow of +himself. There in her eyes he lay dead--an obliteration. He had come +back to a part of him that had died. It was buried where one couldn't +see, somewhere behind her eyes. + +"I have nothing more to say, Erik. But you must understand what I have +said. Because it means everything." + +He listened, staring now at the room, remembering. They had lived +together once in this room. There was something beautiful about the +room. A face that held itself like a lighted lamp to his eyes. "Erik, +Erik, I love you. Oh, I love you so. I would die without you. Erik, my +own!" The walls and books and chairs murmured with echoes. The familiar +slanting books on their shelves. The large leather chairs under the +light. He must weep. The little things that were familiar--mirrors in +which he saw images and words ... a white body with copper hair fallen +across its ivory; white arms clinging passionately to him; a voice, +rapturous, pleading. He must weep because he had come back to a world +that had died, that looked at him whispering with dead lips, "Erik, my +beloved. Oh, I'm so happy ... so happy when you kiss me ... my +dearest...." + +He closed his eyes as tears burned out of them. Anna in a blur. Still +talking quietly. Embarrassed by his weeping. He was offering her his +silence and his tears. He had never stood like this before a woman. But +it was something other than a woman--an ending. As if one came upon a +figure dead in a room and looked at it and said without surprise, "It is +I." + +"So you see, Erik, it's all over. I can't tell you how. It took a long +time, but it seemed sudden. I don't know what to say to you, but it will +be better to leave nothing unsaid. I'm trying to think of everything. +I'm going to be married next month. Remember, I'm not the Anna you knew. +She isn't getting married again. I'm somebody totally different. I feel +different. Even when I walk. You never knew me. I can remember our years +together clearly. But it seems like a story that was once told me. Do +you understand, Erik? I am not bitter or sad, and I have no blame for +you. You are more than forgiven...." + +No words occurred to him. Somewhere behind the smooth face of her he +fancied lived a woman whose arms were about his neck and whose lips were +hungering for him. + +"It's all very clear to me, Erik. I've thought of it often. You made me +a part of yourself and when you deserted me, you took that with you, and +left me as I am; as I was born...." + +"Will you play something on the piano for me, Anna?" + +"No, Erik." + +He seated himself slowly and remained with his head down. There was +nothing to think. + +"I'll go in a few minutes," he muttered. + +Anna, standing straight, watched him as if she were curious. He felt her +eyes trying to acquaint themselves with him, and failing. He was growing +angry. Better leave before he spoke again. Anger was in him. It was she +who had been the unfaithful one. He could smile at that. He stood up +then, and smiled. This was a part of life, to be felt and appreciated. A +handshake, a smile that von Stinnes would have applauded, and he would +have lived another hour. + +"On the boat I made love to you," he said softly, "and I am not unhappy. +It is only--my turn to weep a bit." + +He regarded her calmly. Yes, if he wanted to ... there was something +waiting.... Even though she thought it dead. If he wanted to, there was +a grave to open, slowly, with tears and old phrases. + +She let him approach her. He felt her body grow rigid as he placed his +arms around her. His lips touched her cold cheek. + +"It was to make sure that you were dead," he whispered. + +She nodded. + +... Another hour ended. He had returned. Now he was going away again and +the hour was a disc whirling away, already lost among other discs. + +The street was chilly. He walked swiftly. His thoughts were assembling +themselves. Words that had lain under the tears in the room thawed out. + +"She will marry Meredith and the old man will come to live with me. I +should have gone upstairs and said hello. But he was probably asleep. +I'll take my books and furniture. She won't need them with Meredith. +Get an apartment somewhere. How old am I? About forty. Not quite. +Changed completely. Curious, I didn't want her after she'd talked about +it. I suppose because I didn't really come for her--for somebody else. +Conrad in quest of his youth. Lost youth. How'd that damn book end? +Well, what of it, what of it? Things die without saddening one. Yet one +becomes sad. A make-believe. That's right. No matter what happens you +keep right on thinking and breathing as if it were all outside. Yes, +that's it--outside; a poignant comedy outside that talks to one. Death +is the only thing that has reality. We must not take the rest too +seriously. If I get too bored I can remember that I killed a man and +develop a stricken conscience. Poppycock!... The old man'll be a +nuisance. But he's quiet, thank God! Well, well ... I'm too civilized. I +suppose I made an ass of myself. No.... A few tears more or less...." + +His thought paused. He walked, looking at things--curbings, houses, +street trees, lights in windows. He resumed, after blocks: + +"Good God, what a thing happened to her! To change like that. An +awfulness about it. Death in life. Have I changed? No. I'm the same. But +that's a lie. I was in love once ... a face like a mirror of stars. The +phrase grows humorous with repetition. It doesn't mean anything. What +did it mean? Like trying to remember a toothache ... which tooth ached. +But it only lasted ... let's see. Rachel, Rachel.... Nothing. It was +gone a week after I came to her. The rest was--a restlessness ... +wanting something. Not having it. Well, it doesn't matter now." + +In his hotel room he undressed without turning on the lights. He felt +nervous, vaguely afraid of himself. + +"I might commit suicide. Rather stupid, though. I'll die soon enough. +Maybe a few more things left to see and feel and forget. Who knows? I'll +have to look up some of the ladies." + +He crawled into bed and grew promptly sleepless. + +"If I'm honest I'll be able to amuse myself. If not ... oh, Lord, what a +mess! No. Why is it? Life runs away like that--hits you in the eye and +runs away." + +He closed his eyes and sighed. Like himself, the world was full of +people who lived on. Things ended for them and nobody could tell the +difference, not even themselves. Being happy--what the devil was that? +Happiness--unhappiness--you slept as soundly and ate as heartily. + +"I'm a little tired to-night." An excuse for something. He was afraid. +He reached over to the small table near the bed and secured a cigarette. +Lighting it, he lay on his back, blowing smoke carefully into the dark +and watching the tobacco glow under his nose. + +"Damn good thing I'm not an author. End up as a cross between +Maeterlinck and Laura Jean. One could write a volume on a cigarette +glowing in the dark." + +He puffed until the tobacco was almost ended. He placed the +still-kindled stub on the table and sighed: + +"Yes, that's me. Life has had its lips to me blowing smoke and fire out +of me. And now a table top on which to glow reminiscently for a moment. +And cool into ashes. Apologies to Laura Jean, Marie Corelli--and God." + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +Rachel, removing her heavy coat, walked briskly to the grate fire +burning in the rear of the studio. She stood looking into the flames and +rubbing the cold out of her hands. + +"Well, I kept the appointment, Frank." + +Brander, the artist, sprawled on a cushion-littered couch, sat up +slowly. His heavy eyes regarded her. + +"We had quite a talk. You know his wife has remarried." + +"That so?" Rachel laughed. + +"Mr. Dorn sends you his regards." + +"That'll be enough." + +"I must say he's much cleverer than you, Frank." + +"What did you talk about? Soul stuff, eh?" + +"Oh, not entirely." + +She came over to the couch and patted his cheeks. + +"My hands--feel how cold they are." + +"Never mind your hands. What did our good friend have to say for +himself?" + +"Oh, talk." Her dark eyes glanced enigmatically from his stare. + +Brander swore. "I want to know, d'you hear?" + +"Dear me! Soulmate bares all." She laughed and walked with a sensual +swing down the long room. + +Brander, without stirring, repeated, "Yes, everything." + +Rachel's face sobered. + +"Why, there's nothing Frank--of interest." + +"Hell, I've caught you crying over him." + +"Well, what of that? A woman's tears, you know, a woman's tears, don't +mean anything." + +"They don't, eh?" + +"No." The sight of him hunched amid the cushions seemed to appeal to her +humor. A large, strong monkey face against blue, green, and yellow +pillow faces. She laughed. + +"Well, I'll tell you something. There's going to be no soul stuff in +this. You're mine. And if you start any flapdoodle hand-holding with our +good friend, I'll knock your heads together into a pulp." + +He raised his large shoulders and glowered majestically. Rachel, paused +beside a canvas, regarded him with half-closed eyes and smiling lips. + +"He sent his kindest wishes to you." + +Brander left his seat and strode toward her. + +"That's enough." + +"And asked us to call. And if we couldn't come together, I might call +alone," she spoke quickly. Her eyes were mocking. An oath from Brander +seemed to amuse her. + +"You're in love with him," he muttered, his fingers tightening about +her wrist. "Come, out with it! I want to know." + +"Yes." Rachel's eyes grew taunting. "He is the knight in shining armor, +fairy prince, and the man in the moon." + +"Never mind laughing. I want to know." + +"Well, listen then." Her voice grew vibrant as if a laugh were talking. +"His eyes are the beckoning hands of dream. Poor Frank doesn't know what +that means." + +Brander swung her toward the couch. She fell amid the cushions with a +laugh. He stood looking at her and then walked slowly. + +"Don't touch me. Don't you dare!" + +A grin crossed the artist's face. + +"I know you and your kind," he answered, "mooney girls. Mooney-headed +girls. I've had 'em before." + +"Keep away...." + +Her face as he bent over her glowed with a sudden terror. + +"Mooney girls," repeated Brander. + +His hands reached her shoulders and held her carelessly as she squirmed. + +"You're hurting me." + +"I'll hurt you more. Talk out now. Are you in love with that loon?" + +"Yes." + +"More than me?" + +"Yes." + +Brander's face reddened. His hand struck her chin. Rachel shut her eyes +to hold back tears. + +"Are you still?" + +"Yes. Always." Her teeth clenched. "Go on, hit me, if you want to. I +love him. Love him always. Every minute. As I did. Do you hear? I love +him." + +She opened her eyes and shivered. He was going to kill her. He tore at +her clothes, beating her with his fists until her head rattled on her +neck. + +"I'll fix your love for him," Brander whispered. The pain of his blows +and shakings were making her dizzy. + +"Frank ... dear, please...." + +"Do you love him?" + +"Yes." + +She tried to bury her head in her arms, but he untwisted her gesture. +His hands, striking and clawing at her, made her scream. A mist--he had +seized her. + +"Frank! Frank!" + +"Do you love him now?" + +She opened her eyes and stared wildly into Brander's face. It grinned at +her. Her arms clutched his body. + +"No, no!" she cried, her mouth gasping. "Don't talk. Don't ask +questions. Love ..." she laughed aloud eagerly, brazenly. Her thin arms +tightened fiercely about him. "I love this." + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +Isaac Dorn was sitting in a chair beside the gas-log fire in his son's +apartment. His thin fingers lay motionless on his knees. His head had +fallen forward. + +It was early evening when his son entered the room. Dorn paused and +looked at the silent figure in the chair. The old man raised his head as +if he had been spoken to and muttered. "Eh?" + +He saw his son and smiled. He would like to talk to him. It was lonely +all day in the house. And things were beginning to fade from his eyes. +It was hard even to see if Erik was smiling. Yes, his face was happy. +That was good. People should look as Erik did--amused. Wait ... wait +long enough and it all blurred and faded gently away. + +"What made you so late, Erik?" he asked. Now his son was laughing. That +was a good sign. + +"A lot of work at the office. The Russians are at it again. And I met an +old friend this afternoon. A dear old friend. Old friends make one +sentimental and garrulous. So we talked." + +He noticed the old man's eyes close but continued addressing him. + +"We discussed problems in mathematics. How many yesterdays make a +to-morrow. That gas-log smells to high heaven." + +He leaned over and turned out the odorous flames. He noticed now that +the old man had dozed off again. But his talk went on. It had become a +habit to keep on talking to his father who dozed under his words. "She's +going to drop around and visit us. And we will perform a gentle autopsy. +Stir a little cloud of dust out of the bucket of ashes, eh? And perhaps +we will come to life for a moment. Who knows? At least, we shall weep. +And that is something. To be able to weep. To know enough to weep. Her +name is Rachel." + +He paused and walked toward the window. + +"Rachel," he repeated, his eyes no longer on the old man. "Her name is +unchanged...." + +He opened von Stinnes's silver case and removed a cigarette. He stood +gazing at the snow on roofs, on window ledges, on pavements. Crystalline +geometries. Houses that made little puzzle pictures against the stagnant +curve of the darkening sky. A zigzag of leaden-eyed windows, and windows +ringed with yellow light peering like cat eyes into the winter dusk. The +darkness slowly ended the scene. Night covered the snow. The city opened +its tiny yellow eyes. + +A street of houses before him. A cigarette under his nose. An old man +asleep. Outside the window the snow-covered buildings stood in the dark +like a skeleton world, like patterns in black and white. + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ERIK DORN*** + + +******* This file should be named 22358.txt or 22358.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/2/3/5/22358 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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