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diff --git a/58436-0.txt b/58436-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4db111b --- /dev/null +++ b/58436-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8558 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 58436 *** + + + + + + + + + + + + + MULTITUDE AND + SOLITUDE + + BY + + JOHN MASEFIELD + + Author of "The Everlasting Mercy," "The Widow + in the Bye Street," "The Daffodil Fields," + "Captain Margaret," etc. + + + + New York + THE MACMILLAN COMPANY + 1916 + + + + + TO + MY WIFE + + + + +MULTITUDE AND SOLITUDE + + + +I + + What play do they play? Some confounded play or other. + Let's send for some cards. I ne'er saw a play had anything in't. + _A True Widow._ + + +Roger Naldrett, the writer, sat in his box with a friend, watching the +second act of his tragedy. The first act had been received coldly; the +cast was nervous, and the house, critical as a first-night audience +always is, had begun to fidget. He watched his failure without much +emotion. He had lived through his excitement in the days before the +production; but the moment interested him, it was so unreal. The play +was not like the play which he had watched so often in rehearsal. +Unless some speech jarred upon him, as failing to help the action, he +found that he could not judge of it in detail. In the manuscript, and +in the rehearsals, he had tested it only in detail. Now he saw it as a +whole, as something new, as a rough and strong idea, of which he could +make nothing. Shut up there in the box, away from the emotions of the +house, he felt himself removed from time, the only person in the +theatre under no compulsion to attend. He sat far back in the box, so +that his friend, John O'Neill, might have a better view of the stage. +He was conscious of the blackness of John's head against the stage +lights, and of a gleam of gilt on the opposite boxes. Sometimes when, +at irregular intervals, he saw some of the cast, on the far left of the +stage, he felt disgust at the crudity of the grease paint smeared on +their faces. + +Sometimes an actor hesitated for his lines, forgot a few words, or +improvised others. He drew in his breath sharply, whenever this +happened, it was like a false note in music; but he knew that he was +the only person there who felt the discord. He found himself admiring +the address of these actors; they had nerve; they carried on the play, +though their memories were a whirl of old tags all jumbled together. +It was when there was a pause in the action, through delay at an +entrance, that the harrow drove over his soul; for in the silence, at +the end of it, when those who wanted to cough had coughed, there +sometimes came a single half-hearted clap, more damning than a hiss. +At those times he longed to be on the stage crying out to the actors +how much he admired them. He was shut up in his box, under cover, but +they were facing the music. They were playing to a cold wall of +shirt-fronts, not yet hostile, but puzzled by the new mind, and vexed +by it. They might rouse pointed indifference in the shirt-fronts, they +might rouse fury, they would certainly win no praise. Roger felt pity +for them. He wished that the end would come swiftly, that he might be +decently damned and allowed to go. + +Towards the middle of the act the leading lady made a pitiful brave +effort to save the play. She played with her whole strength, in a way +which made his spirit rise up to bless her. Her effort kept the house +for a moment. That dim array of heads and shirt-fronts became polite, +attentive; a little glimmer of a thrill began to pass from the stalls +over the house, as the communicable magic grew stronger. Then the +second lady, who, as Roger knew, had been feverish at the dress +rehearsal, struggled for a moment with a sore throat which made the +performance torture to her. Roger heard her voice break, knowing very +well what it meant. He longed to cry out to comfort her; though the +only words which came to his heart were: "You poor little devil." Then +a man in the gallery shouted to her to "Speak up, please." Half a +dozen others took up the cry. They wreaked on the poor woman's +misfortune all the venom which they felt against the play. Craning far +forward, the author saw the second lady bite her lip with chagrin; but +she spoke up like a heroine. After that the spell lost hold. The act +dragged on, people coughed and fidgeted; the play seemed to grow in +absurd unreality, till Roger wondered why there was no hissing. The +actors, who had been hitherto too slow, began to hurry. They rushed +through an instant of dramatic interest, which, with a good audience, +would have gone solemnly. The climax came with a rush, the act ended, +the last speech was spoken. Then, for five, ten, fifteen, twenty +fearful seconds the curtain hesitated. The absurd actors stood +absurdly waiting for the heavy red cloth to cloak them from the house. +Something had jammed, or the flyman had missed his cue. When the +curtain fell half the house was sniggering. The half-dozen derisive +claps which followed were intended for the flyman. + +The author's box happened to be the royal box, with a sitting-room +beyond it, furnished principally with chairs and ash-trays. When the +lights brightened, Roger walked swiftly into the sitting-room and +lighted a cigarette. John O'Neill came stumbling after him. + +"It's very good. It's very good," he said with vehemence. "It's all I +thought it when you read it. The audience don't know what to make of +it. They're puzzled by the new mind. It's the finest thing that's +been done here since poor Wentworth's thing." He paused for a second, +then looked at Roger with a hard, shrewd, medical look. "I don't quite +like the look of your leading lady. She's going to break down." + +"They'll never stand the third act," said Roger. "There'll be a row in +the third act." + +At this moment the door opened. Falempin, the manager of the theatre, +a gross and cheerful gentleman, with the relics of a boisterous vinous +beauty in his face, entered with a mock bow. + +"Naldrett," he said, with a strong French accent, "you are all right. +Your play is very fine. Very interesting. I go to lose four thousan' +poun' over your play. Eh? Very good. What so? Som' day I go to make +forty thousan' poun' out of your play. Eh? It is all in a day's work. +The peegs" (he meant his patrons, the audience) "will not stan' your +third act. It is too--it is too--" He shook his head over the third +act. "Miss Hanlon, pretty little Miss Hanlon, she go into hysterics." + +"Could I go round to speak to her?" Roger asked. + +"No good," said Falempin. "She cannot see any one. She will not +interrupt her illusion." + +"What happened to the curtain?" O'Neill asked. + +"Ah, the curtain. It was absurd. I go to see about the curtain. We +meet at Philippi. Eh? There will be a row. But you are all right, +Naldrett. You know John O'Neill. Eh? Mr. O'Neill he tell you you are +all right." He bowed with a flourish of gloved hands, and vanished +through the stage door. + +"John," said Roger, "the play's killed. I don't mind about the play; +but I want to know what it is that they hate." + +"They hate the new mind," said Roger. "They've been accustomed to +folly, persiflage, that abortion the masculine hero, and justifications +of their vices. They like caricatures of themselves. They like +photographs. They like illuminated texts. They decorate their minds +just as they do their homes. You come to them out of the desert, all +locusts and wild honey, crying out about beauty. These people won't +stand it. They are the people in Frith's Derby Day. Worse. They +think they aren't." + +"I'm sorry about Falempin," said Roger. "He's a good fellow. I shall +lose him a lot of money." + +"Falempin's a Frenchman. He would rather produce a work of art than +pass his days, as he calls it, selling 'wash for the peegs.' What is +four thousand to a theatre manager? A quarter's rent. And what is a +quarter's rent to anybody?" + +"Well," said Roger, "it's a good deal to me. Let's go round the house +and hear what they say." + +They thrust their cigarettes into ash-trays, and passed through the +stalls to the foyer. The foyer of the King's was large. The +decorations of mirrors, gilt, marble, and red velvet, gave it that look +of the hotel which art's temples seldom lack in this country. It is a +concession to the taste of the patrons; you see it in theatres and in +picture galleries, wherever vulgarity has her looking-glasses. There +were many people gathered there. Half a dozen minor critics stood +together comparing notes, deciding, as outsiders think, what it would +be safe to say. Roger noticed among them a short, burly, shaggy-haired +man, who wore a turned-down collar. He did not know the man; but he +knew at once, from his appearance, that he was a critic, and a person +of no distinction. He was about to look elsewhere, when he saw, with a +flush of anger, that the little burly man had paused in his speech, +with his cigarette dropped from his mouth, to watch them narrowly, in +the covert manner of the ill-bred and malignant. Roger saw him give a +faint nudge with his elbow to the man nearest to him. The man turned +to look; three of the others turned to look; the little man's lips +moved in a muttered explanation. The group stared. Roger, who +resented their impertinence, stared back so pointedly that their eyes +fell. O'Neill's hands twitched. Roger became conscious that this was +one of O'Neill's feuds. They walked together past the group, with +indifferent faces. As they passed, the little man, still staring, +remarked, "One of that school." They heard his feet move round so that +he might stare after them. O'Neill turned to Roger. + +"Do you know who that is?" + +"No." + +"That's O'Donnell, of _The Box Office_. He's the man who did for poor +Wentworth's thing. I called him out in Paris. He wouldn't come." + +"Really, John?" + +"Oh, you're too young; you don't remember. He wrote everywhere. He +wrote a vile tract called _Drama and Decency_. He nearly got Wentworth +prosecuted." + +"I've heard of that! So O'Donnell wrote that?" + +"He did." + +"Who are the others?" + +"Obscure dailies and illustrateds." + +A little grey man, with nervous eyes, came up to Roger, claiming +acquaintance on the strength of one previous meeting. He began to talk +to Roger with the easy patronage of one who, though impotent in art +himself, and without a divine idea in him, has the taste of his +society, its gossip, its critical cant, and an acquaintance with some +of its minor bards. + +"You mustn't be discouraged," he said, with implied intellectual +superiority; "I hear you have quite a little following. How do you +like the acting? I don't like Miss Hanlon's acting myself. Did you +choose her?" As he spoke his eyes wandered over O'Neill, who stood +apart, with his back half turned to them. It was evident that he knew +O'Neill by sight, and wished to be introduced to him. Roger remembered +how this man had called O'Neill a charlatan. An insult rose to his +lips. Who was this fumbling little City man, with his Surrey villa and +collection of Meryon etchings, to patronise, and condemn, and to bid +him not to be discouraged? + +"Yes," he said coldly. "I wrote the play for her. She's the only +tragic actress you've had here since Miss Cushman." + +The little City man smiled, apparently by elongating his eyes. He laid +up, for a future dinner table, a condemnation of this young dramatist, +as too "opinionated," too "crude." + +"Yes?" he answered. "By the way--my daughter is here; she wants so +much to talk to you about the play. Will you come?" + +Roger had met this daughter once before. He saw her now, an anæmic +girl, in a Liberty dress, standing with her nose in the air, amid a mob +of first-nighters. She, too, wished to patronise him and to criticise +the oracle. The superiority of a girl of nineteen was more than he +could stand. + +"Thanks," he said. "Afterwards, perhaps. I must be off now with my +friend." + +He gave a hurried nod, caught O'Neill's arm, and fled. Two men +collided in his path and exchanged criticism with each other. + +"Hullo, old man," said one; "what do you think of it?" + +"I call it a German farce." + +"Yes; rather colourless. It opened well." + +Further on, a tall, pale, fat woman, with a flagging jowl, talked +loudly to two lesser women. + +"I call it simply disgusting. I wonder such a piece should be allowed." + +"I wouldn't mind its being disgusting so much," said one of her +friends; "but what I can't stand is that it is so uninteresting. +There's no meaning. It doesn't mean anything. It has no criticism of +life." + +"They say he's killing himself with chloral," said the third woman. + +At the entrance to the smoke-room, they were stopped by the crowd. A +lady with fine eyes fanned herself vigorously on the arm of her escort. + +"It's very interestin'," she said; "but, of course, it isn't a play." + +"No. It's not a play," said her friend. After a pause, he defined his +critical position. "Y'know, I don't believe in all this talk about +Ibsen and that. I like a play to be a play." + +The smoke-room was full of men with cigarettes. Nearly all had a look +of the theatre about them, something clean-shaven, something in the +eye, in the fatness of the lower jaw, and in the general exaggeration +of the bearing. Something loud and unreal. The pretty girls at the +bar were busy, expending the same smile, and the same charm of manner, +on each customer, and dismissing him, when served, with an indifference +which was like erasure. The friends lighted fresh cigarettes and +shared a bottle of Perrier water. The pretty, weary-faced waitress +looked at Roger intently, with interested sympathy. She had seen the +dress-rehearsal, she was one of his admirers. + +Matches scratched and spluttered; soda-water bubbled into spirits; the +cork extractors squeaked and thumped, with a noise of fizzing. A pale, +white-haired man, with an amber cigarette-holder nine inches long, +evidently his only claim to distinction, held a glass at an angle, +dispensing criticism. + +"It's all damned tommy-rot," he said. "All this tosh these young +fellers write. It's what I call German measles. Now we've got a +drama. You may say what you like about these Scandinavian people, and +Hauptmann, and what's the name of the French feller, who wrote the book +about wasps? They're all. You know what I mean. Every one of them. +Like the pre-Raphaelites were; but put them beside our English +dramatists; where are they?" + +Some one with an Irish voice maintained in a lull, rather brilliantly, +that Shakespeare had no intellect, but that Coriolanus showed a genuine +feeling for the stage. + +A friend without definite contradiction offered, in amendment, that: +"None of the Elizabethans were any good at all; Coriolanus was a Latin +exercise. English drama dated from 1893." + +A third put in a word for Romeo and Juliet. "Of course, in all his +serious work, Shakespeare is a most irritating writer. But in Romeo +and Juliet he is less irritating than usual. I like the Tomb scene." + +The Irish voice replied that the English had the ballad instinct, and +liked those stories which would be tolerable in a ballad; but that +intellectual eminence was shown by form, not by an emotional condition. +This led to the obvious English retort that form was nothing, as long +as the thought was all right; and that anyway our construction was +better than the French. The talk closed in on the discussion, shutting +it out with babble; nothing more was heard. + +The two friends, sipping Perrier water, were sensible of hostility in +the house, without hearing definite charges. An electric bell whirred +overhead. Glasses were hurriedly put down; cigarettes were dropped +into the pots of evergreens. The tide set back towards the stalls. As +they paused to let a lady precede them down a gangway, they heard her +pass judgment to a friend. + +"Of course, it may be very clever; but what I mean is that it's not +amusing. It's not like a play." + +A clear feminine voice dropped a final shot in a hush. "Oh, I think +it's tremendously second-rate; like all his books. I think he must be +a most intolerable young man. I know some friends of his." + +Wondering which friends they were, Roger Naldrett took his seat in his +box an instant before the curtain rose. + +Four minutes later, when the house found that the cap fitted, a line +was hissed loudly. It passed, the actors rallied, Miss Hanlon's acting +gathered intensity. As the emotional crisis of the act approached, she +seemed to be taking hold of the audience. The beauty of the play even +moved the author a little. Then, at her finest moment, in a pause, the +prelude to her great appeal, a coarse female voice, without natural +beauty, and impeded rather than helped, artificially, by a segment of +apple newly-bitten, called ironically, "Ow, chyce me," from somewhere +far above. The temper of the house as a whole was probably against the +voice; but collective attention is fickle. There was a second of +hesitation, during which, though the play went on, the audience +wondered whether they should laugh, following the titterers, or say +"Sh" vigorously in opposition to them. A big man in the stalls decided +them, by letting his mirth, decently checked during the instant, +explode, much as an expanded bladder will explode when smitten with a +blunt instrument. + +"Ow, Charlie!" cried the voice again. Everybody laughed. The big man, +confirmed in what had at first alarmed him, roared like a bull. When +the laughter ended, the play was lost. No acting in the world could +have saved it. + +For a moment it went on; but the wits had been encouraged by their +success. A few mild young men, greatly daring, bashfully addressed +questions to the stage in self-conscious voices. Whistles sounded +suddenly in shrill bursts. Somebody hissed in the stalls. A line +reflecting on England's foreign policy, or seeming to do so, for there +is nothing topical in good literature, raised shouts of "Yah," and +"Pro-Boer," phrases still shouted at advanced thinkers in moments of +popular pride. At the most poignant moment of the tragedy the gallery +shouted "Boo" in sheer anger. The stalls, excited by the noise, looked +round, and up, smiling. Songsters began one of the vile songs of the +music-halls, debased in its words, its rhythms, and its tune. Their +feet beat time to it. The booing made a monotony as of tom-toms; +whistles and cat-calls sounded, like wild-birds flying across the +darkness. People got up blunderingly to leave the theatre, treading on +other people's toes, stumbling over their knees, with oaths in their +hearts, and apologies on their lips. The play had come to an end. The +cast waited for the noise to cease. Miss Hanlon, the sword at her +throat, stood self-possessed, ready with her line and gesture, only +waiting for quiet. Two of the actors talked to each other, looking +straight across the stage at the dim mob before them. Roger could see +their lips move. He imagined the cynical slangy talk passing between +them. He recognised Miss Hanlon's sister standing in one of the boxes +on the other side. + +The noise grew louder. John O'Neill, leaving his seat, came over to +him and shouted in his ear. "You're having a fine row," he shouted. + +Roger nodded back to John in the darkness. "Yes, yes," he said. He +was wondering why he didn't care more deeply at this wreck of his work. +He did not care. The yelling mob disgusted him; but not more than any +other yelling mob. He wished that it had but one face, so that he +might spit in it, and smite it, to avenge brave Miss Hanlon, the genius +cried down by the rabble, who still waited, with the sobs choking her. +Otherwise, he did not care two straws. He believed in his work. +Beauty was worth following whatever the dull ass thought. He sat on +the edge of the box, and stared down at his enemies, "the peegs." A +rowdy in the stalls, drawing a bow at a venture, shouted "Author." At +that instant the curtain came down, and the lights went up. "Author," +the house shouted. "Yah. Author. Boo." Women paused in the putting +on of their opera-cloaks to level glasses at him. He saw a dozen such. +He saw the men staring. He heard one man, one solitary friend, who +strove to clap, abruptly told to "chuck it." "Author," came the shout. +"Yah. Boo. Author. Gow 'owm." + +He stood up to look at his enemies. One man, a critic, was clapping +him, an act of courage in such a house. The rest were enjoying the +row, or helping it, or hurriedly leaving with timid women. Those who +jeered, jeered mostly at John O'Neill, who looked liker an author than +his friend (i.e. his hair was longer). + +"This is nearly martyrdom," said John. "Your work must be better than +I thought." + +Roger laughed. The people, seeing the laughter, yelled in frenzy. +Falempin came from behind the curtain. He looked at the house +indifferently, stroking his white beard, as though debating over a +supper menu. He glanced absently at his watch, and tapped in a bored +manner with his foot. He was trying to decide whether he should insult +the "peegs," and gloriously end his career as a theatre manager. Fear +lest they should misunderstand his insult, and perhaps take it as a +compliment, restrained him in the end, even more than the thought of +what his wife would say. He waited for a lull in the uproar to remark +coolly that the play would not go on. After a pause, he told the +orchestra to play "God save the King" with excessive fervour, for a +long time; which they did, grinning. A few policemen in the pit and +gallery directed the religious spirit, thus roused, into peaceful +works. The hooters began to pass out of the theatre, laughing and +yelling; three or four young men, linking arms, stood across an exit, +barring the passage to women. One of them, being struck in the face, +showed fight, and was violently flung forth. The others, aiding their +leader, fought all down the stairs from the gallery, hindered by the +escaping crowd. They suffered in the passage. One of them, with his +collar torn off, scuffled on the sidewalk, crying out that he wanted +his "'at." He wasn't going without his "'at." + +Meanwhile, in the pit, a dozen stalwarts stood by the stalls barrier, +waiting to boo the author as he left his box. The stalls were fast +emptying. Two attendants, still carrying programmes, halted under +Roger's box to say that it was a "shyme." Roger, at the moment, was +writing hurriedly on a programme a rough draft of a note of thanks, +praise, and sympathy to Miss Hanlon. It was only when he came to use +his faculties that he found them scattered by the agitations of the +night. The words which rose up in his mind were like words used in +dreams; they seemed to be meaningless. He botched together a crudity +after a long beating of his brains; but the result, when written out on +a sheet of notepaper, found in the ante-room, was feeble enough. + +He twisted the paper swiftly into a tricorne. "Come along, John," he +said. "We'll go through the stage; I must leave this for Miss Hanlon." + +They passed through the ante-room into a chamber heaped with +properties, and thence, by a swift turn, on to the stage, where a few +hands were shifting the scenery and talking of the row. On the +draughty, zig-zag, concrete stairs, leading to the dressing-rooms, the +stage-manager stood talking to a minor actor under a wavering gas-jet +enclosed by a wire mesh. + +"Quite a little trouble, sir," he said to Naldrett. "Too bad." + +"They didn't seem to like it, did they? Which is Miss Hanlon's room?" + +"In number three, sir; but there's her dresser, if you've a note for +her, sir. There's some ladies with her." + +Outside the stage door, in the alley leading to the street, several +idlers waited idly for an opportunity for outrage. In the street +itself a crowd had gathered at the theatre entrance. A mob of vacant +faces stood under the light, staring at the doors. They stared without +noise and without intelligence, under the spell of that mesmerism which +binds common intellects so easily. Policemen moved through the mob, +moving little parts of it, more by example than by precept. The +starers moved because others moved. In the road was a glare of cab +lights. Light gleamed on harness, on the satin of cloaks, on the hats +of footmen. + +"When did the age of polish begin?" said Roger. + +"When the age of gilt ended," said John. "It's a base age; you can't +even be a decent corpse without polish on your coffin. Here we are at +the Masquers; shall we sup here, or at the Petits Soupers?" + + + + +II + + What, do we nod? Sound music, and let us startle our spirits... + Ay, this has waked us. _The Poetaster_. + + +The act of sitting to table changed John's mood. The lightness and +gaiety passed from him. It seemed to Roger that he grew visibly very +old and haggard, as the merry mood, stimulated by the excitement of the +theatre, faded away. At times, during supper, John gave his friend the +impression that the spiritual John was on a journey, or withdrawn into +another world. He spoke little, chiefly in monosyllables, making no +allusion to the play. He was become a shell, almost an unreal person. +He gave no sign of possessing that intellectual energy which made his +talk so attractive to young men interested in the arts. Roger's fancy +suggested that John was a kind of John the Baptist, a torch-bearer, +sent to set other people on fire, but without real fire of his own. He +felt that John had lighted an entire city, by some obscure heap of +shavings in a suburb, and had now dashed out his torch, so that the +night hid him. He realised how little he knew this man, intimate as +they had been. + +Nobody knew him. Nobody knew what he was. There were some who held +that John was the Wandering Jew, others that he was a Nihilist, a +Carlist, a Balmacedist, a Jacobite, the heir to France, King Arthur, +anti-Christ, or Parnell. All had felt the mystery, but none had solved +it. Here was this strange, enigmatic, brilliant man, an influence in +art, in many arts, though he practised none with supreme devotion. He +had wandered over most of the world; he spoke many tongues; he had +friends in strange Asian cities, in Western mining towns, in rubber +camps, in ships, in senates. No one had ever received a letter from +him. But his rooms were always thronged with outlandish guests from +all parts of the world. Looking at him across the table, Roger felt +small suddenly, as though John really were a spirit now suddenly +lapsing back into the night, after a spectral moment of glowing. He +felt the man's extraordinary personality, and his own terrible +pettiness in apprehending so little of it. Something was wrong with +him, something was the matter with the night. Or had the whole unreal +evening been a dream? Or were they all dead, and was this heaven or +hell? for life seemed charged with all manner of new realities. He had +never felt like this before. Something was changing in his brain. He +was realising his own spiritual advances, in one of those rare moments +in which one apprehends truth. It occurred to him, with a sudden +impulse to violent laughter, that John, sitting back in his chair, +mesmerised by the fantasy of the smoke from his cigarette, was also in +a mood of spiritual crisis, attaining long-desired peace. + +John watched his cigarette till the ash fell, when the truth seemed +fully attained, the soul's step upward made good. He glanced up at +Roger like a man just waking from a dream, like a man, long puzzled, at +last made certain. + +"What are your plans?" he asked suddenly. "You'll go on writing?" + +"Yes. I shall go on writing," Roger answered. He was puzzled by the +abruptness and detachment of John's manner. "I've got that Louis +Quatorze play finished. I shall start on another in a day or two. +I've a novel half finished; I told you the fable, I think. I've not +done much since the rehearsals began." + +"You'll have a great success some day," said John, half to himself. +"You'll be all that Wentworth might have been had he lived. You know +Wentworth's work?" + +"Yes," Roger said. The question surprised him. John was speaking to +him as though he were a stranger. They had discussed Wentworth's work +a score of times. "What sort of man was he?" he added. + +"A great genius in himself. In his work I don't think he was that, +though of course he did wonderful things. You told me once that you +were in love. How does that go on?" + +"I see her sometimes. I can't ask her to marry me. My +prospects--well--I live by writing." + +"She is rich, I think you said? She lives in Ireland?" + +"Yes." + +"Love is the devil!" said John abruptly. "I'm going abroad to-morrow, +on account of my lungs. I was wondering if I should see you settled +before I left." + +"Good Lord! You never told me." + +"Wentworth used to say that, socially, the body does not exist. I +thought of telling you. But there, there were other reasons. Things +which I can't tell you about." + +"But where are you going?" + +"To a place in South Spain. I can't tell you more. Listen. I believe +that I am on the verge of discovering a great secret. It is an amazing +thing; I've been working at it with Centeno, that young Spaniard who +comes to my rooms. I am going to Spain so that I may work with him in +a warm climate." + +He rose from his seat excited by the thought of the discovery. He +gulped the last of his wine, as though in a sudden fever to be at work. +He flung on hat and coat in the same feverish preoccupation. + +Roger, who had seen him thus before, knew that he was forgotten. His +friend was already in those secret rooms at the top of a house in Queen +Square. His spirit was there, bowed over the work with the Spanish +scholar; the earthly part of him was a parcel left behind in a +restaurant to follow as it might. Words from nowhere floated into +Roger's mind. It was as though some of John's attendant spirits had +whispered to him: "Your friend is busy with some strange doctrine of +the soul," said the whisperer. "This world does not exist for him. +You are nothing to him; you are only a little part of the eternal, +dragging a caddis-worm's house of greeds. He is set free." + +He looked up quickly to see John deep in thought, with a waiter, +standing beside him, offering an unnoticed bill. Roger paid the bill. +In another minute they were standing in the glare of the Circus, amid +tumult and harsh light. Something in the unrhythmical riot broke the +dreamer's mood. He looked at Roger absently, as though remembering an +event in a past life. A fit of coughing shook him, and left him +trembling. + +"Your play is a fine thing," he said weakly, as he hailed a hansom. +"You are all right. I can't ask you to come round to my rooms; for I +am working there with Centeno. I work there far into the night, and I +am in rather a mess with packing to-night." + +He seemed to pass into his reverie again; for he did not notice Roger's +hand. He was muttering to himself, "This is an unreal world; this is +an unreal world," between gulps of cigarette smoke. A sudden burst of +energy made him enter the cab. Roger gave the cab-man the address, and +closed the cab's aprons. His friend lifted a hand languidly and sank +back into the gloom. The last that Roger saw of him was a white, +immobile mask of a face, rising up from the black pointed beard, which +looked so like the beard of an Assyrian king. The cab was hidden from +sight among a medley of vehicles before Roger realised that his friend +was gone. + +It struck Roger then that the evening had brought him very near to +romance. He had seen his soul's work shouted down, by the minotaur. +Now the man whom he had worshipped was going away to die. More than +the pain of losing the friend was the sharpness of jealousy; for why +could not he, instead of Centeno, help that spirit in the last +transmutation, in the last glory, when the cracking brain cell let in +heaven? He felt himself judged, and set aside. For an instant an +impulse moved him to creep in upon the secret, up the stairs, through +the corridor piled with books, to the dark room, hung with green, where +the work went forward. He longed to surprise those conspirators over +their secret of the soul, and to be initiated into the mystery, even at +the sword's point. He put this thought from him; but the shock of +John's parting brought it back again. His spirit seemed to flounder in +him. He felt stunned and staggered. + +He crossed Shaftesbury Avenue wondering how life was to go on with no +O'Neill. He had no thought for his play's failure; this sorrow filled +his nature. He paused for an instant on the western sidewalk of the +avenue so that he might light a cigarette. As he bent over the flame, +some one struck him violently between the shoulders. He turned +swiftly, full of anger, to confront a half-drunken man whose face had +the peculiar bloated shapelessness of the London sot. The man unjustly +claimed, with many filthy words, that Roger had jostled against him, +and that he was going to--well, show him different. A little crowd +gathered, expecting a fight. When the man's language was at its +filthiest, a policeman interfered, bidding the drunkard go home +quietly. The man asked how any one could go home quietly with ---- +toffs running into him. The policeman turned to Roger. + +Roger was sickened and disgusted. Charging the man, and causing him to +be imprisoned or fined, was not to be thought of. The man was not +sober; he had passed into a momentary fury of passion, and had butted +blindly like an enraged bull. The mistake, and the foul talk, and the +sudden attentions of the crowd at such a moment when he hoped to be +alone, gave Roger a feeling of helpless hatred of himself and of modern +life. He turned abruptly. His enemy dogged him for a few steps, +dropping filthy names, one by one, while some of the crowd followed, +hoping that there would be an assault. The pursuit ended with a snarl. +The drunkard turned diagonally across the street, so nearly under two +motor-cabs that the crowd lost interest in Roger from that instant. + +Roger remembered that a few yards away there was a German restaurant, +where some of his friends used to play dominoes over steins of lager. +He entered the restaurant, hoping to meet some one; hoping, too, that +the kindly foreign feeling which made the place restful and delightful +might help him to forget his sorrow and distaste for life. He ordered +coffee and cognac, and sat there, sorrowfully smoking, scanning those +who entered, but seeing no friend among them. + +As he smoked the memories of the evening assailed him. He saw his work +hooted from the stage, and John passing from his life, and the sot's +bloated mouth babbling filth at him. His nerves were all shaken to +pieces by the emotional strain of the past fortnight. He was in a +child's mood; the mood of the homesick boy at school. He was as +dangerously near hysteria as the drunkard. He longed to be over in +Ireland, in the house of that beautiful woman whom he loved, to be in +the presence of calm and tenderness and noble thought, away from all +these horrors and desolations. The thought of Ottalie Fawcett calmed +him; for he could not think of that beautiful woman and of himself at +the same time. Memories of her gave his mind a sweet, melancholy food. +One memory especially, of the beautiful lady, in her beautiful, early +Victorian dress, with great hat, grey gauntlets, and old pearl +earrings, bending over a mass of white roses in the garden, recurred +again and again. To think of her intently, and to see her very clearly +in a mind acutely excited, was like communion with her. Her image was +so sharply outlined in his heart that he felt an exultation, as though +their hearts were flowing into each other. One tingling thought of her +was like her heart against his. It made him sure that she was thinking +of him at that instant, perhaps with tenderness. He tried to imagine +her thoughts of him. He tried to imagine himself her, looking out +under that great hat, through those lively eyes, a beautiful, charming +woman, exquisite, guarded, and infinitely swift of tact. It ended with +a passionate longing to get away to Ireland to see her, cost what it +might. His heart turned to her; he would go to her. He could not live +without love. + +The play had ended before ten o'clock. It was now half-past eleven. +Roger paid his bill, and turned into Shaftesbury Avenue, thinking that +within thirty-six hours he would be set free. This dusty tumult would +be roaring to other ears. He would be by the waters of Moyle, among +magical glens, knocking at his love's door, walking with her, hearing +her voice, sitting with her over the turf fire, in that old house on +the hills, looking over towards Ailsa. That would be life enough. It +would give him strength to begin again after his failure and the loss +of his friend. His mind was full of her. He turned, as he had so +often turned, late at night, to look at the windows of the little upper +flat which his love shared with her friend Agatha Carew-Ker. They were +seldom in town to use the flat. They came there for flying visits +generally in the spring and winter, when passing through London to the +Continent. It was a tiny flat of four living-rooms, high up, on the +south side of Shaftesbury Avenue; a strange place for two ladies to +have chosen, but it was near the theatres and shops. As Roger walked +towards it he recalled the last time he had been there, seven months +before. He had had tea alone with Ottalie, one misty October evening. +For nearly half an hour they were alone in the flat, sitting together +by the fire in the dusk, talking intimately, even tenderly; for there +was something magical in the twilight, and the companionship was too +close, during that rare half-hour, for either to light the lamp. He +had known Ottalie since childhood; but never before like this. Her +tenderness and charm and grave beauty had never been so near to him. +Two minutes more in that dusk would have brought him to her side. He +would have taken her hands in his. He would have asked her if life +could go back again, after such communion, to the old frank +comradeship. Then Agatha came in, with her hardness and bustle and +suspicion. The spell had been broken. Agatha rated them for sitting +in the dark. When he lighted the lamp, he was conscious of Agatha's +sharp critical eye upon him, and of a certain reproachful jealousy in +her tone towards Ottalie. There were little hard glances from one face +to the other; and then some ill-concealed feminine manoeuvring to make +it impossible for him to stay longer. He stayed until Agatha became +pointed. That was the last time he had seen Ottalie. He had heard +from her from time to time. He had sent her his last novel and his +book of tales. She had sent him a silver match-box as a Christmas +present. Agatha, in a postscript, had conveyed her "love" to him. + +He paused on the north side of the avenue to look at the flat windows +high up on the opposite side. He was startled to see a light in +Ottalie's bedroom, a long gleam of light where the curtains parted, a +gleam dimmed momentarily by some one passing. For five seconds he saw +the light, then it was blown out. Some one was in the flat, possibly +Ottalie herself. He might, perhaps, see her early the next morning. +She might be there, just across the road. She might have been within +three hundred yards of him for this last miserable hour; but it was +strange that she had not written to tell him that she was coming to +town. It could hardly be Ottalie. It might be Agatha, or some friend +to whom they had lent the flat for the season. He was eager now for +the next day to dawn, so that he might find out. He was utterly weary. +He hailed a cab and drove to his rooms in Westminster. The cabman, +thinking him an easy subject, demanded more than the excess fare given +to him. Roger told him that he would get no more, and entered the +house. The cabman, becoming abusive, climbed down and battered at the +knocker, till the approach of a policeman warned him that any further +attempts might lead to a summons. He drove away growling. + +Roger lived in chambers in one of the old houses of Westminster. He +rented a little panelled sitting-room, a bedroom, also panelled, rather +larger, and a third room so tiny that a clothes-press and a bath almost +filled it. He lit his lamp to see what letters had come for him. +There were five or six, none of them from Ottalie. A telegram lay on +the table. It was from an evening paper asking for the favour of an +interview early the next morning. The row at the theatre was bearing +fruit. He opened his letters; but, seeing that they were not amusing, +he did not read them. He went into his bedroom to undress. On the +mantelpiece was a rehearsal call card, which had given him a thrill of +pleasure a fortnight before. Now it seemed to grin at him with a +devilish inanimate malice. An etched portrait of O'Neill looked down +mournfully from the wall. A photograph of Ottalie on the +dressing-table was the last thing noticed by him as he blew out the +lamp. + +In the next house a member of Parliament lived. His wife was musical, +in a hard, accomplished way. She sang cleverly, though her voice was +not good. She sang as her excellent masters had taught her to sing. +She had profited by their teaching to the limits of her nature. In +moments of emotion, when she recognised her shortcomings, she quoted to +herself a line from Abt Vogler, "On the earth a broken arc, in the +heaven a perfect round." She was an irregular, eccentric lady, fond of +late hours. This night some wandering devil caused her to begin to +play at midnight, when Roger, utterly exhausted by the strain of the +evening, was falling to a merciful sleep. A few bars was enough to +waken Roger. The wall between them was not thick enough to dull the +noise. The few melancholy bars gathered volume. She began to sing +with hard, metallic, callousness, with disillusion in each note. Poor +lady, the moment was beautiful to her. She could not know that she, in +her moment of delight, was an instrument of the malevolent stars next +door. Roger sat up in bed with a few impatient words. He knew the +lady's song; he had heard Ottalie sing it. Hearing this other lady +sing it was instructive. It confirmed him in a theory held by him, +that refinement was a quality of the entire personality; that delicacy +of feeling, beauty of nature, niceness of tact, were shown in the least +movement, in the raising of a hand, in the head's carriage, in the +least sound of the voice. Ottalie sang with all the beauty of her +character, giving to each note an indescribable rightness of value, +verbal as well as musical, conveying to her hearers a sense of her +distinction of soul, a sense of the noble living of dead generations of +Fawcetts; a sense of style and race and personal exquisiteness. This +lady sang as though she were out in a hockey field, charging the ball +healthily, in short skirts, among many gay young sprigs from the +barracks. She sang like the daughter of a _nouveau riche_. Her song +was a brief liaison between Leipzig and a vulgar constitution. + +Two minutes of her song put all thought of sleep from Roger's mind. He +lit his lamp and searched for some cigarettes. Something prompted him +to take down Wentworth's _Tragedy of Poppaea_. He would read it over +until the lady's muscles tired. He lit a cigarette. Propping himself +up with pillows he began to read, admiring the precise firmness of the +rhythms, and that quality in the style which was all fragrance and +glimmer, a fine bloom of beauty, never too much, which marked the +artist. The choruses moved him by their inherent music. They were +musical because the man's mind, though sternly muscular and manly, was +full of melody. They were unlike most modern verse, which is reckoned +musical when it shows some mechanical compliance with a pattern of +music already in the popular ear. Roger, as a writer not yet formed, +was curious in all things which showed personal distinction and +striving. This exquisite verse, this power of fine, precise +intellectual conception, was reward enough, he thought, for the misery +which this poet had suffered from his fellows. Roger wondered how many +ladies like the singer on the other side of the wall had asked poor +Wentworth to their "At Homes" for any but a vulgar reason. He +remembered how Wentworth, a strict moralist soured by a life of +suffering, had spoken to one lady. "You will buy my books and lay them +on your tables. You will ask me to dinner to amuse yourself with my +talk. You have won a reputation for wit by repeating my epigrams. And +for which of my ideas do you care two straws, for which would you +sacrifice one least vanity, for which would you outrage one convention? +I will come to your 'At Home.'" + +The cigarette was smoked out. The lady, having finished some four +songs, now toyed with a little Grieg, a little Bach, a little Schumann, +like a delicate butterfly flying by the finest clockwork. Roger, who +was now in no mood for sleep, found the music of some value as an +accompaniment to _Poppaea_. It was like the light and excitement of a +theatre, added to the emotion of the poetry. He read through to the +end of the second act, when his eyes began to trouble him. Then he +rose, hurriedly dressed, wrapped himself in a Chinese robe, embroidered +with green silk dragons, and passed through his sitting-room window on +to the balcony above the street. It was a narrow, old-fashioned +balcony, big enough for three people, if the people were fond of each +other. Structurally it was a part of the balcony of the member's +house, but an old straw trellis-work divided the two tenancies at the +party wall. Roger placed a deck-chair with its back against the +trellis, which shut off the member's balcony from his. He was +sheltered from above by a green verandah canopy, and from the street by +another trellis about five feet high. He would not sleep now, until +four; he knew his symptoms of old. He could not read. It was useless +to lie tossing in bed. He sat in the deck-chair mournfully munching +salted almonds. He was in a state of unnatural nervous excitement. +The music came through the house delicately to him, softened by two +walls, one of them honestly built in the late seventeenth century. He +thought that John O'Neill would be distant music to him henceforth. +Perhaps the dead look on the living souls as notes in a music, and play +upon them, making harmony or discord, according to the power of their +wills and the quality of their nature. He could imagine John, who had +stricken so many living souls to music, playing on in death, not +hampered by the indifference of any one note, but playing upon it +masterly, rousing it to music, by striking some kindred note, reaching +it through another, as perhaps our dead friends can. But life would be +terrible without John. He remembered how Lamb walked about muttering +"Coleridge is dead." A great spirit never expresses herself perfectly. +She needs many lesser spirits to catch those glittering crumbs and +fiery-flung manna seeds. When the bread passes, the disciples serve +scraps and preach bakery. + +He finished his salted almonds regretfully, remembering that he was out +of olives. He lighted another cigarette, and lay there smoking, trying +to get calm. It was very still but for the music; for Davenant Street +was as quiet as Dean's Yard. The windows were all blank and dark; +people were sleeping. Big Ben's noble tone told the quarters. A +policeman went past softly, feeling at the doors. Something went wrong +in the street lamp a few yards from Roger's perch. It fluttered as +though some great moth were struggling in the flame. It died down to a +few flagging points of light, leaving the dark street even darker. Big +Ben, lifting a solemn sweet voice, tolled two, with noble melancholy, +resigned to death, but hungry for the beauty of life, like the spirit +of Raleigh speaking. Ottalie was asleep now, the grey eyes shut, the +sweet face lying trustful. John was with the pale young Spaniard, +doing what? in the room high aloft there, over Queen Square. London +was about to take its hour of quiet. Only the poets, the scholars, and +the idlers were awake now. In a little while the May dawn would begin. +Even now it was tingeing the cherry blossom in Aleppo. The roses of +Sarvistan were spilling in the heat. The blades of green corn by Troy +gleamed above the river as the wind shook them. Tenedos rose up black, +watching the channel, now showing steel. + +Roger lighted another cigarette from the embers of the last. It was +too quiet to strike a match. The stillness gave him an emotional +pleasure. It gave him a sense of power, as though he were the only +living spirit in the midst of all this death. He was sorry when the +music stopped, for it had made the stillness more impressive. If his +thoughts had not been calmed by it, they had at least been made more +beautiful, chaotic as they were. The bitterness of the night worked +less bitingly. He was conscious of an exaltation of the mind. Up +there in the quiet, his devotion to John, his passion for Ottalie, and +his love of all high and noble art, seemed co-ordinated in a grand +scheme in which he was both god and man. Standing up, he looked over +the trellis into the street, deeply moved. He was here to perfect that +magnificent work of art,--himself. John, who had pointed the way, was +gone now. Ottalie, who had inspired him, was waiting with her crown; +or perhaps only showing it to lure him, for Nature, prodigal of dust +and weed, gives true beauty sparingly. It was for him to follow that +lure and to gather strength to seize it. The world was a little dust +under his feet. In his soul was a little green seed bursting. It +would grow up out of all the grime and muck of modern life, among all +the flying grit of the air, into a stately tree, which would shelter +the world with beauty and peace. He would be a supreme soul. He would +dominate this rabble which hooted him. + +He lit another cigarette. John was like a man sent from God. John was +unreal. John had marched before him with a torch. Now that ghostly +master of his had thrust the torch into the road, pointing him forward +with a gesture. The way to perfection lay further on, along a path too +narrow for two. Far up the path he could see Ottalie, a glimmer of +fragrant beauty, half hidden in a whirling dust-storm which almost +swept him off the ledge. The dust should not keep him from her. He +would climb to her. They would go on together. + +At this instant, as the melancholy intensity of the bells tolled the +quarter-hour, the window-door opened on the other side of the straw +trellis. A lady came out on to the balcony. She hummed one of Heine's +songs in a little low voice, which left the music full of gaps. Roger +recognised the singer's voice. He wondered if her husband were with +her. He supposed that he must be at the House, and that she was +waiting for him. Her skirts rustled as she moved. A faint scent of +violet attracted Roger to her. It was faint, exotic, and suggestive. +There is an intoxication in perfumes. She stood there for a full ten +seconds before she divined his presence beyond the screen. Her song +stopped instantly. Two seconds more convinced her that the person was +male and alone. A third suggested that he was a burglar. + +"Who is there?" she said quietly. Her voice was anxious rather than +fearful. + +"I'm so sorry," said Roger. He did not know what else to say. "I live +here." He thought that it would be polite to go indoors. He turned to +go. To his surprise she spoke again. + +"Can you give me a cigarette?" she said. She still spoke quietly. She +spoke as if a maidservant were in the room behind her. Roger was +flustered. He was a man of quick blood in a condition of excited +nerves. + +"Yes," he said. "Will you have Russian, or American, or Turkish?" + +She appeared to debate for an instant. + +"Give me a Russian," she said. "Give it to me through this hole in the +matting. Thanks." + +"Have you a match?" Roger asked. + +"No," she answered. "Give me a light from yours, please. Don't set +the mat on fire, though." + +He thrust his burning cigarette through the hole in the matting. He +felt the pressure of her cigarette upon it. He heard her quickened +breathing. He saw the glow brightening through the mat as the tobacco +kindled. + +"Thanks," she said softly, with a little half-laugh. "How did the play +go?" + +"The play?" Roger stammered. "It was---- Do you mean---- Which play +do you mean?" + +"Your play; _The Roman Matron_. You are Mr. Naldrett, aren't you? I +met you once for a moment at a house in Chelsea. At Mrs. Melyard's, +three years ago. I was just going." + +He remembered that hectic beauty Mrs. Melyard. She was like a green +snake. She used to receive her intimates (she had no friends) in a +room hung with viridian. There were green couches, green-shaded +lights, a gum burning greenly in a brazier with green glass sides. She +herself was dressed in green, glittering, metallic scales, which made a +noise like serpent's hissing as she glided. "Nothing is really +interesting except vice," was the only phrase which he could remember +of Mrs. Melyard's conversation. She was a feverish character, +explained by inherited phthisical taint. Melyard collected tsuba, and +fenced archæologically at the Foil Club. He was the best rapier and +dagger man in England. + +"You are Mrs. Templeton?" he asked. "I remember a lady at Mrs. +Melyard's." + +"I wasn't married then," she said quickly. "How did the play go?" + +"It was booed off." + +"I'm sorry," she said. She meant "I am sorry that I asked." + +Roger wondered how he could get away. It depended on the lady. + +"Can't you sleep?" she asked suddenly. + +"No." + +"I can't. Will it bore you to come in to talk to us?" + +He was used to unconventional people. He saw nothing strange in the +woman's invitation. Most of the women known to him would have acted as +simply and as frankly in the same circumstances. He knew that +Templeton seldom went to bed before two. He took it for granted that +Templeton was in the sitting-room; possibly within earshot. + +"I'm not very presentable," he said. "Let me change this robe." + +"We shan't mind," she said, reassuring him. "Come on." + +"Will you let me in?" + +"We'll pull down this screen." + +They pulled down the old matting with two vigorous jerks. Roger +stepped across the partition into the further balcony. + +"Come in," she said, passing through the window. "It's dark inside +here. Take care of the chair there." She put out a hand to pull the +chair away. She did it roughly, making a good deal of noise. + +"You sit here," she said. "That chair's comfy. I'll sit here, +opposite; here's an ash-tray." + +"Could I light a lamp or candle?" Roger asked, taking out his match-box. + +"No, thanks," she said. "Don't light up just yet; I'm sick of light. +I wish we could live in the dark, like wild beasts." + +"London is on your nerves," said Roger. "The noise and worry are +upsetting you. You are tired of London, not of light." + +He was disappointed by being asked to sit in darkness. He began to +lose interest in the lady. She was only a modern dramatic heroine, +i.e. a common woman overstrained. He had heard similar affected +silliness from a dozen empty women, some of them pretty. He had heard +that Mrs. Templeton was pretty. As she refused light, he decided that +fame had lied. "She must be a blonde," he thought, "and this room is +lit by electricity." He wished that Templeton would come. Templeton +would make the situation easier, and his wife's talk more sensible. +The lady was silently trying to sum him up. + +"No; I'm not tired of London," she was saying. "Only one cannot _live_ +in London." + +"London is on your nerves," Roger repeated. "London is a feverish +great spider. It sucks out vitality, and leaves its own poison +instead. Look at the arts. A young artist comes up here full of +vitality. Unless he is a truly great man, London will suck it all out +of him, and make him as poisonous and as feverish as herself." + +"Yes, that is quite true," she answered. "I wish we could all be +simple and natural, and have time to live. Life is so interestin'. +The only really interestin' thing." + +"What kind of life do you wish to live?" + +"I wish to live my own life. I want to know my own soul. To live. In +London one is always livin' other people's lives, goin' dinin', doin' +things because other people do them. But where else can you meet +interestin' people?" + +"People are not essential to true life," said Roger. "I believe that +all perfect life is communion with God, conversation, that is, with +ideas; 'godly conversation.' People are to some extent like thoughts, +like living ideas; for the inner and the outer lives correspond." + +"You mean that life is a kind of curve?" the lady interrupted. The +question was a moral boomerang. She often used it defensively; she had +once felled a scientist with it. + +"Life is whatever you like to make it." + +"I'm thinkin' of goin' to live in Ireland," said the lady. "The people +must be so exquisitely charmin'. Such a beautiful life, sittin' round +the fire, singin' the old songs. And then their imagination!" + +"Their charm is superficial," said Roger. "Taking the times together, +I've lived in Ireland for seven years. I have a cottage there. I do +not think that you will sit round many fires, to sing old songs, after +the first fine careless rapture, which lasts a month. I'm an +Englishman, of course. When in Ireland I'm only one of the English +garrison. I may be wanting in sympathy; but I maintain that the Irish +have no imagination. Imagination is a moral quality." + +"I don't think an Englishman can understand the Irish," said the lady. + +"When an Irishman is great enough to escape from the littleness of his +race, he becomes a very splendid person," Roger answered. "But until +that happens he seems to me to be wanting in any really fundamental +quality." + +"Oh," said the lady, "you are talking so very like an Englishman. You +aren't interested in life, I see. You are only interested in morals. +But you cannot say that the Irish have no imagination. They have +wonderful imagination. Look at the way they talk. And their writers: +Swift, Goldsmith, Sheridan. And their own exquisite Irish poets." + +"I'd give the whole company for one act of Addison's _Cato_," said +Roger. "Swift had a limited vision and a diseased mind. He diagnosed +his own diseases. Goldsmith wrote some pretty verses. But I do not +think that you have read them. Have you? Sheridan wrote a comedy at +the age of twenty-four to prove that a sot is nobler than a scholar. +Later, he tried to prove it in his own person. I do not read Irish. I +have read translations from it. Its distinctive quality seemed to me +to be just that kind of windy impersonality which one hears in their +talk." + +"That is so English of you," said the lady, laughing. "I think that I +ought to be very thankful for my Celtic blood." + +"Are you a Celt?" + +"Yes; from Cornwall. I think it gives me an instinctive love of the +beautiful." + +"Those who love beauty make it. I, too, have been a Celt. I was a +Celt from my twenty-second till my twenty-fifth year. Then I +discovered a very curious fact--two facts." + +"What were they?" + +"First, that the Celt's love of the beautiful is all bunkum. Second, +that the people of these islands are mongrels, bred from the scum of +Europe. You can call yourself an Anglo-Saxon, or a Celt, or an Aryan, +or a Norman, or a Long-Barrow Palæolith; but if you came from these +islands, you are a mongrel, a mongrel of a most chequered kind." + +At this instant the door opened suddenly, and the electric light was +turned on. In the doorway stood Templeton--a tall, bald, thin-faced +man, with foxy moustache and weak eyes. His face showed amazed anger. + +"What is this?" he said. + +"Let me introduce you," said the lady. "My husband, Mr. Naldrett." + +Roger, standing up under the angry gaze of Templeton, was conscious of +looking like a fool, in his robe of green silk dragons. + +"I don't understand," said Templeton. + +"I asked Mr. Naldrett here to talk to me," said the lady. + +"So I presume," said Templeton. + +"Have you had an interesting sitting?" Roger asked. + +Templeton did not answer. He was glaring at his wife. His opera hat +was tilted back; his overcoat was unbuttoned; an unlighted cigarette +drooped from his mouth. + +"Archie," said the lady suavely, "Mr. Naldrett is my friend. I asked +him here to talk to me." + +"So I see," said Templeton. + +"To talk to me," the woman repeated, flaring up, "while you were with +Mrs. Liancourt at her flat in St. Anne's Mansions. I know when the +House rose, and where you went afterwards. If you're goin' to have +your friends, I'm goin' to have mine." + +Templeton seemed to gulp. He turned to Roger. + +"Perhaps you will go," he said. + +"Yes, I think I had better," said Roger. "I am sorry that I came." + +He rose to go. Mrs. Templeton turned to him. + +"A quarter to three," she said sweetly. "You will remember that?" + +Roger looked hard at Mrs. Templeton. Never again would he speak +civilly to a woman with high cheek-bones, steel eyes, and loose mouth. +He bowed to her. + +"I didn't deserve it," he said quietly. He walked to the window-door, +feeling like some discovered lover in a play. As he entered the +balcony, Templeton slammed to the door behind him with a snarl of +"Now," as he opened fire on his wife. Templeton's flanks were turned. +He was blowing up his ammunition wagons before surrendering. + +For a moment Roger felt furious with Templeton. Then he blamed the +lady. She had played him a scurvy trick. Lastly, as he began to +understand her position, he forgave her. He blamed himself. He felt +that he had mixed himself with something indescribably squalid. + +As he undressed for bed he blamed the world for its vulgarity, and +dreariness, and savagery. The world was too much with him. It was +thwarting, and blighting, and destroying him. He longed to get away +from the world. Anywhere. To those Irish hills above the sea, to his +beautiful friend, to some peaceful, gentle life, where the squalor of +his night's adventures would be unknown and unremembered. He felt +contaminated. He longed to purify himself in the sea below his love's +home. He thought of that water. He saw it lit by the sun, with +tremulous brown sea-leaves folding. Sand at the bottom, six feet down, +made a wrinkled blur of paleness, across which a lobster crawled. He +would go there. In fifteen hours he would be tearing towards it +through the night, past the great glaring towns, on into the hills, to +the sea. + +A thought of the shaking of the train, and of the uneasy sleep of the +people in the carriage, merged gradually into the blur which precedes +unconsciousness. Before Big Ben tolled four he was asleep, in that +kind of restless nightmare which chains the will without chaining the +intelligence. In that kind of sleep which is not sleep he dreamed a +dream of Ottalie, which awakened him, in sudden terror, at seven. + + + + +III + + I prythee, sorrow, leave a little room + In my confounded and tormented mind + For understanding to deliberate + The cause or author of this accident. + _The Atheist's Tragedy_. + + +He thought, as he sat up, that an instant before his true self had +walked in the spiritual kingdom, apprehending beauty. Now, with the +shock of waking, the glory wavered, like a fire of wet wood, fitfully, +among the smoke of the daily life flooding back in his brain's +channels. The memory of the beauty came in gleams, moving him to the +bone, for it seemed to him that the spirit of his love had moved in the +chambers of his brain, bringing a message to him, while the dulnesses +of his body lay arrested. A dream so beautiful must, he thought, be a +token of all beauty, a sign, perhaps, that her nature was linked to +his, for some ecstatic purpose, by the power outside life. Her beauty, +her sweetness, her intense, personal charm, all the sacredness that +clothed her about, had walked with him in one of the gardens of the +soul. That was glory enough; but the dream was intense and full of +mystery; it had brought him very near to something awful and immortal, +so strange and mighty that only a heart's tick, something in the blood, +had kept him from the presence of the symbol-maker, and from the full +knowledge of the beauty of the meaning of life. + +The vision seemed meaningless when pieced together. Words in it had +seemed revelations, acts in it adventures, romances; but judged by the +waking mind, it was unintelligible, though holy, like a Mass in an +unknown tongue. + +He had found her in the garden at her home, among flowers lovelier than +earthly flowers, among flowers like flames and precious stones. That +was the beginning of it. Then in the sweetness of their talk he had +become conscious of all that her love meant to him, of all that it +meant to the power which directs life, of all that his failure to win +her would mean, here and hereafter. Life had seemed suddenly terrible +and glorious, a wrestle of God and devil for each soul. With this +consciousness had come a change in the dream. She had gone from him. + +That was the middle of it. Then that also changed. She had left him +to seek for her through the world. Suddenly she had sent a message to +him. He was walking to meet her. Delight filled him as wine fills a +cup. He would see her, he would touch her hand, her eyes would look +into his. He had never before been so moved by the love of her. His +delight was not the old selfish pleasure, but a rapturous comprehension +of her beauty, and of that of which her beauty was the symbol. He +knew, as he walked, that the beloved life in her was his own finer +self, longing to transmute him to her brightness. A word, a touch, a +look, and they would be together in nobleness; he would breathe the +beauty of her character like pure air, he would be a part of her +forever. + +So he had walked the streets to her, noticing nothing except the +brightness of the sun on the houses, till he had stood upon the +stair-top knocking vainly at the door of an empty house. It came upon +him then with an exhaustion of the soul, like death itself, that he had +come too late. She had gone away disappointed, perhaps angry. The +door would never open to him; he would never meet her again; never even +enter the hall, dimly seen through the glass, to gather relics of her. +Within, as he could see, lay a handkerchief and a withered flower once +worn by her, little relics bitterly precious, to be nursed in his heart +in a rapture of agony, could he only have them. But he had come too +late; he had lost her; his heart, wanting her, would be empty always, a +dead thing going through life like a machine. In his vision he could +see across to Ireland, to her home. He could see her there; sad that +she had not seen him. He had tried to wade to her through a channel +full of thorns, which held him fast. From the midst of the thorns he +could see a young man, with a calm, strong face, talking to her. +Shaken as he was by grief, and prepared for any evil, he realised that +this youth was to be her mate, now that he had lost her. + +Lastly, at the end of the dream, he had received a letter from her, +with the postmark Athens across the Greek stamp. The letter had been +the most real part of the dream. It was her very hand, a dashing, +virile hand, with weak, unusual f's, t's crossed far to the right of +their uprights, and a negligent beauty in some of the curves of the +capitals. The letters were small, the down-strokes determined but +irregular, never twice the same. It was the hand of a vivid, charming, +but not very strong character. He could not remember what the letter +said. Only one sentence at the end remained. "I have read your last +book," it ran; "it reads like the diary of a lost soul." There was no +signature; nothing but the paper, with the intensely vivid writing, and +that one sentence plainly visible. It was even sound criticism. The +book of sketches had been self-conscious experiments in style, +detached, pictorial presentation of crises, clever things in their way, +but startling, both in colour and in subject, the results of moods, not +of perfected personality. The sketches had been ill-assorted; that was +another fault. But he had not thought them evil. Sitting up in bed, +with the damning sentence still vivid, he felt that they must be evil, +because she disliked them. He had created brutal, erring, passionate, +and wicked types, with frank and natural creative power. At this +moment he felt himself judged. He felt for the first time that the +theories of art common to the little party of his friends, were not so +much theories of art as declarations of youthful independence, soiled +with personal failures of perception and personal antipathies. He was +wrong; his art was all wrong; his art was all self-indulgence, not +self-perfection. An artist had no right to create at pleasure, ignoble +types and situations, fixing fragments of the perishing to the walls of +the world, as a keeper nails vermin. Ottalie's fair nature was not +nourished on such work. Great art called such work "sin," "denial of +the Holy Ghost," "crucifixion of our Lord." He reached for the +offending book; but the words seemed meaningless; some of the intricate +prose-rhythms were clever. But anybody can do mechanics and +transcribe. Style and imagination are the difficult things. He put +the book aside, wondering if he would ever do good work. + +He was haunted by the dream until he was dressed. Then the memories of +the night before came in upon him, the yells of the mob, hooting his +soul's child, the bloated face of the sot, his friend's farewell that +had had neither warning nor affection, the indignity of the visit to +the Templetons', till the world seemed to be pressing its shapeless +head upon his windows, shrieking insults at him, through yielding +glass. He began to realise that he had had the concentrated torment of +months suddenly stamped upon him in a night. His work, his person, his +affections, his social nature had all been trampled and defiled. He +wondered what more torments were coming to him with the new day. Some +forethought of what was coming crossed his mind when he saw his +breakfast-table. Beside his teacup were three or four daily papers, in +which, in clear type, were set forth the opinions of Britain's moral +guardians concerning their immoral brother. + +There were letters first, some of them left from the night before. An +obscure acquaintance, a lady in Somersetshire, sent some verses, asking +for his criticism, and for the address of "a publisher who would pay +for them." One of the poems began + + "Hark! hark! hark! + 'Tis the song of the Lark, + Dewy with spangles of morn." + + +A second letter from the same lady enclosed a "Poem on My Cat Peter," +which had been accidentally omitted from the other envelope. His agent +sent him a very welcome cheque for £108, for his newly completed novel. +Next came a letter from a stranger, asking for permission to set some +verses to music. A charitable countess asked for verses for her new +Bazaar Book. An American News Cutting Bureau sent a little bundle of +reviews of his book of sketches. The wrapper on the bundle bore a +legend in red ink:-- + +"We mail you 45 clippings of _The Handful_. Has your Agency sent you +that many? If you like our way of business, mail us $1.50, and we will +continue to collect clippings under your name." + +He disliked their way of business. He flung the clippings unread into +the fireplace. The next letter asked him to lecture to the +Torchbearers' Guild, who, it seemed, admired "the virile manliness" of +his style. Last of all came a letter from an unknown clergyman +denouncing the pernicious influence of _The Handful_ in words which, +without being rude, were offensive beyond measure. He took up the +papers. + +The first paper, _The Daily Dawn_, treated him _d'haut en bas_, as +follows:-- + +"M. Falempin's latest theatrical adventure, _A Roman Matron_, by Mr. +Roger Naldrett (whom we suspect, from internal evidence, to be a not +very old lady), was produced last night at the King's Theatre. As far +as the audience permitted us to judge, before the piece ended in a +storm of groans, we think that it is entirely unsuited to the modern +stage. The character of Petronius, finely played by Mr. Danvers, +showed some power of psychological analysis; but Mr. (or Miss) Naldrett +would do well to remember that the Aristotelian definition of tragedy +cannot be disregarded lightly." + +The criticism in the second paper, _The Dayspring_, was written in more +stately prose than that of _The Dawn_. + +"An unreasonable amount of excitement was begotten by the entourage," +it ran; "but the piece, which was dull, and occasionally disgusting, +convinced us that the New Drama, about which we have heard so much +lately, would do better to adequately study a drama more germane to +modern ideas, such as we fortunately possess, than libel the +institutions from which our glorious Constitution is derived," which +was certainly a home-thrust from _The Dayspring_. + +The third paper, _The Morning_, in its news column, referred to a +disgraceful _fracas_ at the King's Theatre. "The police," said _The +Morning_, "were soon on the spot, and removed the more noisy members of +the audience. Neither M. Falempin, the manager of the theatre, nor +Miss Hanlon, who took a leading part in the offending play, would +consent to be interviewed, when waited on, late last night, by a +representative of this paper." + +The fourth paper, _The Day_, said savagely that _The Matron_ should +never have passed the Censor, and that its production was an indelible +blot on M. Falempin's (hitherto spotless) artistic record. Roger had +written occasional reviews for _The Day_, about a dozen, all told. On +the same page, and in the column next to that containing the "Dramatic +Notes," was a review signed by him. Roger turned to this review, to +see how it read. It was a review of a worthless book of verse by a +successful versifier. The literary editor of _The Day_ had asked Roger +to write a column on the book. As the book deserved, at most, three +scathing words in a Dunciad, Roger had written a column about poetry, a +very pretty piece of critical writing, worth five thousand such books +fifty times over. Its only fault was that, being about poetry, it had +little reference to the book of verse by the successful poet. So the +literary editor had "cut" and "written in" and altered the article, +till Roger, reading it, on this tragical morning, found himself +self-accused of despicable truckling to Mammon, and the palliation of +iniquity, in sentences the rhythms of which jarred, and in platitudes +which stung him. He flung down the paper. He would never again write +for _The Day_. He would never write another word for any daily or +weekly paper. He remembered what d'Arthez says in _Les Illusions +Perdues_. He blamed himself for not having remembered before. + +He ate very hurriedly, so that he might lose no time in getting to the +flat in Shaftesbury Avenue, to find out if Ottalie were really there. +Ottalie; the sight of Ottalie; the sound of her voice even, would end +his troubles for him. The thought of her calmed him. The thought of +her brought back the dream, with a glow of pleasure. The dream came +and went in his mind, seeming now strange, now beautiful. His +impression of it was that given by all moving dreams. He thought of it +as a kind of divine adventure in which he had taken part. He felt that +he had apprehended spiritually the mysterious life beyond ours, and had +learned, finally, forever, that Ottalie's soul was linked to his soul +by bonds forged by powers greater than man. A cab came clattering up. +There came a vehement knocking at the outer door. "Ottalie," he +thought. Selina, the house-maid, entered. + +"A lady to see you, sir," she said. + +He stood up, gulping, expecting Ottalie. The lady entered. She was +not Ottalie. She was a total stranger in a state of great excitement. + +"Are you Mr. Naldrett, sir?" she said. + +"Yes. Yes. What is it?" + +"Mrs. Pollock's compliments, sir, and will you please come round at +once?" + +"What's the matter?" + +"It's Mr. Pollock, sir. He's had a fit or somethink. He's lying in +the grate with all the blood gone to his apalex." + +"Right," said Roger, stuffing his letters into his pockets. "I'll +come. When did it happen?" + +"Just now, sir. He'd just gone into the studio, to begin his painting. +Then there came a crash. And the missus and I rush in, and there he +was in the grate, sir." + +"Yes. Yes. Have you sent for a doctor?" + +"No, sir. The missus said to go for you." + +They galloped off in the cab together. Pollock with the bloody apalex +was a young artist whose studio was in Vincent Square. Roger was fond +of him. He had shared rooms with him until his marriage. Roger +wondered as he drove what was going to happen to the wife if Pollock +died. She was expecting a child. Pollock hadn't made much, poor +fellow. + +"Very beautiful paintings, Mr. Pollock does, sir," said the lady with +enthusiasm. "Oh, he does them beautiful. But they're not like +ordinary pictures. I mean, they're not pretty, like ordinary pictures. +They're like old-fashioned pictures." + +"Yes," said Roger. "Tell me. Is his big picture finished? The one +with the lady under a stained-glass window." + +"No, sir. It's got a lot to do yet, sir. O I 'ope nothink's going to +'appen to 'im, sir." + +"Now here we are," said Roger, as the cab slackened. "Now you drive to +the corner there. You'll see a brass plate with DR. COLLINSON on it at +the corner house. Tell him to get into the cab with you and come round +at once. Go on, now. See that he comes at once." + +The door of the flat stood open. Roger entered hurriedly. Just inside +he ran against Pollock, who was hastening with a jug of water from the +bathroom. + +"What is it, Pollock? Are you better?" + +"I'm all right," said Pollock, feeling a bandaged head. "It's Kitty. +Not me. Come on in, quick." + +"But I thought you were having apoplexy." + +"That heavy frame full of Dürers came down. The corner caught me over +the eye while I was standing by the mantelpiece. It knocked me out. +Come on in. I believe Kitty's in a bad way." + +Kitty lay on a couch. Her face was not like a human being's face. +Pollock, very white, sponged her brow with cold water. + +"There, dear," he kept saying, "O God, O God, O God," those words, over +and over again. + +Roger ran to the bedroom for pillows. There was a fire in the kitchen. +He poked it up, and put water to boil. + +"Where's her hot-water bottle?" he called. Not getting any answer he +looked for it in one of the beds, which had not yet been made up. He +filled the bottle and made up the bed. "Now, Charles," he said, "we +must get her into bed. I wish your girl would bring the doctor." + +Charles looked at him stupidly. "I believe she's dying, Roger," he +answered. "O God, I believe she's dying. I've never seen any one like +this. She used to be so pretty, Roger, before all this happened." + +"Dying? Nonsense!" said Roger. He turned to the patient. "Kitty," he +said, "we're going to put you to bed. Lean on my arm." + +The laughter stopped; but the limbs crazily made protest. He had never +seen anything like it. It was as though the charming graceful woman +had suddenly been filled by the spirit of a wild animal, which was +knocking itself to pieces against the corners in the strange house. + +"We shall have to carry her, Charles," he said. + +"No, no," said Charles. "She's dying." + +The doctor, coming in abruptly, took the battle out of his hands. +"Come, come," he said. "Come, Mrs. Pollock. I was afraid that you +were ill. You'll feel a lot better when you get to bed. I want you to +rest." + +He turned to Pollock. "Get her into bed," he said. "Have you got a +nurse?" + +"No," said Pollock. "She can't come till July." + +"Bessie here will do for the moment," said Roger. + +Bessie and Pollock helped her to bed. The doctor and Roger talked +desultorily. + +"No. It's nothing serious. So the frame came down and stunned him? I +see. And she came in and found him in the grate? Yes. A nasty shock. +Yes. Yes. Of course, it may be serious. It will be impossible to say +till I see her. If she had had other children I should say not. But-- +Would you say that she is an excitable woman, given to these attacks?" + +"No. She used to write a little. She is nervous; but not excitable. +Do you find that occupation has much influence on the capacity to +resist shock?" + +"N-no," said the doctor. "Resistance depends on character. Occupation +only modifies character slightly. Life being what it is, one has to be +adaptable to survive." + +Pollock entered, looking beaten. + +"Will you come, doctor?" he said. + +They went. + +Presently Pollock returned alone. He sat down. + +"It's It," he said despondently. "My picture's not done. I shan't +have a penny till July. We were counting on its not happening till +July. I've not got ten pounds." + +"You mustn't worry about that," said Roger. "You must borrow from me. +Take this cheque. I'll endorse it. Give me yours for half of it. +Don't say you won't. Look here. You must. Now about a nurse. Look +here. Listen to me, Charles. You can't leave here. I'll see about a +nurse. I know the sort of woman Kitty would like. I'll settle all +that with the doctor. I'll send the best I can. You can't leave +Kitty, that's certain." + +Pollock pulled himself together. The doctor returned. Roger took the +addresses of several women, and hurried off to interview them. No cab +was in sight. He wasted ten good minutes of nervous tension in trying +to find one. He found one at last. As he drove, the desire to be at +Ottalie's flat made him forget his friend. He thought only of the +chance of seeing Ottalie. He must waste no time. He wondered if he +would be too late, as in his dream. He would have to get there early, +very early. He prayed that the first nurse on his list might be a +suitable woman. The image of the suitable nurse, a big, calm, placid, +ox-eyed woman, formed in his mind. If he could find her at once he +would be in time. He was longing to be pounding past Whitehall, on the +way to Shaftesbury Avenue. A clock above a hosier's told him that it +was nine. No. That clock had stopped. Another clock, further on, +over a general store, said eight-fifteen. Yet another, eight-thirty. +His watch said eight-thirty-five; but his watch was fast. + +Mrs. Perks, of 7 Denning Street, was out. Would he leave a message? +No, he would not leave a message. Was it Mrs. Ford? No, not Mrs. +Ford, another lady. Perhaps he would come back. He bade the cabman to +hurry. Mrs. Stanton, the next on the list, could not come. She was +expecting a call from another lady. Mrs. Sanders was out, and +"wouldn't be back all day, she said." The fourth, a brisk, +level-headed woman, busy at a sewing-machine in a neat room, would +come; but was he the husband, and could she be certain of her fees, and +what servants were kept? + +He said that the fees were safe. He gave her two sovereigns on +account. Then she boggled at the single servant. She was not very +strong. She had never before been with any lady with only one servant. +She wasn't sure how she would get on. She had herself to consider. + +"I'm sorry," said Roger. "You would have been the very woman. I'll go +on to the hospital." + +"Perhaps I could manage," she said. + +"Will you come?" he asked. + +"Is it in a house or a flat?" + +"It's in a top flat." + +"I dare say I could manage," she said, still hesitating. + +Roger, remembering suddenly that Pollock had a married sister, vowed +that another lady would be there a good deal in the daytime. She +weighed this fact as she stood by the door of the cupboard about to +take her hat. + +"I don't think I should care to do it," she said suddenly. "I've not +been used to that class of work." + +Turning at the door as he went out, he saw that she was watching him +with a faint smile. Only the hospital remained. + +It took him a long way out of his way. It was twenty past nine when he +reached the hospital. Very soon it would be too late for Ottalie. His +heart sank. He believed in telepathy. He was thinking so fixedly on +Ottalie that he believed that she must sense his thought. "Ottalie, +Ottalie," he kept saying to himself. "Wait for me. Wait for me. I +shall come. I am coming as fast as I can. Can't you feel me hurrying +to you? Wait for me. Don't let me miss you." He discharged his +horse-cab, and engaged a motor-cab. Two minutes later he had engaged a +nurse. She was in the cab with him. They were whirling south. + +"No," she was telling him. "I don't find much difference in my cases. +I don't generally see them after. Some are more interesting than +others. I like being with an interesting case. I don't mean to say a +serious case, and have either of them die, and that. I mean, you know, +out of the usual. That's why I like having to do with a first child." + +She asked if there were any chance of her being too late. Roger, with +his heart full of Ottalie, could not tell her. + +"I shouldn't like to be too late," she said. "I've never missed a case +yet. Never. I should be vexed if I were too late with this one. It's +a painter gentleman, I think you said it was?" + +"Yes." + +"I was with a painter's lady once before," she said. "He gave me a +little picture of myself." + +They reached the flat. Pollock's sister had arrived. The doctor had +sent his son for her. Pollock was moodily breaking chalk upon a +drawing. The studio was foul with the smoke of cigarettes. "I can't +work," he said, lighting a cigarette from the fag-end of the last. +"Sit down." He flung away his chalk and sat down. "You've been +awfully good to me, Roger. You've got me out of a tragedy. You don't +know what it feels like." + +"How is Kitty?" + +"Pretty well, the doctor thinks. God knows what he would call bad. +This is all new to me. I don't want to go through this again. God +knows if she'll ever get through it. I shall shoot myself if anything +happens to Kitty." + +Roger glanced at his watch. It was eighteen minutes to ten. He would +have to fly to find Ottalie. If she were in town at all, she would be +out by ten. He was sure of that. His motor-cab was waiting. He had a +quarter of an hour. But how could he leave Pollock in this state? + +"Charles," he said, "I want you to come out with me. You've got on +shoes, I see. Take your hat. Kitty is with three capable women and a +doctor. You're only in the way, and making a fuss. Come with me. +I'll leave you at the National Gallery, while I see a friend. Then +we'll go to Bondini's, in Suffolk Street." He called gently to +Pollock's sister. "Mrs. Fane," he said, "I'm taking Charles to +Bondini's, in Suffolk Street." + +"A very good thing," said Mrs. Fane. "A man is much better out of the +way in times like these." + +They started. Just outside Dean's Yard Gate the cab broke down. Roger +got out. "What's the matter?" he asked. + +"Nothing much, sir," said the man, already busy under the bonnet. "I +won't keep you a minute. Get in again, sir." + +A hand touched Roger's arm. He turned. A total stranger, unmistakably +a journalist, was at his side. Roger shuddered. It was an interviewer +from _The Meridian_. + +"Mr. Naldrett?" said the interviewer, taking a long shot. "I +recognised you by your portrait in _The Bibliophile_. A lucky meeting. +Perhaps you didn't get my telegram. I called round at your rooms just +now, but you were out. I want to ask you about your play _The Matron_. +It attracted considerable attention. Will you please tell me if you +have any particular ideas about tragedy?" + +"Yes," said Roger; "I have. And I'm going to express them. I'm in a +great hurry; and I must refuse to be interviewed. Please thank your +editor from me for the honour he has done me; but tell him that I +cannot be interviewed." + +"Certainly not, since you wish it," said the journalist. "But I would +like to ask you one thing. I am told your play is very morbid. Are +you morbid? You don't look very morbid." + +"I am sorry," said Roger. "But I am not morbid." + +"Mr. Naldrett," said the journalist, "are you going to write any more +tragedies like _The Roman Matron_?" + +"I have one finished and one half finished," said Roger. + +"I hope, Mr. Naldrett," said the journalist, "that you have written +them for ordinary people, as well as to please yourself. Writing to +please one's self is very artistic. But won't you consider Clapham, +and Balham, and Tooting? How will you please them with tragedies? A +good comedy is what people like. They want something to laugh at, +after their day's work. They're quite right. A good comedy's the +thing. Anybody can write a tragedy. What's the good of making people +gloomy? One wants the pleasant things of life, Mr. Naldrett, on the +stage. One goes to the theatre to be amused. There's enough tragedy +in real life without one getting more in the theatre. I suppose you've +studied Ibsen, Mr. Naldrett?" + +"Have not you?" + +"I don't believe in him. He may be a thinker and all that, but his +view of life is very morbid. He is a decadent. Of course, they say +his technique is very fine. But he has a mind like a sewer." + +"Quite ready, sir," said the chauffeur, swinging himself into his seat. + +"I must wish you good-bye, here," said Roger to the interviewer. "Mind +your coat. It's caught in the door. Mind you thank your editor." The +cab snorted off, honking. The interviewer gazed after it. "H'm," he +said, with that little cynical nod with which the unintelligent express +comprehension. "So that's the new drama, is it?" + +The car reached Trafalgar Square without being stopped by the traffic. +St. Martin's clock stood at a few minutes to ten. Roger was in the +dismal mood of one who, having given up hope, is yet not certain. He +dropped Pollock at the Gallery, and then sped on, through Leicester +Square, up a little street full of restaurants and French book shops. +The car was stopped by traffic at the end of this street. Roger leapt +out, paid the man hurriedly, and ran into the Avenue. Within thirty +seconds, he was running up four flights of stairs to the door on which +he had knocked in his vision. + +He peered through the glass in the door. As in his dream, something +lay in the passage beyond, some glove or handkerchief or crumpled +letter, with a shaft of sunlight upon it from an open door. No one +came to open to him; but Roger, knocking there, was conscious of the +presence of Ottalie by him and in him; he felt her brushing past him, a +rustling, breathing beauty, wearing a great hat, and those old pearl +earrings which trembled when she turned her head. But no Ottalie came +to the door, no Agatha, no old Mrs. Hicks the caretaker. The flat was +empty. After a couple of minutes of knocking, an old, untidy, +red-faced woman came out from the flat beneath, gasping for breath, +with her hand against her side. + +"No use your knockin'," she said crustily. "They're gawn awy. They +i'n't 'ere. They're gawn awy." + +"When did they go?" asked Roger, filled suddenly with leaping fire. + +"They're gawn awy," repeated the old woman. "No use your knockin'. +They're gawn awy." She gasped for a moment, eyeing Roger with +suspicion and dislike; then turned to her home with the slow, +uncertain, fumbling movements of one whose heart is affected. + +Roger was left alone on the stairs, aware that he had come too late. + +The stairs were covered with a layer of sheet-lead. When the old woman +had shut her door, Roger grovelled down upon them, lighting match after +match, in the hope of finding footmarks which might tell him more. +Agatha had rather long feet, Ottalie's were small, but very well +proportioned. Mrs. Hicks's feet were disguised by the boots she wore. +A scrap of brown linoleum on the stair-head bore evident marks of a +man's hobnail boots which had waited there, perhaps for an answer. +There were other, non-committal marks, which might have been made by +anybody. On the whole, Roger fancied that a woman had made them, when +going out, with dry shoes, that morning. The problem now was, had she +left London for Ireland or for the Continent? With some misgivings, he +decided against Ireland. On former occasions she had always made her +stay in London after her visit to the Continent. If she had been +staying in London for more than one night, she would have written to +him; he would have seen her. As she had not written to him, she was +plainly going abroad, probably for a month or six weeks, after resting +for one night on the way. He would not see her till the middle of the +summer. That she had been in town, for at least one night, was plain +from what the woman had said. The thought that only a few hours ago +she had passed where he stood, came home to him like her touch upon +him. He sat down upon the stair-head till his disappointment was +mastered. + +He took a last look through the door-glass at the crumpled thing, +glove, letter, or handkerchief, lying in the passage. Then he went out +into the avenue. The disappointment was very bitter to him. It was so +strong an emphasis upon the prophetic quality of his dream. Ottalie +had been there, waiting for him. He had come there too late. He had +missed her. The thought that he had missed her, suggested the cause. +He would have to go back to Pollock. He could not leave his friend +alone in that wild state of mind. A smaller man would perhaps have +felt resentment against the cause. Roger was without that littleness. +He saw only the tragic irony. He saw life being played upon a great +plan. He felt himself to be a fine piece set aside from his own +combination by one greater, stronger, more wonderful. It seemed very +wonderful that he had been kept (so unexpectedly) from Ottalie, by the +one thing in the world strong enough so to keep him. Nothing but a +matter of life and death could have kept him from her. + +A lively desire sprang up in him to know whither she had gone. This +(he thought) he could find out, without difficulty, from a Bradshaw. +If she were going to Greece, she would go by one of two ways. For a +few minutes he had the hope that she might not yet have left London, +that he might catch her at the station. A Bradshaw showed him that +this was possible, since, going by one route, she would not have to +start till after seven in the evening. But, if she had chosen that +route, why should she have closed the flat so early? He saw no answer +to the question. Still, the uncertainty preyed upon him and flattered +him at the same time. She might be there at seven. He would go to the +station, in any case. Would it were seven! He had nine hours to live +through. + +He walked hurriedly to the National Gallery. He remembered, when he +entered, that he had made no rendezvous with Pollock. He expected to +find him before the _Ariadne_. He was not there. He was not before +his other favourite, _The Return of Ulysses_. He was not in any of the +little rooms opening off the Italian rooms. A hurried walk round all +the foreign schools showed that Pollock was not in that part of the +Gallery at all. Very few people were in the Gallery at that hour. +There could be no mistake. He tried the English rooms, without +success. He described Pollock to the keepers of the lower stairs. +"No, sir. No one's gone down like that." Search in the basement, in +the little rooms where the Turner water-colours and Arundel prints are +kept, showed him that Pollock was not in the Gallery. He wished to be +quite certain. He made a swift beat of the French and Spanish rooms, +and thence, by the Dutch and Flemish schools, to the Italian rooms. +Here he doubled back upon his tracks, to avoid all possibility of +mistake. He was now certain Pollock was not in the Gallery. Very +probably he had never entered it. What had become of him? + +He could hardly have gone to the Portrait Gallery, he thought. Yet it +was possible. Pollock was in an excited state of mind. He was hardly +in a fit state to be out alone. Roger felt anxious. He hurried to the +Portrait Gallery. After a long search, upstairs and downstairs, in +those avenues of painted eyes, he decided that Pollock was not there, +either. He must have gone to Bondini's. Suffolk Street was only a +quarter of a mile away. Roger hurried on to look for him at Bondini's. +But no. He was not at Bondini's. Where, then, could he be? + +By this time, Roger was alarmed for his friend. He thought that +something must have happened to Kitty. He took a cab to Vincent Square +to make sure. Pollock let him in. He was smoking a cigarette. His +bandage gave him a one-eyed look, infinitely depressing. + +"I'm sorry, Roger," he said; "I couldn't keep away from Kitty. She's +quieter, but no better. O God, Roger, I don't know how men can be +unkind to women. I don't know what I shall do without her, if anything +happens to her." + +"You must not lose heart, like this," Roger said. "I understand, very +well, what you are feeling. But you ought not to expect evil in this +way. Very, very few cases go wrong, now. I was afraid that something +had happened to you. Will you come to my rooms for a game of chess? +Then we could lunch together, and go on, perhaps, to Henderson's. He +has finished the picture he was working on." + +Pollock was not to be tempted. He would not leave Kitty. After +talking with him for nearly an hour, Roger left him, promising to come +back before long, to enquire. + +When he got outside, into the street, with no definite, immediate +object to occupy his mind, he was assailed by the memories of his +succession of mishaps. He could not say that one of them hurt more +than another. The loss of Ottalie, following so swiftly on the dream, +made him miserable. The destruction of his play by the critics made +him feel not exactly guilty, but unclean, as though the rabble had spat +upon him. He felt "unclean," in the Levitical sense. He had some +hesitation in going to mix with his fellows. + +He kept saying to himself that if he were not very careful, the world +would be flooding into his mind, trampling its garden to mud. It was +his duty to beat back the world before it fouled his inner vision. If +he were not very careful he would find that his next work would be +tainted with some feverish animosity, some personal bitterness, or +weakness of contempt. It was his duty as a man and as an artist to +prevent that, so that his mind might be as a hedged garden full of +flowers, or as a clear, unflawed mirror, reflecting only perfect +images. The events of the night before had broken in his barriers. He +felt that his old theory, laid aside long before, when he first felt +the fascination of modern artistic methods, was true, after all; that +the right pursuit of the artist was the practice of Christianity. He +found in the National Gallery, in the battle picture of Uccello, in the +nobleness of that young knight, riding calmly among the spears, a +healing image of the artist. He lingered before that divine young man +with the fair hair until one o'clock. He passed the afternoon at a +table in the British Museum, reading all that he could find about +Ottalie. There was her name in full in the Irish Landed Gentry. There +were the names of all her relatives, and the names of their houses. It +was an absurd thing to read these entries, but the names were all +stimulants to memory. He knew these people and places. They took +vivid shape in his mind as he read them. He had read them before, more +than once, when the craving for her had been bitter in the past. He +knew the names of her forebears unto the third and fourth generation. +A volume of _Who's Who_ gave him details of her living relatives. A +married uncle's recreations were "shooting and hunting." A maiden aunt +had published _Songs of Quiet Life_, in 1902. Her older brother, +Leslie Fawcett, had published a novel, _One Summer_, in 1891. Both +these volumes lay beside him. He read them again, for the tenth time. +Both were very short works; and both, he felt, helped him to understand +Ottalie. Neither work was profound; but both came from a sweet and +noble nature, at once charming and firm. There were passages in the +songs which were like Ottalie's inner nature speaking. In the novel, +in the chapter on a girl, he thought that he recognised Ottalie as she +must have been long ago. + +The volume of the Landed Gentry gave him pity for the historian who +would come a century hence, to grub up facts for his history. Ottalie, +dear, breathing, beautiful woman, witty, and lovely-haired, and noble +like a lady in a poem, would be to such a one "3rd dau.," or, perhaps, +mere "issue." + +At five o'clock, he put away his books. He went to drink tea at a +dairy, in High Holborn. He entered the place with some misgivings, for +his two emotions made the world distasteful to him. The memory of the +night before made him feel that he had been whipped in public. The +thought of Ottalie made him feel that the real world was in his brain. +He shrank from meeting anybody known to him. That old feeling of +"uncleanness" came strongly over him. The stuffy unquiet of the Museum +had at least been filled by preoccupied, selfish people. Here in the +tea-shop, everybody stared. All the little uncomfortable tables were +peopled by pairs of eyes. He felt that a woman giggled, that a young +man nudged his fellow. Stepping back to let a waitress pass, he +knocked over a chair. The place was cramped; he felt stupidly awkward +and uncomfortable. He blushed as he picked up the chair. Everybody +stared. It seemed to him that they were saying, "That is Mr. Naldrett, +the author of the piece which was booed off last night. They say it's +very immoral. Millie was there. She said it was a silly lot of +old-fashioned stuff. What funny eyes he's got. And look at the way he +puts his feet." + +He sat down in a corner, from which he could survey the room. A paper +lay upon the table; he picked it up abstractedly. It was a copy of +_The Post Meridian_. Somebody had rested butter upon the upper part of +it. He glanced at it for an instant, just long enough to see a leading +article below the grease mark. "Drama and Decency," ran the scarehead. +It went on to say that the London public had once again shown its +unerring sense of the fitness of things over Mr. Naldrett's play. He +dropped the paper to one side, and wiped the hand which had touched it. +He felt beaten to bay. He stared forward at the house so fiercely that +a timid lady, of middle age and ill-health, possibly as beaten as +himself, turned from the chair opposite before she sat down. There +were no friends of his there, except a red-haired, fierce little poet, +who sat close by, reading and eating cake. The yellow back of _Les +Fleurs du Mal_ was propped against his teapot. He bit so fiercely that +his beard wagged at each bite. Something of the fierceness and passion +of the _Femmes Damnées_, or of _le vin de l'Assassin_, was wreaked upon +the cake. There came a muttering among the bites. The man was almost +reading aloud. A memory of Baudelaire came to Roger, a few grand +melancholy lines:-- + + "La servante au grand coeur dont vous étiez jalouse, + Et qui dort sans sommeil sous une humble pelouse, + Nous devrions pourtant lui porter quelques fleurs. + Les morts, les pauvres morts, ont de grandes douleurs, + Et quand Octobre souffle, émondeur des vieux arbres, + Son vent mélancolique à l'entour de leurs marbres, + Certe, ils doivent trouver les vivants bien ingrats." + + +He wondered if it would be like that. A waitress brought him tea and +toast. He poured a little tea into his cup, thinking of a man now +dead, who had drunk tea there with him a year ago. One was very +callous about the dead. He wondered if the dead were callous about the +living, or whether they had of _grandes douleurs_, as the poet thought. +He felt that he would not mind being dead, but for Ottalie. He +wondered whether Ottalie had read the papers. He buttered some toast +and laid it to one side of his plate, a sort of burnt offering to the +dead. A line on the bill of fare caught his eye. "Pan-Bos. Our new +Health Bread. Per Portion, 2d." His tired mind turned it backwards, +".d2 ,noitroP reP daerB." "I am going mad," he said to himself. +"Shall I go to Ireland to-night?" + +Something warned him that if he went to Ireland, Ottalie would not be +there. With Ottalie away, it would be intolerable. There would be her +house, up on the hills, and all those sycamores, like ghosts in the +twilight, ghosts of old men brooding on her beauty, like the old men in +Troy when Helen passed. No. He could not bear Ireland with her away. +He thought of the boat train with regret for the old jolly jaunts. The +guard with a Scotch accent, the carriage in front which went on to +Dundee, the sound of the beautiful Irish voice ("voce assai più che la +nostra viva"), and then the hiring of rug and pillow, knowing that one +would wake in Scotland, among hills, running water, a "stately speech," +and pure air. It would not be wise to go to Ireland. If he went now, +with Ottalie away, he might not be able to go later, when she would be +there. It would be nothing without her. Nothing but lonely reading, +writing, walking, and swimming. It would be better not to go. Here +the poet gulped his cake, rose, and advanced on Roger. + +"How d'you do?" he said, speaking rapidly, as though his words were +playing tag. "I've just been talking to Collins about you. He's been +telling me about your play. I hear you had a row, or something." + +"Yes. There was a row." + +"Collins has been going for you in _The Daystar_. He says you haven't +read Aristotle, or something. Have you seen his article?" + +"No. I haven't seen it." + +"Oh, you ought to read it. Parts of it are very witty. It would cheer +you up." + +"What does he say?" + +"He says that-- Oh, you know what Collins says. He says that you-- I +believe I've got it on me. I cut it out. Where did I put it?" + +"Never mind. I'm not interested in Collins." + +"Aren't you? He's very good. I suppose your play'll be produced again +later?" + +"I think not." + +He got rid of the poet, paid his bill, and walked out. Outside he ran +into Hollins, the critic of _The Week_. He would have avoided Hollins, +but Hollins stopped him. + +"Ah, Naldrett," he said. "I've just been going for you in _The Week_. +What do you mean by that third act? Really. It really was--" + +It gave Roger a kind of awe to think that this man had been damning +other people's acts before he was born. + +"What was wrong with the third act? You didn't hear it." + +"You must read M. Capus," said Hollins, passing on. "I shall go for +you until you do." + +A newsboy, with a voice like a bird of doom, flying in the night, held +a coloured bill. "Drama and Decency," ran the big letters. Another, +offering a copy, shewed, as allurement, "_'ceful Fracas_." The whole +town seemed angry with him. He crossed into Seven Dials, and along to +St. Martin's Lane, where he knew of a quiet reading-room. Here he hid. + + + + +IV + + There's hope left yet. + _The Virgin Martyr_. + + +At seven o'clock he went to the station, hoping (against his better +judgment) that he might see Ottalie at the train. The train was very +crowded. The travellers wore the pleased, expectant look with which +one leaves an English city. Ottalie was not among them. He went down +the train twice, in opposite directions, without success. She was not +there. She must have started that morning. He had missed her. + +He sat down on one of the station benches. His world seemed slipping +from him. He told himself that to-morrow he would have to work, or all +these worries would destroy him. He felt more lonely than he had ever +felt in his life. A week before, he would have had O'Neill, Pollock, +and another friend, now abroad. O'Neill was gone, without a farewell. +Pollock was fighting his own battles, with poor success. Ottalie was +thundering across France, or, perhaps, just drawing into Paris. + +A longing to see some one drove him out of the station. He walked to +Soho, to a Spanish restaurant, where some of his friends sometimes +dined. + +Here, at night, the curious may visit Spain, and hear the guttural, +lisping speech, and munch upon chuletas, and swallow all manner of +strangeness in cazuelas. Very bold young men cry aloud there for +"Mozo," lisping the z. The less bold signal with the hand. The timid +point, and later, eat that which is set before them, asking no +question, obeying Holy Writ, though without spiritual profit. + +On entering the place, he bowed to the Scotch-looking, +heavily-earringed Spanish woman, who sat at the desk reading _Blanco y +Negro_. She gave him a "Buenas tardes," without lifting her eyes. +Then came, from his right, a cry of "Naldrett!" + +Two painters, a poet, and proportionable woman-kind, were dining +together there, over the evening papers. + +"How are you?" said one of the painters. + +"We've just been reading about you," said the other. + +"Reading the most terrible things," said the poet. + +"Shew him _The Orb_. _The Orb's_ the best." + +"No. Shew him _The Planet_. The one who says he ought to be +prosecuted." + +Roger, refusing _Orb_ and _Planet_, shook hands with one of the ladies. +She was a little actress, delicate, fragile, almost inhuman, with charm +in all she did. She said that she had been reading his book of _The +Handful_, and had found it very "interesting." She wanted Roger to +come to tea, to talk over a scheme of hers. It dawned on Roger that +she was saving him from his friends. + +"You're the man of the moment," said the poet. + +"Don't you pay any attention to any of them," said the painter who had +first spoken. "You may be quite sure that when one has to say a thing +in a hurry, as these critics must, one says the easiest thing, and the +thing which comes handiest to say. If I paid attention to all they say +about me I should be in a lunatic asylum. Besides, what does it matter +what they say? Who are they, when all is said?" + +The talk drifted into a wit combat, in which the seven set themselves +to define a critic with the greatest possible pungency and precision. +Having done this, to their own satisfaction, they set themselves to the +making of a composite sonnet on the critic, upon the backs of bills of +fare. One of the painters drew an ideal critic, in the manners, now of +Tintoret, now of Velasquez, now of Watteau. The other, who complained +that old masters ought to be ranked with critics, because they spoiled +the market for living painters, drew him in the manner of Rops. + +After dinner, Roger walked home by a roundabout road, which took him +past his theatre. A few people hung about outside it, staring idly at +a few others who were entering. His play was still running, it seemed, +in spite of the trouble. Falempin was brave. + +He walked back to his rooms, wondering why he had not gone to Ireland +that night. London oppressed and pained him. He thought it an ugly +city, full of ugly life. He was without any desire to be a citizen of +such a city. He disliked the place and her people; but to-night, +being, perhaps, a little humbled by his misfortunes, he found himself +wondering whether all the squalor of the town, its beastly drinking +dens, its mobs of brainless, inquisitive shouters, might not be changed +suddenly to beauty and noble life by some sudden general inspiration, +such as comes to nations at rare times under suffering. He decided +against it. Patience under suffering was hardly one of our traits. + +On his sitting-room table was a letter from Ottalie, bearing the London +post-mark across the Greek stamps, and underneath them the legend, "2d. +to pay." By the date on the letter it had been ten days in getting to +him. He opened it eagerly, half expecting to find in it the very +letter of the dream, though something told him that the dream-letters +had contained her essential thoughts, the letter in his hand the +worldly covering of those thoughts, translated into earthly speech with +its reservations and half-heartedness. He learned from this letter +that she had been for a month in Greece, and was now coming home. She +would be for four days, from the 7th to the 11th, at her flat in +London. She hoped to see him there, before she returned to Ireland. +To his amazement the postscript ran: "I have read your last book. It +reads like the diary of a lost soul," the very words seen by him in +dream. For the moment this did not move him so deeply as the thought +that this was the 11th of the month. She had been in London with him +for the last three or four days, and he had never known it. He had +seen her light blown out the night before. If he had had a little +sense he would have called on her early that morning before he had +breakfasted. Had he done so, he would have seen her, he would have +driven with her to the station, he could, perhaps, have travelled with +her to Ireland. The bitterness of his disappointment made him think, +for a moment, meanly of Agatha, who, in his fancy, had kept them apart. +He suspected that Agatha had held back the letter. How else could it +have been posted in London with Greek stamps upon it? + +Then came the thought that she had not gone to Ireland that morning. +He had never known her go back to Ireland by the day-boats. She liked +to sleep in the train, and save the daylight for life. His knowledge +of her told him what had happened. She had taken her luggage to the +station, soon after breakfast. Having done this, she had passed the +day in amusement, dined at the station hotel, and now-- + +He sat down, beaten by this last disappointment. Now she was steaming +north in the night express to Port Patrick. She had only just gone. +She was within a dozen miles of him. The train did not start till +eight. It was now only fourteen minutes past. If he had not been a +fool; if he had only come home instead of going to the station! + +"Selina," he cried down to the basement, "when did this letter come? +This letter with the foreign stamp." + +"Just after you'd gone out this morning, sir." + +Five minutes' patience would have altered his life. + +"A lady come to see you, sir." + +"What was her name?" + +"She didn't leave a name, sir." + +"What was she like? When did she come?" + +"She came about a few minutes before nine, sir. She seemed very put +out at not finding you." + +"Had she been here before?" + +"I think she was the lady come here one time with another lady, a dark +lady, when you 'ad the suite upstairs, sir. I think she come in one +evenin' when you read to them." + +Ottalie had been there. It must have been Ottalie. + +"I told her you was gone awy, sir. You 'adn't said where to." + +He thanked Selina. He bit his lips lest he should ask whether the +visitor had worn earrings. He went back into his room and sat down. +He had not realised till then how much Ottalie meant to him. A voice +rang in his brain that he had missed her, missed her by a few minutes, +through his own impatience, through some chance, through some juggling +against him of the powers outside life. All his misery seemed rolled +into a leaden ball, which was smashing through his brain. The play was +a little thing. The loss of John was a little thing. Templeton was +farcical, the critics were little gnats, but to have missed Ottalie, to +have lost Ottalie! He tasted a moment of despair. + +Despair does not last long. It kills, or it goads to action. With +Roger it lasted for a few seconds, and then changed to a passion to be +on the way to her. But he would have to wait, he would have to wait. +There were all those interminable hours to wait. All a whole night of +purgatory. What could he do meanwhile? How could he pass that night? +What could he do? Work was impossible. Talk was impossible. He +remembered then, another thing. + +He opened his Bradshaw feverishly. Yes. There was another boat-train +to Holyhead. He could be in Dublin a little after dawn the next day; +"8.45 from Euston." He could just do it. He would catch that second +boat-train. It was a bare chance; but it could be done. He could be +with Ottalie by the afternoon of the next day. But money; he had not +enough money. Five minutes to pack. He could spare that; but how +about money? To whom could he go for money? Who would have money to +lend upon the instant? It would have to be some one near at hand. +Every second made his task harder. Where would there be a cab? Which +of his friends lived on the way to Euston? Who lives between +Westminster and Euston? It is all park, and slum, and boarding-house. +Big Ben, lifting his voice, intoned the quarter. + +He caught a cab outside Dean's Yard. He drove to a friend in Thames +Chambers. The friend lent him a sovereign and some loose silver. He +had enough now to take him to Ireland. He bade the cabman to hurry. +The newsboys were busy in the Strand. They were calling out something +about winner, and disaster. He saw one newsbill flutter out from a +man's hand. "British Liner Lost," ran the heading. He felt relieved +that the monkey-mind had now something new to occupy it. The changing +of the newsbill heading made him feel cleaner. + +Up to the crossing of Holborn, he felt that he would catch the train. +At Holborn the way was barred by traffic. The Euston Road was also +barred to him. He missed the train by rather more than a minute. He +was too tired to feel more disappointment. The best thing for him to +do, he thought, would be to sleep at home, catch the boat-train in the +morning and travel all day. That plan would land him in Ireland within +twenty-four hours. He could then either stay a night in port, or post +the forty miles to his cottage. In any case he would be with Ottalie, +actually in her very presence, within forty hours. By posting the +forty miles he might watch the next night outside her window, in the +deep peace of the Irish country, almost within sound of the sea. The +thought of the great stars sweeping over Ottalie's home, and of the +moon coming up, filling the valley, and of the little wind which +trembled the leaves, giving, as it were, speech to the beauty of the +night, moved him intensely. In his overwrought mood, these things were +the only real things. The rest was all nightmare. + +Driving back from Euston, he noticed another affiche, bearing the +words, "Steamer Sunk. Lives Lost." He paid no attention to it. He +wondered vaguely, as he had often wondered in the past, what kind of a +mind browsed upon these things. A disaster, an attack upon the +Government, and a column of betting news. That was what God's image +brooded upon, night after night. That was what God's image wrote about +nightly, after an expensive education. + +He was very tired; but there could be no rest for him till he had +enquired after Mrs. Pollock. She had given birth to a little girl, who +was likely to live. She herself was very weak, but not in serious +danger. Pollock was making good resolutions in a mist of cigarette +smoke. Roger was not wanted there. He went home, to bed, tired out. +He slept heavily. + +He was fresh and merry the next morning. He packed at leisure, +breakfasted at ease, and drove away to the station, feeling like a boy +upon a holiday. He was leaving this grimy, gritty wilderness. He was +going to forget all about it. In a few hours he would be over the +border, in a new land. That night he would be over the sea, so +changed, and in a land so different, that all this would seem like a +horrid, far-away dream, indescribably squalid and useless. London was +a strong, poisonous drug, to be taken in minute doses. He was going to +take a strong corrective. + +The train journey was long and slow; but after Carlisle was passed, his +mind began to feel the excitement of it. In a couple of hours he would +be in a steamer, standing well forward, watching for the double lights +to flash, and the third light, farther to the south, to blink and +gleam. The dull, low, Scottish landscape, where Burns lived and Keats +tramped, gave way to irregular low hills, indescribably lonely, with +boggy lowland beneath them and forlorn pools. He looked out for one +such pool. He had often noticed it before, on his journeys that way. +It was a familiar landmark to him. Like all the rest of that Scottish +land, it was associated in his mind with Ottalie. All the journey was +associated with her. He had travelled past those hills and pools so +often, only to see her, that they had become a sort of ritual to him, a +part of seeing her, something which inevitably led to her. After the +hill with the cairn, he saw his landmark. There glittered the pool +under the last of the sun. The little lonely island, not big enough +for a peel, but big enough, years ago, for a lake-dwelling, shone out +in a glimmer of withered grass. A few bents, bristling the shallows, +bowed and bowed and bowed as the wind blew. A reef of black rocks +glided out at the pool's end, like an eel swimming. Roger again had +the fancy, which had risen in his mind before a dozen times, when +passing the pool, that he would like to be a boy there, with a toy +boat. Another landmark tenderly looked for, was a little white house +rather far from the line, high up on the moor. He had once thought (in +passing) that that would be a pleasant place for a week's stay when he +and Ottalie were married. The tenderness of the original fancy +lingered still. It had become an inevitable part of the journey. +After a few minutes of looking, it came into view, newly whitewashed, +or, it may be, merely very bright in the sunset. A woman stood at a +little garden gate. He had seen her there once before. Perhaps she +looked out for this evening train. It might be an event in her life. +She must be very lonely there, so many miles from anywhere. After +this, he saw only one more landmark, a copse of spruce-fir by the line. +A faint mist was gathering. There was going to be a fog. The boat +would make a slow passage. + +The mist was dim over everything when the train stopped. He got out on +to a platform which was wet with mist. Wet milk-cans gleamed. Rails +shone below his feet. A bulk of a mail-train rose up, vacant and dim. +People shouted and passed. There was a hot whiff of ship's engine. A +man passed, with nervous hurry, carrying two teacups from the +refreshment-room. Somebody cried out to come along with the mails. An +Irish voice answered excitedly, with a witty bitterness which defined +the owner to Roger, in vivid outline. Mist came driving down under the +shed. A few moist steps took him to a rail of chains, beyond which was +motionless sea, a dim, grey-brown under the mist, with a gull or two +drifting and falling. A row of lights dimly dying away beyond, shewed +him the steamer. The gangway slanted down, dripping wet from the +handrail. A man was saying that "Indeed, it was," in the curt, +charming accent of the hills. + +He did not recognise the steamer. Her name, seen upon a life-belt, was +new to him. He did not remember a _Lady of Lyons_ on this line. He +laid his bag in a corner of the saloon, where already timid ladies were +preparing for the worst, by lying down, under rugs, with bottles of +salts at hand. The smell of the saloon, the smells of disinfectant, +oil, rubber, and food, mixed with the sickliness of a place half aired +and overheated, drove him on deck again. An elderly man was telling +his wife that it had been a terrible business. The lady answered with +the hope that nothing would happen to them, for what would poor Eddie +do? + +Somebody near the gangway, a hills-man by his speech, probably the +ticket-collector, or mate, was speaking in the intervals of work. He +was checking the slinging-in of crates, and talking to an acquaintance. +Roger had no wish to hear him. He was impatient for the ship to start. +But sitting down there, wrapped in his mackintosh, he could not help +overhearing odds and ends of a story among the clack of the winches. +Something terrible had happened, and Tom would know about it, and, +indeed, it was a sad thing for the widow O'Hara; but it was a quick +death, anyway, and might come on any man, for the matter of that. +Indeed, it was a quick death, and the fault lay in these fogs, which +never gave a man a chance till she was right on top of you. What use +were sidelights, when a fog might make a headlight as red as blood? +She had come right into her, just abaft the bridge, and cut her clean +down. They never saw a stim of her. She wasn't even sounding her +horn. Yes. One of these big five-masted Yankee schooners. The _John +P. Graves_. Just out of Glasgow. They hadn't even a look-out set. +Taking her chance. Her crowd was drunk. And one of the dead was an +English wumman only married that morning. No. The man was saved. +Like a stunned man. The most of the bodies was ashore to the wast of +the light. There was a fierce jobble wast of the light. + +There had been a collision somewhere. There were always being +collisions. Roger listened, and ceased to listen, thinking of that +"Steamer Sunk, Lives Lost" on the London placard. He thought that +these vivid, picturesque talkers, professional men; but full of +feeling, gave such an event a kind of poetry, and made it a part of +their lives, while the paper-reader, very far away in the city, glanced +at it, among a dozen similar events, none of them closely brought home +to him, or, indeed, to be understood by him, and dismissed the matter +with an indifferent "Really. How ghastly!" He reproved himself for +thinking thus. This collision had affected the men near him in their +daily business. Londoners were affected by disasters which touched +themselves. This disaster, whatever it was, did not touch him. He was +in a contrary, bitter mood, too much occupied with himself to feel for +others. He was thinking that the men who did most were self-centred +men, shut away from the world without. A snail, suddenly stung on the +tender horn, may think similarly. + +It was dark night, but clear enough, when they reached Ireland. The +lights in the bay shone as before. The lights on the island had not +changed. One, high up, which he had often noticed, was as like a star +as ever. Little glimmers of light danced before him, as he dined in +the hotel, attended by a grave old waiter. The hotel was fuller than +usual at that time of year. It was full of restless, anxious, +sad-looking people, some of whom had been with him in the boat. They +gave him the fancy that they had all come over for a funeral. After +supping, he went hurriedly to bed. + +In the morning, at breakfast, there were the same sad-looking people. +They sat at the next table, talking in subdued voices, drinking tea. +They were breakfasting on tea. An old woman with that hard, commercial +face, assumed by predatory natures without energy, mothered the party. +Her red eyes, swollen by weeping, emphasised the vulpine in her. A +late-comer rustled up. "Alice won't come down," she said. "She'll +have some tea upstairs." + +The old woman, calling a maid, sent tea to Alice. A pale girl, +daughter to the matron in all but spirit, snuffled on the perilous +brink, worn out by grief and weariness. The old woman rebuked her. +"We shall have to be starting in a minute." She had that cast-iron +nature limited to itself. Roger wondered whether in old Rome, or +Puritan England, that kind of character had been consciously bred in +the race. He changed his table. + +The waiter brought him a newspaper. He fingered it, and left it +untouched. He was not going to open a paper till he could be sure that +the uproar about him had been forgotten. He was a timorous, hunted +hart. The hounds should not follow him into this retreat. He debated +as he ate, whether he should bicycle, take the "long car," a forty-mile +drive, or take train. Finally, seeing that the roads were dry, and the +wind not bad, he decided to ride, sending his baggage by the car. He +liked riding to Ottalie. It was a difficult ride, he thought, owing to +the blasts which beat down from the hills, but there came a moment, as +he well remembered, rather near to the end of the journey, when the +hills gave place to mountains. Here the road, topping a crest, fell +away, shewing a valley and a stretch of sea. Hills and headlands +rolled north in ranks to a bluish haze. The crag beyond all rose erect +from the surf, an upright, defined line in the blueness. From +Ottalie's home, high up, he could see that great crag. With an +opera-glass he could see the surf bursting below it. It was now eight +o'clock. The morning boat was coming in. He would start. By +lunch-time he would be in his little cottage above the sea. He would +swim before lunch. After lunch he would climb through the long grey +avenue of beeches to Ottalie's home. The old excitement came over him +to give to his ardour the memory of many other rides to her. + +Riding through the squalid town he found himself reckoning up little +curious particular details of things seen by him on similar journeys in +the past. The clatter of the "long car" behind him made him spurt +ahead. It was a point of vanity with him to beat the car over the +forty-mile course. The last thing noticed by him as he cleared the +town was a yellow affiche, bearing the legend: + + "LOSS OF THE 'LORD ULLIN' + "CORONER'S VERDICT." + + + + +V + + One news straight came huddling on another + Of death, and death, and death. + _The Broken Heart_. + + +The sun was golden over all the marvel of Ireland. The sea came in +sight from time to time. Beyond a cliff castle a gannet dropped, white +and swift, with a splash which faintly came to him a quarter of a mile +away. Turning inland, he rode into the hills. Little low rolling +green hills, wooded and sunny, lay ahead. On each side of him were +pastures unspeakably green, sleepily cropped by cattle. He set himself +to ride hard through this bright land. He spurted up the little hills, +dipped down, and again climbed. He was eager to reach a gate on a +hilltop, from which he could see the headland which shut him from the +land of his desire. As he rode, he thought burningly of what that +afternoon would be to him. Ottalie might not be there. She might be +away. She might be out; but something told him she would be there. +With Ottalie in the world, the world did not matter greatly. The +thought of Ottalie gave him a fine sense, only properly enjoyed in +youth, of his own superiority to the world. With a thumping heart, due +not to emotion, but to riding uphill, he climbed the gate, and looked +out over the beautiful fields to the distant headland. There it lay, +gleaming, fifteen miles away. Beyond it was Ottalie. Protesters, in +old, unhappy far-off times, had painted a skull and cross-bones on the +gate, as, in other parts, they dug graves at front doors, or fired with +lucky slugs from cover. The bones were covered with lichen, now; but +the skull grinned at Roger friendly, as it had often grinned. Riding +on, and glancing back over his shoulder, at risk of going into the +ditch, he saw the skull's eyes fixed upon him. + +The last part of the ride was downhill. He lifted his bicycle over a +low stone wall, and vaulted over after it. The sea was within fifty +yards of him, in brimming flood. Norah Kennedy, the old woman who kept +house for him, was there at the door, looking out. + +"Indeed, Mr. Naldrett," she began; "the blessing of God on you. I was +feared the boat was gone down on you. It's a sad time this for you to +be coming here. Indeed, I never saw you looking better. You're liker +your mother than your da. He was a grand man, your da, of all the +folks ever I remember. Indeed, your dinner is just ready for you. +Will I wet the tea, sir?" + +The old woman rambled on from subject to subject, glancing at each, so +lightly, that one less used to her ways would not have suspected the +very shrewd and bitter critic hidden beneath the charm of the +superficial nature. Roger felt somehow that the critic was alert in +her, that she resented something in his manner or dress. He concluded +that he was late, or that she, perhaps in her zeal for him, had put on +the joint too early. As usual, when she was not pleased, she served +the dinner muttering personal remarks, not knowing (as is the way with +lonely old people, who talk to themselves) that they were sometimes +audible. "I'll do you no peas for your supper, my man," was one of her +asides, when he helped himself sparingly to peas. "It's easy seen +you're only an Englishman," was another, at his national diffidence +towards a potato. Roger wondered what was wrong, and how soon he would +become again "the finest young man ever I remember, except perhaps it +was your da. Indeed, Mr. Roger, to see your da, and him riding wast in +a red coat, you would think it was the Queen's man,* or one of the +Saints of God. There was no one I ever seen had the glory on him your +da had, unless it was yourself stepping." Roger's da had died of drink +there, after a life passed in the preservation of the game laws. + + +* The late Prince Consort. + + +When his baggage arrived, he dressed carefully, and set out up the hill +to Ottalie's house, which he could see, even from his cottage, as a +white, indeterminate mass, screened by trees from sea-winds. The road +branched off into a loaning, hedged with tumbled stone on each side. +As he climbed the loaning, the roguish Irish bulls, coming in a gallop, +at the sound of his feet, peered down at him, through hedges held +together by Providence, or left to the bulls' imagination. A lusty +white bull followed him for some time, restrained only by a foot-high +wire. + +"Indeed," said an old labourer, who, resting by the way, expressed +sympathy both for Roger and the bull, "he's only a young bull. He wad +do no one anny hurrt, except maybe he felt that way. Let you not +trouble, sir." + +Up above Ottalie's house was the garden. The garden wall backed upon +the loaning. A little blue door with peeling, blistered paint, let him +into the garden, into a long, straight rose-walk, in which the roses +had not yet begun to bloom. A sweet-smelling herb grew by the door. +He crumpled a leaf of it between his fingers, thinking how wonderful +the earth was, which could grow this fragrance, out of mould and rain. +The bees were busy among the flowers. The laurustine was giving out +sweetness. In the sun of that windless afternoon, the smell thickened +the air above the path, making it a warm clot of perfume, to breathe +which was to breathe beginning life. Butterflies wavered, keeping low +down, in the manner of butterflies near the coast. Birds made musical +calls, sudden delightful exclamations, startling laughter, as though +the god Pan laughed to himself among the laurustine bushes. + +He felt the beauty of the late Irish season as he had never before felt +it. It stirred him to the excitement which is beyond poetry, to that +delighted sensitiveness, in which the mind, tremulously open, +tremulously alive, can neither select nor combine. He longed to be +writing poetry; but in the open air the imagination is subordinated to +the senses. The lines which formed in his mind were meaningless +exclamations. Nature is a setting, merely. The soul of man, which +alone, of created things, regards her, is the important thing. + +The blinds of the sunny southern front were drawn down; but the marks +of carriage wheels upon the drive shewed him that she had returned. +After ringing, he listened for the crackled tinkle far away in the +kitchen, and turning, saw a squirrel leap from one beech to another, +followed by three or four sparrows. Footsteps shuffled near. +Somewhere outside, at the back, an old woman's voice asked whiningly +for a bit of bread, for the love of the Almighty God, since she was +perished with walking and had a cough on her that would raise pity in a +martial man. A younger voice, high, clear, and hard, bidding her +whisht, and let her get out of it, ceased suddenly, in her prohibition. +The door opened. There was old Mary Laverty, the housekeeper. + +"How are you, Mary? Are you quite well?" + +"I am, sir. I thank you." + +"Is Miss Fawcett in?" + +"Have you not heard, sir?" + +"Heard what?" + +"Miss Ottalah's dead, sir." + +"What?" + +"She was drowned in the boat that was run into, crossing the sea, two +days ago. There was a fog, sir. Did no one tell you, sir?" + +"No." + +"There was eleven of them drowned, sir." + +"Was she ... Is she lying here?" + +"Yes, sir. She's within. The burying will no be till Saturday. She +is no chested yet." + +"Was Miss Agatha with her?" + +"Miss Agatha was not in the cabbon. She was not wetted, indeed. She +had not so much as her skirrt wetted, sir. She is within, sir." + +"Do you think she would see me?" + +"Come in, sir. I will ask." + +He stepped in, feeling stunned. His mind gave him an image of +something hauled ashore. There was an image of a dripping thing being +carried by men up the drive, the gravel crunched under their +boots--crunch--crunch in slow time, then a rest at the door, and then, +slowly, into the hall, and drip, drip, up the stairs to the darkened +bedroom. Then out again, reverently, fumbling their hats, to talk +about it with the cook. He did not realise what had happened. Here he +was in the room. There was his photograph. There was the Oriental +bowl full of potpourri. Ottalie had been drowned. Ottalie was lying +upstairs, a dead thing, with neither voice nor movement. Ottalie was +dead. She had sat with him in that very room. The old precise sofa +was her favourite seat. How could she be dead? She had been in +London, asking for him, only two days before. Her letter was in his +pocket. There was her music. There was her violin. Why did she not +come in, as of old, with her smiling daintiness, and with her hands in +great gardening gauntlets clasping tulips for the jars? That beauty +was over for the world. + +He was stunned by it. He did not know what was happening; but there +was Agatha, motioning to him not to get up. He said something about +pity. "I pity you." After a minute, he added, "My God!" He was +trying to say something to comfort her. The change in her told him +that it was all true. It branded it into him. Ottalie was dead, and +this was what it meant to the world. This was death, this horror. + +His mind groped about like a fainting man for something to clutch. +Baudelaire's lines rose up before him. The sentiment of French +decadence, with its fancy of ingratitude, made him shudder. A turmoil +of quotations seethed and died down in him, "And is old Double dead?" +"Come away, death," with a phrase of Arne's setting. A wandering +strange phrase of Grieg. + +He went up to Agatha and took her hands. + +"You poor thing; you poor thing," he repeated. "My God, you poor women +suffer!" The clock was ticking all the time. Some one was bringing +tea to the next room. The lines in the Persian rug had a horrible +regularity. "Agatha," he said. Afterwards he believed that he kissed +her, and that she thanked him. + +"I don't know. I don't know," she said. "Oh, I'm so very wretched. +So wretched. So wretched. And I can't die." She shook in a passion +of tears. + +"She was wonderful," he said, choking. "She was so beautiful. All she +did." + +"She was with me a minute before," said Agatha. "We were on deck. She +went down to get a wrap. It was so cold in the fog. I had left her +wraps in the dining-room. It was my fault." + +"Don't say that, Agatha. That's nonsense." + +"I never saw her again. It all happened at once. The next instant we +were run into. I couldn't see anything. There was a crash, which made +us heel right over, and then there was a panic. I didn't know what had +happened. I tried to get down to her; but a lot of half-drunk tourists +came raving and fighting to get to the boats. I couldn't get to the +doors past them. One of them hit me with his fist and swore at me. +The ship was sinking. I nearly got to the door, and then a stewardess +cried out that everybody was up from below, and then a great brute of a +man flung me into a boat. I hit my head. When I came to, I distinctly +felt some one pulling off my rings, and there was a sort of weltering +noise where the ship had sunk. One of the tourists cried out: 'Wot-ow! +A shipwreck; oh, Polly.' Everybody was shouting all round us, and +there was a poor little child crying. I caught at the hand which was +taking my rings." Here she stopped. There had been some final +humiliation here. She went on after a moment: "The men said that every +one had been saved. I didn't know till we all landed. Nor till after +that even. It was so foggy. Then I knew. + +"There was a very kind Scotch lady who took me to the hotel. She was +very kind. I don't know who she was. The divers came from Belfast +during the night. Ottalie was in the saloon. She was wearing her +wraps. She must have just put them on. There were five others in the +saloon. The inquest was ghastly. One of the witnesses was drunk, and +the jury were laughing. The waiter at the hotel knew me. He wired to +Leslie, and Leslie hired a motor and came over. Colonel Fawcett is in +bed with sciatica. Leslie is arranging everything." + +"Is Leslie here?" + +"No. Maggie has bronchitis. He had to go back. He'll be here late +to-night." + +"I might have been with you, Agatha. If I'd stayed in another minute +on Tuesday morning, I should have seen her. I should have travelled +with you. It wouldn't have happened. I should have gone for the +wraps." + +"We saw you at your play, on Monday." + +"I didn't know you were in town. Oh, if I had only known!" + +"It was my fault that you did not know. I kept back her letter to you. +I was jealous. I was wicked. I think the devil was in me." + +"Don't think of that now," said Roger gently. He had known it from the +first. "Is there anything which I can do, Agatha? Letters to write?" + +"There are stacks of letters. They all say the same thing. Oh, I am +so wretched, so very wretched!" The shuddering took hold of her. She +wept in a shaking tremble which seemed to tear her in pieces. + +"Agatha," said Roger, "will you come to Belfast with me? I will hire +the motor in the village. I must get some flowers. It would do you +good to come." + +"No. I must stay. I shall only have her two days more." + +He would have asked to look upon Ottalie; but he refrained, in the +presence of that passion. Agatha had enough to bear. He would not +flick her jealousies. Ottalie was lying just overhead, within a dozen +feet of him. Ten minutes ago he had been thinking of her as a lover +thinks of his beloved. His heart had been leaping with the thought of +her. There she was, in that quiet room, behind the blinds, lying on +the bed, still and blank. And where was what had made her so +wonderful? Where was the spirit who had used her as a lodging? She +had been all that makes woman wonderful. Beautiful with beauty of +mind; a perfect, perfect spirit. And she was dead. She was lying +upstairs dead. And here were her two lovers, listening to the clock, +listening to the spade-strokes in the garden, where old John was at +work. The smell of the potpourri, which she had made the summer +before, seemed as strong as incense. The portrait by Raeburn, of her +great-grandfather, looked down dispassionately, with eyes that were +very like her eyes. The clock had told the time to that old soldier +when he went to be painted. It had gone on ticking ever since. It had +been ticking when the old soldier died, when his son died, when his +grandson died. Now she was dead, and it was ticking still, a solemn +old clock, by Frodsham, of Sackville Street, Dublin, 1797, the year +before the rising. It would be ticking still, perhaps, when all the +hearts then alive would have ceased to tick. There was something +pitiless in that steady beat. Three or four generations of Fawcetts +had had their lives measured by it, all those beautiful women and noble +soldiers. All the "issue" mentioned in Burke. + +He went out into the light. All the world seemed melted into emotion, +and poured upon him. He was beaten. It poured upon him. He drew it +in with his breath. Everything within sight was an agony with memories +of her. "I must be doing something," he said aloud. "I must get +flowers. I shall wake up presently." He turned at the gate, his mind +surging. "Could Agatha be sure that she is dead? Perhaps I am dead. +Or it may be a dream." It was not a dream. + +At the bottom of the loaning he met a red-haired man from whom in old +time he had bought a boat. + +"It's a fine day, sir," said the man. + +"John," said Roger, "tell Pat Deloney I want the car, to go to Belfast +at once. I shall want him to drive. Tell him to come for me here." + +"Indeed, sir," said John, looking at him narrowly. "There's many +feeling that way. There was a light on her you'd think it was a saint, +and her coming east with brightness." + +After John had gone down to the village, there limped up an old, old, +half-witted drunken poet, who fiddled at regattas. He saluted Roger, +who leaned on a gate, staring uphill towards the house. + +"Indeed, Mr. Roger," said the old man; "there's a strong sorrow on the +place this day. There was a light burning beyant. I seen the same for +her da, and for her da's da. There was them beyant wanted her." He +waited for Roger to speak, but getting no answer began to ramble in +Irish, and then craved for maybe a sixpence, because "indeed, I knew +your da, Mr. Roger. Ah, your da was a grand man, would turn the heads +of all the women, and they great queens itself, having the pick of +professors and prime ministers and any one they'd a mind to." + +After a time, singing to himself in Irish, he limped on up the loaning +to the house, to beg maybe a bit of bread, in exchange for the fact +that he had seen a light burning for her, just as he had seen it for +her da, her da's da, and (when the kitchen brandy had arisen in him) +her da's da's da years ago. + +The car came snorting up the hill, and turned in the broad expanse +where the loaning joined the highway. John opened the door for Roger. +"If I was a young gentleman and had the right to do it," he said, "I +would go in a cyar the like of that cyar down all the craggy precipices +of the world." The car shook, spat, and darted. "Will ye go by +Torneymoney?" said Pat. "There's no rossers that way." + +"By Torneymoney," said Roger. "Drive hard." + +"Indeed," said Pat; "we will do great deeds this day. We will make a +strong story by the blessing of God. Let you hold tight, your honour. +There's holes in this road would give a queer twist to a sea-admiral." + +The funeral was on Saturday. About a dozen men came. There were five +or six Fawcetts and old Mr. Laramie, who had married Maisie Fawcett, +Ottalie's aunt, one of the beauties of her time. The rest were friends +from the countryside, Englishmen in faith, education, and feeling. +They stood with bared heads in the little lonely Protestant graveyard, +as Roman soldiers may have stood by the pyres of their mates in +Britain. They were aliens there. They were part of the garrison. +They were hiding under the ground something too good and beautiful to +belong to that outcast country. Roger had the fancy that God would +have to be very strong to hold that outpost. He had not slept for two +nights. Sentiments and fancies were overwhelming him. It was one of +those Irish days in which a quality or rarity in the air gives a magic, +either alluring or terrible, to every bush and brook and hillock. He +had often thought that Ireland was a haunted country. He thought so +now, standing by Ottalie's grave. Just beyond the graveyard was the +river, which was "bad," and beyond that again a hill. The hill was so +"bad," that the beggarwomen, passing in the road, muttering at "the +mouldy old Prots, playing at their religion, God save us," crossed +themselves as they went by it. Roger prayed that that fair spirit +might be at peace, among all this invisible evil. His hand went into +his breast pocket from time to time to touch her letter to him. He +watched Leslie Fawcett, whose face was so like hers, and old Mr. +Laramie, who had won the beauty of her time, and an old uncle Fawcett, +who had fought in Africa, sixty years before. The graves of other +Fawcetts lay in that corner of the graveyard. He read their names, +remembering them from Burke. He read the texts upon the stones. The +texts had been put there in agonies of remorse and love and memory by +the men and women who played croquet in an old daguerreotype in +Ottalie's sitting-room. "He giveth His beloved sleep," and "It is well +with the child," and one, a strange one, "Lord, have patience with me, +and I will pay Thee all." They had been beautiful and noble, these +Fawcetts. Not strong, not clever, but wonderful. They had had a +spirit, a spiritual quality, as though for many, many centuries their +women had kept themselves unspotted by anything not noble. An instinct +for style running in the race of the Fawcetts for centuries had made +them what they were. + +A hope burned up in Roger like inspiration. All that instinct for +fineness, that fastidious selection of the right and good which had +worked to make Ottalie, from long before her birth, and had flowered in +her, was surely eternal. She had used life to make her character +beautiful and gentle, just as he had used life to discipline his mind +to the expression of his imagination. "What's to come" was still +unsure; but he felt sure, even as the trembling old incumbent reminded +them that St. Paul had bidden them not to sorrow, that that devotion +was stronger than death. Her spirit might be out in the night, he +thought, as in time his would be; but what could assail that devotion? +It was a strong thing, it was a holy thing. He was very sure that +nothing would overcome it. Like many young men, ignorant of death, he +had believed in metempsychosis. This blow of death had brought down +that fancy with all the other card-houses of his mind. His nature was +now, as it were, humbled to its knees, wondering, stricken, and +appalled by possibilities of death undreamed of. He could not feel +that Ottalie would live again, in a new body, starting afresh, in a new +life-machine, with all the acquired character of the past life as a +reserve of strength. He could only feel that somewhere in that great +empty air, outside the precise definition of living forms, Ottalie, the +little, conquered kingdom of beauty and goodness, existed still. It +was something. Newman's hymn, with its lovely closing couplet, moved +him and comforted him. One of the Fawcetts was crying, snuffling, with +a firm mouth, as men usually cry. He himself was near to tears. He +was being torn by the thought that Ottalie was lonely, very lonely and +frightened, out there beyond life, beyond the order of defined live +things. + +He walked back with Leslie Fawcett. Agatha's mother was at the house; +Leslie was stopping in the cottage with him. + +"Poor little Ollie," said Leslie gently. + +"She was very beautiful," said Roger. He thought, as he said it, that +it was a strange thing for an Englishman to say to a dead woman's +brother. "She was very beautiful. It must be terrible to you. You +knew her in an intimate relation." + +"Yes," said Leslie, looking hard at Roger, out of grave level eyes. +"She was a very perfect character." + +They were climbing the cliff road to the cottage. The sea was just +below them. The water was ruffled to whiteness. Sullivan's jobble +stretched in breakers across the bay from Cam Point. Gannets, plunging +in the jobble, flung aloft white founts, as though shot were striking. + +"You were very great friends," said Roger. "I mean, even for brother +and sister." + +"Johnny was her favourite brother, as a child," said Leslie. "You did +not see much of Johnny. He was killed in the war. And then he was in +India a long time. It was after Johnny's death that Ottalie and I +began to be so much to each other. You see, Agatha was only with her +about five months in the year. She was with us nearly that each year. +She was wonderful with children." + +"Yes," said Roger, holding open the gate of the little garden so that +his guest might pass, "I know." He was not likely to forget how +wonderful she had been with children. They went into the little +sitting-room where Norah, in one of her black moods, gave them tea. +After tea they sat in the garden, looking out over the low hedge at the +bay. At sunset they walked along the coast to a place which they had +called "the cove." They had used to bathe there. A little brook +tumbled over a rock in a forty-foot fall. Below the fall was a pool, +overgrown later in the year with meadow-sweet and honeysuckle, but +clear now, save for the rushes and brambles. The brook slid out from +the basin over a reddish rock worn smooth, even in its veins and +knuckles, by many centuries of trickling. Storms had piled shingle +below this side of water. The brook dribbled to the sea unseen, making +a gurgling, tinkling noise. Up above, at the place where the fall +first leapt, among some ash-trees, windy and grey, stood what was left +of a nunnery, of reddish stone, fire-blackened, among a company of +tumbled gravestones. + +Of all the places sacred to Ottalie in Roger's mind, that was the most +sacred. They had been happy there. They had talked intimately there, +moved by the place's beauty. His most vivid memories of her had that +beautiful place for their setting. + +"Roger," said Leslie, "did you see her in town, before this happened?" + +"No." + +"You did not see her?" + +"No. Not this time." + +"She was going to see you." + +"I believe she came just before she started. I had just gone out. We +missed each other." + +Leslie lifted his pince-nez. He was looking at Roger, with the grave, +steady look by which people remembered him. Roger thought afterwards +that his putting on of the pince-nez had been done tenderly, as though +he had said, "I see that you are suffering. With these glasses I shall +see how to help you." + +"You were in love with her?" he asked, in a low voice. + +"Yes. Who was not?" + +"I have something to say to you about that. Have you ever thought of +what marriage means? I am not talking of the passionate side. That is +nothing. I am talking of the everyday aspect of married life. Have +you thought of that at all?" + +"All men have thought of it." + +"Yes; I grant you. All men have thought of it. But do many of them +think it home? Have you? I imagine that most men never follow the +thought home; but leave it in day-dreams, and images of selfishness. I +don't think that many men realise how infinitely much finer in quality +the woman's mind is. Nor how much more delicately quick it is. Nor +what the clash of that quickness and fineness, with something duller +and grosser, may entail, in ordinary everyday life, to the woman." + +"I think that I realise it." + +"Yes, perhaps. Perhaps you do realise it, as an intellectual question. +But would you, do most men, realise it as life realises it? It is one +thing to imagine one's duty to one's wife, when, as a bachelor, used to +all manner of self-indulgence, one sits smoking over the fire. But to +carry out that duty in life taxes the character. Swiftness of +responsion, tact, is rarer than genius. I imagine that with you, +temporary sensation counts for more than an ordered, and possibly +rigid, attitude, towards life as a whole." + +"Both count for very much; or did. Nothing seems very much at this +moment." + +"Ottalie loved you," said Leslie simply. "But she felt that there was +this want in you, of so thinking things home that they become +character. She thought you too ready to surrender to immediate and, +perhaps, wayward emotions. She was not sure that you could help her to +be the finest thing possible to her, nor that she could so help you." + +"How do you know this?" + +"She discussed it with me. She wanted my help. I said that I ought +not to interfere, but that, on the whole, I thought that she was right. +That, in fact, your love was not in the depths of your nature. I said +this; but I added that you were too sensitive to impressions not to +grow, and that (rightly influenced) there is hardly anything which you +might not become. The danger which threatens you seems to me to +threaten all artists. Art is a great strain. It compels selfishness. +I have wondered whether, if things had been different, if you had +married Ottalie, you could have come from creating heroines to tend a +wife's headache; or, with a headache yourself, have seen the heroine in +her. We have life before us. You are all tenderness and nobleness +now. It is sad that we have not this always in our minds." + +"Yes," said Roger. "We have life; and all my old life is a house of +cards. Before this it seemed a noble thing to strive with my whole +strength to express certain principles, and to give reality and beauty +to imagined character. I worked to please her. And often I did not +understand her, and did not know her. I have walked in her mind, and +the houses were all shut up. I could only knock at the doors and +listen. And now I never shall know. I only know that she was a very +beautiful thing, and that I loved her, and tried to make my work worthy +of her." + +"She loved you, too," said Leslie. "Whatever death may be, we ought to +look upon it as a part of life. Try to be all that you might have been +with her. Never mind about your work. You have been too fond of +emotional self-indulgence. Set that aside, and go on. She would have +married you. Try to realise that. Her nature would have been a part +of yours. All your character would have been sifted and tested and +refined by her. Now let us go in, Roger. Tell me what you are going +to do." + +"There is not much to do. I must try to rearrange my life. But I see +one thing, I think, that art is very frightful when it has not the +seriousness of life and death in it." + +"Yes," said Leslie. "Maggie and I went into that together. We built +up a theory that the art life is strangely like the life of the +religious contemplative. Both attract men by the gratification of +emotion as well as by the possibility of perfection. One of the great +Spanish saints, I think it is St. John of Avila, says that many novices +deliberately indulge themselves in religious emotion, for the sake of +the emotion, instead of for the love of God; but that the knowledge of +God is only revealed to those who get beyond that stage, and can endure +stages of 'stypticities and drynesses,' with the same fervour. It +seems to us (of course we are both Philistines) that modern art does +not take enough out of those who produce it. The world flatters them +too much. I suspect that flattery of the world is going on in return." + +"Not from the best." + +Leslie shook his head unconvinced. "You are not producing martyrs," he +said. "You do not attack bad things. You laugh at them, or photograph +them, and call it satire. You belong to the world, my friend Roger. +You are a part of the vanity of the world, the flesh, and the devil. +You have not even made the idea of woman glorious in men's minds. +Otherwise they would have votes and power in the Houses. Not one of +you has even been imprisoned for maiming a censor of plays. All the +generations have a certain amount of truth revealed to them. It is +very dangerous to discover truth. You can learn what kind of truth is +being revealed to an age by noting what kind of people give their lives +for ideas. It used at one time to be bishops. Think of it." + +Leslie talked on, shaping the talk as he had planned it beforehand, but +pointing it so gently that it was not till afterwards that Roger, +realising his motives, gave him thanks for his unselfishness. They +stopped on the rushy hill below Ottalie's home, just as the sun, now +sinking, flamed out upon her window, till it burned like the sun +itself. To Roger it seemed like a flaming door. She had looked out +there, from that window. Her little writing-table, with its jar of +sweet peas, and that other jar, of autumn berries and the silvery +parchment of honesty, stood just below it, on each side of the blotter, +bound in mottled chintz. Leslie's talk came home to him fiercely. The +clawings of remorse came. He knew the room. He had never known the +inmate. She was gone. He had wasted his chance. He might have known +her; but he had preferred to indulge in those emotions and sentiments +which keep the soul from knowledge. Now she was gone. All the agony +of remorse cried out in him for one little moment in the room with her, +to tell her that he loved her, for one little word of farewell, one +sight of the beloved face, so that he might remember it forever. +Memories rose up, choking him. She was gone. There was only the +flaming door. + +"Roger," said Leslie, in his even, gentle voice, which had such a +quality of attraction in it, "Maggie asked me to bring you back with me +to stay a couple of weeks." + +In his confused sleep that night he dreamed that Ottalie was lying ill +in her room, behind a bolted copper door which gleamed. The passage +without the room was lighted. People came to the door to knock. A +long procession of people came. He saw them listening intently there, +with their ears bent to the keyhole. They were all the people who had +been in love with her. Some were relatives, some were men who had seen +her at dances, some were women, some were old friends like himself. +Last of all came an elderly lady carrying a light. She was dressed in +a robe of dim purple. She, too, knocked sharply on the door. She +lingered there, long enough for him to study her fine, intellectual +face. It was the face of Ottalie grown old. The woman was the +completed Ottalie. + +For a moment she stood there listening, as one listens at the door of a +sick-room. Then she knocked a second time, sharply, calling "Ottalie!" +He saw then that it was not a door but a flame. He heard from within a +strangled answer, as though some one, half dead, had risen to open. +Some one was coming to the door. Even in his dream his blood leaped +with the expectation of his love. + +But it was not his love. It was himself, strangling in the flames to +get to her. She reached her hand to him. Though the flames were +stifling, he touched her. It was as though the agony of many years had +been changed suddenly to ecstasy. "Roger," she said. Her hand caught +him, she drew him through the fire to her. He saw her raise the candle +to look at his face. For a moment they were looking at each other, +there in the passage. The agony was over. They were together, looking +into each other's eyes. He felt her life coursing into him from her +touch. + +Voices spoke without. Norah, at the door, was haggling. "Is that all +the milk ye've brought, Kitty O'Hara?" + +The dream faded away as the life broke in upon him. There was some +word, some song. Some one with a fine voice was singing outside, +singing in the dream, singing about a fever. Ottalie was holding him, +but her touch was fading from his sense, and joy was rushing from him. +Outside, on the top spray of the blackthorn, a yellow-hammer trilled, +"A little bit of bread and no--che-e-e-e-se," telling him that the +world was going on. + +The fortnight passed. Roger was going back to London. The day before +he sailed he rode over with Leslie to take a last look at Ottalie's +home. He left Leslie at the cottage, so that he might go there alone. +He walked alone up the loaning. Within the garden he paused, looking +down at the house. The smell of the sweet verbena was very strong, in +that mild damp air, full of the promise of rain. A paper was blowing +about along the walk. A white kitten, romping out from the stable, +pounced on it, worried it with swift gougings of the hind claws, then, +spitting, with ears laid back and tail bristling, raced away for a +swift climb up a pear-tree. Roger picked up the paper. It would be a +relic of the place. He felt inclined to treasure everything there, to +take the house, never to go away from it, or, failing that, to carry +away many of her favourite flowers. He straightened the paper so that +he might read it. + +It was a double page from a year-old London paper entitled _Top-Knots_. +It consisted of scraps of gossip, scraps of news, scraps of +information, seasoned with imperial feeling. It had been edited by +some one with a sense of the purity of the home. It was harmless +stuff. The wisdom of the reader was flattered; the wisdom of the +foreigner was not openly condemned. Though some fear of invasion was +implied, its possibility was flouted. "It was a maxim of our Nelson +that one Englishman was worth three foreigners." The jokes were +feeble. The paper catered for a class of poor, half-educated people +without more leisure than the morning ride to business, and the hour of +exhaustion between supper and bed. It was well enough in its way. +Some day, when life is less exhausting, men will demand stuff with more +life. Something caught Roger's eye. He read it through. It was the +first thing read by him since his arrival there. + + + "SLEEPING SICKNESS. + +"It is not generally known that this devastating ailment is caused by +the presence of a minute micro-organism in the human system. The +micro-organism may exist in unsuspected harmlessness for many years in +the victim's blood. It is not until it enters what is known to +scientists as the cerebro-spinal fluid, or as we should call it, the +marrow, that it sets up the peculiar symptoms of the dread disease +which has so far baffled the ingenuity of our _soi-disant_ savants. +This terrible affliction, which is not by any means confined to those +inferior members of the human race, the dusky inhabitants of Uganda, +consists of a lethargy accompanied with great variations of +temperature. So far the dread complaint is without a remedy. Well may +the medico echo the words of the Prince of Denmark: + + 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, + Than are dreamed of in your philosophy.'" + + +There was no more about the disease. The page ended with a joke about +a mother-in-law. The paragraph made Roger remember an article which he +had once read about the sudden rise of the sickness in some district in +Africa. He remembered the photograph of a young African, who was +dozing his life away, propped against a tree. The thought passed. In +another instant he was full of his own misery again. But instead of +throwing away the paper, he folded it, and put it in his pocket-case. +It would remind him of that last visit to Ottalie's garden. He would +keep it forever. + +His wretchedness gave him a craving to be tender to something. He +tried to attract the kitten, but the kitten, tiring of her romp, +scampered to the garden wall to stalk sparrows. He plucked a leaf or +two from the verbena. He went into the house. + +Agatha welcomed him. She was writing replies to letters of condolence. +The death had taken her hardness from her. + +"Sit down and talk," she said. "What are you going to do?" + +"That is like a woman," he said. "Women are wonderful. They use a +man's vanity to protect themselves from his egotism. I came here to +ask you that. What are you going to do?" + +"I shall go on with my work," she said. "I am sure not to marry. I +shall start a little school for poor girls." + +"At Great Harley? But you were doing that before." + +"Only in a very desultory sort of way. But now it is all different. +Life has become so much bigger." + +"Will you tell me about it? I should like to hear about it." + +"Oh, it would only bore you. I shall just teach them the simplest +things. How to darn clothes, how to cook, and perhaps a little +singing. It isn't as though I were a learned person." + +"How kind of you." + +"It isn't kind at all." + +"You will be taking girls of from thirteen to sixteen?" + +"Yes. I've got no flair for very little children. Besides, there is +nothing which I could teach them. I want to get hold of them at an age +when I can really be of use to them." + +She drummed a little with one foot. + +"I wish that you would let me help you," he continued. + +"Thank you very much. That is very kind of you. But I must do this +quite by myself." + +"What are you going to do with the flat in town?" he asked. "I should +like to take it if you are going to give it up." + +"Oh, I shall keep it on," she said. "I shall be up for week-ends a +good deal, at any rate until I have got my class in working order." + +"You will let me know if you ever want to give it up?" + +"Yes. Certainly I will. Will you go back? I suppose you will be +going back to your work. What are your plans? You never answered my +question. You went flying off into apophthegms." + +"I loved Ottalie, too," he answered. "I won't say as much as you did, +for you knew her intimately. I never was soul to soul with her as you +were; but I loved her. I want now to make my life worthy of her, as +you do. But it won't be in my work. I don't know what it will be in. +You women are lucky. You can know people like her." + +"Yes. I shall always be glad of that," said Agatha. "Even the loss is +bearable when I think that I knew her fully. Perhaps better than any +one." + +"Yes," he said. He paused, turning it over in his mind. "Life is a +conspiracy against women," he added. "That is why they are so +wonderful and so strange. I am only groping in the dark about her." + +"Roger," said Agatha, speaking slowly, "I think I ought to tell you. I +knew that you were in love with her. I was jealous of you. I did all +that I could to keep you apart. She was in love with you. When she +saw you at the theatre before the disturbance began, she would have +gone to your box if I had not said that I was sure you would prefer to +be alone. In the morning she saw what one of the papers said. She +insisted on going to see you at your rooms. She said that she was sure +you were expecting her, or that something had kept her letters from +you. I told her that it wasn't a very usual thing to do. She said +that she would talk about that afterwards. Afterwards, when she had +gone, and failed to see you, she was horrified at what you might think +of her." + +It was very sweet to hear more of her, thus, after all was over. It +was something new about her. He had never seen that side of her. He +wondered how much more Agatha would tell him, or permit him to learn, +in years to come. He saw that she was near tears. He was not going to +keep her longer on the rack. + +"Agatha," he said, "we have been at cross-purposes for a long time now. +We have not been just to each other. Let it end now. We both loved +her. Don't let it go on, now that she is dead. I want to feel that +the one who knew her best is my friend. I want you to let me help you, +as a brother might, whenever you want help. Will you?" + +She said, "Thank you, Roger." They shook hands. He remembered +afterwards how the lustre of the honesty shewed behind her head. A +worn old panther skin, the relic of a beast which had been shot in +India by Ottalie's father so many years before that the hairless hide +was like parchment beneath the feet, crackled as she left the room. +Roger plucked some of the silvery seed vessels for remembrance. + +He stood in the hall for a moment trying to fix it in his mind. There +was the barometer, by Dakins, of South Castle Street, in Liverpool, an +old piece, handsome, but long since useless. There were the +well-remembered doors. The dining-room door, the library door, the +door leading into the jolly south room, the room sweet with the vague +perfume, almost the memory of a perfume, as though the ghosts of +flowers strayed there. The door of that room was open. Through its +open windows he could see the blue of the bay, twinkling to the wind. +Near the window was the piano, heaped with music. A waltz lay upon the +piano: the Myosotis Waltz. Let no one despise dance music. It is the +music which breaks the heart. It is full of lights and scents, the +laughter of pretty women and youth's triumph. To the man or woman who +has failed in life the sound of such music is bitter. It is youth +reproaching age. It indicates the anti-climax. + +He walked with Leslie through the village. The ragged men on the +bridge, hearing them coming, turned, and touched what had once been +their hats to them. They were not made for death, those old men. They +were the only Irish things which the English tourist had not corrupted. +They leant on the parapet all day. In the forenoons they looked at the +road and at the people passing. In the afternoons, when the sun made +their old eyes blink, they turned and looked into the water, where it +gurgled over rusty cans, a clear brown peat-stream. A quarter of a +mile up the stream was the graveyard, where the earth had by this time +ceased to settle over Ottalie's face. On the grave, loosely tied with +rushes, was a bunch of dog-roses. + +They climbed the sharp rise beyond the bridge. Here they began to +ride. They were going to ride thirty miles to the hotel. There they +would sleep. In the morning Roger would take the steamer and return to +London, where he would dree his weird by his lane as best he could. + +The men on the quay were loading ore, as of old, into a dirty Glasgow +coaster. One of them asked Roger which team had won at the hurling. + +They ploughed through the red mud churned by the ore-carts. The +schooner lay bilged on the sand, as of old, with one forlorn rope +flogging the air. One or two golfers loafed with their attendant +loafers on the links. They rode past them. Then on the long, +straight, eastward bearing road, which rounds Cam Point, they began to +hurry, having the wind from the glens behind them. Soon they were at +the last gloomy angle from which the familiar hills could be seen. +They rounded it. They passed the little turnpike. A cutter yacht, +standing close inshore, bowed slowly under all sail before them. She +lifted, poising, as the helm went down. Her sails trembled into a +great rippling shaking, then steadied suddenly as the sheet checked. A +man aboard her waved his hand to them, calling something. They spun +downhill from the cutter. Now they were passing by a shore where the +water broke on weed-covered boulders. From that point the road became +more ugly at each turn of the wheel. It was the road to England. + +They stopped at the posting-house so that a puncture might be mended +while they were at tea. Tea was served in a long, damp, decaying room, +hung with shabby stuff curtains. Vividly coloured portraits of Queen +Victoria and Robert Emmet hung from the walls. On the sideboard were +many metal teapots. On the table, copies of _Commerce_, each +surmounted by a time-table in a hard red cover, surrounded a tray of +pink wineglasses grouped about an aspodesta. On a piano was a pile of +magazines, some of them ten years old, all coverless and dog's-eared. +Roger picked up one of the newest of them, not because he wanted to +read it, but because, like many literary men, he was unable to keep his +hands off printed matter. He answered Leslie at random as he looked +through it. There was not much to interest him there. Towards the end +of it there was a photograph of an African hut, against which a man and +woman huddled, apparently asleep. A white man in tropical clothes +stood beside them, looking at something in a sort of test-tube. + +"A COMMON SCENE IN THE SLEEPING SICKNESS BELT," ran the legend. +Underneath, in smaller type, was written, "This photograph represents +two natives in the last stages of the dread disease, which, at present, +is believed to be incurable. The man in white, to l. of the picture +(reader's r.), is Dr. Wanklyn, of the Un. Kgdm. Med. Assn. The +photograph was taken by Mr. A. S. Smallpiece, Dr. Wanklyn's assistant. +Copyright." + +"What do you know of sleeping sickness, Leslie?" he asked. + +"Sleeping sickness?" said Leslie. "There was an article about it in +_The Fortnightly_, or one of the reviews. There was a theory that it +is caused in some way by the bite of a tsetse fly." + +"Yes," said Roger, "I remember that." + +"Then when Maggie and I were staying at Drumnalorry we met old Dr. +MacKenzie. He was out in Africa a great deal, fifty or sixty years +ago. He was a great friend of my mother's. He told us at dinner one +night that sleeping sickness is not a new thing at all, but a very old +thing. The natives used to get it even in his day. He said that the +tsetse fly theory was really all nonsense. He called it a pure +invention, based on the discovery that yellow fever is spread by the +white-ribbed mosquito. His own theory was that it was caused by manioc +intoxication." + +"That seems to me to be the prejudice of an old man. What is manioc?" + +"A kind of a root, like cassava, isn't it?" + +"Probably. What is cassava?" + +"It's what they make bread of; cassava bread. It's poisonous until you +bake it. Isn't that the stuff? Are you interested in sleeping +sickness?" + +"Yes. It has been running in my head all day. Look here. Here's a +picture of two Africans suffering from it. Do they just sleep away +like that?" + +"I suppose so. They become more and more lethargic, probably, until at +last they cannot be roused." + +"How long are they in that condition?" + +"I believe for weeks. Poor fellows; it must be ghastly to watch." + +"There is no cure. There's no cure for a lot of things. Tetanus, +leprosy, cancer. I wonder how it begins. You wake up feeling drowsy. +And then to feel it coming on; and to have seen others ill with it. +And to know at the beginning what you will have to go through and +become. It must be ghastly." + +"Here is tea," said Leslie. "By the way, sleeping sickness must be +getting worse. It attacks Europeans sometimes. MacKenzie said that in +his time it never did." + +"Well," said Roger, "Europeans have given enough diseases to the +Africans. It is only fair that we should take some in return." + +They rode on slowly in the bright Irish twilight. When they were near +the end of their journey they came to a villa, the garden of which was +shut from the road by a low hedge. The garden was full of people. +Some of them were still playing croquet. Chinese lanterns, already +lit, made mellow colour in the dusk. A black-haired, moustachioed man +with a banjo sat in a deck-chair singing. The voice was a fine bass +voice, somehow familiar to Roger. It was wailing out the end of a +sentimental ditty: + + "O, the moon, the moon, the moon," + +in which the expression had to supply the want of intensity in the +writing. Hardly had the singer whined his last note when he twanged +his banjo thrice in a sprightly fashion. He piped up another ditty +just as the cyclists passed. + + "O, I'm so seedy, + So very seedy, + I don't know what to do. + I've consumption of the liver + And a dose of yellow fever + And sleeping sickness, too. + O, my head aches + And my heart..." + + +The banjo came to ground with a twang: the song stopped. + +"Fawcett!" the singer shouted; "Fawcett! Come in here. Where are you +going?" + +"I can't stop," cried Leslie, over his shoulder. He turned to Roger. +"Let's get away," he said. + +They rode hard for a few minutes. "Who was that?" Roger asked. "I +seemed to know his voice." + +"It's a man called Maynwaring," said Leslie. "I don't think you've met +him, have you? He's in the Navy. He met us at a dance. He proposed +to Ottalie about a year ago. Now he has married one of those pretty, +silly doll-women, a regular officer's wife. They are not much liked +here." + +"Curious," said Roger; "he was singing about sleeping sickness. +Somehow, I think I must have met him. His voice seems so familiar." +He stopped suddenly, thinking that the voice was the voice of the +singer in his dream. "Yes," he said to himself. "Yes. It was." + +A few minutes later they were sliding down the long hill to the hotel. + + + + +VI + + Man is a lump of earth, the best man's spiritless, + To such a woman. + _John Fletcher_. + + +London was too full of memories. He could not get away from them. He +could not empty his mind sufficiently to plan or execute new work. He +was too near to his misery. He had been in town, now, for a month; but +he had done nothing. He was engaged daily in trying to realise that +his old life had stopped. If he thought at all he thought as those +stunned by grief always will, in passages of poignant feeling. His +nights were often sleepless. When he slept he often dreamed that he +was alone in the night, looking into a lit room where Ottalie stood, +half-defined, under heavy robes. Then he would wake with a start to +realise that he would never see any trace of her again, beyond the few +relics which he possessed. + +Only one little ray of light gave him hope. He wanted to rebuild his +life for her. He wanted to become all that she would have liked him to +become. In any case, whatever happened, he would have the memory of +her to guide him in all that he did. But he felt, every now and then, +when he could feel at all hopefully, that she was trying to help him to +become what she had longed for him to be. He thought that little +chance happenings in life were signals from her in the other world, or, +if not signals, attempts to move him, attempts to make him turn to her; +things full of significance if only he could interpret them. He felt +that in some way she was trying to communicate. It was as though the +telephone had broken. It was as though the speaker could not say her +message directly; but had to say it in fragments to erring, forgetful, +wayward messengers, who forgot and lost their sequence. They could +only hint, stammeringly, at the secret revealed to them. He thought +that she had sent him some message about sleeping sickness, using the +torn page, the magazine, and the naval officer, as her messengers. +There were those three little words from her, romantic, like words +heard in dream. If they were not from her, then they were none the +less holy, they were intimately bound with his last memories of her. +Often he would cry out in his misery that she might be granted to come +to him in dream to complete her message. What did she want to say +about sleeping sickness? + +He could not guess. He could only say to himself that for some hidden +reason that disease had been brought to his notice at a time when he +was morbidly sensitive to impressions. He spent many hours in the +British Museum studying that disease as closely as one not trained to +medical research could hope to do. He read the Reports of the +Commission, various papers in _The Lancet_, the works of Professor +Ronald Ross and Sir Patrick Manson, the summary of Low in Allbutt, the +deeply interesting articles in the _Journal of Tropical Medicine_, and +whatever articles he could find in reviews and encyclopædias. + +He called one day at the theatre office in answer to a telegram from +Falempin. Falempin had something to say to him. He had flung down the +glove to the "peegs," he said, by keeping on _The Roman Matron_ for the +usual weekly eight performances, in spite of the Press and the public +wrath. For three weeks he had played it to empty or abusive houses. +Then, at the end of the third week, a man had written in a monthly +review that _The Roman Matron_ was the only play of the year, and that +all other English plays then running in London were so many symptoms of +our national rottenness. The writer was not really moved by _The Roman +Matron_. He was a town wit, trying to irritate the public by praising +what it disliked, and by finding a moral death in all that it approved. +It may be said of such that they cast bread upon the waters; but the +genius, as a rule, does not find it until many days. In this case, as +the wit was at the moment the fashion, his article was effectual from +the day of its publication. The actors found one evening an attentive, +not quite empty house. Three nights later the piece went very well +indeed. On the fourth night they were called. By the end of the week +_The Roman Matron_ was a success, playing to a full house. + +"Naldrett," said Falempin, "I 'ave lost twelve thousand pounds over +your play. What so? I go to make perhaps forty thousand. Always back +your cards. The peegs they will eat whatever they are told. Some of +the papers they are eating their words. You see? Here; here is +anozzer. By the same men, I think. Criticism? Next to the peegs, I +do lof the critic. It likes not me, these funny men. What is the +English people coming to? You 'ave critics; you 'ave very fine +critics. But they 'ave no power. Zese men in zese gutter rags--Pah. +We go to make you many motor-cars out of zis play." + +Leslie brought his wife to town a week later. She wished to consult an +oculist. Roger dined with them the night after their arrival. + +"Roger," said Leslie, "I want you to meet my cousin, Mrs. Heseltine. +She wants you to dine with her to-morrow night. We said that we would +bring you if you were free. I hope that you will come; she's such a +splendid person." + +Roger said that he would go. + +That evening he went to an At Home given in honour of a great French +poet who was staying in London. He had no wish to attend the function. +He went from a sense of duty. He went from a sense of what was due to +the guardian of intellect. The At Home was in Kensington, in a big and +hideous house. A line of carriages stood by the kerb, each with its +tortured horses tossing their heads piteously against the +bearing-reins. Flunkeys with white, sensual faces stood at the door. +There was a glitter of varnish everywhere, from boots, carriages, and +polished metal. There was not much noise, except the champ-champing of +the bits and the spattering of foam. Carriage doors slammed from time +to time. Loafers insulted those who entered. Women and children, +standing by the strip of baize upon the sidewalk, muttered in awed +hatred. + +Roger went into a room jammed with jabberers. In the middle of the +room there was a kind of circle, a sort of pugilists' ring, in which +the poet stood. He was a little stocky man, powerfully built. He had +a great head, poised back on his shoulders so that his jaw protruded +aggressively. It needed only one glance to see that he was the one +vital person in the room. The big, beefy, successful English novelists +looked like bladders beside him. He talked in a voice which boomed and +rang. People crowded up. Ladies in wonderful frocks broke on him, as +it were, in successions of waves. He bowed, he was shaken by the hand, +he was pulled by the arm. Questions and compliments and platitudes +came upon him in every known variety of indifferent French. He never +ceased to talk. He could have talked the room to a standstill, and +gone on fresh to a dozen like it. He was talking wisely, too. Roger +heard half of one booming epigram as he caught his hostess' eye. She +was bringing up relays of platitudes to take the place of those already +exploded. His host, sawing the air with one hand, was expounding +something which he couldn't explain. Roger saw him compliment the poet +for taking his point without exposition. Exploded platitudes ran into +Roger and apologised. Roger ran into platitudes not yet exploded and +apologised. There was a gabble everywhere of unintelligent talk, +dominating but not silencing the great voice. Roger heard an elegant +young man speak of the poet as "a bounder, an awful bounder." Then +somebody took him by the arm. Somebody wanted to talk to him. He said +his say to the great man while being dragged to somebody. Somebody in +a strange kind of chiton below a strange old gold Greek necklace was +telling him about _The Roman Matron_. Did he write it? + +"Yes," he said. "I wrote it." + +The hostess interposed. The chiton was borne off to a lady in Early +Victorian dress. A little grey man, very erect and wiry, like a +colonel on the stage, bumped into Roger. + +"Rather a crowd, eh?" he said, as he apologised. "Have you seen my +wife anywhere?" + +"No," said Roger. "Is she here?" + +"Yes," said the other. "I believe she is. Awfully well the old fellow +looks, doesn't he? I met him in Paris in 1890." + +They talked animatedly for ten minutes about the prospects of French +literature as compared with our own. Presently the little man caught +sight of his wife. He nodded to Roger and passed on. Roger could not +remember that he had ever seen him before. + +He looked about for some one with whom to talk. A couple of novelists +stood on the opposite side of the room talking to a girl. There was +not much chance of getting to them. He looked to his left hand, where +some of the waste of the party had been drifted by the tide. He did +not know any of the people there. He was struck by the appearance of a +young man who stood near the wall, watching the scene with an interest +which was half contemptuous. The man was, perhaps, thirty years of +age. What struck Roger about him was the strange yellowness of his +face. The face looked as though it had been varnished with a clear +amber varnish. The skin near the eyes was puckered into crows' feet. +The brow was wrinkled and seamed. The rest of the face had the +leanness and tightness of one who has lived much in unhealthy parts of +the tropics. He was a big man, though as lean as a rake. Roger judged +from his bearing that he had been a soldier; yet there was a touch of +the doctor about him, too. His eyes had the direct questioning look of +one always alert to note small symptoms, and to find the truth of facts +through evasions and deceits. His hands were large, capable, clinical +hands, with long, supple, sensitive fingers, broad at the tips. The +mouth was good-humoured, but marred by the scar of a cut at the left +corner. + +Presently the man walked up to Roger with the inimitable easy grace +which is in the movements of men who live much in the open. + +"Excuse me," he said; "but who is the poet in the middle there?" + +"Jerome Mongeron," said Roger. + +"Thanks," said the man, retiring. + +Roger noticed that the man's eyes were more bloodshot than any eyes he +had ever seen. Soon after that Roger saw him lead an elderly lady, +evidently his mother, out of the room. As he felt that he had bored +himself sufficiently in homage to the man of intellect, he too slipped +away as soon as he could. + +The night following he dined with Mrs. Heseltine. She was an elderly +lady, fragile-looking, but very beautiful, with that autumnal beauty +which comes with the beginning greyness of the hair. Her face had the +fineness of race in it. Looking at her, one saw that all the unwanted, +unlovely elements had been bred away, by conscious selection, in many +generations of Fawcetts. Her face had that simple refinement of +feature which one sees in the women's faces in Holbein's drawing of Sir +Thomas More's family. Only in Mrs. Heseltine the striving for +rightness and fineness had been pushed a little too far at the expense +of the bodily structure. There was a pathetic drooping of the mouth's +corners, and a wild-bird look in the eye which told of physical +weakness very bravely borne. Her husband was a brain specialist. + +She wore black for her niece. There were few other guests. It was a +family party. There were the two Heseltines, their cousins the +Luscombes, the two Fawcetts, Ethel Fawcett (another cousin), a woman in +morning dress who had just been speaking at a suffrage meeting, Roger, +and one Lionel who was very late. They waited for Lionel. They were +sure that Lionel would not be long. The suffrage speaker, Miss +Lenning, asked if Lionel were better. Yes. The new treatment was +doing him good. They were hoping that he would get over it. Roger +started when Mrs. Heseltine's voice grew grave. There were notes in it +strangely like Ottalie's voice. The voice reveals character more +clearly than the face, more clearly than it reveals character, it +reveals spiritual power. Until he heard those grave notes he had not +seen much of Ottalie in her, except in the way in which she sat, the +head a little drooped, the hands composed, in a pose which no art could +quite describe, it was so like her. The words thrilled through him, as +though the dead were in the room under a disguise. There was Leslie +looking at him, with grave, kindly deliberation, putting up his glasses +to Ottalie's eyes with Ottalie's hand. Ottalie's voice spoke to him +through Mrs. Heseltine. They were away in one corner of the room now, +looking at a drawing. + +"I have so often heard of you," she was saying. "Somehow I always +missed you when I was at Portobe. But I have heard of you from Leslie, +and from poor Ottalie. I wanted to see you. I have been waiting to +see you for the last month. I wanted to tell you something which +Ottalie said to me, when my boy was killed in the war. She said that +when a life ended, like that, suddenly and incomplete, it was our task +to complete it, for the world's sake, in our own lives." She paused +for an instant, and then added: "I have tried to realise what my boy +would have done. I hope that you will come to talk to me whenever you +like. Ottalie was very dear to me. She was in this room, looking at +this drawing, only seven weeks ago." She faltered for a moment. + +"Yes, Mrs. Heseltine?" he said. + +"Talking about you," she added gently. + +"Mr. Heseltine," said the maid, opening the door. The man with the +yellow face and injected eyes entered. + +"Ah, Lionel," said Mrs. Heseltine. + +"I'm awfully sorry I'm so late," he said. "They've been trying a new +cure on me. It's said to be permanent; but they've only tried it on +one other fellow so far. I wish you hadn't waited for me." He glanced +at Roger with a smile. + +"D'you know Mr. Heseltine, Mr. Naldrett?" + +"We met each other last night," said Roger. "At the MacElherans'." + +"Yes. I think we did," he answered. + +Dinner was announced. Roger took Miss Lenning. Mrs. Heseltine sat at +his left. Miss Lenning was a determined young woman with no nonsense +about her. Roger asked if her speech had gone well. + +"Pretty well," she said. "I was on a wagon in the Park. A lot of +loafers rushed the wagon once or twice. It's the sort of thing London +loafers delight to do." + +"Yes," said Roger. "That is because the part of London near the parks +is not serious. It is a part given up to pleasure-mongers and their +parasites. The crowds there don't believe in anything, they won't help +anything, they can't understand anything. In the East of London you +would probably get attention. I suppose the police sniggered and +looked away?" + +"You talk as though you had been at it yourself," said Miss Lenning. + +"Been at it? Yes. Of course I have. But not very much, I'm afraid. +I used to speak fairly regularly. Then at your big meeting in the Park +I got a rotten egg in the jaw, which gave me blood poisoning. I had to +stop then, because ever since then I've been behindhand with my work. +A London crowd is a crowd of loafers loafing. But a crowd in a +northern city, in Manchester, or Leeds, or Glasgow, is a very different +thing. They are a different stock. They are working men, interested +in things. Here they are idlers delighting in a chance of rowdyism. +They are without chivalry or decent feeling. They go to boo and jeer, +knowing that the police won't stop them. I think you women are +perfectly splendid to do what you do, and have done." + +"Oh, one doesn't mind going to prison," said Miss Lenning. "I've been +three times now. Besides, we shall know how to reform the prisons when +we get the vote. What makes my blood boil are the insults I get in the +streets from the sort of men whose votes are responsible for disgraces +like the war." She stopped. "What is your line?" she asked. + +"I'm a writer." + +"Why don't you write a play or a novel about us?" + +"Because I don't believe in mixing art with propaganda. My province is +to induce emotion. I am not going to use such talent as I have upon +intellectual puzzles proper to this time. This is the work of a +reformer or a leader-writer. My work is to find out certain general +truths in nature, and to express them, in prose or verse, in as high +and living a manner as I can. That seems absurd to you?" + +"Not absurd exactly," she said, "but selfish." + +"You think, then, that a man who passes his life in trying to make the +world's thought nobler, and the world's character thereby finer, must +necessarily be selfish?" + +"Yes; I do," she said firmly. "There are all you writers trying, as +you put it, to make the world's thought noble, and not one of you--I +beg your pardon, only three of you--lift a finger to help us get the +vote. You don't really care a rush about the world's thought. You +care only for your own thought." + +"And your own thought isn't thought at all," said Major Luscombe from +over the table. "I don't mean yours, personally, of course. I like +your play very much. But taking writers generally throughout the +world, what does the literary mind contribute to the world's thought +now? Can you point to any one writer, anywhere in the world, whose +thoughts about the world are really worth reading?" + +"Yes. To a good many. In a good many countries," said Roger. + +"I have no quarrel with art," said Heseltine, taking up the cudgels. +"It is moral occupation. But I feel this about modern artists, that, +with a few exceptions, they throw down no roots, either into national +or private life. They care no more for the State, in its religious +sense, than they care (as, say, an Elizabethan would have cared) for +conduct. They seem to me to be a company of men without any common +principle or joint enthusiasm, working, rather blindly and narrowly, at +the bidding of personal idiosyncrasy, or of some aberration of taste. +A few of you, some of the most determined, are interested in social +reform. The rest of you are merely photographing what goes on for the +amusement of those who cannot photograph." + +"Yes," said Roger. "At present you are condemning modern society. +When you were a boy, Dr. Heseltine, you lived in an ordered world, +which was governed by supernatural religion, excited by many material +discoveries, and kept from outward anxiety by prosperity and peace. +All that world has been turned topsy-turvy in one generation. We are +no longer an ordered world. I believe there is a kind of bacillus, +isn't there, which, when exposed to the open air, away from its home in +the blood, flies about wildly in all directions? That is what we are +doing. A large proportion of English people, having lost faith in +their old ruler, supernatural religion, fly about wildly in motor-cars. +And, unfortunately, material prosperity has increased enormously while +moral discipline has been declining; so that now, while we are, +perhaps, at the height of our national prosperity, there is practically +no common enthusiasm binding man to man, spirit to spirit. It is +difficult for an artist to do much more than to reflect the moral +conduct of his time, and to cleanse, as it were, what is eternal in +conduct from its temporary setting. If the world maintains, as I hold +that it does, that there is nothing eternal, and that moral conduct +consists in going a great deal, very swiftly, in many very expensive +motor-cars, with as many idle companions as possible, then I maintain +that you must respect the artist for standing alone and working, as you +put it, 'rather blindly and narrowly,' at whatever protest his personal +idiosyncrasy urges him to make." + +"That's just what I was saying," said Major Luscombe. "I was dining +with Sir Herbert Chard last night, down at Aldershot. We were talking +military shop rather. About conscription. I said that I thought it +was a great pity that universal discipline of some kind had not been +substituted for the old moral discipline, which of course we all +remember, and I dare say were the last to get. You can't get on +without discipline." + +"Ah, but that is preaching militarism," said Mrs. Heseltine; "and +preaching it insidiously." + +"The military virtues are the bed-rock of character," said the Major. + +"I cannot believe that character is taught by drill-sergeants and +subalterns," said Mrs. Heseltine. "If it is taught at all, it is +taught (perhaps unconsciously) by fine men and women; and to some +extent by the images of noble character in works of art. I see no +chance of moral regeneration in conscription, only another excuse for +vapouring, and for that kind of casting off of judgment and +responsibility which goes under the name of patriotism." + +"I would rather establish a compulsory study of Equity," said Roger. +"Then nations might judge a _casus belli_ justly, on its merits, +instead of accepting the words of newspapers inspired by unscrupulous +usurers, as at present. A few unprincipled men, mostly of the lowest +kind of commercial Jew, are able to run this country into war whenever +they like. And the Briton believes himself to be a level-headed +business man." + +"If that is the case," said the Major triumphantly, "it proves my +point. If we are likely to go to war, we ought to be prepared for war. +And we can only be prepared if we establish conscription. And if we +are not prepared, we shall cease as a nation. It is your duty, as an +English writer, to awaken the national conscience by a play or novel, +so that when the time comes we may be prepared." + +"My duty is nothing of the kind," said Roger. "I believe war to be a +wasteful curse; and the preparation for war to be an even greater +curse, and infinitely more wasteful. I am not a patriot, remember. My +State is mind. The human mind. I owe allegiance to that first. I am +not going to set Time's clock back by preaching war. War belongs to +savages and to obsolete anachronisms like generals. You think that +that is decadence. That I am a weak, spiritless, little-Englander, who +will be swept away by the first 'still, strong man' who comes along +with 'a mailed fist.' Very well. I have no doubt that brute force can +and will sweep away most things not brutal like itself. It may sweep +me away. But I will not disgrace my century by preaching the methods +of Palæolithic man. If you want war, go out and fight waste. I +suppose that two hundred and fifty million pounds are flung away each +year on drink and armaments in this country alone. I suppose that in +the same time about five hundred pounds are spent on researches into +the causes of disease. About the same amount is given away to reward +intellectual labours. I mean labours not connected with the +improvement of beer or dynamite. Such labours as noble imaginings +about the world and life." He looked at Miss Lenning, whose eye was +kindling. No one who has dabbled in politics can resist rhetoric of +any kind. + +"You send women to prison for wanting to control such folly," he went +on. "Doesn't he, Miss Lenning? If I am to become a propagandist, I +will do so in the cause of liberty or knowledge. I would write for +Miss Lenning, or for Dr. Heseltine there, but for a military man, who +merely wants food for powder, for no grand, creative principle, I would +not write even if the Nicaraguans were battering St. Paul's." + +"Some day," said Mrs. Heseltine, "we may become great enough to give up +all this idea of Empire, and set out, like the French, to lead the +world in thought and manners. We might achieve something then. France +was defeated. She is now the most prosperous and the most civilised +country in the world." + +"And the least vital," said the Major's wife. + +"But what do you mean by vital?" said Roger, guessing that she was +repeating a class catch-word. "Vitality is shewn by a capacity for +thought." + +Maggie Fawcett interposed. "It's a very curious state of things," said +she. "The intellect of the world is either trading, fighting for +trade, or preparing to fight for trade. It is, in any case, pursuing a +definite object. But the imagination of the world is engaged in +finding a stable faith to replace the old one. It is wavering between +science and superstition, neither of which will allow a compromise. +You, Mr. Naldrett, if you will excuse my saying so, belong to the +superstition camp. You believe that a man is in a state of grace if he +goes to a tragedy, and can tell a Francesca from a Signorelli. I +belong to the science camp, and I believe that that camp is going to +win. It's attracting the better kind of person; and it has an +enthusiasm which yours has not. You are looking for an indefinite, +rare, emotional state, in which you can apprehend the moral relations +of things. We are looking for the material relations of things so that +the rare emotional state can be apprehended, not by rare, peculiar +people, such as men of genius, but by everybody." + +"What you had better do," said Dr. Heseltine, "is, give up all this +'obsolete anachronism' of art. Science is the art of the twentieth +century. You cannot paint or write in the grand manner any longer. +That has all been done. Men like you ought to be stamping out +preventable disease. Instead of that, you are writing of what Tom said +to James while Dick fell in the water. With a fortieth part of what is +wasted annually on the army alone, I would undertake to stamp out +phthisis in these islands. With another fortieth part there is very +little doubt that cancer could be stamped out too. With another +fortieth part, wisely and scientifically administered without morbid +sentiment, we could stamp out crime and other mental diseases." + +"The motor-car and golf, for instance?" said Ethel Fawcett. + +"Yes. And betting, 'sport,' war, idleness, drink, vice, tobacco, tea, +all the abominations of life. All the reversions to incompleted types. +You ought to write a play or a novel on these things. I'm not speaking +wildly. I'm speaking of a proved scientific possibility of relative +human perfection. When life has been made glorious, as I can see that +it could be made, then you artists could set to work to decorate it as +much as you like." + +"So, then," said Roger, "there are three ways to perfection, by +admitting women to the suffrage, by driving men into the army, and by +substituting the College of Surgeons for the Government. Now an artist +is concerned above all things with moral ideas. He is not limited, or +should not be, to particular truths. His world is the entire world, +reduced, by strict and passionate thinking, to its imaginative essence. +You and your schemes, and their relative importance, are my study, and, +when I have reduced them to the ideas of progress which they embody, my +material. I think that you have all made the search for perfection too +much a question of profession. It is not a question of profession. It +is a question of personal character." After a short pause he went on. +"At the same time, there is nothing the man of thought desires so much +as to be a man of action. English writers (I suppose from their way of +bringing up) have been much tempted to action. Byron went liberating +Greece. Chaucer was an ambassador, Spenser a sort of Irish R.M., +Shakespeare an actor-manager and money-lender, or, as some think, the +Chancellor of the Exchequer. Writing alone is not enough for a man." + +Leslie, who had been chatting to Ethel Fawcett, looked at Roger without +speaking. Dinner came slowly to an end. The ladies left the room. +The men settled into their chairs. Dr. Heseltine moved the port to +Lionel, with, "I suppose you're not allowed this?" + +Lionel refused the port, smiling. He put a white tabloid into a little +soda-water and settled into the chair next to Roger. He pulled out his +cigarette case. "Will you smoke?" he asked. "These are rather a queer +kind." + +"No, thanks," said Roger. "I've given it up." + +"I don't think I could do that," said Lionel, selecting a +strange-looking cigarette done up in yellow paper, with twisted ends. +"I smoke a good deal. When one's alone one wants tobacco; one gets +into the way of it." + +He lit a cigarette with a brown hand which trembled. Roger, noticing +the tremor, and the redness of the man's eyes, wondered if he were a +secret drinker. "Are you much alone?" he asked. + +"A good deal," Lionel answered. "I've just been reading a book by you; +it's called _The Handful_. I think you wrote it, didn't you? So +you've been in the tropics, too?" + +"I went to stay with an uncle at Belize, five years ago," said Roger. +"I only stayed for about a month." + +"Belize," said Lionel. "My chief was in Belize. Was there any yellow +fever there, when you were there?" + +"There was one case," said Roger. + +"Did you see it?" + +"No," said Roger; "I didn't." + +"I should like to see yellow fever," said Lionel simply. "I suppose +there was a good deal of fuss directly this case occurred?" + +"Yes," said Roger. "A gang came round at once. I think they put +paraffin in the cisterns. They sealed the infected house with brown +paper and fumigated it." + +"And that stopped it?" + +"Yes. There were no other cases." + +"It's all due to a kind of mosquito," said Lionel. "The white-ribbed +mosquito. He carries the organism. You put paraffin on all standing +puddles and pools to prevent the mosquito's larvæ from hatching out. +My old chief did a lot of work in Havana, and the West Indies, stampin' +out yellow fever. It has made the Panama Canal possible." + +"Are you a doctor, then, may I ask?" said Roger. + +"No," said Lionel. "I do medical research work; but I don't know much +about it. I never properly qualified. I'm interested in all that kind +of thing." + +"What medical research do you do? Would it bore you to tell me?" + +"I have been out in Uganda, doing sleeping sickness." + +"Have you?" said Roger. "That's very interesting. I've been reading a +lot of books about sleeping sickness." + +"Are you interested in that kind of thing?" Lionel asked. + +"Yes." + +"If you care to come round to my rooms some time I would shew you some +relics. I live in Pump Court. I'm generally in all the morning, and +between four and six in the evening. I could shew you some +trypanosomes. They're the organisms." + +"What are they like?" Roger asked. + +"They're like little wriggly flattened membranes. Some of them have +tails. They multiply by longitudinal division. They're unlike +anything else. They've got a pretty bad name." + +"And they cause the disease?" + +"Yes. You know, of course, that they are spread by the tsetse fly? +The tsetse fly sucks them out of an infected fish or mammal, and +develops them, inside his body probably for some time, during which the +organism probably changes a good deal. When the tsetse bites a man, +the developed trypanosome gets down the proboscis into the blood. +About a week after the bite, when the bite itself is cured, the man +gets the ordinary trypanosome fever, which makes you pretty wretched, +by the way." + +"Have you had it?" + +"Yes; rather. I have it now. It recurs at intervals." + +"And how about sleeping sickness?" + +"You get sleeping sickness when the trypanosome enters the +cerebro-spinal fluid. You may not get it for six or seven years after +the bite. On the other hand, you may get it almost at once." + +"Then you may get it?" said Roger, startled, looking at the man with a +respect which was half pity. + +"I've got it," said Lionel. + +"Got it? You?" said Roger. He stumbled in his speech. "But, forgive +my speaking like this," he said; "is there a cure, then?" + +"It's not certain that it's a permanent cure," said Lionel. "I've just +started it. It's called atoxyl. Before I tried atoxyl I had another +thing called trypanroth, made out of aniline dye. It has made my eyes +red, you see? Dyed them. You can have 'em dyed blue, if you prefer. +But red was good enough, I thought. Now I'm afraid I'm talking rather +about myself." + +"No, indeed; I'm intensely interested," said Roger. "Tell me more. +Tell me about the sickness in Uganda. Is it really bad?" + +"Pretty bad," said Lionel. "I suppose that a couple of hundred +thousand men and women have died of it during the last seven years. I +don't know how many animals besides. The tsetse will bite pretty +nearly every living thing, and everything it bites gets disease of some +sort. You see, trypanosomiasis is probably a new thing in Uganda. New +diseases are often very deadly, I believe." + +"Is the tsetse migrating, then, or can the thing be conveyed by +contagion?" + +"No. I don't think it's a contagious thing. I should say it almost +certainly isn't. It needs direct inoculation. And as far as we know +the tsetse keeps pretty near to one place all through its life." + +"I know a writer who claims that we are spreading it. Is that so?" + +"Indirectly. You see, East Africa is not like America or any other +horse country. You haven't got much means of transport, except +bearers, unless you go by river, and even then you may have to make +portages. Going with natives from one district to another is sure to +spread the infection. When infected people come to a healthy district, +their germs are sure to be inoculated into the healthy by some tick or +bug, even if there are no tsetses to do it. I believe there are +trypanosomes in the hut-bugs. I don't know, though, that hut-bugs are +guiltier than any other kind. It's impossible to say. From the hour +you land until the hour you sail, you are always being bitten or stung +by something. Bugs, ticks, fleas, lice, mosquitoes, tsetses, ants, +jiggers, gads, hippos, sandflies, wasps. You put on oil of lavender, +if you have any. But even with that you are always being bitten." + +"And what is the tsetse bite like?" + +"You've been to Portobe, haven't you? I remember Ottalie Fawcett +speaking of you, years ago, before I went out. You had that cottage at +the very end of the loaning, just above the sea? Well. Did you ever +go on along the cliff from there to a place where you have to climb +over a very difficult barbed-wire fence just under an ash-tree? I mean +just before you come to a nunnery ruin, where there is a little +waterfall?" + +"Yes," said Roger. "I know the exact spot. There used to be a hawk's +nest in the cliff just below the barbed wire." + +"Well, just there, there are a lot of those reddy-grey flies called +clegs. You get them going up to Essna-Lara. That's another place. +They bite the horses. You must have been bitten by them. Well, a +tsetse is not much like a cleg to look at. It's duller and smaller. +It's likest to a house-fly, except for the wings, which are unlike any +other kind of insect wings. It comes at you not unlike a cleg. You +know how savage a cleg is? He dashes at you without any pretence. He +only feints when he is just going to land. And he follows you until +you kill him. A tsetse is like that. He'll follow you for half a +mile, giving you no peace. Like a cleg, he settles down on you very +gently, so that you don't notice him. You'll remember the mosquitoes +at Belize. Mosquitoes are like that. Then, when he has sucked his +fill and unscrewed his gimlet, you feel a smarting itch, and see your +hand swollen. If you are not very well at the time a tsetse bite can +be pretty bad. If you'll come to my rooms some time I'll show you some +tsetse. They're nothing to look at. They're very like common +house-flies." + +"And you have been studying all this on the spot? Will you tell me +what made you take to it?" + +"Oh, I was always interested in that kind of thing. I've always liked +hot climates, and being in wild, lonely places. And then my old chief +was a splendid fellow. He made me interested. I got awfully keen on +it. I want to go out again. You know, I want to get at the bottom of +the trypanosome. His life-history isn't known yet, as we know the +cycle of the malaria parasite. We don't even know what it is in him +which causes the disease. And we don't know very much really about the +tsetse, nor what part the tsetse plays in the organism's life. There's +a lot which I should like to find out, or try to find out. It's the +trying which gives one the pleasure." + +"But I think it's heroic of you," said Roger. "Are there many of you +out there, doing this?" + +"Not very many." + +"It's a heroic thing to do," said Roger. "Heroic. The loneliness +alone must make it heroic." + +"You get used to the loneliness. It gives you nerves at first. But in +my opinion the heat keeps you from thinking much about the loneliness. +I like heat myself, but it takes it out of most of the griffs. The +heat can be pretty bad." + +"All the same, it is a wonderful thing to do." + +"Yes. It's a good thing to spot the cause of a disease like that. But +you over-rate the heroic part. It's all in the day's work. One takes +it as it comes, and one has a pretty good time, too. One never thinks +of the risk, which is really very slight. Doctors face worse things in +London every day. So do nurses. A doctor was telling me only the +other day how a succession of nurses went down to a typhus epidemic and +died one after the other. There's nothing like that in the +Protectorate with sleeping sickness." + +"But being the only white man, away in the wilds, with the natives +dying all round you!" + +"Yes. That is pretty bad. I was in the middle of a pretty bad +outbreak in a little place called Ikupu. It was rather an interesting +epidemic, because it happened in a place where there weren't any of the +tsetse which is supposed to do the harm. They may have been there; but +I couldn't find any. It must have been another kind which did the +damage at Ikupu. As a matter of fact, I did find trypanosomes in +another kind there, which was rather a feather in my cap. Well, I was +alone there. My assistant died of blackwater fever. And there I was +with a sleeping village. There were about twenty cases. Most of the +rest of the natives ran away, and no doubt spread the infection. Those +twenty cases were pretty nearly all the society of Ikupu. Some were +hardly ill at all. They just had a little fever, perhaps, or a skin +complaint on the chest, and tender, swollen glands. Others were just +as bad as they could be. They were in all stages of the disease. Some +were just beginning to mope outside their huts. Others were sitting +still there, not even caring to ask for food, just moping away to +death, with their mouths open. Generally, one gets used to seeing that +sort of thing; but I got nerves that time. You see, they were rather a +special tribe at Ikupu. They called themselves Obmali, or some such +name. Their lingo was rather rummy. Talking with the chief I got the +impression that they were the relics of a tribe which had been wiped +out further west. They believed that sleeping sickness was caused by a +snake-woman in a swampy part of the forest. Looking after all those +twenty people, and taking tests from them, gave me fever a good deal. +That is one thing you have to get used to--fever. You get used to +doing your work with a temperature of one hundred and two degrees. +It's queer about fever. Any start, or shock, or extra work, may bring +it on you. I had it, as I said, a good deal. Well, I got into the way +of thinking that there was a snake-woman. A woman with a puff-adder +head, all mottled. I used to barricade my hut at night against her." + +Dr. Heseltine drew his chair up. "What are you two discussing? +Talking about sleeping sickness?" he asked. "How does the new +treatment suit you, Lionel? No headache, I hope? It's apt to make you +headachy. There's a subject for a play for you, Mr. Naldrett. 'Man +and the Trypanosome.' You could bring the germs on to the stage, and +kill them off with a hypodermic syringe." + +"Yes," said Roger. "It has all the requirements of a modern play: +strength, silence, and masculinity. There's even a happy ending to it." + +Lionel began to talk to Dr. Heseltine. Roger crossed the room to talk +to Leslie. He heard Lionel saying something about "waiting to give the +monkey a chance." He did not get another talk with Lionel that night. +After they joined the ladies, Ethel Fawcett sang. She had a good, but +not very strong voice. She sang some Schumann which had been very dear +to Ottalie. Her voice was a little like Ottalie's in the high notes. +It haunted Roger all the way home, and into his lonely room. Sitting +down before the fireplace he had a sudden vision of drenching wet +grass, and a tangle of yellowing honeysuckle, heaped over a brook which +gurgled. For an instant he had the complete illusion of the smell of +meadowsweet, and Ottalie coming singing from the house, so sharply that +he gasped. + + + + +VII + + Sweet virgin rose, farewell. Heaven has thy beauty, + That's only fit for Heaven. I'll live a little, + And then, most blessed soul, I'll climb up to thee. + Farewell. _The Night Walker; or, The Little Thief_. + + +The next morning he found upon his plate a letter in a strange hand. +The writing was firmly formed, but ugly. The letters had a way of +lying down upon each other towards the end of each word. It was not a +literary hand. It was from Lionel Heseltine. + + +"400A, PUMP COURT, TEMPLE. + +"DEAR MR. NALDRETT (it ran), + +"If you would like to see my relics, will you come round next Thursday +to my rooms between 4 and 5? You will see my name on the doorpost +outside. I am up at the top. Your best way would be Underground to +the Temple, and then up Middle Temple Lane. If the Lane door is shut +you will have to go up into the Strand and then round. I hope you will +be able to come. + + "Yours sincerely, + "LIONEL HESELTINE." + + +He replied that he would gladly join him there on Thursday. He wished +that Thursday were not still six days away. He was drawn to all these +people who had known Ottalie. They were parts of her life. He +realised now how much people must be in a woman's life. A man has +work, and the busy interests created by it. A woman has friends and +the emotions roused by them. This world of Ottalie's friends was new +to him. He tried to look upon them as she would have looked upon them. +These had known her intimately since her childhood. They had been in +her mind continually. She had lived with them. He had often felt +vaguely jealous of them, when he had heard her talk of them with +Agatha; or if not jealous, sad, that he should not have access to that +side of her. + +He was drawn to them all, but Lionel attracted him the most strongly. +Some of his liking for Lionel was mere instinctive recognition of an +inherent fineness and simplicity in the man's character. But there was +more than that. He had often felt that in life, as in nature, there is +a constant effort to remedy the unnatural. The inscrutable agency +behind life offers always wisely some restoration or readjustment of a +balance disturbed. He felt that a tide had quickened in his life, at +the last ebbing of the old. In the old life all had been to please +Ottalie. Life was more serious now. He could not go back all at once +to a life interrupted as his had been. Life was not what he had +thought it. In the old days it had sufficed to brood upon beautiful +images, till his mind had reflected them clearly enough for his hand to +write down their evocative symbols. He was not too young to perceive +the austerer beauty in the room of life beyond the room in which youth +takes his pleasure. But so far his life had been so little serious +that he had lacked the opportunity of perceiving it. Now the old world +of the beauty of external image, well-defined and richly coloured, was +shattered for him. He saw how ugly a thing it was, even as a plaything +or decoration, beside the high and tragical things of life and death. +It was his misfortune to have lived a life without deep emotions. Now +that sorrows came upon him together, smiting him mercilessly, it was +his misfortune to be without a friend capable of realising what the +issue warring in him meant. O'Neill had sent him a note from Ubrique +in Andaluz, asking him to order a supply of litharge for his +experiments, which were "wonderful." Pollock had sent him a note from +Lyme, repaying, "with many, many thanks," the loan of fifty guineas. +His "little girl was very well, and Kitty was wonderful." Besides +these two he had no other intimate friends. Leslie, a much finer +person than either of them, might have understood and helped his mood; +but Leslie had been away in Ireland since the first fortnight. Being, +therefore, much alone in his misery, Roger had come to look upon +himself in London as the one sentient, tortured thing in a callous +ant-swarm. He was shrinking from the sharp points of contact with the +world on to still sharper internal points of dissatisfaction with +himself. It was, therefore, natural that he should be strongly +attracted by a man who carried a mortal disease, with a grave and +cheerful spirit, serenely smiling, able, even in this last misfortune, +to feel that life had been ordered well, in accordance with high law. +The more he thought of Lionel, the more he came to envy that life of +mingled action and thought which had tempered such a spirit. In +moments of self-despising he saw, or thought that he saw, this +difference between their lives. He himself was like an old king +surprised by death in the treasure-house. He had piled up many jewels +of many-gleaming thought; he was robed in purple; his brain was heavy +from the crown's weight. And all of it was a heavy uselessness. He +could take away none of it. The treasure was all dust, rust, and rags. +He was a weak and fumbling human soul shut away from his bright +beloved, not only by death, but by his own swaddled insufficiency. +Lionel, on the other hand, was a crusader, dying outside the Holy City, +perhaps not in sight of it, but so fired with the idea of it that death +was a little thing to him. All his life had been death for an idea. +All his life had made dying easier. Roger's tortured mind was not +soothed by thinking how their respective souls would look after death. +Some men laid up treasures in heaven, others laid up treasures on +earth. The writer, doubting one and despising the other, laid up +treasures in limbo. He began to understand O'Neill's remark that it +was "the most difficult thing in the world for an artist both to do +good work and to save his own soul." Little, long-contemned scraps of +mediæval theology, acquired in the emotional mood during which he had +been pre-Raphaelite, appealed to him again, suddenly, as not merely +attractive but wise. Often, at times of deep emotion, in the fear of +death, the mind finds more significance in things learned in childhood +than in the attainments of maturity. This emotion, the one real +passionate emotion of his life, had humbled him. Life had suddenly +shewn itself in its primitive solemnity. The old life was all ashes +and whirling dust. He understood something, now, of the conflict going +on in life. But he understood it quakingly, as a prophet hears the +voice in the night. He saw his own soul shrivelling like a leaf in the +presence of a great reality. He had to establish that soul's +foundations before he could sit down again to work. The artist creates +the image of his own soul. When he sees the insufficiency of that +soul, he can either remedy it or take to criticism. + + +Thinking over the talk of the night before, he wondered at the train of +events which had altered the course of his thinking. Lionel, a few +weeks before, would have been to him a charming, interesting, but +misguided man, wandering in one of those sandy, sonorously named +Desarts where William Blake puts Newton, Locke, and those other fine +intellects, with whom he was not in sympathy. Now he saw that Lionel +was ahead of him on the road. Thinking of Lionel, and wishing that he, +too, had done something for his fellows, he traced the course of a tide +of affairs which had been setting into his mind. It had begun with +that blowing paper in the garden, as a beginning tide brings rubbish +with it. Now it was in full flood with him, lifting him over shallows +where he had long lain grounded. He began to doubt whether literature +was so fine a thing as he had thought. Science, so cleanly and +fearless, was doing the poet's work, while the poet, taking his cue +from Blake, maligned her with the malignity of ignorance. What if +poetry were a mere antique survival, a pretty toy, which attracted the +fine mind, and held it in dalliance? There were signs everywhere that +the day of _belles-lettres_ was over. Good intellects were no longer +encouraged to write, "pricked on by your popes and kings." More than +that, good intellects were less and less attracted to literature. The +revelation of the age was scientific, not artistic. He tried to +formulate to himself what art and science were expressing, so that he +might judge between them. Art seemed to him to be taking stock of past +achievement, science to be on the brink of new revelations. + +He knew so little of science that his thought of it was little more +than a consideration of sleeping sickness. He reviewed his knowledge +of sleeping sickness. He thought of it no longer as an abstract +intellectual question, but as man's enemy, an almost human thing, a +pestilence walking in the noonday. Out in Africa that horror walked in +the noonday, stifling the brains of men. It fascinated him. He +thought of the little lonely stations of scientists and soldiers, far +away in the wilds, in the midst of the disease, perhaps feeling it +coming on, as Lionel must have felt it. They were giving up their +lives cheerily and unconcernedly in the hope of saving the lives of +others. That was a finer way of living than sitting in a chair, +writing of what Dick said to Tom when Joe fell in the water. He went +over in his mind the questions which science had to solve before the +disease could be stamped out. He wondered if there were in the +literary brain some quickness or clearness which the scientific brain +wanted. He wondered if he might solve the questions. Great +discoveries are made by discoverers, not always by seekers. What was +mysterious about the sleeping sickness? + +A little thought reduced his limited knowledge to order. The disease +is spreading eastwards from the West Coast of Africa between 16° north +and 16° south latitude, keeping pretty sharply within the thirty-two +degrees, north and south. It is caused by an organism called a +trypanosome, which enters the blood through the probosces of biting +flies. It kills, when the organism enters the cerebro-spinal fluid. +So much was sure. He could not say with certainty why the disease is +spreading eastwards, nor why the trypanosome causes it, nor how the fly +obtains the trypanosome, nor what happens to the trypanosome in the +fly's body. His ignorance thus resolved itself into four heads. + +As to the spreading of the disease eastwards, Lionel, who had lived in +the country, might know a reason for it. He would at least have heard +what the natives and the older settlers thought. Residents' reasons +generally range from stories of snake-headed women in the swamp, to +tales of a queer case of gin, or of "European germs changed by the +climate." The simple explanation was that in mid-Africa human +communications are more frequent from the west to the east than from +the east to the west. The Congo is the highway. + +He knew that the trypanosome is carried by the wild game. In long +generations of suffering the African big game has won for itself the +power of resisting the trypanosomes. Although the trypanosomes abound +in their blood, the wild animals do not develop "nagana" or "surra," +the diseases which the tsetse bite sets up in most domestic animals. +Something has been bred into their beings which checks the +trypanosome's power. The animals are immune, or salted. But although +they are immune, the wild animals are hosts to the trypanosome. In the +course of time, when they migrate before the advance of sportsmen, or +in search of pasture into tsetse country as yet uninfected with +trypanosome, the tsetses attacking them suck the infected blood and +receive the organisms into their bodies. Later on, as they bite, they +transfer the organisms to human beings, who develop the disease. +Plainly, a single migratory animal host, or a single infected slave, +suffering from the initial feverish stages, might travel for three or +four months, infecting a dozen tsetses daily, along his line of march. +One man or beast might make the route dangerous for all who followed. +Roger remembered how the chigoe or jigger-flea had travelled east along +the Congo, to establish itself as an abiding pest wherever there was +sand to shelter it. + +As to the action of the trypanosome upon the human being, that was a +question for trained scientists. It probably amounted to little more +than a battle with the white corpuscles. + +He passed the next few days at the Museum, studying the disease. + +Mrs. Holder, who did for Lionel, let him in to Lionel's rooms on +Thursday. "Mr. Heseltine was expecting him, and would be in in a +minute. Would he take a seat?" He did so. The rooms were the top +chambers of a house in Pump Court. They were nice light airy chambers, +sparely furnished. The floor was covered with straw-matting. The +chairs were deck-chairs. There were a few books on a bookshelf. Most +of them were bound files of the _Lancet_ and _British Medical Journal_. +A few were medical books, picked up cheap at second-hand shops, as the +price labels on the backs testified. The rest were mostly military +history: _The Jena Campaign_; Hoenig's _Twenty-four Hours of Moltke's +Strategy_; Meckel's _Tactics_ and Sommernacht's _Traum; +Chancellorsville_; Colonel Henderson's _Life of Stonewall Jackson; +Essays on the Science of War_ and _Spicheren_; Wolseley's _Life of +Marlborough_; Colonel Maude's _Leipzig_; Stoffel's contribution to the +_Vie de Jules Cesar_; a battered copy of Mahan's _War of 1812_; and +three or four small military text-books on _Reconnaissance, Minor +Tactics, Infantry Formations,_ etc. A book of military memoirs lay +open, face downwards, in a deck-chair. It was a hot July day, but the +fire was not yet out in the grate. On the mantelpiece were some small +ebony curios inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Above the mantel were a few +pipes, spears, and knobkerries, a warrior's Colobus-monkey head-dress +and shield, from Masailand, a chased brass bracket-dish (probably made +in England) containing cigarette-butts, and a small, but very beautiful +Madonna and Child, evidently by Correggio. It was dirty, cracked, and +badly hung, but it was still a noble work. Lionel, coming in abruptly, +found Roger staring at it. + +"I hope you've not been waiting," he said. "I've been to see my +monkey. Are you fond of pictures? That's said to be a rather good +one. It's by a man called Correggio. Do you know his work at all? +It's rather dingy. Do you like lemon or milk in your tea? Lemon? You +like lemon, do you? Right. And will you wait a minute while I give +myself a last dose?" + +"Can I help you?" Roger asked. "It's hypodermic, isn't it?" + +"Would you mind? You shove the snout of the thing into my arm, and +push the spirit. It won't take a minute." He shewed Roger into a +Spartan bedroom, furnished with a camp-bed and a Sandow's exerciser. + +"Now," he said, producing a bottle and a syringe, "first I'll roll up +my sleeve, and then I'll shew you how to sterilise the needle. I +suppose you've never done this kind of thing before? Now, jab it in +just here where all the punctures are." + +"You said it was your last dose," said Roger. "Does that mean that you +are cured?" + +"Cured for the time. I may get a relapse. Still, that isn't likely." + +"How do you know that you are cured? Do you feel better?" + +"I don't get insomnia," said Lionel. "No. They inject bits of me into +a monkey, and then wait to see if the monkey develops the organism. +The monkey's very fit indeed, so they reckon that I'm cured. Thanks. +That'll do. Now I hear tea coming. Go on in, will you? I'll be out +in a minute. I must get out my slides." + +After, tea they looked at relics, to wit, tsetse-flies, butterflies, +biting flies, fragments of the same, sections of them, slides of +trypanosomes, slides of filaria, slides of Laverania. "I've got these +photographs, too," said Lionel. "They aren't very good; but they give +you an idea of the place. This lot are all rather dark. I suppose +they were over-exposed. They shew you the sort of places the tsetse +likes. The hut in this one is a native hut. I lived in it while I was +out there the last time. I was studying the tsetse's ways." + +"They're always near water, aren't they?" Roger asked. + +"Yes, generally near water. They keep to a narrow strip of cover by +the side of a lake or stream. They don't like to go very far from +water unless they are pursuing a victim. In fact, you're perfectly +safe if you avoid fly-country. If you go into fly-country, of course +they come for you. They'll hunt you for some way when you leave it. +They like a shady water with a little sandy shady beach at the side. +They like sand or loose soil better than mud. Mud breeds sedge, which +they don't care about. They like a sort of scrubby jungle. One or two +trees attract them especially. Here's a tree where about a dozen +natives got it together merely from taking their siesta there." + +"Does clearing the jungle do any good?" + +"Oh, yes. It clears the flies out of that particular spot. But it +scatters them abroad. It doesn't destroy them. It doesn't destroy the +pupæ, which are buried under the roots in the ground. Burning is +better, perhaps. Burning may do for the pupæ, but then it doesn't +affect the grown flies." + +"Tell me," said Roger, "is blood necessary to the tsetse?" + +"I wish I knew." + +"I've been thinking about the spread of the disease. Is it caused by +game, by slave-raiders, or by ivory-hunters? How is it spread?" + +"We don't know. It seems to have followed the opening up of the Congo +basin to trade. The game are reservoirs, of course." + +"Have the natives any cure?" + +"None. They have a disinfectant for their cattle. They boil up some +bitter bark with one dead tsetse and make the cattle drink the brew. +Then they fumigate the cattle with bitter smoke. They go through this +business when they are about to trek cattle through fly-country. They +travel at night, because the flies don't bite after dark. But the +fumigation business is really useless." + +"The tsetse is useless, I suppose?" + +"All flies are useless." + +"I like the ladybird and the chalk-blue butterfly." + +"I see you're a sentimentalist. You might keep those. But all the +rest I would wipe out utterly. I wish that we could wipe out the +tsetse as easily as one can wipe out the germ-carrying mosquitoes." + +"Has it been tried?" + +"No. Well. It may have been. But in the mosquito there is a +well-marked grub stage, and in the tsetse there isn't. It is so +difficult to get at the chrysalids satisfactorily." + +"What do the tsetses live upon? Do you mind all my questions?" + +"No. Go ahead. But it must be rather boring to you. They live on +anything they can get, like the commissioners who study them." + +"But why do they live near water?" + +"Oh, that? Some think that they suck the crocodiles; but the general +opinion is that they go for air-breathing, fresh-water fish. The +theory is this. In the dry season the fish have very little water. +The rivers dry up, or very nearly dry up. I'm not talking of rivers +like the Zambesi and the Congo, of course. Well. They dry up, leaving +water-courses of shallow pools joined together by trickles. The fish +are perfectly horrible creatures. They burrow into the mud of the +shallows, and stay there till the rains. I suppose they keep their +snouts out of the mud, in order to breathe. It is thought that the +tsetses feed upon their snouts. It may not be true. Jolly interesting +if it is, don't you think? Look here, excuse me if I smoke. Tell me. +What is it which interests you so much in sleeping sickness? It seems +so queer that you should be interested." + +"I met with accounts of it not long ago, at a time when various causes +had made me very sensitive to impressions. I don't know whether you +ever feel that what is happening to you is part of a great game +divinely ordained?" + +Lionel shook his head. His look became a shade more medical. + +"Well. It sounds foolish," said Roger. "But I was impressed by the +way in which sleeping sickness was brought to my notice again and +again. So I studied it, as well as one so ignorant of science could. +I am interested now, because you've been there and seen it all. It is +always very interesting to hear another man's life-experience. But it +is more than that. The disease must be one of the most frightful +things of modern times. I think it splendid of you to have gone out, +as you have, to study it for the good of mankind." + +"That was only self-indulgence," said Lionel. "It's queer that you +should be interested. You're the only person I've met yet since I came +back who is really interested. Of course, the doctors have been +interested. But I believe that most Londoners have lost the faculty +for serious mental interest. It has been etiolated out of them. They +like your kind of thing, 'sugar and spice and all things nice.' They +like catchwords. They don't study hard nor get at the roots of things. +I met a Spaniard the other day, Centeno, a chemist, I don't mean a +druggist. He said that we had begun to wither at the top." + +"I don't agree," said Roger. "Spain is too withered to judge. Our +head is as sound oak as it always was. Were you ever a soldier, +Heseltine?" + +"Yes, in a sort of a way. I was in the militia." + +"Did you want to be a soldier? Why did you leave it?" + +"It isn't a life, unless you're on a General Staff. Everybody ought to +be able to be a soldier; I believe that; but it doesn't seem to me to +go very far as a life's pursuit. One can only become a good soldier by +passing all one's days in fighting. That doesn't lead to anything. I +would like best of all to be a writer, only, of course, I can't be. I +haven't got the brains. I suppose you'll say they're not essential." + +"They are essential, and you've probably got as many as any writer; but +writing is an art, and success in art depends on all sorts of subtle, +instantaneous relations between the brain's various faculties and the +hand. Are you really serious, though?" + +"Yes. I'd give the world to be able to write. To write poetry. Or +I'd like to be able to write a play. You see, what I believe is, that +this generation is full of all sorts of energy which ought not to be +applied to dying things. I would like to write a poem on the right +application of energy. That is the important thing nowadays. The +English have lots of energy, and so much of it is wasted. The energy +wasted is just so much setting back the clock. The energy wasted at +schools alone---- If I'd not been a juggins at school, I'd have been +fully qualified by this time, and been able to get a lot more fun out +of things, finding out what goes on. Don't you find writing awfully +interesting?" + +"I find it makes the world more interesting. Writing lets one into +life. But when I meet a man like yourself I realise that it isn't a +perfect life for a man. It isn't active enough. It doesn't seem to me +to exercise enough of the essential nature. Have you ever tried to +write? I expect you have written a lot of splendid things. Will you +shew me what you have written?" + +"Oh," said Lionel, "I've only written a few sonnets and things. Out +there alone at night when the lions are roaring, you can't help it. +They used to roar all round me. I was only in a native hut. It gives +one a solemn feeling. I used to make up verses every night." + +"Have you got any? Won't you read them to me?" + +"You can look at them if you like," said Lionel, blushing under his +tan. Like most Englishmen, he was a little ashamed of having any +intelligence at all. He pulled out a little penny account-book from +the drawer under the bookshelf. "They're pretty bad, I expect." + +Roger looked at them. + +"They're not bad at all," he said. "You've got something to say. You +haven't got much ear; but that's only a matter of training. People can +always write well if they are moved or interested. Great writing +happens when a carefully trained technician undergoes a deep emotion, +or, still better, has survived one. Have you written prose at all?" + +"No. Prose is much more difficult. I never know when to stop." + +"Nor do I. Prose becomes hard directly one begins to make it an art +instead of a second nature." + +He wanted to talk with Lionel about Portobe. He was in that mood in +which the wound of a grief aches to be stricken. He wanted to know +what Lionel had said to Ottalie, and what she had said to him. He had +that feeling which sometimes comes to one in London. "Here you are, in +London, before me. And you have been in such a place and such a place, +where I myself have been, and you have talked with people known to me. +How wonderful life is!" To his delight, Lionel began to talk about +Ireland unprompted. + +"I wish I could write prose like yours," he said. "It was your prose +first made me want to write. I was stopping with the Fawcetts at +Portobe. It was the year before Leslie married, just before I went to +India, to do Delhi-sore. Ottalie had just got that book you wrote +about the Dall. You'd sent it to her. That was a fine book. I liked +your little word-pictures." + +"I am sorry you liked that book. It is very crude. I remember Ottalie +was down on me for it." + +"Ottalie was a fine person," said Lionel. "She had such a delicate, +quick mind. And then. I don't know. One can't describe a woman. A +man does things and defines himself by doing them, but a woman just is. +Ottalie just was; but I don't know what she was. I think she was about +the finest thing I've ever seen." + +"Yes," said Roger, moistening dry lips. "She was like light." + +"What I noticed most about her," said Lionel, taking on now the tone of +a colonial who has lived much away from the society of women, "was her +fineness. She did things in a way no other woman could. When I came +back from the East, and went to see her--of course I used to go to +Portobe fairly often when Leslie was there--it was like being with some +one from another world. She was so full of fun, too. She had a way of +doing things simply. I'm not good at describing; but you know how some +writers write a thing easily because they know it to the heart. +Ottalie Fawcett seemed to do things simply, because she understood them +to the heart, by intuition." + +"Yes," said Roger. "I shall always be proud to have lived among a race +which could bear such a person." + +"She must be a dreadful loss," said Lionel, "to anybody who knew her +well. I'm afraid you knew her well. I used to think of her when I was +in Africa. She was wonderful." + +"She was a wonderful spirit," Roger answered. "Tell me. I seem to +know you very well, although I have hardly met you. I don't even know +if your people are alive. Is your mother living?" + +"No," said Lionel. "You're thinking of my old aunt who was at the At +Home with me. I was stopping with her for a few days, before she left +town. My people are dead." + +"Are you thinking of going out again to Africa to examine sleeping +sickness?" + +"Yes," said Lionel. "I want to go soon. I want to go in the rains, so +that I can test a native statement, that the rains aggravate the +disease and tend to bring it out where it is latent. I believe it is +all nonsense. Natives observe, but never deduce. Still, one ought to +know." + +"Would you go alone?" + +"I should go out alone, I suppose. There are lots of men who would +come with me to shoot lions, but trypanosomes are less popular. You +don't bring back many trophies from trypanosomes, except a hanging jaw +and injected eyes." + +"Are the rains very unhealthy?" + +"Yes. If they bring out the latent disease, they do so by lowering the +constitution. But I don't believe that they do anything of the kind. +Still, the natives say that they can bring out nagana in a bitten cow +by pouring a bucket of water over her." + +"Look here," said Roger, "I don't want you to decide definitely till +you know me better. I know how risky a thing it is to choose a +companion for a journey into the wilderness, or for any undertaking of +this kind. But I am dissatisfied with my work. I can't tell you more. +I don't think that my work is using enough of me, or letting me grow up +evenly. Besides, for other reasons, I want to give up writing. I am +deeply interested in your work, and I should like to join you, if you +would let me, after you know me better. I have a theory which I should +like to work out." + +"It would be very nice," said Lionel. "I mean it would be very nice +for me. But it means pretty severe work, remember. And then, how +about scientific training? I'm not properly qualified myself; but I've +been at this game for seven years, and I had a hard year's training +under my old chief, Sir Patrick Hamlin. I began by doing First Aid and +Bearer-Party in camp. Then, when I gave up soldiering, I got a job on +famine relief in India. Then old Hamlin took me under his wing, and +got me to help with the plague at Bombay, and so I went on, learning +whatever I could. I was very lucky. I mean, I was able to learn a +good deal, being always with Hamlin. You ought to know Hamlin. He's a +very remarkable man. He stamped out Travancore ophthalmia. He made me +very keen and taught me all that I know. Not that that's much. Now +you are rather a griff, if you'll excuse my saying so. I wonder how +soon you could make yourself useful?" + +"Well, what is wanted?" said Roger. "Surely not much? What can you do +with the disease? You can only inject atoxyl into a man, and pump +trypanosomes out of him? I can learn how to mount and stain objects +for the microscope. I have kept meteorological records. I could +surely keep records of temperatures. I have no experience and no +scientific knowledge; but I am not sure that my particular theory will +need much more than prolonged, steady observation. Probably all the +attainable scientific facts about the structures of the different +varieties of tsetse are known, but the habits of the flies are very +little known. I was thinking that a minute observation of the flies +would be useful. It is a kind of work which a trained scientist might +find dull. Now, who has really observed the tsetse's habits? It is +not even known what their food is. And another thing. What is it +which keeps them near the water, even when (for all that we know) the +air-breathing fish are no longer burrowed in the mud? And why should +they be so fond of certain kinds of jungle? And why should there not +be some means of exterminating them? I could experiment in many ways." + +"Yes. That is true. You could," said Lionel, puckering his face. +"How do you stand heat? You're slight. You can probably stand more +than a big beefy fellow." + +"I did not find Belize very trying." + +"Then it's an expensive business," said Lionel. "When I go out I +shan't be attached to any commission. One has to go into all these +sordid details pretty closely. Of course, you won't mind my giving you +one or two tips. Here's my account book for a quite short trip to +Ikupu. You will see that it is very costly and very wasteful." + +Roger looked at the account-book. The cost of the Ikupu trip was +certainly heavy. The relatives of two bearers who had been eaten by +lions had received compensation. The widow of the dead assistant had +received compensation. A month's stores had been thrown away by +deserting bearers. The dirty, dog's-eared pages gave him a sense of +the wasteful, deathy, confused life which goes on in new countries +before wasteful, cruel, confused nature has the ideas of her +"rebellious son" imposed upon her. "We went out seventy strong," said +Lionel, "to go to Ikupu. We had bad luck from the very start. Only +twelve of us ever got there. You see, my assistant, Marteilhe, was +frightfully ill. I had fever on and off the whole time. So the +bearers did what they liked. It's a heart-breaking country to travel +in. It's like Texas. 'A good land for men and dogs, but hell for +women and oxen.' What do you think? Does it seem to you to be worth +the waste?" + +"Very well worth," said Roger, handing back the book. "If I fail to do +one little speck of good there, it will have been very well worth, both +for my own character and for my own time." + +"I don't quite see your point," said Lionel. + +"Well," said Roger, moved. "I want to be quite sure of certain +elements in myself, before I settle down to a literary life. That +life, if it be in the least worthy, is consecrated to the creation of +the age's moral consciousness. In the old time a writer was proved by +the world before he could begin to create his "ideas of good and evil." +Homer never existed, of course, but the old idea of a poet's being +blind is very significant. Poets must have been men of action, like +the other men of their race. They only became poets when they lost +their sight, or ceased, through some wound or sickness, to be efficient +in the musters, when, in fact, their lives were turned inwards. +Nowadays that is changed, Heseltine. A man writes because he has read, +or because he is idle, or greedy, or vicious, or vain, for a dozen +different reasons; but very seldom because his whole life has been +turned inward by the discipline of action, thought, or suffering. I am +not sure of myself. Miss Fawcett's death has brought a lot into my +life which I never suspected. I begin to think that a writer without +character, without high and austere character, in himself, and in the +written image of himself, is a panderer, a bawd, a seller of Christ." +He rose from his chair. He paced the room once or twice. "Jacob +Boehme was right," he went on. "We are watery people. Without action +we are stagnant. If you sit down to write, day after day, for months +on end, you can feel the scum growing on your mind." He sat down +again, staring at the Correggio. "There," he said, "that is all it is. +I sometimes feel that all the thoroughly good artists, like Dürer, +Shakespeare, Michael Angelo, Dante, all of them, sit in judgment on the +lesser artists when they die. I think they forgive bad art, because +they know how jolly difficult art of any kind is. I don't believe that +art was ever easy to anybody, except perhaps to women, whose whole +lives are art. But they would never forgive faults of character or of +life. They would exact a high strain of conduct, mercilessly. Good +God, Heseltine, it seems to me terrible that a man should be permitted +to write a play before he has risked his life for another, or for the +State." + +"Well," said Lionel, picking up his cigarette, which had fallen to the +floor, scattering sparks. "Yes." He pressed his forefinger +reflectively on each crumb of fire one after the other. "Yes. But +look here. I met that French poet fellow, Mongeron, the other day, the +day before yesterday. He said that action was unnecessary to the man +of thought, since the imagination enabled him to possess all experience +imaginatively." + +"Yes. I know that pleasant theory. I agree," said Roger. "But only +when action has formed the character. I take writing very seriously, +but I want to be sure that it is the thing which will bring out the +best in me. I am doubtful of that. I am doubtful even whether art of +any kind is not an anachronism in this scientific century, when so much +is being learned and applied to the bettering of life. As I said the +other night, my State is the human mind. If this art, about which I +have spilled such a lot of ink, be really a survival, what you call in +dissecting-rooms 'a fossil,' then I am not helping my State, but +hindering her, by giving all my brains' vitality to an obsolete cause. +One feels very clever, with these wise books in one's head; but they +don't go down to bed-rock. They don't mean much in the great things of +life. They don't help one over a death." + +"No," said Lionel reflectively. "I think I see all your points." He +made the subject practical at once, feeling a little beyond his depth +in ethics. "It would be a very interesting experience for you to go +out," he said. "A fine thing, too; for it is very difficult to get a +good brain to take up a subject in that particular way. Still, one +ought not to waste a good brain like yours in watching tsetses." + +"No imaginative work is wasted," said Roger. "The experience would add +a great deal to me. I should feel more sure of being able to face the +judge after death." + +"How about the practice of your art?" + +"That will not be hurt by the deepening of my interests." + +"Come on out to dinner," said Lionel. "I generally go to Simpson's. +We'll go into Committee of Supply. The first thing we shall have to do +is to try to get you the job of bottle-washer to somebody's clinic. +What I want to do when I get out there is this, Naldrett. I want to +get right away into the back of beyond, into the C.F.S., or wherever +there is not much chance of the natives having mixed with Europeans. I +want to find out if there is any native cure, if any native tribes are +immune, as they are to malaria, and whether their cattle, if they have +any, are immune, like the game. You will guess that what I want to do +is to prepare anti-toxins strong enough to resist the disease at any +stage, and also to act as preventives. That's the problem as it seems +to me. It may sound a little crazy." + +"Is the tsetse immune?" said Roger. "Does anybody know anything about +flies? If the tsetse is immune, why could not an anti-toxin be +prepared from the tsetse? It would be more than science. It would be +equity." + +They walked along the Strand together. + +"Anti-toxins must wait," said Roger, as they stopped before crossing +Wellington Street. "The first thing we had better do is to go for a +long tramp together, to see how we get along." + +"We might charter a boat, and try to get round the north of Ireland," +said Lionel. "Dublin to Moville. It would be a thorough eye-opener. +Then we might walk on round the coast to Killybegs. Old Hamlin will be +back by the end of August. He would prescribe you a course of study. +We might do some reading together." + +In the Strand, outside Simpson's, a procession of dirty boys followed a +dirty drunkard who was being taken to Bow Street by two policemen. +Newsboys, with debased, predatory faces, peered with ophthalmic eyes +into betting news. Other symptoms of disease passed. + +"Plenty of disease here," said Roger. + +"All preventable," said Lionel. "Only we're not allowed to prevent it. +People here would rather have it by them to reform. Science won't mix +with sentiment, thank God!" They entered Simpson's. + + + + +VIII + + And here will I, in honour of thy love, + Dwell by thy grave, forgetting all those joys + That former times made precious to mine eyes. + _The Faithful Shepherdess_. + + +Ten months later Roger sat swathed in blankets under mosquito netting, +steering a boat upstream. He was in the cold fit of a fever. The bows +of the boat were heaped with the cages of laboratory animals and with +boxes, on the top of which a negro sat, singing a song. The singer +clapped gravely with his hands to mark the time. "Marumba is very far +away," he sang. "Yes. It is far away, and nobody ever got there." At +times, pausing in his song to lift a hand to Roger, he pointed out a +snag or shoal. At other times the rowers, lifting their paddles +wearily, sang for a few bars in chorus, about the bones on the road to +Marumba. Then the chorus died; the paddles splashed; the tholes +grunted. The boat lagged on into the unknown, up the red, savage +river, which loitered, and steamed, and stank, like a river of a +beginning earth. + +Lionel, heaped with blankets, lay at Roger's feet. His teeth were +chattering. The wet rag round his forehead had slipped over his eyes. +The debile motion of the hand which tried to thrust the rag away, so +that he might see, told of an intense petulant weakness. By him lay a +negro, wasted to a skeleton, who watched Roger with a childish grave +intentness out of eyes heavy with death. + +The boat ground slowly past a snag. Roger, raising himself upon a box, +looked out painfully over the river bank to the immense distance +beyond, where, in a dimness, mists hung. To the right, a mile or two +from the river, was forest, sloping to an expanse of water, intensely +blue. Beyond the water was grass sloping up to forest. The forest +jutted out, immense, dark, silent. Nothing lay beyond it but forest, +trees towering up, trees fallen, uprooted, rotting, a darkness, a green +gloom. Over it was the sky, of hard, bright blue metal, covered with +blazing films. Outside it, like captains halted at the head of a +horde, were solitary, immense trees, with ruddy boles. To each side of +them, the forest stretched, an irregular wilderness of wood, grey, +rather than green, in the glare aloft; below, darker. The water at the +foot of the slope opened out in bays, ruffled by the wind, shimmering. +Reeds grew about the bays. A cluster of tall, orange-blossomed +water-plants hid the rest from Roger's sight as the boat loitered on. + +To the left it was a sometimes swampy plain-land, reaching on into the +mists, with ants' nests for milestones. Little gentle hills rose up, +some of them dotted with thorn-trees. They were like the stumps of +islands worn away by the river, when, long ago, it had brimmed that +plain-land from the forest to the far horizon. + +Far ahead, to the left of the river, Roger noticed a slightly larger +hill. It held his gaze for a few minutes. It stood up from the plain +exactly like a Roman camp which he had visited in England long before, +one Christmas Day. He liked to look at it. There was comfort in +looking at it. It was like a word from Europe, that hill beyond there, +greyish in the blinding light. It was like a Roman camp, like military +virtue, order, calm, courage, dignity. He needed some such message. +He was in command of a shipload of suffering. He was wandering on into +the unknown, in charge of dying men. Smoke was rising from below the +hill, a single spire of smoke. He hailed the singer. + +"Merrylegs," he cried, "what is the smoke there?" + +"Jualapa," said the man, standing up to look. "Jualapa." + +"It can't be Jualapa," said Lionel petulantly, struggling to lift his +blankets. "Oh, stop that noise, Roger. It shakes my head to pieces." + +"Jualapa," cried the rowers excitedly. "Jualapa." They dropped their +paddles. Standing on the thwarts they peered under the sharps of their +hands at the rising smoke. They rubbed their bellies, thinking of +meat. One of them, beating his hands together, broke into a song about +Jualapa. + +Roger, stumbling forward, shaken by sickness, bade them to give way, +quietly. The jabbering died down as the tholes began again to grunt. +Merrylegs, still clapping his hands, broke into another song. + + Jualapa is near. Yes, Jualapa is near. Not like Marumba. + We will eat meat in Jualapa. Much meat. Much meat. + The men of Little Belly will eat meat in Jualapa. + + +"Shut your silly head, Merrylegs," cried Roger angrily. The song broke +off. Merrylegs began to tell the bow-oar what meat there would be in +Jualapa. He said that there would be cattle, and perhaps a diseased +cow among them. The rowing seemed to freshen a little. The boat +dragged on a little quicker. + +"How are you, Lionel?" Roger asked. It was a foolish question. + +"Oh, for God's sake don't ask silly questions," said Lionel very +weakly. "Do leave me alone." + +For answer, Roger gently renewed the compress round the sick man's +head. From the thirst which was torturing him he guessed that his +fever's hot fit would soon begin. He prayed that it might keep off +until they had reached the smoke. They were probably nearing some +village. They might camp at the village. Only he would have to be +well when they reached the village. He would have to get Lionel +ashore, into some comfortable hut. He would have to feed him there +with some strong comforting broth. Before he could do that, he would +have to see the village headman. He would have to look after the +bearers. The boat would have to be moored. Some of her gear would +have to be unloaded. + +There could be no thought of going on, upstream, to Jualapa, in their +present state. A native had told them, the day before, that Jualapa, +three days' journey upstream, was stricken with sleeping sickness. +"All were sleeping," he said. "Men, women, and little children. The +cattle were not milked at Jualapa." It was the first time that they +had heard of the disease since leaving the coast. They had decided to +attempt Jualapa. + +They were both suffering from fever. They would have been glad to camp +for a few days before pushing on; but Lionel forbade it. The rowers +were getting homesick. Three of them had contracted dysentery. He +felt that if they called a halt anywhere their men would desert them. +The important thing was to push on, he said, to carry the men so far +that they would be afraid to run. If the men deserted after the +leaders had engaged the disease, well and good, there would be the work +to do. But if they deserted before that, the expedition would end +before Roger took his first lumbar puncture. It was the last sensible +decision Lionel had been able to make. His fever had recurred within +the hour. Since then he had been dangerously ill, so ill, and with +such violent changes of temperature, that his weakness, now that the +fever lifted, frightened Roger. + +Roger shook and chattered, trying to think. He was ill; so ill that he +could not think clearly. The horrible part of it, to him, was to be +just clear enough in his head to fear to change Lionel's decision. He +wanted to change for Lionel's sake; but with this fever smouldering in +his brain, surging and lifting, like a hot blast withering him, the +plan seemed august, like a law of the Medes and Persians. He was +afraid of changing. At last, in a momentary clearing of the head, he +made up his mind to change. He would anchor. They would halt at the +smoke. They would land and camp. Nothing could be done till the +leaders were cured. If the men deserted, he would trust to luck to be +able to hire new men. He could not go on like this; Lionel might die. +The fever closed in upon his mind again, surging and withering. The +air seemed strangely thick. Merrylegs wavered and blurred. The boat +grounded on a mud-bank, and brushed past some many-shimmering reeds +with a long swish. The dying negro, stirred by some memory, which the +noise had awakened in him, raised himself faintly, asking something. +He fell back faint, closing his eyes, then opening them. He beat with +one hand, jabbering the name Mpaka. His teeth clenched. He was in the +death agony. One of the stroke-oars, clambering over the boxes in the +stern-sheets, beat the dying man upon the chest. He was beating out +the devil, he explained. He soon grew tired. He shouted in the sick +man's ear, laughed delightedly at his groans, and went forward to +explain his prowess. He broke out into a song about it. + + Kilemba has a big devil in his belly. + Big devil eat up Kilemba. Eat all up. + But Muafi a strong man. Very strong man. Devil no good. + Not eat Muafi. + + +They swept round a bend, where crocodiles, like great worm-casts, +sunned and nuzzled, with mud caking off their bellies. The boat passed +into a broad, above which, the hill like a Roman camp rose up. Pink +cranes stood in the shallows. Slowly, one of them rose aloft, heavily +flagging. Another rose, then another, then another, till they made a +pinkish ribbon against the forest. Following the line of their flight +Roger saw a few delicate deer leave their pasture, startled by the +starting of the cranes. They moved off daintily, looking uneasily +behind them. Soon they broke into a run. + +On the left bank, in a space of poor soil, covered with shingle by a +freshet, some vultures cowered and sidled about a dead thing. Roger +stared stupidly at them. Something of a warning of death moved through +the surging of his fever. He said to himself that there was death +here. Words spoke in his brain, each word like a fire-flash. "No +white man has ever been here before. You are the first. Take care. +There is death here." Some vague fear of possible war, so vague that +he was not quite certain that it was not a memory of a war-scare at +home, made him look to his revolver. He thrust up the catch with his +thumb, and stared at the seven dull brass discs pulled slightly forward +by the extractor. There were seven, and we are seven, and there were +seven planets. The fever made him stare at the opened breech for a +full minute. + +Out of some tall water-plants, whose long, bluish-grey leaves looked +very cool in the glare of heat, came flies. They came to the attack +with a whirling fierceness like clegs. They were small, brown, +insignificant flies. They were tsetse flies. The boat pulled out into +the open to avoid them. After a few more minutes Roger called upon the +rowers to stop rowing. + +He was in the middle of the broad, looking at the left bank, where a +trodden path led to the water's edge. For many centuries men and +beasts had watered there. The path had worn a deep rut into the bank. +What struck Roger about it was its narrowness. It was the narrow track +of savages. The people who made it had used it fearfully, one at a +time, full of suspicion, like drinking deer. Their fear had had a kind +of idealism about it. It might truly be said of those nervous drinkers +that when they drank, they drank to the good health of their State. +Even in his fever, the sight of the path shocked Roger with a sense of +the danger of life in this place. What was the danger? What was the +life? + +Beyond the track, at a little distance from the river, was a thick +thorn hedge surrounding a village. From the midst of the village a +single stream of smoke arose. It went up straight for a foot or two, +behind the shelter of the hedge. Then it blew down gustily, in +wavering puffs. There was no other sign of life in the village. A few +hens were picking food in the open. A cow, standing with drooped head +above the corpse of her calf, awaited death. Her bones were coming +through her skin, poor beast. There were black patches of flies upon +her. Three vultures waited for her. One of them was stretching his +wings with the air of a man yawning. Vultures were busy about a dead +cow in the middle distance. Dark heaps, further off, had still +something of the appearance of cows. The men, looking earnestly about +from the tops of the boxes, jabbered excitedly, pointing. Roger +unslung his binoculars and stared at the silent place. He could see no +one. There were dead cows, a dying cow, and those few clucking hens. +He wondered if there could be an ambush. The grass was tall enough, in +the clumps, to shelter an enemy; but the wild birds passed from clump +to clump without fear. In a bare patch two scarlet-headed birds were +even fighting together. Their neck feathers were ruffled erect. They +struck and tugged. They rose, flapping, to cuff each other with their +wings. Leaping aloft they thrust with their spurs. A hen, less +brilliantly coloured, watched the battle. But for these birds the +place was peaceful. The wind ruffled the grass; the smoke was gusty; +one of the poultry crooned with a long gurgling cluck. + +Something made Roger look from the village to the hill like a Roman +camp. It glistened grey in the sun-blaze. The dance of the air above +it was queer, almost like smoke. He stared at it through his glasses. +After a long look he turned to stare into the water to rest his eyes. +"I am mad," he said to himself. "I am dreaming this. Presently I +shall wake up." He looked again. There could be no doubt of it. The +hill was covered with a grey stone wall at least thirty feet high. +There, about three-quarters of a mile away, was the ruin of an ancient +town, as old, perhaps, as the Pharaohs. There was no doubt that it was +old. Parts of it, undermined by burrowing things, or thrust out by +growing things, were fallen in heaps. Other parts were overgrown +twelve feet thick, with vegetation. Trees grew out of it. A few cacti +upon the wall-top were sharply outlined against the sky. On the +further end of the wall there was a fire-coloured blaze, where some +poisonous weed, having stifled down all weaker life, triumphed in +sprawling yellow blossoms, spotted and smeared with drowsy juice. +There were dense swarms of flies above it as Roger could guess from the +movements of the birds across the path. He watched the ruin. There +was no trace of human occupation there. No smoke shewed there. +Apparently the place had become a possession for the bittern. Wild +beasts of the forests lay there, owls dwelt there, and satyrs danced +there. It was as desolate as Babylon at the end of Isaiah xiii. + +He looked at the men to see what effect the ruin had upon them. They +did not look at it. They had the limited primitive intelligence, which +cannot see beyond the facts of physical life. They were looking at the +village, jabbering as they looked. + +"What are we stopping for?" said Lionel. + +"There's a village," said Roger. "It seems to have cattle plague." +Lionel struggled weakly to a sitting position, and looked out with +vacant eyes. + +"There's a ruin on the hill, there," said Roger. + +"Plague and ruin are the products of this land," said Lionel. "Don't +stand there doddering, Naldrett. Find out what's happening here." + +"Look here, you rest," said Roger with an effort. "Just lie back on +the blankets here, and rest." + +"How the devil am I to rest when you won't keep the gang quiet?" + +"You just close your eyes, Lionel," said Roger. "Close them. Keep +them closed." He sluiced a rag in the shallow water. "Here's a new +compress for you." + +He ordered the men to pull in to the watering-place, while he looked +about in what he called the toy box for presents for the village chief. +He took some copper wire, a few brass cartridge shells, some green +beads, some bars of brightly coloured sealing wax, a doll or two, of +the kind which say, "Mamma," when stricken on the solar plexus, a +doll's mirror, a knife, an empty green bottle, and a tin trumpet. He +tilted a white-lined green umbrella over Lionel's head. He slipped +over the side as the boat grounded. Merrylegs followed him, carrying +the presents. They slopped through shallow water, and climbed the bank. + +Merrylegs, clapping his hands loudly, called to the villagers in the +Mwiri dialect that a king, a white man, a most glorious person, was +advancing to them. Roger asked him if he had heard of this village at +their stopping-place the day before. No, he said, he had never heard +of this village. It was a poor place, very far away; he had never +heard of it. He called again, batting with his hands. No answer came. +Roger, looking anxiously about, saw no sign of life. No sign shewed on +the city wall. A new vulture, lighting by the dying cow, eyed him +gravely, without enthusiasm. One of those already there flapped his +wings again as though yawning. "Merrylegs," said Roger, "we must go +into the village." He shifted round his revolver holster, so that the +weapon lay to hand. They skirted the zareba till they came to the low +hole, two feet square, which led through the thorns into the town. The +mud of the road was pounded hard by the continual passing of the +natives. Fragments of a crudely decorated pottery were trodden in here +and there. Lying down flat, Merrylegs could see that the stakes which +served as door to the entrance, were not in place inside the stockade. +The visitor was free to enter. "Think all gone away," said Merrylegs. +"Slave man he catch." + +Roger did not now believe in the theory of slave man. + +"It is nonsense," he said. "Nonsense. There must be death here." He +stood by the gate, breathing heavily, not quite knowing, from time to +time, what he was doing, at other times knowing clearly, but not +caring. Little things, the crawling of a tick, the cluck of a hen, the +noise of his own breath, seemed important to his fever-clogged brain. +"I'll go in," he said, at last. + +"Not go in," said Merrylegs promptly. "Perhaps inside. Perhaps make +him much beer. All drunk him." He called again in Mwiri, but no +answer came. A hen, perhaps expecting food, came clucking through the +hole, cocking her eyes at the strangers. Roger, finding a bit of +biscuit in his pocket, dropped it before her. She worried it away from +his presence, and gulped it down gluttonously before the other hens +could see. + +Roger knelt down. Peering up the tunnel he tried to make out what lay +within. He could not see. The entrance passage had been built with a +bend in the middle for the greater safety of the tribe. For all that +he could know, a warrior might lie beyond the bend, ready to thrust a +spear into him. He did not think of this till a long time afterwards. +He began to shuffle along the passage on all fours. Nothing lay beyond +the bend. He clambered to his feet inside the village. "Come on in, +Merrylegs," he called. Merrylegs came. They looked about them. + +The village formed an irregular circle about two hundred yards across. +Inside the thorn hedge it was strongly palisaded with wooden spikes, +nine feet high, bound together with wattle, and plastered with a +mud-dab. The huts stood well away from the palisade. They formed a +rough avenue, shaped rather like a sickle. There were thirty-five huts +still standing. The frames of two or three others stood, waiting +completion. One or two more had fallen into disrepair. Several +inhabitants were in sight, both men and women. + +They were sitting on the ground, propped against the palisades or the +walls of their huts, in attitudes which recalled the attitude of the +negro, seen long before in the photograph in the Irish hotel. One of +the men, rising unsteadily to his feet, walked towards them for some +half-dozen paces, paused, seemed to forget, and sank down again, with a +nodding head. A child, rising up from a log, crawled towards a hen. +The hen, suspecting him, moved off. The child watched it strut away +from him as though trying to remember what he had planned to do to it. +He stood stupidly, half asleep. Slowly he laid himself down upon the +ground, with the movement of an old man careful of the aches of his +joints. It seemed to Roger that the child had never really been awake. +It was the slow deliberate movement of the child which convinced him, +through his fever, that he was in the presence of the enemy. "These +people have sleeping sickness," he said. The words seemed to echo +along his brain, "sleeping sickness, sickness, sickness." This was +what he had come out to see. Here was his work cut out for him. This +was sleeping sickness. Here was a village down with it. It was +shocking to him. Had he been in health it would have staggered him. +These sleepers were never going to awake. All these poor wasting +wretches were dying. He had never seen death at work on a large scale +before. He checked a half-formed impulse to bolt by stepping forward +into the enclosure, into the reek of death. The place was full of +death. He drove Merrylegs before him. Merrylegs knew the disease. +Merrylegs had no wish to see more of it. He was for bolting. "Go on, +Merrylegs," said Roger. "Sing out to them." + +Merrylegs got no answer. "Only dead men here," he said. "Young men, +no catch him, run." + +"Come on round the huts then," said Roger. "We'll see how many have +run." They went to the hut from which the smoke rose. + +An old, old hideous woman was crouched there over a little fire. She +was trembling violently, and mumbling with her gums. She cowered away +from Roger with a wailing cry, very like the cry of a rabbit caught by +a weasel. "Tiri," she said, "tiri," expecting death. Merrylegs asked +her questions; Roger tried her. It was useless. She did not +understand them. She mumbled something, shaking her poor old head, +whimpering between the words. Roger gave her a doll, which she hugged +and whimpered over. She was like a child of a few months old in the +body of a baboon. They tried another hut. + +From the number of food pots stored there, Roger guessed that this hut +had once belonged to a chief. Two women lay there, one in the last +stages of the sickness, very ill, and scarcely stirring, the other as +yet only apathetic. She blinked at them as they entered the hut, +without interest, and without alarm, just like an animal. She might +once have been a comely woman, but the drowsiness of the sickness had +already brought out the animal in her face. Her ornaments of very thin +soft gold shewed that she was the wife of an important person; she may +perhaps have been the chief's favourite. She did not understand +Merrylegs' dialect, nor he hers. Possibly, as sometimes happens in the +disease, she had no complete control over her tongue. Roger thought +that she might be thirsty. He poured water for her. She did not +drink. It occurred to Roger then that she might be welcoming the +disease, giving way to it without a struggle, after losing husband and +child. He could see that she had had a child, and there was no child +there. "Poor woman," he said to himself. "Poor wretch." They went +out into the open again. + +At the further end of the village Roger found evidence which helped him +to make a theory of what had happened. Just outside the palisade were +the bones of a few bodies, which, as he supposed, were those who had +died, after the first breaking out of the epidemic. If the epidemic +had begun two months before, as seemed likely, these men and women must +have been dead for about a fortnight. The sickness and mortality had +steadily increased since then. The able, uninfected inhabitants, had +at last migrated together. They had gone off with their arms and +cattle to some healthier place, leaving the infected to die. He could +make no other explanation. Many of the huts were deserted. In others, +still living sleepers lay among corpses. Three young men, a boy, and +an old man were the liveliest of the remaining inhabitants. Roger had +only to look at their tongues to see that they, too, were sealed for +death. The tongue moved from the root with a helpless tremor. Their +lymphatic glands were swollen. They themselves were under no delusions +about their state. The cloud was on them. They would not speak unless +they were spoken to with some sharpness. They were gloomily waiting +until the ailment should blot everything away from them. Merrylegs +tried to understand them; but gave it up. "Very poor men," he said. +"Know nothing." They were some relic (or outpost) of a strange tribe, +speaking an unknown tongue. Perhaps they were the descendants of some +little wandering band, separated from its parent tribe, by war, +pestilence, or mischance. They had had their laws, their arts, their +customs. They had even thriven. The game of life had gone pleasantly +there. Life there had been little more than a sitting in the sun, +between going to the river for a drink and to the patch for a mealie. +The beauties had sleeked themselves with oil, and the strong ones had +made themselves fat with butter. They had lived "naturally," like +plants or animals, sharing the wild things' immunity from ailments. +They were completely adjusted. Now some little change had altered +their relations to nature. Something had brought the trypanosome. Now +they died like the animals, deserted by their kind. + +The first shock of the sight of this harvest of death came upon Roger +dully, through the shield of his fever. He did not realise the full +horror of it. Nor was he conscious of the passage of time. He stayed +in the village for a full hour before he returned to the boat. In that +hour he made rough notes of the twenty-nine cases still present there. +Sixteen of them, he hoped, might yield to treatment. The others were +practically dead already from wasting. The preparation of the notes, +brief as they were, was a great drain upon his strength. The fever was +gaining on him. He found himself staring vacantly between the writing +of two words. His brain was a perpetual surging tumult. His eyes +seemed to burn in their sockets. He remembered Lionel with a great +start. "Lionel," he repeated. "I must tell Lionel. We shall stop +here." + +Outside the infected village he looked for tracks. A track led towards +the ruin. Another led away across the plain. Both were as narrow as a +horse's girth, and beaten as hard as earthenware. The old tracks of +cattle crossed them. Merrylegs, looking about upon the ground, cried +out that the tribe had gone over the plain with their cattle ten or +eleven days before. He pointed to marks on the ground. Roger took his +word for it. + +He climbed into the stern-sheets of the boat, feeling as though hot +metal were being injected into his joints. "How are you now, Lionel?" +he asked. "You're looking pretty bad. This is a plague spot. They've +got the sickness here. They're dying of it." + +"Couldn't you have come and told me before this?" said Lionel. "I've +been lying here not knowing whether you were dead or alive." + +"I'd a lot of huts to examine," he answered. "What do you think? We +had better stop here, eh? We had better make this our station. The +first thing I shall do will be to get you into a bed." + +"That's like you," said Lionel. "You make plans when I'm sick and +can't veto them. My God, if I'd known it was going to be like this! +Well, I'll never work with a griff again." + +"It's time for your medicine," said Roger stolidly, in order to change +the subject. He poured the white powder into a cigarette paper, and +handed it to the patient. + +"Don't you dare to give me medicine," Lionel answered, knocking the +dose away. "I believe you're poisoning me. I've watched you. You're +poisoning me." + +"Don't say things like that, Lionel," said Roger. "You're awfully +tired, I know, but they hurt. I wish I could get you well," he mused. +"It's not so easy as you seem to think," he added. + +"What isn't?" + +"Life here." + +"That's because you're such a silly ass. I'm all right. I only want +to be left alone. Well. Get the men ashore, can't you? Get some sort +of a camp pitched." + +"I am going to," said Roger. "I am going to camp on the hill there for +to-night, among the ruins." He gave some orders. + +Lionel sat up. "Merrylegs," he said, "drop that. I command here." + +"Look here, Heseltine," said Roger. "I must do this." + +"You shall not wreck the expedition," said Lionel. "You're as ignorant +as a cow. You haven't even examined the ruin." + +Roger paid no attention to him. He bade the men moor the boat and +unload her. + +"Naldrett," said Lionel, "if you persist in this--when I'm sick and +can't stop you--it's the end of our working together. We part company. +Put down that box, Merrylegs. Leave those things in the boat." + +Roger had more strength left in him than his companion. The boat was +unloaded. The bearers, leaving a pile of boxes by the river, formed an +Indian file and marched with their burdens of necessaries towards the +hill. Lionel walked, supported by Roger. He did not speak. His face +worked with the impotent anger of a sick man. Presently Roger noticed +that he was crying from mere nervous weakness. He felt that it would +be well to say nothing. Lionel's petulance was the result of fever. +If he said anything, the petulant mood would surely twist it into a +cause of offence. He said nothing. Lionel, after pausing a minute, +said something in a faint voice about the heat. Roger had not noticed +the heat. He had a glowing lime-kiln within him. He stopped, and +asked if it were very hot. "God!" said Lionel disgustedly. They +walked on, following the bearers. Presently Lionel stopped and swore +at the heat. Roger waited. Each moment of waiting was torture to him. +Each moment of physical effort racked him. He wanted to fling himself +down and let the fever run its course. + +"God Almighty!" said Lionel, turning on him. "Can't you answer me?" + +"I didn't know you spoke to me." + +"You don't know anything." + +"You were not speaking to me, you were swearing at the heat." + +"What if I were." + +"If you could manage to keep quiet till we are camped," said Roger, +"you'd feel better. I'm doing my best for you." + +"You are," said Lionel, "you are. I'm dying to see the sort of rotten +camp you'll make when you're left by yourself." + +"Shut up," said Roger. "Shut up. I'm too ill to talk." The fever was +whirling in him now. He could not trust himself to say more. He was +near the delirious stage. He remembered smelling the smell of death, +in a foul sultry blast, while Merrylegs said something about the kraal +in the hollow. Looking, half-drowsed, to his left, he saw a kraal +littered with dead and dying cattle, among which gorged vultures +perched. Afterwards, he remembered the ruins of a wall, standing now +about three feet high. It was built of good hewn stone, well laid, +with one crenellated course just below its present top. He could never +remember getting over the wall. There were many sunflowers. Immense +orange sunflowers with limp wavy petals. Sunflowers growing out of a +litter of neatly wrought stones. Mosquitoes came "pinging" about him, +winding their sultry horns. Those little horns seemed to him to be the +language of fever. They suggested things to him. The men were a long, +long time pitching the tent. Something was wrong with one of the men. +The other men were keeping apart from him. The beds with their +nettings were ready at last. Fire was burning. Something with a smell +of soup was being cooked. In his sick fancy it was the smell of +something dead. He told them to take it away. He saw Lionel +somewhere, much as a man at the point of death may see the doctor by +his bedside. He could not be sure which of the two of them was the +living one. Then there came a moment when he could not undo the +fastening of his mosquito net. He saw his bed inside. He longed to be +in bed. All this torture would be over directly he was in bed, wrapped +up. But he could not get in. The bed was shut from him by the +mosquito net. He wanted to get in. He would give the world to be in +bed. But he did not know how he was to move the netting, everything +smelt of death so strongly. It was very red everywhere, a smoky, +whirling red, with violent lights. People were crossing the dusk, or +rather not people, but streaks of darkness. They were making a great +crying out. They were too noisy. Why could they not be quiet? He +ceased to fumble at the net. He began to see an endless army of +artillery going over a pass. The men were all dark; the guns were all +painted black; the horses were black. They were going uphill +endlessly, endlessly, endlessly. He cried out to them to stop that +driving, to do anything rather than go on and on and on in that ghastly +way. Instantly they changed to tsetses, riding on dying cattle. They +were giant tsetses, with eyes like cannonballs. An infernal host of +trypanosomes wriggled around them. The trypanosomes were wriggling all +over him. A giant tsetse was forcing his mouth open with a hairy bill, +so that the trypanosomes might wriggle down his throat. A flattened +trypanosome, tasting as flabby as jelly, was swarming over his lips. + +The fit passed off in the early morning, leaving him weak, but alert. +Something was going to happen. The air was as close as a blast from a +furnace. He sat up, holding by the tent-pole. He could see a star or +two. He wished that the horrible smell would go. It seemed to be +everywhere. + +"Lionel," he said. + +"Yes," said a faint voice. + +"Have you slept?" + +"Yes. I've had a long sleep. How are you?" + +"The fit's gone. But I feel queer. Something's going to happen." + +"It's very close. It will pass off before morning. Fever plays the +devil with one, doesn't it?" + +"Are you quite better now?" + +"Yes. I shall be all right now. You'll be all right after some +breakfast. It isn't so bad here, is it?" + +"No. Not so bad. But there's this smell of death, Lionel." + +"That's fever. That will pass away, you'll find." + +"Was I delirious?" + +"Yes. A little." + +"You were pretty bad." + +"Yes. I was pretty bad all yesterday," said Lionel. "It's horrible +when one gets into that state. One is so ashamed afterwards. It is +part of the sickness. You were awfully gentle with me, Roger." + +"I saw that you were pretty bad. We shall have to get to work +to-morrow, and get things into order. They are in a bad way in the +village there. There are twenty-nine cases left. We might save +sixteen of them." + +"Is there any trace of how they got it? Do they know?" + +"They don't talk any language known to Merrylegs." + +"I see. What are they like? Are they a good lot?" + +"Yes. They are good type negroes. They look as if they might have +something better in them than negro blood. Something Arabian. And +there's this ruin here." + +"It will be fun looking at the ruin. I wonder if it's like the +Rhodesian ruins. I've seen those. If it is, there ought to be gold +here. Wrought gold as well as crude. But we mustn't think of that." + +"No. Let's have no side-issues. I suppose we'd better start an +isolation camp to-morrow." + +"Yes. Get them all out and burn the village. Then we'll start the +treatment." + +"It would be rather a feather in our caps if we found a tsetse-cide. A +bird would be better than nothing. Or an ichneumon-fly to pierce the +pupæ." + +"I was young myself once," said Lionel. "I know exactly how it feels." +There was a pause after this. Lionel seemed to chuckle. + +"Can't you go to sleep again, Lionel?" + +"No. It's too close." + +"It's jolly looking at the stars. And I can see right out into the +wilderness. The moon is wonderful. It is very vast out here. And +lonely. It gives one a strange sense of being full of memories. I +wonder who built these ruins." + +"Phoenicians, I suppose. In Africa one puts everything down to +Phoenicians. In the Mediterranean it used to be some other fellows; +now it's Iberians. Aryans had a great vogue forty years ago; but +they're dead, now. Then there were those sloppy Celts. It'll be the +Hittites when we get back." + +"Did you see Great Zimbabwe?" + +"Yes. But they're all called Zimbabwe. It's a native name for ruins. +It's an uncanny place. It lies all open. There's no roof to it. None +of them have any roof. Nothing but great high walls, and two hideous +cones of stone, and a lot of corpses under the floors. There are +ancient gold workings all around it. It is said to be an astronomical +temple, as well as the site of a great mining town. Do you know much +about astronomy?" + +"No. I know Sirius." + +"I know Sirius. Can you see him?" + +"I can't see it from here. Perhaps it isn't visible." + +"It seems to me to be clouding up. Listen." + +"Is that a lion roaring?" + +"Jump out a minute." Lionel was turned out, standing at the door of +the tent. + +"What's the matter?" Roger asked. + +"A thunderstorm," said Lionel. "Get on your things. I prepared for +this. Wrap that tarpaulin round you, and come on out. Don't wait. +Come on." + +Outside in the night the heavens were fast darkening under a whirling +purplish cloud. From time to time the expanse of cloud glimmered into +a livid reddish colour with the passage of lightning. It was as though +the whole lower heaven lightened. Thunder was rolling. Great burning +streaks tore the sky across, loosing thunder and flame. Roger saw the +bearers moving from their fire to the shelter of the lee of the ruins. +A faint sultry blast fanned against his face, bringing that smell of +death to him. He turned away, choking. "Get away from the tent," +Lionel shouted in his ear, over the roar of the thunder. "Tie this +rope round me. It's going to be bad. Get under the lee of the wall +there. Run." They hurried to the shelter, on the tottering legs of +those who have just recovered from fever. As they ran, Roger trod on +something rope-like and moving, which (squirming round) struck his boot +with a sharp tap. + +"There's a snake," he cried, giving a jump. + +"Did he get you?" + +"No. Only my boot." + +"Lucky for you. There may be death-adders here. Rattle with your +feet. Here we are. This will do." + +There came a sharp pattering of heavy rain-drops, which beat the ground +like shot falling on to tin. In the glimmer of a long flash, which +burnt for a full ten seconds, Roger saw Lionel probing the ground for +snakes with an outstretched foot. He was hooded and cowled with +tarpaulin from the boat. He was scratching a match, sleepy with +heat-damp, to get a light for a cigarette. The match flared, putting +the face in strong colour below the shade of the cowl. The sky was +being charged by a dark host. There came a sort of elemental sighing, +as the obscuring of the vertical stars began. Out of the whole air +came the sighing. It was a noise like waterfalls and pine forests. +Then with a shattering crash the storm burst. The whole sky broke into +a blaze, as though a vast bath of fire had suddenly been hurled over. +There was a roaring as of the earth being split. After an instant's +pause, there came an explosion so terrific that the two men huddled up +together instinctively. It grew colder on the instant. It grew icy +cold. The tent stood out clearly, in every detail, for a few bright +seconds. Then the rain poured down, as though the bottom of the sky +had broken. The next flash shewed only a streaming greyness of water, +pouring down, with a weight and force new to Roger. It was a blinding +rain, one could not face it. It made the world one grey torrent. It +made the earth paste beneath the feet. Brooks were rushing down the +hill within half a minute of its beginning. The flashes and thundering +never ceased. Crouching up to the wall, Roger could only gulp air that +was half water. The force of the storm staggered him. The fury of the +thunder daunted him. The splendour of the lightning was so ghastly +that at each blast he bent back against the wall. A tree was struck on +the wall above him. He expected to be struck at each flash. There was +no question of bravery. The racket and the glare were worse than the +fiercest shell-fire. The lightning seemed to run across the sky and +along the ground, and out of the ground. One smelt it. It had the +smell of something burning; some metal. + +The next instant he was digging his fingers into the crenellations to +save himself from being blown away. The wind came swooping down with a +rush which beat the breath out of him. For one second the rain seemed +to pause. It was merely changing its direction to the horizontal. The +air seemed to be no longer present. There was nothing but a rushing, +stinging, blinding torrent of water. After the wind began, Roger was +not properly conscious of anything. He stood backed up to the wall, +with his eyes and mouth tight shut, his ears buffeted and streaming, +his nose wrinkled by the effort to keep his eyes shut. Across his +eyelids he sensed the glimmer of the lightning, now blinding, now +merely vivid. Everything else was leaping, howling uproar, driving +wet, driving cold, dominated by the explosions aloft. All confusion +was left loose to feed the fear of death in him. So they stood +shoulder to shoulder, for something like an hour, when a change came. + +The wind died away, after blowing its fiercest. The rain stopped. The +livid glimmering of the lightning passed off into the distance. The +stars came out. Roger squelched about in the mud, trying to get some +sensation into his freezing feet. Lionel's teeth were chattering. +Lionel with numbed fingers was trying to light a sopping match for the +sodden cigarette already between his lips. + +"Pretty bad one," said Lionel. "The tent's gone." + +"It will be dawn soon," said Roger, looking at the wreck of the tent. +"It's over now." He shivered. + +"Not yet," said Lionel. "That's only half of it. There's the other +half to come yet. I wonder how the bearers took it." + +"I'll go and see," said Roger. + +"Stay where you are," said Lionel. "You won't have time." The moon +shewed for a brief moment--a sickly moon already threatened by scud. +The clouds were rolling up again. + +"This will be in our faces," said Lionel, raising his voice. "These +are circular storms." The wind was muttering far off. All the earth +was filled with a gloomy murmur. "Let's get into the wreck of the +tent," Lionel added in a shout. "Into the wreck of the tent. We may +die of cold if we don't." They hove up the heavy canvas so that they +might creep within, under the folds. They cowered there close +together, waiting, chilled to the bone. + +"It's jolly cold," said Roger, with chattering teeth. + +"Yes," said Lionel. "I've known a man die in one of these. Hold +tight. Here it comes." + +It came with such a shock of thunder and fire of lightning that they +both started. They felt the folds of the tent surge and lift above +them as the wind beat upon it. Some flap had blown loose. It flogged +at Roger like a bar of hard wood. He understood then what sailors +meant by wind. He felt a sort of exultation for a moment. Then one +terrible blast flung him on his side, and rolled a great weight of wet +canvas on him. He felt it quiver and hesitate. The wind seemed to be +heaving and heaving, with multitudinous little howling devils. They +were heaving up and heaving under. The whole mass hesitated. He was +moved, he was swayed. He felt the fabric pause and totter upward and +sink down. "We're going," he muttered, gulping. Afterwards, he +maintained that nothing but the weight of the rain kept him from being +blown away. Water was gurgling in the ground beneath him. Water was +running up his sleeves, and down his neck. Water spouted on him as he +beat away the folds to get air. A grand and ghastly fire was running +across heaven. Shocks were striking the earth all around him. Another +tree was blasted. Thunder broke out above in a long rippling crescendo +of splitting cracks. That, and the pouring of a cataract into his face +made him draw back the fold. He cowered. He had lost touch with +Lionel. He did not know where Lionel was. His foot struck something +hard. Groping down, hungry for companionship, he found that it was the +broken tent-pole. Another gust lifted him. It gathered strength. It +swept the folds from his hands and sent the edge flogging, flogging, +flogging, with its lashes of rope and tent-pegs. The full fury of the +storm was on him. The tent was bundling itself up into ruin against +the boxes. He was sitting in wet mud assailed by every devil of bad +weather. Lionel was by his side shouting into his ear. "Don't stand," +came the far-away voice. "Get struck." He nodded when next the flames +ran round. It seemed likely that he would be struck. It was a quick +death, so people said. He found himself saying aloud that it would be +terrible if Lionel were struck. What then? What would he do then? He +craned round into the beating rain to try to get a glimpse of the +bearers. He could see nothing but rain and that reddish running +glimmer of living light. + +He did not feel much. He was too cold, too weak, too frightened. If +he had been able to define his feelings he would have said that he was +thinking it impossible that he could ever have been dry, or warm, or +happy. His old life was a far-off inconceivable dream. That he had +ever sat by a fire seemed inconceivable. That there was such a thing +as a sun seemed inconceivable. That life could be dignified, tender, +or heroic seemed inconceivable. "If this isn't misery," he muttered, +shaking, "I don't know what is. I don't know what is." He felt +suddenly that water was running under him in a good strong stream, +several inches deep. Putting his hand down, it slopped up to the wrist +in a current. He groped with his hand. As he put it down some beetle +in the water pinched him briskly, turning him sick for a moment with +the memory of the snake which had struck his boot. Standing up +hurriedly, the water rose above his boots. Looking up, an opening in +the clouds shewed him the moon, a beaten swimmer in a mill-race. The +storm was breaking. + +Not long after that it broke. The stars came out. The wind ceased +from her whirling about continually. She blew steady, in a brisk fresh +gale, bringing up the clearing showers. The showers would have seemed +torrents at other times, but to Roger, now, they were little drizzles. +Lionel and he found a sort of cave in the tent. Part of the canvas had +wedged itself under the pole. The rest had been blown across a pile of +boxes on to the wall. Being supported now by those two uprights it +roofed in a narrow shelter about five feet long. They crept into this +shelter, dead beat from the cold. For a while they sat crouched close +together, with chattering teeth. Then they drew a few folds of the +canvas over them and lay still, trying to get warmth and sleep. They +were not very sure that they would live to see the dawn. Roger thought +vaguely of the bearers. He wondered what they had done, prompted by +their knowledge of these storms. A dull, heavy, steady roaring noise +seemed to be coming from the river. He wondered if the water had risen +much, after all that torrential rain. Thinking vaguely of a flood, he +wondered if the boat were safe. It seemed a long, long time since they +had left the boat. He must have left the boat in some other life. The +sun had been shining, he had been hot, he had passed through a glorious +landscape. He had seen the peacocks of the Queen of Sheba jetting +among flowers which were like burning precious stones. That was long +ago. That was over forever. But yet he wondered vaguely about the +boat. Was it safe, there in the broad? + +"Lionel," he said gently. "Can you sleep?" + +"No. We shall get warm presently." + +"It's jolly wretched." + +"It'll be all right when we get warm. Don't let's talk." + +"Is the boat all right, do you think? The water is roaring in the +river." + +"The boat? I can't think about the boat. She was moored or +something." Their teeth chattered again for some little time. +Presently, as they lay there shivering, they felt the uneasy aching +warmth which sometimes comes to those who sleep in wet clothes. It is +much such an unpleasant heat as wet grass generates in a rick. There +is cramp and pain in it. The muscles rise up into little knots and +bunch themselves. Still, it is heat of a kind. They lay awake, +rubbing their contorted muscles, until, a little before the dawn, they +were warm enough to doze. They dozed off, then, waking up, from time +to time, generally once in ten minutes, to turn uneasily, so that the +aching muscles might cease to twist into little knots and bunches. + + + + +IX + + Where be these cannibals, these varlets? + _The Shoemaker's Holiday_. + + +The rain ceased before dawn. When the two friends felt strong enough +to turn out, the sun was already burning. It was after half-past seven +o'clock. The brooks which had washed past them and over them, only +three or four hours before, were no longer running. Their tracks were +marked on the hillside, in broad, shallow, muddy ruts, and in paths of +plastered grass. The river had been over its banks not long before. +It was swirling along now, brimful, as red as water from an ironworks. +Roger remembered the water running by a road near Portobe, from some +ironworks up the hill. It was just that savage colour. He felt a +qualm of home-sickness. He turned to blink at the sun for the pleasure +of the warmth upon his face. + +The camp was a quag of mud. Red splashes plastered the boxes. The +tent was half-buried in it. His clothes, and the covering tarpaulin, +were smeared with it. He felt that it had been worked, not only into +his skin, but into his nature. He had never before known what it is to +be really dirty, nor what continued dirt may mean to the character. +The site of the camp was trodden and spattered and beslimed, yet the +brightness of morning made it hard for him to believe that such a storm +had passed over him only a little while before. He noticed the trees +which had been blasted by the lightning. It had not all been nightmare. + +Up the hill, beyond three small circling walls, no taller than the wall +beside him, rose up the great central walls. They stood out clearly in +the strong light. They were good, well-built walls, with crenellated +courses near the top, in the right artistic place, in the inevitable +place. The crenellations shewed Roger that he was not widely removed +from the builders, in spirit. They talked the universal language of +art. But they were more than talkers, these old men. Their work was +splendid. It had style. It had the impress of will upon it. The idea +had been thought out to its simplest terms. The walls were solid with +that simple strength which the efficient nations of antiquity, not yet +corrupted by sentiment, affected, in public building. Though they were +not like Roman work, they reminded Roger of walls at Richborough and +Caerwent. There was something of the same pagan spirit in them, +something strong, and fine, and uncanny. Even with the flowering +shrubs and grass clumps on them, these walls were uncanny. He shivered +a little. The lonely hill had once been a city, where strong, fine, +uncanny brains had lived. + +Lionel crawled out. "Where's Merrylegs?" he asked. "Why haven't they +brought our tea?" + +Roger started. Where were the bearers? He had not seen them since he +had noticed them go to cover before the bursting of the storm. They +had gone. They had not come back. They had not even lighted a fire. +"I don't know where they are," he said. "Where can they be?" + +"Haven't you seen them?" said Lionel. + +"No," he answered. "They're not here. Merrylegs!" he shouted. +"Merrylegs!" No answer came. + +Lionel's face changed slightly. He jumped on to the low wall, and +looked downhill towards the village. The view over that waste of pale +grass, through which the river ran, was very splendid; but Lionel was +not looking for landscape. "Give me the glasses," he said. He stared +through them for several minutes, sweeping the plain. "Run up into the +ruins, Roger," said Lionel. "They may be there." + +"Wait one minute," said Roger. "There is smoke in the village. That +is too big a fire for the people whom I saw there to have made." + +"Wet wood," said Lionel promptly. "Come on. We must get these boys +into order." + +They hurried up the hill, calling for Merrylegs. After a couple of +minutes Roger stopped. "Lionel," he said. "During the storm, or just +before it, I saw them go to shelter under the lee of the wall there. +Their tracks will be in the mud. We could follow them up in that way." + +"Yes," said Lionel. "They're not up here, anyhow." + +After some little search, they found where the bearers had sheltered +before the storm threatened. A vulture shewed them the exact place. +Two other vultures were there already. The storm had killed one of the +men. + +"It's Eukwo, the lazy one," said Lionel. "I noticed last night that +there was something the matter with him. Perhaps you saw how the +others fought shy of him. These fellows are like animals, aren't they, +in the way they leave their sick?" He looked at the body. "Dysentery +and the cold, I suppose," he said. "With Kilemba dead last night, the +village full of dead down below us, the storm, then this fellow dying, +it has been too much for them. I'm afraid, Roger, that the men have +deserted us." + +"Gone?" said Roger blankly. It had not occurred to him before as a +possibility. + +"I'm afraid," said Lionel, moving away. "Here is where they sheltered +for the storm. There are their tracks leading downhill. You see? +Here. See? Still half full of water. They cleared out in the night +during the showers. They've got three or four hours' start of us." + +"Well," said Roger. "Come on. We'd better eat as we go. Otherwise we +may never catch them up." + +"They'll have gone in the boat," said Lionel. "With this flood they'll +be a day's march downstream. There's no trace of the boat in the +lagoon there." + +"She may have been swept away," said Roger, after a glance through the +glasses. "The stores are there still." By this time they were +hurrying downhill towards the village. Both were thinking how fiercely +they would thrash Merrylegs and how little chance there was of finding +any Merrylegs to thrash. Anger burned up in hot bursts, and the cold +water of despair put it out again. Roger felt it more keenly than +Lionel. He was less used to the shocks of travel. He wondered, as he +hurried, what stores had been left in the boat, and what had been piled +on the bank to be carried up next day. He had been ill; he had never +noticed. The men had done as they pleased. He reproached himself so +bitterly that he hardly dared look at his friend. He wondered whether +the men had taken anything of supreme importance. He feared the worst. +If they had taken anything important he would be to blame. It was his +fault. He ought to have guarded against this. He ought to have taken +the paddles. He ought to have ordered the men to bring everything up +to camp, where it would have been under his own eyes. Lionel looked at +him quizzically. + +"Don't cross the river till you reach the water," he said. "We may +catch them. They may not have gone." + +On their way they looked through the village. The bearers were not +there. Lionel tried to make the villagers understand him by signs; but +they were too strongly infected to understand a difficult thing. He +had to give them up. He bade Roger fill his pockets with some bruised +corn which they found in one of the pots of an empty hut. They munched +this as they went. Their next task was to run out the trail. + +By the village drinking-place the river had overflowed the bank. It +had torn up a couple of trees, which now lay branches downward in the +water, arresting wreckage. It had surged strongly against the boxes, +driving them from their place, but not destroying them. It had heaped +them with drift, and coloured them a yellowish red. The footmarks of +the bearers were thickly printed in the mud there. They must have +arrived there in the early morning, when the waters were beginning to +fall. + +"They've been busy," said Roger. All the boxes had been broken open. +Their contents were tumbled in the mud in all directions. + +"Look here," said Lionel. "What do you make of these marks?" In one +place the mud had been planed smooth in a long plastering smear, ending +in a notch or narrow groove. + +"That was made by the boat," said Roger. + +"Yes," said Lionel. "That was the boat. You can see the puncture in +the mud there. That was made by the projecting screw in the false +nose. You remember the screw we put in at Malakoto? They shoved off +here." + +"Yes. No doubt. That is the screw. So they've sampled the goods and +gone." + +"That is so. They've robbed us and run away." + +"And we are stranded in the heart of the wilderness?" + +"We are alone, three hundred miles from any white man." + +"Yes. Then we are alone," said Roger. "We are alone here." The words +thrilled him. They were meaning words. + +"We can't go after them," said Lionel. "They've got too big a start." + +"We've got no boat to go in." + +"I wish," said Lionel, "I wish these riverine negroes used canoes." + +"They don't." + +"No," said Lionel. "They don't. Well. It's no good moping." + +"We could follow downstream," said Roger, "and perhaps catch them at +Malakoto." + +Lionel shook his head. "There are the swamps," he said. "And we've +both got fever on us. I doubt if we could get through. We might." + +"We shall have to try it in the end, if we are to get away at all." + +"I was thinking that," said Lionel. "But when we try it, it will be +the end of the dry season, when the swamps will be passable. The +swamps now are as bad as they can be. Honestly, Roger, I don't think +we could make Malakoto, carrying our own stores. It's ten days; and +those others wouldn't stay at Malakoto, remember. They'd make for +Kisa. No. Best give in. They've won the trick." + +"And we're to lose all these stores; about a hundred pounds' worth of +stores?" + +"That's the minimum, I'm afraid." + +"It's a bad beginning," said Roger. He walked to and fro, fretting. +"Doesn't it make your blood boil?" he continued. "Look at the way the +brutes have tossed the things about. I'd give a good deal to have a +few of them here." + +Lionel sat down on a box and stared meditatively at the wreck. +"Roger," he said at length. "Have you any idea what stores were +brought up the hill last night?" + +"Mostly the bow-stores, I suppose; provisions, bedding, and camp gear." + +"That's what I was afraid," said Lionel. + +"What are you afraid of?" + +"Come on. Let's face it," said Lionel, springing from his perch. "We +must get these things out of the mud. We must see how we stand." + +"You mean we may be-- What do you mean?" + +"We must see what stores are left to us." + +They set to work together to pick up the wreck. They began with +cartridges, which had been scattered broadcast in wantonness. Many +were spoiled; many missing. Marks on the grass shewed that others had +been carefully emptied, so that the thieves might have the brass shells +enclosing the charges. Still, a good many were to be found. The two +men recovered about fifty rounds of Winchester, and eighty rounds of +revolver ammunition. With what they wore in their belts this amount +was reassuring. + +"Look here," said Roger. "Here's a box of slides. They're all +smashed." + +"Was the microscope not brought up?" + +"I don't know," said Roger. "It was in a box with a blue stencil." + +"I know," said Lionel. "I've been looking out for it. I thought it +wasn't here. Look. Over there. There's part of a lid with a blue +stencil. Is that the lid for the microscope?" + +"No, that's a drugs lid." + +"They can't have taken it with them. Surely they wouldn't take a +microscope." + +"It might be up in the camp all this time." + +"Yes. True. Wait. We'll get these things out of the mud, and then +we'll go up the hill, and make a list of what is missing. Here's our +stationery ruined. All our nice clean temperature charts that I set +such store by. I told you life was wasteful out here. All your +pressed plants are done for." + +"Here are clothes, of sorts. Jaeger underwear." + +"Fish them out. We'll wash them afterwards." + +They quartered the expanse of red slime. It was a sort of Tom +Tiddler's ground, littered with European goods. They worked quickly, +racing the sun. From time to time there came hails of "The +tool-chest's gone. Here's the lid." "Your small stores won't be much +good, the soap's melted or something." "Look at what these brutes have +done to the sugar." + +Presently Lionel hailed. + +"I say. I say. Have you come across any drugs?" + +"No. Only the lid of a drugs box." + +"Well. It's getting serious. There's no other box here. We must go +on back to camp and find out if they are there." + +"We shall be done, without drugs," said Roger. + +"Don't talk about it, my dear man," said Lionel. "Don't talk about it." + +"It would be worth while making a raft," said Roger. "There are a +couple of axes in camp. If we worked hard all morning, we could get a +sort of a raft built. We could use the tent-ropes for lashings. Then +we could easily rig up a sail. We should catch them up by dusk, +perhaps." + +"There are points about the raft theory," said Lionel, as they set out +for camp. "But there are so many creeks and gullies where they could +hide, and then there are the crocks." + +"We could build a sort of bulwark of boxes." + +"We'll find out about the drugs first. No. If we go working hard in +the sun we shall get fever again." He wrinkled his brows. He was +anxious. "I hope those drugs are all right," he said. "I don't mind +the guns; but our drugs are portable life." + +Roger glanced uneasily at Lionel. He had got to know him pretty well +during the last few months. He had come to know that though he was +sometimes irritable, he was very seldom given to despondent speech. +Now he was talking anxiously, from the selfish standpoint of "I." +Roger thought of the precious bottles of atoxyl, worth a good deal more +than a guinea an ounce. Lionel's remark was true. They were portable +life. And if the atoxyl were gone, their mission was at an end. No. +It was worse than that. If the atoxyl were gone, Lionel was in danger. +For suppose the trypanosomes recurred in him, as they might, in this +hot climate? Suppose Lionel developed sleeping sickness and died, as +the people in the village were dying, before they could win to +civilisation? He did not find any answer to the problem. Hoping to +distract Lionel, he began gallantly to talk of the Phoenicians, about +whom he was sufficiently ignorant to escape attention. + +In the camp things were as they had been, except that they were drier. +They turned over the boxes, looking eagerly for blue stencil. + +"Here's the microscope," said Roger. "Or I think it is." He prized +the case open with the jemmy on the end of the peg-maul. "Yes. The +microscope's all right. Some of our test-tube things are smashed. +Some of the media. There are plenty of those, though, down in the mud. +That's one thing to the good. What's in the case there?" + +"Anti-scorbutics here." + +"And in the long box?" + +"Grub of different kinds." + +"Here you are, then. Here's a drugs case." + +"Saved!" + +"Shall I open it?" + +"Yes, open it. We did a very foolish thing, Roger. We ought to have +packed each box as a miniature equipment, so as to minimise the +importance of any losses. It's in my mind that all our atoxyl is in +one case." + +"No," said Roger. "It was in three cases. One of them, I know, was in +the boat. I was sitting on it most of yesterday." + +"Well. Open that one, and let's see where we stand." + +The well-fixed screws were drawn. The box lay open to the sun, exuding +a faint, cleanly smell of camphor. + +Lionel looked over the drug pots, muttering the names: "Mercury +bi-chlor, sodium carb, sodium chlor, sodium cit, corrosive sublimate, +quinine, quinine, quinine, potassium bromide--we shan't want much of +that--absolute alcohol, carbolic, first-aid dressings, chlorodyne, +morphia, camphorated chalk for the teeth, what's this?--digitalis. +What the devil did they send that for? There's no atoxyl here." + +"Nor that other stuff, the dye, trypanroth?" + +"No. We didn't order any. It wasn't altogether a success with me, and +it wasn't being so well spoken of." + +"That's unfortunate. But wait a minute. I see another drug case. +Over there, against the wall. Isn't that a drug case?" + +"It is. Chuck the jemmy over." He did not wait to draw the screws. +He prized the lid off with two quick wrenches of the jemmy. He looked +inside. + +"A quaker," he said grimly, after one look. "It's a quaker case." + +"What's a quaker?" + +"This case here is what we call a quaker. Why? Because it makes one +quake. Look at these bottles. They're full of paper and sawdust. +Look at this one. Old rags. Here's a 2-lb. atoxyl bottle, for which +we paid twenty-eight pounds, not to speak of the duty. It's full of +dust like the rest." + +"But, good Lord, Lionel! Where could it have been done? Who could +have done it? We got these direct from the very best London house." + +"There were rats on the way," said Lionel. "You remember we stopped +off a day at that place Kwasi Bembo, where we hired Merrylegs? Well. +This was probably done at Kwasi Bembo by one of those foreign +storekeepers. An easy way of making money for them." + +"I don't see how he did it." + +"Oh, he could have done it easily enough, while we were having our +siestas. It doesn't matter much, though, where it was done, does it?" + +"Don't despair yet," said Roger. "There must be another box somewhere. +Here. Open this one. The stencil is ground off. What's inside this +one?" + +"It looks promising," said Lionel. "It's screwed; it isn't nailed. +Off, now." He thrust the lid away with a violent heave. Roger peered +in anxiously. + +"Nothing but stones in this one," said Lionel. "Not even our bottles +left. We'd better open all our cases, and find out what else has been +taken. I suppose that's our last box of chemicals?" + +"It's the last here." + +"Never mind," said Roger. "We won't despair. Let's see what is left +to us." They examined the other cases. They made out an inventory of +their possessions. They learned that they were left in the heart of +Africa with provisions for three months, forty pounds' weight of +anti-scorbutics, a quantity of clothing, a moderate supply of +ammunition, two rifles, two revolvers, a shotgun, many disinfectants, +an assortment of choice drugs, some medical instruments, and a +microscope. Of medical comforts they had sparklets, tobacco, soap, +matches, and two bottles of brandy. Of quaker cases they found, in +all, five, all of them purporting to be either chemicals or cartridges. +Of utensils they had a tin basin, plates, and pannikins. For shelter +they had a tent with a broken pole. + +"Lionel," said Roger, when they had checked their list. "Look here. +We've been up here a good hour and a half. The water will have fallen +a foot or more. By the time we have cooked and eaten breakfast it will +have fallen another foot. It is quite possible that by that time there +will be some more goods, perhaps, even, some more cases, left high and +dry on the bank. We won't worry about our loss till we know it. If we +breakfast now we shall be strong enough to bear whatever may be coming +to us. Let's get a fire started. We'll brew some tea and sacrifice a +tin of soup. Let's be extravagant and enjoy ourselves." + +They were sufficiently extravagant over breakfast, but they got little +enjoyment out of it. They had rankling anger in them, against their +enemies, known and unknown. When their anger gave them leave, they +felt, low down, a chilling, sinking fear that their plans for the +saving of life would come to nothing, that, in short, their expedition +was a failure. + +"Lionel," said Roger. "Do you think that the fraud of the atoxyl was +done in London? Surely Morris and Henslow wouldn't do a thing like +that?" + +"Who knows what they won't do?" said Lionel gloomily. "I know that +some contractor or other always supplies shoddy of some kind to an +expedition to one of the Poles. Why not to us? There is always the +chance that the expedition won't return. And even if it does return, +the fraud is quite likely not to become known to the public. And even +if the case comes on in a law court, who can prove it? There are too +many loopholes. It is almost impossible to bring the guilt really +home. The contractor practically never gets found out. As for a +contractor being punished, I don't suppose it has ever happened. It +makes one believe in hell." + +"It's not the crime itself," said Roger. "Not knowing the criminal, I +cannot judge the crime; but it's the state of mind which sickens me. +The state of mind which could prompt such a thing." + +"It's a common enough state of mind," said Lionel. "In business it's +common enough. Business men, even of good standing, will do queer +things when the shoe begins to pinch. You may say what you like about +war. Business is the real curse of a nation. Business, and the +business brain, and, oh, my God, the business man! Swine. Fatted, +vulpine swine." + +"Well," said Roger. "It is very important not to take these things +into the mind, even to condemn them." + +"And I say it is nothing of the sort," said Lionel. "I believe in +strangling ideas as I believe in strangling people. You writers, when +you are really good at your job, don't condemn half enough." + +"Tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner." + +"Intellectually, not morally. Come on. We are not going to argue. We +are going to work. We've got to bury that bearer. Where's the spade?" + +They dug a grave for Kukwo, and buried him, and heaped a cairn of +stones from the wall on top of him. It was burning midday when they +had finished. They had leisure then to think again of the loss of +their atoxyl. + +"We may not have any at all?" said Roger. Lionel produced a small +screw-top bottle from his pocket. It had once contained tabloids of +anti-pyrin. It was now about half full of a white powder. + +"I've a few doses here," he said. He looked at it carefully. "With +luck," he said, "we could cure two or three cases with this." + +"But suppose you have a relapse yourself, Lionel? You must keep some, +in case you should relapse." + +"I shan't relapse," he said carelessly. "Relapses aren't common." + +"But you might. And you are more important than a village-full of +negroes. More important than all the blacks put together and +multiplied by ten." + +"I don't see it. Look here. I tell you one thing which is pretty +plain to me. We've got to set to work to find an anti-toxin. First, +though, we'll go down and grope in the mud for anything which may be +left. I don't give up hope of finding some atoxyl even now." + +They told each other as they went that they didn't expect to find +anything. Really their hearts beat high with expectation. They were +sure of finding what they sought. + +They went down to the mud so sure that their disappointment almost +unmanned them. For they were disappointed. An hour of broiling work +only added two cartridges to their store. Out in the river, caught in +a snag with other drift, they saw a floating packing-case, marked with +a blue stencil. By the manner of its floating they judged it to be +empty, or nearly empty. It had probably floated off shortly after +being opened. It had been caught in a snag. It had then ducked and +sidled to get away. Lastly, it had turned upside down and emptied its +contents into the river. So they judged the tragedy, viewing the +victim through their glasses, from a distance of a hundred yards. + +"That settles it, I think," said Lionel. A projecting snout rose at +the box, tilting it over. It fell back, lipping under, so that it +filled. In another instant it was gone from sight. The glasses showed +a slight swirl in the water. The swirl passed at once, under the drive +of the spate. Their last hope of atoxyl was at an end. + +"Well," said Roger hopelessly. "It's as well to know the worst. The +box was empty, don't you think?" + +"I don't know," said Lionel. "I couldn't be sure." + +"We might find some things in the water when the river sinks a little +further," said Roger, without much conviction. "It'll be drying up +very soon now. Then we shall find whatever is in it." + +Lionel sat down despondently, resting his chin on one hand. He was +letting his disappointment work itself off silently. His heart had +been set so long on this first great medical field-day that he could +not look Roger in the face. The loss of the atoxyl was less hard to +bear than the loss of all the interesting cases over which he would +have been bending at that minute had this ghastly thing not happened. +And, being an old campaigner, and therefore forethoughtful, it was +bitter to him to find himself thwarted unexpectedly by a trick so +simple. He had thought that he had guarded against all the known +dodges. He had been on his guard all through. In London he had +sampled the food, the clothes, the cartridges, rejecting everything +which seemed even faulty. He had been surprised at his own strictness. +All the way up from the coast he had watched his stores so jealously +that he had thought himself safe. He had been vain of his success. He +had never lost so little in any previous expedition. Now an attack of +fever, a storm, and a bearer's sudden death had let him in for this. +He was not forgetting the chemist's share. He cursed himself for +having trusted the chemist. Then he decided that it was not the +chemist. The fraud had been committed in Africa. He had not been +careful enough. He himself was to blame. "Guns and grub I could +understand," he cried. "But for them to take drugs! Who would have +thought of their taking drugs? Why didn't I see that Africa is getting +civilised? Roger, I want to kill somebody." + +"It's my turn to lecture now," said Roger. "We'll carry these things +up to camp. I've an idea about camp." + +"What is your idea?" + +"To build a house out of the loose stones of the wall. We could use +the wall itself for one wall, build up three others and roof it with +the tent. It would be better than having another night like last +night." + +"It might be done," said Lionel, mechanically filling his pockets with +cartridges. "But I don't know what good we're going to do here if we +haven't any atoxyl. I wish I knew who it was. If ever I touch at +Kwasi Bembo again, I'll have that atoxyl out of his liver." + +They passed a broiling afternoon carrying their gear to camp. They +became irritable at about four o'clock. After that time they worked +apart, avoiding each other. At six Roger made tea, over which they +made friends. At seven they set about the building of their house. +They laboured by moonlight far into the night, laying the mortarless +stones together. When they knocked off for bed it was nearly midnight, +and the house was far from perfect. They could not do more to it. +They were too tired. After flogging their blankets against the walls +to get rid of mud and "bichos," they turned in, bone-weary, and slept +the stupid sleep of sailors for nearly eleven hours. + +They finished their house in the afternoon. It was not a very good +house, but they judged that it would be safer and drier than their tent +had proved. After they had finished it, they felt it to be +structurally weak. They went at it again. They strengthened the roof +with saplings, and laid great stones upon the edges of the canvas +cover, so that it should not blow from its place. With great cunning +Roger arranged an outer roof of a rough thatch which he himself made +from the osiers used by the natives. He thought that a double roof +would be cooler. He explained to Lionel an ambitious scheme for a +thatched verandah; but this had to be abandoned from want of +encouragement. Inside, the house was about twelve feet square. When +the two beds, the table, the chairs, and the boxes were all within +doors, it seemed very cramped and poky. They were in some doubt about +a name for it. Lionel was for "Phoenician Villa," Roger for "The +Laurels" or "Oak Drive." Finally they decided on "Portobe," which they +smeared over the door in blacking. They had not thought much of +Portobe on their way up country. Portobe. Roger going out that night, +after supper, to wash the plates in a bucket, sat by the fire for many +minutes, "thinking long" about Portobe. Something made him turn his +head, and look out into the night north-north-westward, + + for there dwelt love, and all love's loving parts, + And all the friends. + +It was a dim expanse, mothlike and silver in the moonlight, reaching on +in forest and river to the desert. To reach Portobe he would have to +go beyond the desert, over the sea, over Spain, over France. He +paused. He was not sure whether France would be in the direct line. +If it were not, then there would only be the sea to cross, past Land's +End, past Carnsore, past Braichy, past all the headlands. Then on to +the Waters of Moyle, which never cease to call to the heart who hears +them. He remembered the poem of the calling of the Waters of Moyle. +He knew it by heart. It was a true poem. The vastness and silence of +the night were over him. The great stars burned out above. They +seemed to wheel and deploy above him, rank upon rank, helm on gleaming +helm, an army, a power. There were no birds, no noise of beasts, no +lights. Only the earth, strange in the moon; the great continent, +measureless in her excess. She was all savage, all untamed, a black +and cruel continent, a lustful old queen, smeared with bloody oils. +She frightened him. He thought of one night at Portobe three years +before, when he had come out "to look at the night" with Ottalie. He +could still see some of the stars seen then. He could still, in the +sharpened fancy of the home-sick, smell the spray of honeysuckle which +had gone trailing and trailing, drenching wet, across the little-used +iron gate which led to the beach. He longed to be going up the beach, +up the loaning overhung with old willows, as he had gone that night +with Ottalie. He longed to be going through the little town, past the +fruitman's, past the butcher's, past the R.I.C. barracks, to the little +churchyard by the stream. Ottalie lay there. Here he was in Africa, +trying to do something for Ottalie's sake. He drew in his breath +sharply. It was all useless. It was not going to be done. The atoxyl +was lost. They might just as well have stayed in England. He sighed. +To do something very difficult, which would tax all his powers, that +was his task. When that was done he would feel that he had won his +bride. A strange, choking voice came from the house. + +"Roger! Roger! Come in. Where are you?" Lionel had been asleep in +his chair. + +"What is it? What is it?" said Roger. + +"Nothing. Nothing," said Lionel. "I dreamed I was fast by the leg. +You don't know how beastly it was." + + + + +X + + A cold shivering, methinks. + _Every Man out of his Humour_. + + What would you minister upon the sudden? + _Monsieur Thomas_. + + +The next day they walked to the village, prepared for an unpleasant +morning. They buried seven bodies and burned eleven huts. Several +times, during the day, they noticed tsetse at rest on the framework of +the huts. + +"They have followed people up from the water," said Lionel. "They +don't attack us, because we are wearing white duck. They don't like +white." + +"Flies have an uncanny knowledge," said Roger. "How do they get their +knowledge? Is it mere inherited instinct? I notice that they always +attack in the least protected spots. How do they know that a man +cannot easily drive them from between his shoulders? They do know. I +notice they nearly always attack between the shoulders." + +"Yes. And dogs on the head, cattle on the shoulders, and horses on the +belly and forelegs. They're subtle little devils." + +"And they have apparently no place in the scheme of the world, except +to transplant the trypanosome from where he is harmless to where he is +deadly." + +"Lots of men are like that," said Lionel. "You can go along any London +street and see thousands of them outside those disgusting pot-houses. +Men with no place in the scheme of the world, except to transplant +intoxicants from the casks, where they are harmless, to their insides, +where they become deadly, both to themselves and to society. Any +self-respecting State would drown the brutes in their own beer. Yet +the brutes don't get drowned. And as they do not, there must be a +scientific reason. Either the State must be so rotten that the germs +are neutralised by other germs, or the germs must have some dim sort of +efficiency for life, just as the tsetses have. They have the tenacity +of the very low organism. It is one of the mysteries of life to me +that a man tends to lose that tenacity and efficiency for life as soon +as he becomes sufficiently subtle and fine to be really worth having in +the world. I like Shakespeare because he is one of the very few men +who realise that. He is harping on it again and again. He is at it in +Hamlet, in Richard the Second, in Brutus, Othello. Oh, in lots of the +plays, in the minor characters, too, like Malvolio; even in Aguecheek. +And people call that disgusting, beefy brute, Prince Henry, +'Shakespeare's one hero,' a 'vision of ideal English manhood.' +Shakespeare's one hero! Shakespeare wrote him with his tongue in his +cheek, and used an ounce of civet afterwards." + +They turned again to their work. After changing their clothes, bathing +antiseptically, and anointing their hands with corrosive sublimate +solution and alcohol, they began solemnly to distil some water for +their tiny store of atoxyl. + +"Lionel," said Roger, "we've got enough drug to cure two, or perhaps +three of these people. We ought not to use it all. We are away in the +wilds here. Save one dose at least for yourself in case you should get +a relapse. You know how very virulent a relapsed case is." + +"I know," said Lionel. "But that is part of the day's work. Our only +chance of doing good here is to find an anti-toxin. I want this spare +atoxyl for that." + +"But," said Roger, "you cannot make an effective serum from the blood +of a man in whom atoxyl is at work. Surely atoxyl only stimulates the +phagocytes to eat the trypanosome." + +"Quite so," said Lionel. "You're a serumite, I'm not. I am not at all +keen on the use of serum for this complaint. I believe that the cure +(if there is one) will be got by injecting the patient with dead +trypanosomes or very, very weak ones. I'm going to make a special +artificial culture of trypanosomes in culture tubes. I shall then +weaken the germs with atoxyl. When they are all bloated and paralysed, +I shall inject them. I believe that that injection, or the injection +of quite dead trypanosomes, will have permanent good effects." + +"And I," rejoined Roger, "believe that your methods will be useless. I +believe that the cure (if there be a cure) will be obtained by the use +of sera obtained from naturally or artificially immunised animals." + +"That's just the taking kind of fairy story you would believe. You're +a sentimentalist." + +"Very well. But listen. It is said that when the dogs of the bushmen +are reared entirely on the meat of immune game, they become immune like +the game; but that if they are not used to wild meat they develop +nagana from eating it casually." + +"I don't believe the first part of that," said Lionel. "It sounds too +like a yarn. The dogs which are reared entirely on wild game are +probably naturally immune native dogs, bred originally from some wild +strain, like the wild hunting-dogs." + +"But there is no doubt that wild game, like wildebeests, koodoos, +hyenas, and quaggas, are immune?" + +"None whatever." + +"Then could not some preparation be made from the blood of the wild +game? Surely one could extract the immunising principle from the +immune creature, and use that as a serum?" + +"We don't even know what the 'immunising principle' may be; so how can +we extract it?" + +"Well, then. Use the blood serum by itself." + +"But, my dear man, the blood of these beasts is the favourite haunt of +the trypanosome." + +They argued it to and fro with the pertinacity of enthusiasts +improperly equipped with knowledge. Roger fought for his "fairy +story," Lionel for his dead and dying cultures. At last Lionel +finished the preparation of the mixture. + +"Look here," he said. "This atoxyl, you say, is to be kept? Well. If +I get a relapse before it is used, you will please remember that it is +to be used to paralyse artificially-raised trypanosomes, which will +afterwards be injected into me. You will try none of your sera on me, +my friend. If you like to go getting sera from dying, dirty, anthraxy +wild beasts, do so; but don't put any of the poison, so got, into me. +I see you so plainly strangling a deer in a mud-wallow, and drawing off +the blood into a methylated spirits can. Here's the mixture ready. +And now that our water of life is ready for use, comes the great +question: Which of all these sleepers is to live? Here are twenty-nine +men, women, and children. They are all condemned to die within a few +weeks. Now then, Roger. You are a writer, that is to say a law-giver, +a disposer and settler of moral issues. Which of these is to live? We +can say thumbs down to any we choose. If we live to be a hundred we +shall probably never have to make such a solemn choice again." + +"It isn't certain life," said Roger, hesitating for a moment, staggered +by the responsibility. "Atoxyl isn't a certain cure, even of moderate +cases." + +"It's a practically certain cure if the patient is all right in other +ways; that is, of course, if the case has not gone too far." + +"What is the percentage of deaths?" said Roger. + +"With atoxyl?" + +"Yes." + +"Eight per cent. for slight cases, and twenty-two per cent. for bad +ones. Without atoxyl, it's a certain hundred per cent." + +"I see." + +"It's a good drug." + +"Yes," said Roger. "It's a good drug. But look at them, Lionel. To +stand here and choose them out." + +"We are doing now what the scientist will one day do for every human +race," said Lionel. "We are choosing for the future. As it happens we +are choosing for the future of a fraction of a wretched little African +tribe. The scientist will one day choose, just as finally, for the +future of man. I didn't think you'd baulk, Roger. This is the +beginning of the golden age. 'The golden age begins anew.' Here are +the wise men choosing who are to inherit the earth." + +A sleepy negro came unsteadily from a hut. He walked, as though not +quite in control of his actions, towards the wise men. He was a fine, +supple creature, dressed in crocodile's teeth. Parts of him shone with +an anointment of oil. He drew up, dully staring. His jaw was hanging. +Flies settled on his body. A tsetse with fierce, dancing flight, flew +round him, and settled on his shoulders. He stood vacantly, gazing at +the wise men. His mind could not be sure of anything; but there was +something which he wanted to say; something which had to be said. He +waited, vacantly, for the message to come back to him, and then drove +slowly forward again, and again stopped. His lips mumbled something. +His eyes drooped. One trembling hand weakly groped in the air for +support. It rested on a hut. He slowly and very wearily collapsed +upon the hut, and sat down. His head nodded and nodded. Another +tsetse flew down. Roger noticed that the man was cicatrised about the +body with old scars. He had been a warrior. He had lived the savage +life to the full. He had killed. He had rushed screaming to death, +under his tossing Colobus plumes, first of his tribe to stab, before +the shields rattled on each other. He had been lithe, swift, and +bloody as the panther. Now he was this trembling, fumbling thing, a +log, a driveller, a perch for flies. + +"Lionel," said Roger, "it will be awful if we lose our cases." + +"Why? They will die in any case." + +"But after choosing them like this. If we give them their chance, and +they lose the chance. I should feel that perhaps one of the others +might have lived." + +"We shall choose carefully. We can do no more than that. There's that +hideous old crone coming out again. Poor old thing. I dare say she +has seen more of the world than either of us. She may be a king's wife +and the mother of kings. How merciless these savages are to the old!" + +"They're like children. Children have no mercy on the old." + +"I wonder what good life is to her?" + +"I dare say she remembers the good days. She can't feel very much." + +"No," said Lionel. "But I notice that old people feel intensely. They +don't feel much. They may feel only one single thing in all the world; +but they feel about that with all their strength. It's perfectly +ghastly how they feel. We are all islands apart. We do not know each +other. We cannot know that woman's mind, nor have we any data by which +we can imagine it. That old animal may be like Blake's bird: 'A whole +world of delight closed to your senses five.'" + +"Very well. Would you cure her? She's not infected as it happens; but +would you, if she were?" + +"No. She has had her life. I wonder, by the way, if extreme old age +is immune from sleeping sickness. I dare say it is. But old age is +not common in savage societies. I wish I knew that old woman's story. +She has seen a lot, Roger. That is a wonderful face. Now we must +choose. Shall we choose a woman?" + +"No. Not a woman. We must think of the creature's future. What would +become of a woman left alone here? Even if she followed up her tribe, +they would probably not admit her. You know that these people do not +believe in the possibility of a cure for sleeping sickness. They would +only drive her out, or kill her." + +"Yes, or let her drift among white men. No. Not a woman. Not an old +man, I say. The old have had their lives. Besides, the life of an old +savage is generally wretched. There would be nothing for him to do, +either here or anywhere else. So we won't have an old man." + +"Nor a warrior," said Roger. + +"I'm not sure about a warrior," said Lionel. "He would be able to fend +for himself. He would be worth taking in by some other tribe short of +males. There are points to the warrior." + +"He would probably rise up one night and jab us with a shovel-headed +spear." + +"And then we should shoot him. Yes, that might happen. That narrows +it down to the boys." + +They looked at the boys, noting their teeth, skulls, and physiognomies. +Several shewed signs of congenital malignant disease; others were +brutish and loutish looking; but they were, on the whole, a much +nicer-looking lot than the boys who sell papers in London. They +narrowed the choice to four. One of them shewed signs of pneumonia. +He was rejected. The others were examined carefully. Their prefrontal +areas were measured. They were sounded and felt and summed up. The +matter was doubtful for a time. The lad with the best head was more +drowsy than the other two. The question arose, should the doubtful +cure of a genius be preferred to the less doubtful cure of a dunce. +"Nature has made an effort for this one," said Lionel, "at the expense +of the type. This fellow has got a better head than the others, but he +is not quite so fine a specimen. That means that he will be less +happy. Nature would probably prefer the other fellows." + +"We have nothing to do with Nature," said Roger. "We are out to fight +her wherever we can find her. Nature is a collection of vegetables, +many of them human. Let us thwart her. Nature's mind is the mind of +the flock of sheep. Nature's order is the order of the primeval swamp. +Never mind what she would prefer. Sacrifice both the dunces, and let +the other have a double chance. I know the dunce-mind, or 'natural' +mind, only too well. It would sacrifice any original mind, and +brutally, like the beast it is, rather than see its doltish sheep-pen +rules infringed." + +"Genius is excess," said Lionel. "Genius in a savage means an excess +of savagery. This fellow may be a most turbulent, bloodthirsty +ruffian. The others, though they will probably be bloodthirsty +ruffians, may not be so turbulent." + +"If he be turbulent," said Roger, "it will be in a more intellectual +manner than is usual with his tribe. Turbulence in a savage is a sign +of life. It is only in a civilised man that it is a sign of failure." + +"Very well," said Lionel. "We will have the genius. He may disappoint +us. I think he is the best type here. Who is to be the other? What +do you say to that nice-looking boy, whom we spun some time ago for +itch? I like that lad's face." + +"You think he would be a good one to save?" + +"Well, itch apart, he looked a nice lad. He would be exceptional, +socially, just as the other would be exceptional intellectually. He +would be to some extent unnatural, which is what you seem to want. Why +are you so down on the natural?" + +"I've heard some old women of both sexes praising the natural, ever +since I was a child. The natural. The born natural. The undeveloped +sheep in us, which makes common head to butt the wolf-scarer." + +"We'll give them a dose to-day and a dose to-morrow, and a last dose in +two and a half weeks' time," said Lionel. "And then they'll either be +fit to butt anything in the wide world, or they'll be on their way to +Marumba." + +"The genius first," said Roger, bringing up the patient. The needle +was sterilised. A little prick between the shoulderblades drove the +dose home. The other boy followed. Lionel eyed them carefully. + +"They must come out of here, now," he said. "They must live with us +for to-night. We can't do more now. We've done enough for one day. +To-morrow we must rig them up a shanty up on the hill. They'll be +pretty well by to-morrow night." + +They were doing finely by the next night, as Lionel had foretold. +Their second dose was followed up with a preparation of mercury, which +the wise men trusted to complete the cure. The patients were pretty +well. But the work and excitement of settling them into quarters near +"Portobe" made the doctors very far from pretty well. Though the +sick-quarters were little more than a roofed-in wind-screen of +tarpaulin, the strain of making it was too much for two over-wrought +Europeans, not yet used to the heat. Lionel, complaining peevishly of +headache, knocked off work before tea. Roger, feeling the boisterous +good spirits which so often precede a fit of recurrent fever, helped +Lionel into bed, and cheerfully did the sick man's share of building. +After this he gave the two patients their supper of biscuit and bully +beef (which they ate with very good appetites), and, when they had +eaten, put them to bed under their wind-screen. As he worked, he hoped +fervently that Lionel was not going to be ill again. He had been +peevish, with a slight, irritable fever all the way up the river from +Malakoto. If he fell ill again now, all the work would be delayed. +Roger wanted to get to work. All their plans had been upset by the +bearers' desertion. Any further upsetting of plans might ruin the +expedition. The days were passing. Every day brought those poor +drowsy devils in the village nearer to their deaths. Soon they would +be too ill to cure. He wanted Lionel well and strong, working beside +him towards the discovery of a serum. That was the crying need. With +Lionel ill, he could do nothing, or nearly nothing. He had so little +scientific knowledge. And besides that, he would have Lionel to watch, +and the cleansing and feeding of all those twenty-seven sick. He did +not see how things were going to get done. + +He told himself that things would have to get done, and that he would +have to do them. The resolution cheered him, but the prospect was not +made brighter by his discovery soon afterwards that Lionel's +temperature had shot up with a sudden leaping bound to 103°. That +frightened him. Lionel was not going to be ill, he was ill, and very +dangerously ill already. His temperature had risen four or five +degrees in about half an hour. The discovery gave Roger a momentary +feeling of panic. With a fever like that, Lionel might die, and if +Lionel died, what then? He would be there alone, alone in the wilds, +with drowsed, half-dead savages. He would be alone there with death, +in the heart of a continent. He would go mad there, at the sight of +his own shadow, like the Australian in the cheerful story. But for +Lionel to die, to lose Lionel, the friend of all these days, the +comrade of all these adventures, that was the desolating thought. It +would not matter much what happened to himself if Lionel were to die. + +It was borne in upon him that Lionel's life would depend on his +exertions. He would be doctor, nurse, and chemist. Let him look to +it. On the morrow, perhaps, there would be two vigorous natives to +look to the sick in the village. Meanwhile, there was the night to win +through; and that burning temperature to lower. + +He managed to administer a dose of quinine. There was nothing more +that he could do. Crouching down by the sick man's side made him feel +queer. He remembered that he had left neither food nor water in the +patients' hut. They ought to have food by them in case they woke +hungry, as they probably would, after their long, irregular fast. He +carried them some biscuit, and a bucket half full of water. They were +sleeping heavily. Nature was resting in them. While coming back from +the hut, he noticed that the night struck cold. He shivered. His +teeth began to chatter. He felt that the cold had stricken to his +liver. He wished that he had not gone out. Coming into the house, he +felt the need of a fire; but he did not dare to light one, on account +of Lionel. Lionel lay tossing deliriously, babbling the halves of +words. Roger gave him more quinine, and took a strong dose himself. +There was something very strange about the quinine. It seemed to come +to his mouth from a hand immensely distant. There was a long, long +arm, like a crooked railway, tied to the hand. It seemed to Roger that +it could not possibly crook itself sufficiently to let the hand reach +his mouth. After the strangeness of the hand had faded, he felt +horribly cold. He longed to have fire all round him, and inside him. +He regarded Lionel stupidly. He could do nothing more. He would lie +down. If Lionel wanted anything, he would get up to fetch it. He +could not sit up with Lionel. He was in for a fever. He got into his +bed, and heaped the blankets round him, trembling. Almost at once the +real world began to blur and change. It was still the real world, but +he was seeing much in it which he had not suspected. Many queer things +were happening before his eyes. He lay shuddering, with chattering +teeth, listening, as he thought, to the noise made by the world as it +revolved. It was a crashing, booming, resolute noise, which droned +down and anon piped up high. It went on and on. + +In the middle of all the noise he had the strange fancy that his body +was not in bed at all, but poised in air. His bed lay somewhere below +him. Sitting up he could see part of it, infinitely distant, below his +outstretched feet. The ceiling was swelling and swelling just above +him. It seemed as vast as heaven. All the time it swelled he seemed +to shrink. He was lying chained somewhere, while his body was +shrinking to the vanishing point. He could feel himself dwindling, +while the blackness above grew vaster. He heard something far below +him--or was it at his side?--something or somebody speaking very +rapidly. He tried to call out to Lionel, but all that he could say was +something about an oyster tree. There was a great deal of chattering. +Somebody was trying to get in, or somebody was trying to get out. +Something or somebody was in great danger, and, do what he could, he +could not help growing smaller, smaller, smaller. At last the +blackness fell in upon his littleness and blotted it out. + +He awoke in the early morning, feeling as though his bones had been +taken out. His mouth had a taste as though brown paper had been burnt +in it. Wafts of foul smell passed over him as each fresh gust blew in +at the doorway. Something was the matter with his eyes. He had an +obscurity of vision. He could not see properly. Things changed and +merged into each other. He lifted a hand to brush away the distorting +film. He was thirsty. He was too weak to define more clearly what he +wanted; it was not water; it was not food; it was not odour; but a +bitter, pungent, astringent something which would be all three to him. +He wanted something which would cleanse his mouth, supplant this +foulness in his nostrils, and nerve the jelly of his marrow. Weakly +desiring this potion, he fell asleep from exhaustion. He woke much +refreshed after a sleep of about eight hours. + +When he looked about him, he saw that Lionel was still unconscious. He +was lying there uneasily, muttering and restless, with a much-flushed +face. His hands were plucking and scratching at his chest. There was +that about him which suggested high fever. Roger hurriedly brought a +thermometer and took the sick man's temperature. It had sunk to less +than 100°. He thrust aside the pyjama coat, and felt the heart with +his finger. The pulse was beating with something of the batting motion +of a guttering electric light. The chest was inflamed, with a slight +reddish rash. + +Roger sat down upon his bed and took a few deep breaths to steady +himself. Afterwards he remembered telling himself in a loud, clear +voice that he would have to go into this with a clear head, a very +clear head. He swilled his head with water from the bucket. When he +felt competent he remembered another and more certain symptom. He +advanced to the sick man and looked anxiously at his throat glands. He +had braced himself for the shock; but it was none the less severe when +it came. The glands were visibly swollen. They were also very tender +to the touch. Lionel had relapsed. He was suffering from +trypanosomiasis. The disease was on him. + +Roger passed the next few minutes biting his lips. From time to time +he went back to the bed to look at the well-known symptoms. He was +sure, only too sure, but each time he went he prayed to God that he +might be mistaken. He went over these symptoms in his mind. High +temperature, a rapid pulse, the glands of the neck swollen, a rash on +the chest, hands, or shoulders, a flushed face, and feeble movements. +There was no doubting the symptoms. Lionel was in a severe relapse. + +Even when one is certain of something terrible, there is still a +clinging to hope, a sense of the possibility of hope. Roger sitting +there on the bed, staring at the restless body, had still a hope that +he might be wrong. He dressed himself carefully, saying over and over +again that he must keep a level head. There was still one test to +apply. It was necessary to be certain. He got out the microscope, and +sterilised a needle. When he was ready he punctured one of Lionel's +glands, and blew out the matter on to a slide. Very anxiously, after +preparing the slide for observation, he focussed the lens, and looked +down onto the new, unsuspected world, bustling below him on the glass. + +He was looking down on a strange world of discs, among which little +wriggling wavy membranes, something like the tails of tadpoles, waved +themselves slowly, and lashed out with a sort of whip-lash snout. Each +had a dark little nucleus in his middle, and a minute spot near the +anterior end. There was no room for hope in Roger's mind when he saw +those little waving membranes, bustling actively, splitting, +multiplying, lashing with their whips. They were trypanosomes in high +activity. He watched them for a minute or two horrified by the +bluntness and lowness of the organism, and by its blind power. It was +a trembling membrane a thousandth part of an inch long. It had brought +Lionel down to that restless body on the bed. It had reduced all +Lionel's knowledge and charm and skill to a little plucking at the +skin, a little tossing, a little babbling. It was the visible +pestilence, the living seed of death, sown in the blood. + +Roger made himself some tea. Having made it, he forced himself to eat, +repeating that he must eat to keep strong, lest he should fail Lionel +in any way. Food, and the hot diffusive stimulant, made him more +cheerful. He told himself that Lionel was only in a fit of the +frequently recurring trypanosome fever. After a day or two of fever he +would come to again, weak, anæmic, and complaining of headache. A dose +of atoxyl would destroy all the symptoms in a few hours. Even if he +did not take the atoxyl, there was no certainty that the fever would +turn to sleeping sickness. There was a chance of it; but no certainty. +A doctor's first duty was to be confident. Well, he was going to be +confident. He was going to pull Lionel through. He remembered a +conversation between two Americans in a railway carriage. He had +overheard them years before, while travelling south from Fleetwood. +They were talking of a coming prize fight between two notorious boxers +who, while training, spent much energy in contemning each other in the +Press, threatening each other with annihilation, of the most final +kind. "Them suckers chew the rag fit to beat the band," said one of +the men. "Why cain't they give it a rest? Let 'em slug each other +good, in der scrap. De hell wid dis chin music." + +"Aw git off," said the other. "Them quitters, if they didn't talk hot +air till dey believed it, dey'd never git near der ring." + +He had always treasured the conversation in his memory. He thought of +it now. Perhaps if doctors did not force themselves "to talk hot air" +till their patients believed it, very few patients would ever leave +their beds. He cleared away the breakfast things and made the house +tidy. He gave Lionel an extra pillow. Then he went out into the +morning to think of what he should do. + +When he got out into the air he remembered the two patients. It was +his duty now to dose them and give them food. All that he had to do +was to walk to their hut, see that they ate their breakfast, and give +them each a blue pill afterwards. The drug would have taken a stronger +hold during the night, and the action of atoxyl is magical even in bad +cases. He expected to find them alert and lively, changed by the +drug's magic to two intelligent merry negroes. It was not too much to +hope, perhaps. He prayed that it might be so. There was nothing for +which he longed so much as for some strong evidence of the power of +atoxyl to arrest the disease. He topped the rise and looked down on +his handiwork. + +All was quiet in the clumsy hut. The negroes were not stirring. Roger +was vaguely perplexed when he saw that they were not about. Even if +they were no better than they had been the day before they ought still +to be up and sunning. He wondered what had happened. A fear that the +drug had failed him mingled with his memory of a book about man-eating +lions. He broke into a run. + +He had only to push aside the tarpaulin which served for door to see +that the two patients had gone. When they had gone, there was no means +of knowing; but gone they were. They had gone at a time when there had +been light enough for them to see the biscuits and the bucket; for +biscuits and bucket were gone with them. He could see no trace of the +two men on the wide savannah which rolled away below him. He supposed +that some homing instinct had sent them back to the village. He was +cheered by the thought. They had been cured within two days. They had +been changed from oafish lumps into thinking beings. Now he would cure +Lionel in the same way. As he hurried back to "Portobe," he was +thankful that some of the drug remained to them. He would have been in +a strange quandary had they used all the drug two days before. + + + + +XI + + There's a lean fellow beats all conquerors. + _Old Fortunatus_. + + +When he began to prepare to give the injection, he could not find the +atoxyl bottle. He searched anxiously through the hut for it, but could +not find it. It was an unmistakable glass bottle, half-full of +distilled water, at the bottom of which lay some of the white sediment +as yet undissolved. The bottle bore a square white label, marked +ATOXYL in big capitals, printed by Lionel with a blue pencil. Roger +could not see it anywhere. He looked in all the boxes, one after the +other. He looked in the gun-cases, under the folds of the tent, in the +chinks and crannies, everywhere. It was not there. When he had +searched the hut twice from end to end, in different directions, he +decided that it was not there. His next thought was that it must have +been left in the hut with the two patients, and that the patients must +have carried it off as treasure trove. In that case, perhaps, it would +be gone forever. He would have noticed it that morning had it been +still in the hut. Then he thought that it might still be in the hut. +It might have been put behind a box. He might have failed to see it. +It was necessary to make certain. He hurried to the hut and searched +it through. A couple of minutes of searching shewed him that the +bottle was not there. + +He racked his brains, trying to think what had become of it. When had +he last seen it? Lionel and he had been at the hut during the +preceding afternoon. They had staked in the uprights of the shelter; +and had then knocked off for a rest, as Lionel was not feeling well. +During the rest he (Roger) had brought the atoxyl from "Portobe," and +had given the second injection to the two patients. So much was clear. +What had happened then? He tried to remember. After that he had gone +on with the building, while Lionel had rested. He distinctly +remembered Lionel sitting down on the wall-top with the atoxyl bottle +in his hands. What had he done with it after that? Surely he had +taken it back with him to "Portobe"? In any case there could be no +doubt that Lionel had been the last to touch it. Lionel had taken the +bottle to put it away; and it seemed now only too likely that he had +put it away in a place where no one else could find it. + +Roger tried to remember exactly how ill Lionel had been when he had +gone back to "Portobe." He remembered that he had been flushed and +peevish, but he could not remember any symptoms of light-headedness. +He had crept off alone while Roger was fixing a roof-ridge. Roger, +suddenly noticing that he had gone, had followed him to "Portobe," and +had found him sitting vacantly on the floor, staring with unseeing +eyes. It was certain that the atoxyl bottle was not with him then. + +"If that were so," said Roger to himself, "he must have dropped it or +put it down between 'Portobe' and this. Here is where he was sitting. +This is the path by which he walked. Is the bottle anywhere on the +path, or near it?" It was not. Careful search showed that it was not. +"Well," said Roger to himself, "he must have thrown it away. The fever +made him desperate or peevish for a moment, and he has thrown it away. +Where could he have thrown it?" + +Unfortunately there was a wide expanse over which he might have thrown +it. If he had thrown it downhill it might have rolled far, after +hitting the ground. If he had thrown it uphill, it might have got +hidden or smashed among the loose stones from the ruins. Having +satisfied himself that Lionel for the moment was not appreciably worse, +Roger started down the village to find his two patients. He thought +that if they could be made to understand what was missing, the search +for the bottle might be made by three pairs of eyes instead of by one. +Some possibility, or, to be more exact, some hope of a possibility, of +the bottle being in the possession of the patients, occurred to him. +The thought that perhaps Lionel's life depended on the caprice of two +cheerful negro-boys made him tremble. + +There was no trace of the patients in the village. They were not +there, nor was Roger enough skilled in tracking to know whether they +had been there. As they were not there, he could only suppose that, on +finding themselves whole, among the wreck of their tribe, they had set +out to follow their fellows by the tracks left by the cattle. He +thought it possible that they might return soon, in a day or two, if +not that very day. But there was not much chance of their returning +with the atoxyl bottle, even if they had set out with it. He figured +to himself the progression of a bottle in the emotional estimation of a +negro who had never before seen one. First, it would appear as a rich +treasure, something to be boldly stolen, but fearfully prized. Then it +would appear as something with cubic capacity, possibly containing +potables. Then, after sampling of the potable, in this case +unpleasant, it would be emptied. Its final position ranged between the +personal ornament and the cock-shy. Meanwhile, Roger had the sick to +feed. + +After that he returned to Lionel. Lionel's temperature had dropped +slightly, but he was hardly conscious yet. Roger left him while he +began the weary, fruitless search over a space of Africa a hundred +yards long by eighty broad. He measured a space forty yards on each +side of the track between the hut and "Portobe." If the bottle had +been thrown away, it had been thrown away within that space. It was +unlikely to have fallen more than forty yards from the track. A squat +short-necked bottle is not an easy thing to throw. If it were not +there, then he would have to conclude that the patients had taken it. +It was a long, exhausting search. It was as wearisome as the search +for lost ball at cricket. But in this case the seeker knew that his +comrade's life depended on his success. He paced to and fro, treading +over every inch of the measured ground, beating it beneath his feet, +stamping to scare the snakes, feeling his blood leap whenever he struck +a stone. The sun filled earth and sky with wrinklings of brass and +glass at white, tremulous heat, oozing in discs from his vortex of +spilling glare. Many times in the agony of that search Roger had to +break off to look to Lionel, and to drink from the canvas bucket of +boiled water. He prayed that Lionel might recover consciousness, if +only for a minute, so that he might tell him in which direction the +bottle had been flung. But Lionel did not recover consciousness. He +lay in his bed, muttering to himself, talking nonsense in a little, +low, indifferent voice. The most that Roger could say for him was that +he was quieter. His hands were quieter; his voice was quieter. It was +nothing to be thankful for. It meant merely that the patient was +weaker. + +After it was over, Roger thought that his search for the lost bottle +was the best thing he had ever done. He had trampled carefully over +every inch of the measured ground. He had taken no chances, he had +neglected no possible hole nor tussock. A wide space of trodden grass +and battered shrub testified to the thoroughness of his painful hunt. +And all was useless. The bottle was not there. The atoxyl was lost. + +Once before, several years past, Roger had watched the approaching +death of one intimately known. He had seen his drunken father dying. +He had not loved his father; he had felt little grief for him. But the +sight of him dying woke in him a blind pity for all poor groping human +souls, "who work themselves such wrong" in a world so beautiful given +for so short a time. He had looked on that death as though it were a +natural force, grave and pitiless as wisdom, hiding some erring thing +which had been at variance from it. He had thought of Ottalie's death, +down in the cabin, among the wreck of the supper-tables. In his mind +he had seen Ottalie, so often, flung down on to the rank of revolving +chairs, and struggling up with wild eyes, but with noble courage even +then, to meet the flood shocking in to end her. That death seemed a +monstrous, useless horror to him. Now a link which bound him to +Ottalie was about to snap. He was watching the sick-bed of a man who +had often talked with her, a man, who had known her intimately. +Lionel, with the simple, charming spirit, so like in so many ways what +Ottalie would have been had she been born a man, was mortally sick. +The sight of him lying there unconscious struck him to the heart. That +mumbling body on the bed was his friend, his dear comrade, a link +binding him to everything which he cherished. A veil was being drawn +across his friend's mind. He was watching it come closer and closer, +and the house within grow dark. In a little while it would be drawn +down close, shutting in the life forever. If he did not act at once it +would be too late; Lionel would die. If Lionel were to die, he would +be alone in Africa, with that thing on the bed. + +He knelt down by the cot in a whirl of jarring suggestions. What was +he to do? Anxiety had lifted him out of himself on to another plane, a +plane of torturing emotion. He felt a painful clearness of intellect +and an utter deadness of controlling will. His ideas swarmed in his +head, yet he had no power to select from them. He saw so many things +which he might be doing; building a raft to take them to Malakoto, +making, or trying to make, a serum, to nullify the infection; there +were many things. But how could he leave Lionel in this state, and how +was he to get Lionel out of this state? He told himself that large +doses of arsenic might be of use; the next moment he realised that they +would be useless. He had tried to make Lionel take arsenic on the +voyage upstream, as a prophylactic. Lionel had replied that arsenic +was no good to him. "Trypanosomes," he had said, "become inured to +particular drugs. Mine got inured to arsenic the last time I was out +here. If my trypanosomes recur you'll have to try something else." +What else was he to try? + +He had read that marked temporary improvement shows itself after a +variety of treatments, after any treatment, in fact, which tends to +improve the health of particular organs. He tried the simplest and +least dangerous of those which he remembered. It could do no harm, in +any case. If it did good, he would feel braced to try something more +searching. + +The mere act of administering the dose strengthened him. Action is +always a cordial to a mind at war with itself. At times of +conflagration the fiddle has saved more than Nero from disquieting +thought, tending to suicide. When at last he had forced his will to +the selection of a course, he felt more sure of himself. He set about +the preparation of food for the patient, and, when that was made and +given, he sterilised his hands for the beginning of the delicate task +of culture-making. He had plenty of tubes of media of different kinds. +He selected those most likely to give quick results. They were media +of bouillon and agar. One of them, a special medium of rabbit's flesh +and Witte's peptone, had been prepared by Lionel months before, in +far-distant London. Roger remembered how they had talked together, in +their enthusiasm, during the making of that medium. He had had little +thought then of the circumstances under which it would come to be used. +He had never before felt home-sick for London. He was home-sick now. +He longed to be back in London with Lionel, in the bare, airy room in +Pump Court, where the noise of the Strand seemed like the noise of +distant trains which never passed. He longed to be back there, out of +this loneliness, with Lionel well again. The memory of their little +bickerings came back to him. Travel is said to knock off the angles of +a man. If the man has fire in him, the process may burn the fingers of +those near him. Little moments of irritation, after sleepless nights, +after fever, after over-exertion, had flamed up between them. No +Europeans can travel together for many hundreds of miles in the tropics +without these irritable moments. They derive from physical weakness of +some kind, rather than from any weakness of character, though the links +which bind the two are, of course, close and subtle. He told himself +this; but he was not to be comforted. The memory of those occasional, +momentary jarrings gave him keen pain. If Lionel got over this +illness, he would make it up to him. He thought of many means by which +he might make their journey together more an adventure of the finer +character. "Lionel," he said, aloud, looking down on the sick man, "I +want you to forgive me." + +There was no sign of comprehension from Lionel. He lay there muttering +nervously. His skin was hot to the touch with that dry febrile heat +which gives to him who feels it such a shocking sense of the body's +usurpation by malign power. His temperature was beginning to show the +marked and dreadful evening rise. Roger could guess from that that +there would be no improvement until the morning fall. After feeling +the fluttering, rapid pulse, and the weakness of the movements of the +hands, he had grave doubts whether the body would be able to stand the +strain of that sudden fall. + +He dragged up a box and sat staring at Lionel, torn by many thoughts. +One thought was that these moments would be less terrible if we could +live always in this awakened sense of the responsibility and wonder of +life. Life was not a succession of actions, planned or not planned, +successful or thwarted, nor was it a "congressus materiai" held +together for a time by food and exercise. It was something tested by +and evolved from those things, which were, in a sense, its instruments, +the bricks with which the house is built. He began to realise how hard +it is to follow life in a world in which the things of life have such +bright colours and moving qualities. He had not realised it before, +even when he had been humbled by the news of Ottalie's death. + +In his torment he "thought long" of Ottalie. He called back to his +memory all those beautiful days, up the glens, among the hills. Words +which she had spoken came back to him, each phrase a precious stone, +carefully set in his imagination of what the prompting thought had been +in her mind. Ottalie had lived. He could imagine Ottalie sitting in +judgment upon all the days of her life ranked in coloured succession +before her, and finding none which had been lived without reference, +however unconscious, to some fine conception of what exists +unchangingly, though only half expressed by us. + +He roused himself. That was why women are so much finer than men; they +are occupied with life itself, men with its products, or its +management. Whatever his shortcomings had been, he was no longer +dealing with the things of life, but with life itself. + +Here he was, for the first time, squarely face to face with a test of +his readiness to deal with life. He forced himself to work again, +following the process with a cautious nicety of delicate care which an +older artist would have despised as niggling and stippling. From time +to time he stopped to look at Lionel, and to take the temperature. The +temperature was swiftly rising. + +After some days the fever left Lionel. It left him with well-marked +symptoms of sleeping sickness. The man was gone. The body remained, +weak and trembling, sufficiently conscious to answer simple questions, +but neither energetic enough to speak unprompted, nor to ask for food +when hungry. How long he might live in that state Roger could not +guess. He might live for some weeks; he might die suddenly, shaken by +the violent changing of the temperature between night and morning. It +was not till the power of speech was checked that the horror of it came +home to Roger. Lionel's monosyllables became daily less distinct, +until at last he spoke as though his tongue had grown too large for his +mouth. The sight of his friend turning brutish before his eyes made +Roger weep. The strain was telling on him; his recurrent fever was +shaking him. He felt that if Lionel were to die, he would go mad. He +could not leave his friend. Even in the day-time, with the work to be +done, he could hardly bear to leave him. At night his one solace was +to stare at his friend, in an agony of morbid pity, remembering what +that man had been to him before the closing in of the veil. The veil +was closing more tightly every day. Roger could picture to himself the +change going on inside the dead, on the surface of the brain, behind +the fine eyes, so drowsy now. Such a little thing would arrest that +change. Two cubic centimetres of a white soluble powder. He went over +it in his mind, day after day, till the craving for some of that powder +was more than he could bear. "Lionel," he would say. "Lionel, +Lionel." And the drowsy head would lift itself patiently, and grunt, +showing some sort of recognition. If Lionel had been a stranger (so he +told himself) it might have been endurable; but every attitude and +gesture of the patient was chained to his inmost life by a hundred +delicate links. That he had known Ottalie was the sharpest thing to +bear. In losing Lionel he was losing something which bound Ottalie to +him. Another torment was the knowledge of his own insufficiency. He +thought of the strongly efficient soldiers and scientists who had +studied the disease. He loathed the years of emotional self-indulgence +which had unfitted him for such a crisis. He longed to have for one +half-hour the knowledge and skill of those scientists, their scrupulous +clinical certainty, their reserve of alternative resource. + +In reality he was doing very creditably. One of the most marked +qualities in his character was that extreme emotional tenderness, or +sensibility, which is so strong, and in the lack of the robuster +fibres, so vicious, an ingredient of the artistic or generating +intellect. This sensitiveness had been the cause in him of a +scrupulous aloofness from the world. It had made him maintain a sort +of chastity of idea, not so much from an appreciation of the value of +whiteness of mind as from an inherent fastidious dislike of blackness. +As he yielded more and more to the domination of this aloofness, as the +worker in an emotional art is tempted to do, his positive activities +grew weaker till he had come to seek and appreciate in others those +qualities which, essential to manly nature, had been etiolated in +himself by the super-imposition of the unreal. This desire to be +virtuous vicariously, by possessing virtuous friends, had been +gratified pleasantly, with advantage to himself, and with real delight +to those robuster ones who felt his charm. But the removal of the +friends had shown the essential want. The man was like a childless +woman, groping about blindly for an emotional outlet. In his misery he +found an abiding satisfaction in an intense tenderness to the suffering +near him. In his knowledge of himself he had feared that his own +bodily discomfort would make him a selfish, petulant, callous nurse. +Before Lionel had fallen ill, he had been prone to complain of pains, +often real enough to a weak, highly sensitive nature, exposed, after +years of easy living, to the hardships of tropical travel. Lionel's +illness had altered that. It had lifted him into a state of mental +exaltation. In their intenser, spiritual forms, such states have been +called translation, gustation of God, ingression to the divine shadow, +communion with the higher self. They may be defined as states in which +the mind ceasing to be conscious of the body as a vehicle, drives it +superbly to the dictated end, with the indifference of a charioteer +driving for high stakes. + +Though in this mood he was supported to fine deeds, he was denied the +knowledge of his success in them. His heart was wrung with pity for +the sufferers for whom he cared so tenderly, day after day; but the +depth of his pity made his impotence to help an agony. He saw too +plainly that the most that he could do was nothing. In the darker +recesses of his mind hovered a horror of giving way and relapsing to +the barbarism about him. His nerve had begun to tremble under the +strain. What he felt was the recurrence of an intense religious mood +which had passed over his mind at the solemn beginning of manhood. He +was finding, now, after years of indifference, the cogency of the old +division into good and evil. As in boyhood, during that religious +phase, he had at times a strange, unreasonable sense of the sinfulness +of certain thoughts and actions, which to others, not awakened, and to +himself, in blinder moods, seemed harmless. He began to resolve all +things into terms of the spiritual war. All this external horror was a +temptation of the devil, to be battled with lest the soul perish in +him. Little things, little momentary thoughts, momentary promptings of +the sense, perhaps only a desire for rest, became charged, in his new +reckoning of values, with terrible significances. Often, after three +hours of labour in the village, after feeding and cleaning those drowsy +dying children, in the hot sun, till he was exhausted and sick at +heart, a fear of giving way to the devil urged him to apply to them +some of the known alleviations, arsenic, mercury, or the like. He +would arise, and dose them all carefully, knowing that it was useless, +that it would merely prolong a living death; but knowing also that to +do so, at all costs, was the duty of one who had taken the military +oath of birth into a Christian race. He learned that the higher notes +of a whistle pleased those even far advanced in sleep. He found time +each day to whistle to them in those few livelier minutes before meals, +when the drowsy became almost alert. He judged that anything which +stimulated them must necessarily be good for them. He tried patiently +and tenderly many mild sensual excitations on them, giving them scent +or snuff to inhale, letting them suck pieces of his precious sugar, +burning blue lights at night before them, giving them slight electric +shocks from his battery. He felt that by these means he kept alive the +faculties of the brain for some few days longer. From Tiri, the +wrinkled old crone, the only uninfected person there, he tried hard to +learn the dialect; but age had frozen her brain, he could learn nothing +from her except "Katirkama." He never rightly knew what Katirkama was. +It was something very amusing, since it made her laugh heartily +whenever it was mentioned. It had something to do with drumming on a +native drum. Katirkama. He beat the drum, and the old body became one +nod of laughter, bowing to the beat with chuckles. "Katirkama," she +cried, giggling. "Katirkama." After Katirkama she would follow him +about, holding his hand, squeaking, till he gave her some sugar. + +When the work in the village was finished, he used to walk back to +Lionel, whom he would find drowsed, just as he had left him. On good +days he had some little experiment to make. He would repeat some trick +or accidental gesture winch had caught the dying attention of a native. +If he were lucky, the trick brought back some lively shadow of Lionel. +Even if it passed away at once, it was cheering to see that shadow. +More usually the trick failed. Having seen the occasional effect of +them, he became studious of tricks which might help to keep the +intelligence alert. The sight of Lionel gave him so crushing a sense +of what was happening in the affected brain, that he found it easy to +imagine fancies which, as he judged, would be arresting to it. The +burning of magnesium wire and the turning of a policeman's rattle were +his most successful efforts. One day, while carefully dropping some +dilute carbolic acid into a chegua nest on Lionel's foot, he found that +the burning sensation gave pleasure. It seemed to reach the brain like +a numbed tickling. Lionel laughed a little uneasy, nervous laugh. It +was the only laughter heard at "Portobe" for many days. + +Though his work occupied him for ten hours daily, it did not occupy the +whole of him. Much of it, such as the preparation of food and the +daily disinfection of the huts, was mechanical. His mind was left free +to console itself by speculation as best it could. His first +impressions of the solitude were ghastly and overpowering. Waking and +asleep he felt the horror of the prospect of losing Lionel. It was not +that he dreaded the prospect of being alone. His fear was religious. +He feared that the barbarism of the solitude would overpower his little +drilled force of civilised sentiment. He was warring against +barbarism. Lionel was his powerful ally. Looking out from his hut on +the hill he could see barbarism all round him, in a vast and very +silent menacing landscape, secret in forest, sullen in its red, +shrinking river, brooding in the great plain, dotted with bones and +stones. Even the littleness of an English landscape would have been +hard to bear, but this immensity of savagery awed him. He doubted +whether he would be able to bear the presence of that sight without his +ally by him. + +He knew that if he let it begin to get upon his nerves he would be +ruined. He took himself in hand on the second day of Lionel's fever. +His situation made him remember a conversation heard years before at +his rooms in Westminster. O'Neill and a young Australian journalist, +of the crude and vigorous kind nurtured by the _Bulletin_, had passed +the evening in talk with him. The Australian had told them of the +loneliness of Australia, and of shepherds and settlers who went mad in +the loneliness on the clearings at the back of beyond. O'Neill had +said that at present Australian literature was the product of home-sick +Englishmen; but that a true Australian literature would begin among +those lonely ones. "One of those fellows just going mad will begin a +literature. And that literature will be the distinctive Australian +literature. In the cities you will only get noisy imitations of what +is commonest in the literature of the mother country." They had stayed +talking till four in the morning. He had never seen the Australian +since that time. He remembered now his stories of shepherds who bolted +themselves into their huts in the effort to get away from the +loneliness which had broken their nerve. He must take care, he said, +not to let that state of mind take hold upon him. + +He began to school himself that night. He forced himself up the hill, +into the Zimbabwe, at the eerie moment when the dusk turns vaguely +darker, and the stars are still pale. All the dimness of ruin and +jungle brooded malignantly, informed by menace. Faint noises of +creeping things rustled in the alley between the walls. Dew was fast +forming. Drops wetted him with cold splashes as he broke through +creepers. Below him stretched the continent. No light of man burned +in that expanse. There was a blackness of forest, and a ghostliness of +grass, all still. Out of the night behind him came a stealthiness of +approach, more a sense than a sense perception. Coming in the night so +secretly, it was hard to locate. It had that protective ventriloquism +of sounds produced in the dark. There is an animal sense in us, not +nearly etiolated yet, which makes us quick to respond to a light noise +in the night. It makes us alert upon all sides; but with a tremulous +alertness, for we have outgrown the instinctive knowledge of what comes +by night. Roger faced round swiftly, with a knocking heart. The +noise, whatever it was, ceased. After an instant of pause a spray, +till then pinned, swept loose, as though the talon pinning it had +lifted. It swept away with a faint swishing noise, followed by a +pattering of drops. After that there came a silence while the listener +and the hidden watcher stared into the blackness for what should +follow. The noise of the spattering gave Roger a sense of the +direction of the danger, if it were danger. He drew out his revolver. +Another spray spilled a drop or two. Then, for an instant, near the +ground, not far away, two greenish specks burned like glow-worms, like +crawling fireflies, like two tiny electric lights suddenly turned on. +They were shut off instantly. They died into the night, making it +blacker. After they had faded there came a hushed rustling which might +have been near or far off. When that, too, had died, there was a +silence. + +It was so still that the dripping of the dew made the night like a +death vault. Terrible, inscrutable stars burned aloft. Roger pressed +his back against the wall. Up and up towered the wall, an immense +labour, a cynical pile, stamped with lust's cruelties. It almost had +life, so seen. In front was the unknown; behind, that uncanny thing. +Roger waited, tense, till the darkness was alive with all fear. +Everything was in the night there, gibbering faces, death, the sudden +cold nosing of death's pig-snout on the heart. He swung his revolver +up, over his left elbow, and fired. + +The report crashed among the ruin, sending the night rovers fast and +far. Chur-ra-rak! screamed the scattering fowl. Roger paid little +heed to them. He was bending down in his tracks hugging his forehead. +The hammer of the kicking revolver had driven itself into his brow with +a welt which made him sick. He groped his way down the hill again, +thinking himself lucky that the iron had not smashed his eye. He +thought no more of terror for that night. + +But the next night it came with the dark. The old savage devil of the +dark was there; the darkness of loneliness, the loneliness of silence, +the immanent terror of places not yet won, still ruled by the old +unclean gods, not yet exorcised by virtue. Looking at it, after night +had fallen, from the door of "Portobe," it seemed full of the promise +of death. The little rustling noises were there; the suggestion of +stealthy death; the brooding of it all. A braver man would have been +awed by it. It was not all cowardice which daunted Roger. It was that +animal something not yet etiolated, which on a dark night in a lonely +place at a noise of stirring makes a man's heart thump like a buck's +heart. To stare into the blackness with eyes still dazzled from the +camp-fire gave a sense of contrast not easy to overcome. The comfort +of the fire was something, something civilised, conquered, human. And +the beloved figure lying ill was one of his own kind, leagued with him +against the inhuman. The vastness of the inhuman overpowered his will. +He dared not face it. Sudden terror told him of something behind him. +He hurried into the hut and heaped boxes against the tarpaulin door. + +The moment of fear passed, leaving him ashamed. He was giving way to +nerves. That would not do. He must brace himself to face the +darkness. He forced himself down the hill to the village, and into the +village. Kneeling down he peered into the hut where old Tiri rocked +herself by a fire of reeds, like the withered beauty in Villon. She +did not see him. She was crooning a ditty. From time to time, with a +nervous jerk of the arm, she flung on a handful of reed, which crackled +and flared, so that she chuckled. He was comforted by the sight of +her. Any resolute endurance of life is comforting to the perplexed. +He walked back up the hill without the tremors he had felt in going +down. Something in the walk, the coolness and quiet of it, made him +forget his fears. He experienced an animal feeling of being, for the +moment, at one with the night. "Surely," he thought, "if man can +conceive a spiritual state, calm and august like the night, he can +attain it." It might even be that by brooding solitary, like the night +itself, one would arrive at the truth sooner than by the restless +methods left behind. Standing by the door of his hut again, the +darkness exalted him, not, in the common way, by giving him a sense of +the splendour of nature, but by heightening for an instant his +knowledge of the superior splendour of men. + +He stood looking out for a little while before some rally of delirium +called him within to his friend. Later, when he had finished his work +for the night, he thought gloomily of what his fate would be if the +death of Lionel left him alone there, so many miles from his fellows. +What was he to do? How was he to cross four hundred miles of tropical +country to the nearest settlement of whites? No civilised man had been +there since the Phoenicians fought their last rearguard fight round the +wagons of the last gold train. Four hundred miles meant a month's hard +marching, even if all went well. He could not count on doing it in +less than a month. And how was he to live during that month, how guide +himself? Even in mere distance it was a hard walk. It was much such a +walk as, say, from the Land's End to Aberdeen, but with all the natural +difficulties multiplied by ten, and all the artificial helps removed. +It was going to be forced on him. He would have to attempt that walk +or die alone, where he was, after watching his friend die. He glanced +anxiously at Lionel to see if there were any chance of Lionel's being +dragged and helped over that distance. He saw no chance. He would +have to watch Lionel dying. He would have to try to stave off Lionel's +death by all the means known to him, knowing all the time that all the +means were useless. Then he would bury Lionel, after watching him die. +After that he would have to watch the villagers dying; and then, when +quite alone, set forth. + +And to what would he set forth? What had life to give him, if, as was +very unlikely, he should win back to life? His life was Ottalie's. He +had consecrated his talent to her, he had devoted all his powers to +her. The best of his talent had been a shadowy sentimental thing, by +which no great life could be lived, no great sorrow overcome. The best +of his powers had left him in the centre of a continent, helpless to do +what he had set out to do. He had not made the world "nobler for her +sake." Ah, but he would, he said, starting up, filled suddenly with a +vision of that dead beauty. He would help the world to all that it had +lost in her. He must be Ottalie's fair mind at work still, blessing +the world. So would his mind possess her, creeping in about her soul, +drinking more and more of her, till her strength was the strength by +which he moved. She was very near him then, he felt. He felt that all +this outward world of his was only an image of his mind, and that she +being in his mind, was with him. His heart was a wretched heart in +Africa, in which a sick man babbled to a weary man. But there in his +heart, he felt, was that silent guest, beautiful as of old, waiting in +the half-darkness, waiting quietly, watching him, wanting him to do the +right thing, waiting till it was done, so that she might rise, and walk +to him, and take his hands. He must not fail her. + +He turned to the corner in which he felt her presence. "Ottalie! +Ottalie!" he said in a low voice. "Ottalie, dear, help me to do this. +I'm going to fail, dear. Help me not to." Lionel moaned a little, +turning on his side again. A draught ruffled the fire slightly. No +answer moved in his heart. He had half expected that the answer would +speak within him, in three short words. No words came. Instead, he +felt burningly the image of Ottalie as he had seen her once up the +Craga' Burn, one summer at sunset. They had stood among the moors +together, on the burn's flat grassy bank, near a little drumming fall, +which guggled over a sway of rushes. Sunset had given a glory to the +moors. All the great hills rose up in the visionary clearness of an +Irish evening after rain. A glow like the glow of health was on them. +It was ruddy on Ottalie's cheek, as she turned her grave hazel eyes +upon him, smiling, to ask him if he saw the Rest House. She meant a +magic rest-house, said, in popular story, to be somewhere on the hill +up Craga' way. Roger had talked with men who claimed to have been +beguiled there by "them" to rest for the night. Ottalie and he had +narrowed down its possible whereabouts almost to the spot where they +were standing; and she had turned, smiling, with the sun upon her, to +ask him if he saw it. They had never seen it, though they had often +looked for it at magical moments of the day. Now looking back he saw +that old day with all the glow of the long-set sun. Ottalie, and +himself, and the Craga' Burn, the rush sway trailing, the pleasant, +faint smell of the blight on the patch beyond, the whiff of turf smoke. +Ottalie. Ottalie. Ottalie in the blind grave with the dogrose on her +breast. + +Living alone fosters an intensity of personal life which sometimes +extinguishes the social instinct, even in those who live alone by the +compulsion of accident. It had become Roger's lot to look into himself +for solace. Most of those things which society had given to him during +his short, impressionable life were useless to him. He had to depend +now upon the intensity of his own nature. He reckoned up the extent of +his civilisation, as shewn by the amount retained in his memory. It +amounted, when all was said, when allowance had been made for the +amount absorbed unconsciously into character, to a variety of +smatterings, some of them pleasant, some interesting, and all tinged by +the vividness of his personal predilection. He had read, either in the +original or in translation, all the masterpieces of European +literature. He had seen, either in the original or in reproduction, +all the masterpieces of European art. His memory for art and +literature was a good general one; but general knowledge was now +useless to him. What he wanted was particular knowledge, memory of +precise, firm, intellectual images, in words, or colour, or bronze, to +give to his mind the strength of their various order, as he brooded on +them menaced by death. It was surprising to him how little remained of +all that he had read and seen. The tale of Troy remained, very +vividly, with many of the tragedies rising from it. Dante remained. +The Morte D'Arthur remained. Much of the Bible remained. Of +Shakespeare he had a little pocket volume containing eight plays. +These, and the memories connected with them, were in his mind with a +reality not till then known to him. Among the lesser writers he found +that his memory was kinder to those whom he had learned by heart as a +boy than to those whom he had read with interest as a man. He knew +more Scott than Flaubert, and more Mayne Reid than Scott. From +thinking over these earlier literary idols, with a fierceness of +tenderness not to be understood save by those who have been forced, as +he was forced, to the construction of an intense inner life, he began +to realise the depth and strength of the emotion of the indulgence of +memory. + +Thenceforward he indulged his memory whenever his work spared his +intelligence. He lived again in his past more intensely than he had +ever lived. His life in Ireland, his days with Ottalie, her words and +ways and looks, he realised again minutely with an exactness which was, +perhaps, half imaginative. He troubled his peace with the sweetness of +those visions. The more deeply true they were, the more strong their +colour; the more intense the vibration of their speech, the more sharp +was the knowledge of their unreality, the more bitter the longing for +the reality. He was home-sick for the Irish hills which rose up in his +mind so clearly, threaded by the flash of silver. He thought of them +hour after hour with a yearning, brooding vision which gnawed at his +heart-strings. + +After a few weeks he found that he could think of them without that +torment. He had perfected his imagination of them by an intensity of +thought. They had become, as it were, a real country in his brain, +through which his mind could walk at will, almost as he had walked in +the reality. By mental effort, absorbing his now narrowed external +life, he could imagine himself walking with Ottalie up the well-known +waters and loanings, so poignantly, with such precision of imagined +detail, that the country seen by him as he passed through it was as +deeply felt as the real scene. The solemnity of his life made his +imagination of Ottalie deeper and more precious. At times he felt her +by him, as though an older, unearthly sister walked with him, half +friend, half guide. At other times, when he was lucky, in the intense +and splendid dreams which come to those of dwarfed lives, he saw her in +vision. Such times were white times, which made whole days precious; +but at all times he had clear, precise memories of her; and, better +still, a truer knowledge of her, and, through that, a truer knowledge +of life. He thought of her more than of his work. In thinking of her +he was thankful that all his best work had been written in her praise. +"His spirit was hers, the better part of him." If he had anything good +in him, or which strained towards good, she had put it there in the +beauty of her passing. If he might find this cure, helping poor +suffering man, it would be only a spark of her, smouldering to sudden +burning in a heap of tow. + +His efforts to make a culture succeeded. With very great difficulty he +obtained a vigorous culture of trypanosomes, of the small kind usually +obtained by culture. He strove to make the culture virulent, by +growing it at the artificial equable temperature most favourable to the +growth of the germ (25° C.), and by adding to the bouillon on which the +germs fed minute quantities of those chemical qualities likely to +strengthen them in one way or another. + +It was a slow process, and Roger could ill spare time in his race with +death. He had grown calmer and less impulsive since he had left the +feverish, impulsive city; but he had not yet acquired the detachment +from circumstance of the doctor or soldier. The question "Shall I be +in time?" was always jarring upon the precept "You must not hurry." At +last, one day when Lionel had shewn less responsiveness than usual, a +temporary despondency made him give up hope. He saw no chance of +having his anti-toxin ready before Lionel died. He picked up a book on +serum therapy, and turned the pages idly. A heading caught his eye. + +"_The treatment should begin soon after the disease has declared +itself_" ran the heading. The paragraph went on to say that the +anti-toxin was little likely to be of use after the toxin had taken a +strong hold upon the patient's system. The treatment was more likely +to be successful if a large initial injection of the anti-toxin were +given directly the disease became evident. There it was, in black and +white; it was no use going on. He had tried all his ameliorative +measures, with temporary success. Latterly he had tried them +sparingly, fearing to immunise the germ. He had wanted to keep by him +unused some strong drug which would hold off the disease at the end. +Now there was nothing for it but to give the strong drug. His friend +was dying. He might burn his ships and comb his hair for death. He +had tried and failed. + +The mood of depression had been ushered in by an attack of fever +different from his other attacks. It did not pass off after following +a regular course, like the recurrent malaria. It hung upon him in a +constant, cutting headache, which took the strength out of him. He sat +dully, weak as water, with a clanging head, repeating that Lionel was +dying. Lionel was dying. One had only to think for a moment to see +that it was hopeless. Lionel was going to die. + +He raised his hand, thinking that something had bitten his throat. His +throat glands were swollen. For a moment he thought that the swelling +was only a mosquito bite; but a glance in the mirror shewed him that it +was worse than that. The swollen glands were a sign that he, too, was +sickening for death. His fever of the last few hours was the initial +fever. Sooner or later he would drowse off to death as Lionel was +drowsing. He might have only two more months of life. Two months. +Ottalie had had two startling, frightened seconds before death choked +her. So this was what Ottalie had felt in those two seconds, fear, a +blind longing of love for half a dozen, a thought of sky and freedom, a +craving, an agony, and then the fear again. He rose up. "Even if it +be all useless," he said to himself, "I will fire off all my cartridges +before I go." He brought out the Chamberland filter and set to work. + + + + +XII + + Let 'em be happy, and rest so contented, + They pay the tribute of their hearts and knees. + _Thiery and Theodoret_. + + +After passing some of his cultures through the filter, he injected +subcutaneously the filtrate, composed of dead organisms and their +toxins, into Lionel's arms and into his own. Taking one of the +black-faced monkeys, which they had brought with them for the purpose, +he shaved and cleansed a part of its neck, and injected a weak culture +into the space prepared, after exposing the culture to a heat slightly +below the heat necessary to kill the organisms. Into another monkey he +injected a culture, weakened by a slight addition of carbolic. He had +no great hope that the measure which he was preparing would be of use; +he meant to try them all. "If I had had more time," he thought +bitterly, "I might have succeeded." He had lost so much time in +getting the culture to grow. As he sealed up the punctures with +collodion, he said to himself that he had tried Lionel's cure, and that +now he was free to try his own personal theories. He would kill some +animal naturally immune, such as a wildebeest or a koodoo, and obtain +serum from it direct, in as cleanly a manner as he could. Lionel had +said that such a serum, so collected, would be useless and probably +septic; but who cared for possible blood-poisoning when the alternative +was certain death? Personally he would prefer a death by glanders to +this drowsy dying. If he could disable an antelope, he might be able +to obtain the blood by formal antiseptic methods in sterilised pots. +It would be worth trying. He had taken serum from a horse in England. +He knew the process. Unfortunately the heart of Africa is not like +England, nor is a kicking, horned, wild beast, tearing the earth to +tatters in the death-agony, like a staid and glossy horse neatly +arranged to be tapped. "Besides," he thought, "the beast may be +suffering from all manner of diseases, or it may hold germs in +toleration which the blood of man could not tolerate. And how was he +to go hunting with an equipment of sterile pots and pipes on his back?" + +He liked the notion too well to be frightened by the difficulties. It +offered the possibility of success; it gave him hope, and it kept his +mind busily engaged. Even if he saw no wild game, the hunt would be a +change to him. He was a moderately good rifle-shot. The foil was the +only weapon at which he was really clever. As he looked to his rifle, +he felt contempt for the unreality of his life in London. It had been +a life presupposing an immense external artificiality. How little a +thing upset it! How helpless he was when it had been upset. And what +would happen to England when something upset London, and scattered its +constituent poisons broadcast? He went out to the hunt. + +The wind blew steadily from the direction of the forest. There was no +chance of doing anything from that side. He could never approach game +downwind. He would have to cross the river. He had never tried to +cross the river. He did not even know if it were possible. The +thought of the crocodiles and the mere sight of the swirling flood had +kept him from examining the river. He had not been near it since he +had sought with Lionel for the atoxyl bottles. What it looked like +upstream he did not know. He went upstream to look for a ford. + +At a little distance beyond the hill he came upon something which made +him pause. The earth there had been torn into tracks by the waters of +a recent thunder-storm. The cleanness of the cuttings reminded Roger +of the little bog-bursts which he had seen in Ireland after excessive +rains. In one of the tracks the rushing water had swept bare the +paving of an ancient road, leaving it clear to the sky for about twenty +yards. The road was of a hard even surface, like the flooring of a +Zimbabwe. To the touch the surface was that of a very good cycling +road in the best condition. The ruts of carts were faintly marked upon +it in dents. The road seemed to have been made of hewn stones, covered +over and bound with the powdered pounded granite used for the floors of +the ruins. It was five of Roger's paces in breadth. The edges were +channelled with gutters. Beyond the gutters were borders of small hewn +blocks neatly arranged, so that the growths near the road might not +spread over it. Judging by the direction of the uncovered part, the +road entered the Zimbabwe through a gate in the west wall. In the +other direction, away from the Zimbabwe, it led slantingly towards the +river, keeping to the top of a ridge (possibly artificial), so as to +avoid a low-lying tract still boggy from the flood. The river made a +sharp bend at the point where the road impinged upon it. Below the +bend the lie of the bank had an odd look, which recalled human +endeavour even now, after the lapse of so many centuries. Greatly +excited, Roger hurried up to look at the place. + +It had been the port of the Zimbabwe. The bank had been cut away, so +as to form a kind of dock. The stumps of the piles were still in the +mud in places. They were strong, well-burnt wooden piles, such as are +used for jetties everywhere. By the feel of the ground on the jetty +top there was paved-work not far below it. A dig or two with a knife +blade shewed that this was the case. The bank was paved like the road. +Looking back towards the ruin, Roger could mark the track of the road +running up to the wall. Even where it was overgrown he could tell its +whereabouts by the comparative lightness of the colour of the grass +upon it. Beyond the ruin, running almost straight to the south-east, +he noticed a similar ribbon of light grass, marking another road. So +this was a port, this Zimbabwe, a port at the terminus of a road. The +road might lead direct to Ophir, whence Solomon obtained his ivory and +apes and peacocks. Probably there were gold mines near at hand. This +place, so quiet now, had once seen a gold-rush. The wharf there had +been thronged by jostlers hurrying to the fields. The basin of +ill-smelling red mud had once been full of ships. And what ships? +What people? And when? "A brachycephalic people of clever +gold-workers of unknown antiquity." + +Just above the "port" the river was extremely narrow. Sticking out of +the water in the narrow part were masses of masonry, which may at one +time have served as the piers of a bridge. They were so close together +that Roger crossed the river by them without difficulty. On the other +side, as he had expected, the mark of the road was ruled in a dim line +in the direction of the forest. The country was rougher on that side. +The line of the road was marked less plainly. + +Late that afternoon, after an exhausting stalk, he got two shots at +what he took to be a koodoo[*] cow. He went forward out of heart, +believing that both had missed. Bright blood on the grass shewed him +that he had hit her. A little further on he found the cow down, with +her hindquarters paralysed. She struggled to get up to face him, poor +brute; but she was too hard hit; she was dying. When she had struggled +a little, he was able to close with her, avoiding the great horns. He +was even able to prepare the throat in some measure for the operation. +Lastly, avoiding a final struggle, he contrived to sterilise his hands +with a solution from one of the pots slung about him. The sight of his +hands even after this made him despair of getting an uncontaminated +serum. But there was no help for it. He took out the knife, made the +incision in the throat, and inserted the sterilised tube. + + +[*] It was probably an oryx. + + +When he turned with his booty to go home, he noticed a little fawn +which stood on a knoll above him, looking at him. She stood quite +still, so shaded off against the grasses that only a lucky eye could +distinguish her. She was waiting, perhaps, for him to go away, so that +she might call her mother. She made no effort to run from him. +Something in her appearance made him think that she was ill. The +carriage of her head seemed queer. Her coat had a look of staring. He +wished then, that he had brought his glasses, so that he might examine +her narrowly. Moving round a little, he made sure that her coat was in +poor condition. He judged that she might have been mauled by a beast +of prey. + +He was just about to move on when a thought occurred to him. What if +the young of the wild game should not be immune? What if the bite of +the infected tsetse should set up a mild form of nagana in them from +which they recover? What if that mild sickness should confer a +subsequent immunity on the inflicted individual? Surely the result +would be obvious. "Vaccination" with the blood of the afflicted calf +or fawn would set up a mild attack of the disease in man, and, perhaps, +give him subsequent immunity from more virulent infection. The +ailments of wild animals are few. What if this fawn should be +suffering from a mild attack of the disease? He crept a little nearer +to her, bending low down to see if he could see the swellings on the +legs and belly which mark the disease in quadrupeds. He could not be +sure of them. He could only be sure that the coat was staring, and +that the nose and eyes were watery. He whistled gently to the little +creature, hoping that she would be too young to be frightened of him. +She stared at him with wide eyes, trembling slightly, flexing her ears. +He whistled to her again. She called plaintively to her dam. She +lowered her little head, ready to attack, pawing the ground like a +warrior. Roger fired. Afterwards he felt as though he had killed a +girl. + +He returned to "Portobe" weighted down with jars, which he emptied +carefully into sterilised pans. The result made "Portobe" look like a +cannibal's dairy. An examination of the blood shewed that both animals +had harboured trypanosomes in large numbers. When the blood had +coagulated, he decanted the serum into sterilised bottles, to which he +added minute quantities of antiseptic. That operation gave him his +serum. He had now to test it for bacteria and for toxins. He added a +portion from each bottle to various culture-mediums in test-tubes. He +added these test portions to all his media, to glycerine-agar and +glucose as well as to those better suited to the growth of trypanosomes. + +He set them aside to incubate. + +If there were bacteria in the sera they would increase and multiply on +the delightful food of the media. When Roger came to examine the +media, he came expecting to find them swarming with bacteria of all +known kinds. He was naturally vain of the success of his hunting; but +he knew that crude surgery out in the open is not so wholesome a method +of obtaining serum as might be. Still, a close examination shewed him +that the cultures had not developed bacteria. He was pleased at this; +but his pleasure was dashed by the thought that it was rather too good +to be true. He might have muddled the experiment by adding too much +disinfectant to the sera while bottling, by using cultures which had in +some way lost their attractiveness, or by some failure in the +preparation of the slides. After going through his examination the +second time, he decided to proceed. He injected large doses of the +sera into two monkeys. + +Again he was successful. The monkeys shewed no symptoms of poisoning. +The sera, whatever they might be, were evidently harmless to the +"homologous" animal. But the success made Roger even more doubtful of +himself. It made him actually anxious, lest in adding disinfectant to +the sera, he should have destroyed the protective forces in them, as +well as the micro-organisms at which he had aimed. He delayed no +longer. He injected Lionel with a large dose of the serum from the +grown animal; he injected himself with the serum from the fawn. Going +down to the village, he made a minute examination of those who were the +least ill. Choosing out those who shewed no outward signs of the +congenital or acquired forms of blood-poisoning, he injected them with +sera, thinking that if they recovered he would use their sera for other +cases. For his own part, he felt better already. The excitement of +hope was on him. He had risen above his body. + +For the next few days his life was a fever of hope, broken with hours +of despair. One of his patients died suddenly the day after the +injection. Lionel seemed no better. Another patient seemed markedly +worse. He repeated the doses, and passed a miserable morning watching +Lionel. The evening temperature shewed a marked decrease. An +examination of the throat glands shewed that the trypanosomes had +become less waggish. They were bunching into clumps, "agglutinising," +with slow, irregular movements. That seemed to him to be the first +hopeful sign. On studying his books he could not be sure that it +really was a good sign. One book seemed to say that agglutination made +the germs more virulent; another that it paralysed them. He could see +for himself that they had ceased to multiply by splitting +longitudinally. And from that he argued that their vitality had been +weakened. + +The next day Lionel was better; but the native patients were all worse. +They were alarmingly worse. They shewed symptoms which were not in the +books. They swelled slightly, as though the skin had been inflated. +The flesh seemed bladdery and inelastic at the same time. The pigment +of the skin became paler; the patients became an ashy grey colour. The +blood of one of these sufferers killed a guinea-pig in three hours. +After a short period of evident suffering they died, one after the +other, apparently of the exhaustion following on high fever. Roger, in +a dreadful state of mental anguish, stayed with them till they were +dead, trying remedy after remedy. He felt that he had killed them all. +He felt that their blood was on his hands. He felt that all those +people might still have been alive had he not tried his wretched +nostrum on them. There was no doubt that the sera had caused their +deaths. Those who had had no serum injections were no worse than they +had been. He wondered how long it would be before these symptoms of +swelling and high fever appeared in himself and Lionel. He went back +to "Portobe" expecting to find Lionel in high fever, going the road to +Marumba. + +He found Lionel weakly walking about outside the tent, conscious, but +not yet able to talk intelligibly. He had not expected to see Lionel +walk again. The sight made him forget the deaths down in the village. +He shouted with joy. Closer examination made him less joyous. The +skin of Lionel's arm, very dull and inelastic to the touch, was +slightly swollen with something of the bladdery look which he had +noticed in the men now dead. It was as though the body had been +encased in a bladdery substance slightly inflated. He had no heart to +test the symptoms upon the body of another animal. There was death +enough about without that. He sat down over the microscope and +examined his sera again and again. He could find no trace of any +living micro-organisms. The sera seemed to be sterile. But he saw now +that it had some evil effect upon those infected with trypanosomes. He +could not guess the exact chemical nature of the effect. It probably +affected the constituents of the blood in some way. The poison in the +sera seemed to need the presence of trypanosomes to complete its +virulence. + +While he worked over the microscope, he noticed that his own flesh was +developing the symptom. He put aside his work when he saw that. He +concluded that Lionel and he were marked for death within twenty-four +hours. Before death (as he had learned in the village) they might look +to suffer much pain. After some hours of suffering they would become +unconscious and delirious. After raving for a while they would die +there in the lonely hut, and presently the ants would march in in +regular ranks to give them cleanly burial. Their bones would lie on +the cots till some thunderstorm swept them under mud. Nobody would +ever hear of them. They would be forgotten. People in England would +wonder what had become of them; they would wonder less as time went on, +and at last they would cease to wonder. Newspapers would allude to him +from time to time in paragraphs two lines long. Then, as his +contemporaries grew older, that would stop, too. He would be +forgotten, utterly, and nobody would know, and nobody would care. + +It was dreadful to him to think that nobody would know. He could count +on an hour or two of freedom from pain. Before the pain shut out the +world from him, he would try to leave some record of what they were. +He sat down to write a death-letter. It was useless, of course, and +yet it might, perhaps, by a rare chance, some day, come to the +knowledge of those whom he had known in England. He wondered who would +find the letter, if it were ever found. Some great German scientist +about to banish the disease. Some drunken English gold prospector with +a cockney accent. Some missionary, or sportsman, or commercial +traveller. More likely it would be some roving savage with a snuff-box +in his earlobe, and a stone of copper wire about his limbs. He wrote +out a short letter: + + +"Lionel Uppingham Huntley Heseltine, Roger Monkhouse Naldrett. Dying +here of blood poisoning, following the use of koodoo serum for +trypanosomiasis. Should this come to the hands of a European, he is +requested to communicate with Dr. Heseltine, 47A Harley Square, Wimpole +Street, W., London, England, and with the British Consul at Shirikanga, +C. F. S." + + +He added a few words more; but afterwards erased them. He had given +the essentials. There was no need to say more. He translated the +brief message into French, Spanish, and German, and signed the copies. +He placed the document in a tin soap box which he chained to an iron +rod driven into the floor of the hut. When that was done, he felt that +he had taken his farewell to life. + +He thought of Ottalie, without hope of any kind. He was daunted by the +thought of her. He could not feel that his soul would ever reach to +her soul, across all those wilds. He was heavy with the growing of the +change upon him. This death of which he had thought so grandly seemed +very stupid now that he was coming to know it. He remembered reproving +a young poet for the remark that death could not possibly be so stupid +as life. It was monstrous to suppose that the young poet could be +right after all. And yet---- + +He went out hurriedly and released all the laboratory animals: +guinea-pigs, monkeys, and white rats. They should not die of +starvation, poor beasts. They squeaked and gibbered excitedly for a +minute or two, as they moved off to explore. Probably the snakes had +them all within the week. + +After some hours of waiting for the agony to begin, Roger fell asleep, +and slept till the next morning. When he woke he sat up and looked +about him, being not quite sure at first that he was still alive. His +pulse was normal, his tongue was normal, his heart was normal. He felt +particularly well. He looked at his flesh. The bladdery look had +relapsed, the skin was normal again. Looking over to Lionel's cot, he +saw that Lionel was not in the hut. Fearing that he had wandered out +to die in a fit of delirium, he went out into the open to look for him. + +It was a bright, windy, tropic morning, with a tonic briskness in the +air such as one feels sometimes in England, in April and late +September. One of the released monkeys was fast by the neck again upon +his perch. He was munching a biscuit with his entire vitality. Lionel +sat upon the wall, sunning himself in a blanket. His attitude +suggested both great physical weakness, and entire self-confidence. + +"I say, Roger," he began. "It's too bad. You are a juggins! You've +let all our menagerie go. What are we to do for laboratory animals? I +caught McGinty here. Otherwise we'd have been without a single one. +Every cage in the place is wide open. What have you been doing?" + +"My God!" said Roger. "He's cured!" + +"Cured, sir?" said Lionel. "Why shouldn't I be? There's been nothing +wrong with me except fever. But I'm not joking. I want to know about +these animals. What were you thinking of to let them out?" + +"Lionel," said Roger, "for the last five weeks you've been dying of +sleeping sickness. The atoxyl was lost. I believe you threw it away." + +"There's the atoxyl," said Lionel, pointing. "In the hole in the wall +there. I put it there yesterday, after dosing those two." + +Sure enough, there stood the bottle in the dimness of a hole in the +wall. Roger must have passed it some fifty times. + +"I looked for it everywhere," said Roger. + +Lionel's eyes narrowed to the sharpness of medical scrutiny. He +examined Roger for some time. + +"Let me take your pulse, Lionel," said Roger, staring back. + +"My pulse is all right," said Lionel. "Be off and look for +guinea-pigs." The pulse was all right; so was the flesh of the wrist. + +"I suppose the next thing you'll want me to believe is that I've still +got sleeping sickness? Well, look at my tongue. Perhaps that will +convince you." Lionel waited for an answer for a moment with +protruding tongue. The tongue was steady. Lionel returned to the +charge. "What have you been playing at with those Weissner serum +pans?" he asked. "Have you been bleeding the monkeys? You seem to +have been having a field-day generally." + +"I tell you," said Roger, "that you've been dying of sleeping sickness +for five weeks. Look at your temperature chart. Look at my diary. +After the atoxyl was lost, I tried every mortal thing we had. And +nothing was any good. You were drowsing away to death for days. Don't +you remember?" + +"I remember having fever, and you or somebody messing around with a +needle. But, five weeks, man! Five weeks. Come!" + +"I tell you, you have. You've been unconscious half the time." + +"Well. If I've had sleeping sickness, how comes it that I'm here, +talking to you? You say yourself the atoxyl was lost." + +"Lionel," said Roger, "I injected you with a dead culture. After that, +I shot a couple of koodoos (if they were koodoos), a cow and a fawn. +The fawn had nagana or something. I took sera from them, and injected +the sera into both of us. Great big doses in both cases. I injected +the sera into seven poor devils in the village, and they all swelled up +and died. It was awful, Lionel. What makes people swell up?" + +"I don't know," said Lionel. "I suppose it might be anthrax. Was +there fever?" + +"Intense pain, very high fever, and death apparently from exhaustion. +And you and I swelled up a little; and I made sure yesterday that we +were both going to die too. I wrote letters, and stuck them up on a +bar inside there." + +"Oh, so that was what the rod was for? I thought it was something +funny. And now we are both cured?" + +"Yes. My God, Lionel, I'm thankful to hear your voice again. You +don't know what it's been." + +They shook hands. + +"You're a public benefactor," said Lionel. He looked hard at Roger. +"I give you best," he added. "I thought you were a griff. But you've +found a cure, it seems. Eh? Look at him. It's the first time he's +realised it!" + +"But," Roger stammered, "I've killed seven with it; that's not what I +call a cure." + +"Did you inject the seven with the dead culture first?" Lionel asked. + +"No. Only myself and you." + +"There you are," said Lionel. "You griffs make the discoveries, and +haven't got the gumption to see them. My good Lord! It's as plain as +measles. You inject the dead culture. That's the first step. That +makes the trypanosomes agglutinise. Very well, then. You inject your +serum when they are agglutinised; not before. When they are +agglutinised, the serum destroys them, after raising queer symptoms. +When they are not agglutinised the serum destroys you by the excess of +what causes the queer symptoms. I don't understand those symptoms. +They are so entirely unexpected. Did you examine the blood?" + +"One cubic centimetre of the venous blood killed a guinea-pig in three +hours." + +"Yes, no doubt. But did you look at the blood microscopically?" + +"No," said Roger, ashamed. "I looked at my sera for streptococci." + +"You juggins!" said Lionel. "Yet you come out and land on a cure. +Well, well! You're a lucky dog. Let's go in and look at our glands." +Roger noticed that he walked with the totter of one newly risen from a +violent attack of fever. + +Four months later, the two men reached Shirikanga in a canoe of their +own making. They were paddled by four survivors from the village. All +the rest were dead, either of sleeping sickness or of the serum. +Lionel had not discovered what it was in the serum which caused the +fatal symptoms. It contained some quality which caused the +streptococci, or pus-forming microbes, to increase; but, as far as he +could discover, this quality was exerted only when the patient's blood +contained virulent trypanosomes, or some other active toxin-producing +micro-organisms in the unagglutinised condition. They cured four of +the villagers. They might have saved more had they been able to begin +the treatment earlier in the disease. They were not dissatisfied with +their success. They "had powler't up and down a bit," like the Jovial +Huntsmen. They had come to some knowledge of each other, and to some +extension of their faculties. + +Scientifically, they had done less than they had hoped; but more than +they had expected to do. They had been the first to cure cases with +animal serum. They had been the first to study in any way the effect +of nagana upon the young of wild game, and to prepare (as yet untested) +vaccine from young antelopes, quaggas, and elands. They had discovered +a wash of Paris green and lime which destroyed the tsetse pupas. They +had cleared some three miles of fly belt. They had studied the tsetse. +They had surveyed the whole and excavated a part of the Zimbabwe. +Lastly, they had settled the foundations of friendship between them. + +That was, perhaps, the best result of the expedition. They had settled +a friendship likely to last through life. They were confident that +they would do great things together. Shirikanga hove in sight at the +river mouth. Two country barques lay at anchor there, with grimy +awnings over their poops. Ashore, in the blaze of the day, were a few +white-washed huts, from one of which a Union Jack floated. In the +compound of another hut a negro was slowly hoisting the ball of a flag. +He brought it to the truck and broke it out, so that it fluttered free. +It was a red burgee, the letter B of the code. + +"Mail day," said Lionel. "We shall be out of here to-night. We shall +be at Banana by Wednesday. That means Antwerp by Wednesday three +weeks. London's not far away." + +"Good," said Roger. He was not thinking of London. He was thinking of +a lonely Irish hill, where there were many yellow-hammers. The trees +there stood up like ghosts. Round an old, grey, two-storied house the +bees murmured. He was thinking that perhaps one or two roses might be +in blossom about the house even a month later, when he would stand +there. + +He thought of his life in Africa, and of its bearing upon himself. It +had done him good. He was worth more to the world than he had been a +year before. He thought little of his success. It had been fortunate. +It had saved Lionel. When he thought of his earlier life he sighed. +He knew that he would have achieved more than that sorry triumph had he +been trained. His life had been improvised, never organised. Great +things are done only when the improvising mind has a great organisation +behind it. + +He thought it all over again when he lay in his bunk in a cabin of the +_Kabinda_, on his way up-coast. He was at peace with the world. Clean +sheets, the European faces, and the civilised meals in the saloon, had +wiped out the memory of the past. Africa was already very dim to him. +The Zimbabwe rose up in his mind like something seen in a dream, a dim, +but rather grand shape. The miseries of the camp were dim. He had +been sad that morning in bidding farewell to the four whose lives he +had saved. Jellybags, Toro, Buckshot, and Pocahontas. He repeated +their names and considered their engaging traits. Jellybags was the +best of them. He had liked Jellybags. Jellybags had wanted to come +with them. He would never see Jellybags again. He didn't care +particularly. The sheets of the bunk were very comfortable. At the +end of a great adventure things are seen in false proportions. Only +the thought that those men had shared his life for a while gave him the +suggestion of a qualm before he put them from his mind. + +He thought of Ottalie. He saw her more clearly than of old. In the +old days he had seen her through the pink mists of amatory sentiment. +The sentiment was gone. Action had knocked it out of him. He saw her +now as she was. She was more wonderful in the clearer light; more +wonderful than ever; a fine, trained, scrupulous mind, drilled to a +beautiful unerring choice in life. She was near and real to him, so +real that he seemed to be within her mind, following its fearlessness. +He felt that he understood her now. With a rush of emotion he felt +that he could bring what she had been into the life of his time. + +In the steamer at Banana was a German scientist bound to Sierra Leone. +He spoke English. He asked the two friends about their achievement. +Lionel told him that they had discovered a serum for the cure of +trypanosomiasis. The German smiled. "Ah," he said. "There is already +sera. The Japanese bacteriologist, what was his name? Shima? Oshima? +Shiga? No, Hiroshiga. He have found a good serum, which makes der +peoples die sometimes. Then there is Mühlbauer who have improved the +serum of Hiroshiga. He have added a little trypanroth or a little +mercury or somedings. Now he have cured everymans. I wonder you have +not seen of Hiroshiga in der newspapers. He have make his experiments +in der spring; and Mühlbauer he is now at Nairobi curing everymans. He +have vaccination camps." + +"Well," said Lionel. "We've been beaten on the post. You hear, Roger? +All that we have done has been done." + +"You wait," said Roger. "We're only beginning." + +Afterwards he was sad that it was ending thus. He would have been +proud to have given a cure to the world. It would have been an +offering to Ottalie. She would have loved to share that honour. He +had plucked that poor little flower for her at the risk of his life. +It was hard to find that it was only a paper flower after all. He +thought of Ottalie as standing at the window of the upper passage +looking out for him. She seemed to him to be something of all +cleanness and fearlessness, waiting for him to lead her into the world, +so that men might serve her. + +In Ottalie's old home, a month later, he saw his way. Leslie, Lionel, +and himself sat together in the twilight, talking of her. Roger was +deeply moved by a sense of her presence there. He leaned forward to +them and spoke earnestly, asking them to join hands in building some +memorial to her. "She was like a new spirit coming to the world," he +said. "Like the new spirit. We ought to bring that new spirit into +the world. Let us form a brotherhood of three to do that. We are +three untrained enthusiasts. Let us prepare an organisation for the +enthusiasts who come after us. Let us build up an interest in the new +hygiene and the new science; in all that is cleanly and fearless. We +could start a little school and laboratory together, and run a monthly +paper preaching our tenets. All the ills of modern life come from dirt +and sentiment, and the cowardice which both imply. If we stand +together and attack those ills, year in and year out, we shall get rid +of them. Little by little, if one stands at a street corner, the crowd +gathers." + +"Yes," said Leslie. "And you think dirt and sentiment the bad things? +Well, perhaps you're right. They're both due to a want of order in the +mind. What do you think, Lionel?" + +"I?" said Lionel. "I say, certainly. We three are living in a most +wonderful time. The world is just coming to see that science is not a +substitute for religion, but religion of a very deep and austere kind. +We are seeing only the beginning of it." + +They settled a plan of action together. + +Roger went out into the garden, and down the hill, thinking of the +crusade against the weariness and filth of cities. There was an +afterglow upon the hills. It fell with a ruddy glare on the window of +his dream. It thrilled him. The light would fall there long after the +house had fallen. It had lighted Ottalie. It had burned upon the pane +when Ottalie's mother stood there. Nature was enduring; Nature the +imperfect; Nature the enemy, which blighted the rose and spread the +weed. Thinking of the woman who had waited for him there in his +vision, he prayed that her influence in him might help to bring to +earth that promised life, in which man, curbing Nature to his use, +would assert a new law and rule like a king, where now, even in his +strength, he walks sentenced, a prey to all things baser. + + + +THE END + + + +Printed in the United States of America + + + + + The following pages contain advertisements of + Macmillan books by the same author. + + + +Captain Margaret + +BY JOHN MASEFIELD + +_Cloth, 12mo, $1.35_ + +Captain Margaret, owner of the "Broken Heart," mild dreamer and hardy +adventurer in one, is a type of character one does not often meet in +fiction, and his troubled pursuit of the vision he is always seeing, in +Mr. Masefield's telling, is a story such as we seldom hear. It is a +strange crew that goes scurrying out of Salcombe Pool on a darkening +flood-tide in the "Broken Heart," bound for the treasure-land of +Darien. There is Captain Cammock, strong and fine, Stukeley the beast, +Perrin the feeble, Olivia beautiful and blind, and Captain Margaret +wisely good and uncomplaining--not a one of them but shines out from +the story with unforgettable vividness. From England to Virginia and +the Spanish Main with men at arms between decks goes the "Broken Heart" +following her master's dream, and her thrilling voyage with its storms +and battles is strongly and stirringly told. When John Masefield +writes of the sea, the sea lives. + +"A romantic novel, a capital tale of adventure, a yarn of the sea with +plenty of color and mystery, a story that has all the conventional +characters of romance--a beautiful heroine, a brave hero, a villain, +picturesque seamen and odd characters in good measure."--_Review of +Reviews_. + +"Captain Margaret is a novel which gives not only a splendid picture of +the buccaneering times of the late seventeenth century, but one which +for beauty of language, skill in character drawing, straightforward +march of story and virility in tone, deserves a wide audience."--_The +Bookman_. + +"The author shows his intense love and understanding of the sea and of +the ships that sail upon her, keen power of characterization and the +ability to spin a thoroughly interesting story."--_Providence Journal_. + + + +Good Friday and Other Poems. + +BY JOHN MASEFIELD + +_Cloth, $1.25, leather, $1.50._ + +The title piece in this new volume is a dramatic poem of sixty pages, +the action of which takes place in the time of Christ. The characters +introduced include Pontius Pilate, Joseph of Ramah and Herod. The +play, for it is really such, is written in rhyme and is one of Mr. +Masefield's most interesting and important contributions to literature. +In addition to this there are in the book many sonnets and shorter +poems embodying the very finest work Mr. Masefield has yet done. + + + +The Tragedy of Nan. + +New Edition. + +_Cloth, 12mo, $1.25._ + +"One of the most distinctive tragedies written by a dramatist of the +modern school."--_N. Y. Evening Post_. + + + +The Faithful. + +A Tragedy in Three Acts. + +_Cloth, 12mo, $1.25; leather, $1.50._ + +"A striking drama ... a notable work that will meet with the hearty +appreciation of discerning readers."--_The Nation_. + + + +Philip the King and Other Poems. + +_Cloth, 12mo, $1.25; leather, $1.50._ + +"Cannot fail to increase the already great reputation of John Masefield +as a poetic dramatist.... Full of poetic imagination and dramatic +force."--_The Nation_. + + + +The Tragedy of Pompey the Great. + +_Cloth, 12mo, $1.25; leather, $1.50._ + +"He is no statuesque Pompey, spouting prose lines masquerading as +poetry, Masefield has given us Pompey the man."--_The Pittsburg Post_. + + + +Philip, the King and other Poems + +BY JOHN MASEFIELD + +_Cloth, 12mo, $1.25_ + +Mr. Masefield's new poetical drama again affirms his important position +in the literature of to-day. In the volume are new poems of the sea, +lyrics and a powerful poem on the present war. + + + +Plaster Saints + +BY ISRAEL ZANGWILL + +_Cloth, 12mo, $1.25_ + +A new play of deep social significance. + + + +The Melting Pot + +BY ISRAEL ZANGWILL + +_Revised edition. Cloth, 12mo._ + +This is a revised edition of what is perhaps Mr. Zangwill's most +popular play. Numerous changes have been made in the text, which has +been considerably lengthened thereby. The appeal of the drama to the +readers of this country is particularly strong, in that it deals with +that great social process by which all nationalities are blended +together for the making of the real American. + + + +Makers of Madness + +BY HERMANN HAGEDORN + +_Cloth, 12mo, $1.00_ + +Many consider Mr. Hagedorn the most representative poet of the American +spirit. Here he has written a stirring drama in which are revealed the +horror and the pathos of the great struggle in Europe. + + + +Salt Water Ballads. + +_Cloth, 12mo, $1.00; leather, $1.50._ + +No living poet has caught the wild beauty of the sea, and imprisoned it +in such haunting verse. + + + +The Everlasting Mercy, and the Widow in the Bye-Street. + +New and Revised Edition. + +_Cloth, $1.25; leather, $1.50._ + +"John Masefield is the man of the hour, and the man of to-morrow, too, +in poetry and in the play writing craft."--JOHN GALSWORTHY. + + + +The Story of a Round House and Other Poems. + +New and Revised Edition. + +_Cloth, 12mo, $1.35; leather, $1.50._ + +"Ah! the story of that rounding the Horn! Never in prose has the sea +been so tremendously described."--_Chicago Evening Post_. + + + +A Mainsail Haul. + +_Cloth, 12mo, $1.25; leather, $1.50._ + +As a sailor before the mast Masefield has traveled the world over. +Many of the tales in this volume are his own experiences. + + + +The Daffodil Fields. + +Second Edition. + +_Cloth, 12mo, $1.25; leather, $1.50._ + +"Neither in the design nor in the telling did, or could, 'Enoch Arden' +come near the artistic truth of 'The Daffodil Fields.'"--SIR ARTHUR +QUILLER-COUCH, _Cambridge University_. + + + + THE MACMILLAN COMPANY + Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York + + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Multitude and Solitude, by John Masefield + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 58436 *** |