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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ad9b950 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #60272 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/60272) diff --git a/old/60272-0.txt b/old/60272-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 2d8e061..0000000 --- a/old/60272-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9150 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tales of a Cruel Country, by Gerald Cumberland - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Tales of a Cruel Country - -Author: Gerald Cumberland - -Release Date: September 10, 2019 [EBook #60272] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF A CRUEL COUNTRY *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - TALES OF A - CRUEL COUNTRY - - - - - - TALES OF A - CRUEL COUNTRY - - BY - GERALD CUMBERLAND - - Author of “Set Down in Malice” - - - [Illustration: colophon] - - - NEW YORK - BRENTANO’S - PUBLISHERS - - - - - - Copyright, 1919, by - BRENTANO’S - - _All rights reserved_ - - - PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. - - - - - - TO - FREDERICK NOEL BYRON - - - _Then came sudden alarms; hurryings to and fro; trepidations of - innumerable fugitives, I knew not whether from the good cause or - the bad; darkness and lights; tempest and human faces; and at last, - with the sense that all was lost, female forms, and the features - that were worth all the world to me; and but a moment allowed--and - clasped hands, with heart-breaking partings, and then--everlasting - farewells! and, with a sigh such as the caves of hell sighed when - the incestuous mother uttered the abhorred name of Death, the sound - was reverberated--everlasting farewells! and again, and yet again - reverberated--everlasting farewells!_ - - DE QUINCEY - - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - -THE TWO LOVERS 1 - -KATYA KONTOROMPA 19 - -THE BATHS MURDER 33 - -THE DREAMER 47 - -WHEN THE GREEN ROSES CAME 57 - -PAUL OF TARSUS 73 - -THE MOON MAN 83 - -HOW HIS FRIENDS DESTROYED HIM 97 - -THE VICTIM 117 - -TRENCH MADNESS 133 - -LOOT 141 - -HOW IT GREW 159 - -KATYA’S WOOING 167 - -THE STORM 183 - -THE MAN WHO GAVE HIS SOUL 199 - -THE STRANGER 215 - -A LITTLE CORRESPONDENCE 235 - -THE DEAF-MUTE OF KILINDIR 243 - -LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 259 - -INTO DUST 283 - -THE GRANDCHILD 311 - -NERVES 321 - - - - - -THE TWO LOVERS - -To -Frederick Noël Byron - - - -The blossom of the lilac-tree gave a pulp-like sound as it thwacked -against her window, and curiously named Stephanie Miniati smiled to -herself as she turned in her bed and, placing a hand on her rounded -breast, closed her eyes in order that she might see Orosdi. For not only -did Orosdi dwell in her heart, but his big, black eyes burned in her -brain and lit it, and his sinewy hands were ever about her throat in -love-cruelty. She closed her eyes and, in imagination, summoned him to -her chamber. He came: not hurriedly, as an anxious lover moves, but with -long, lazy strides, his baby-face all smiles, his selfish, rounded chin -thrust a little forward. He stood by her side and then, in imagination, -she made him bend down suddenly and kiss her shoulder.... - -She sighed in a luxury of love, and “Orosdi! Or-os-di!” she murmured. -And she thought for the thousandth time: “I am the most beautiful girl -in Ajvatli, and Orosdi is the most handsome lad of all who walk on the -plain of Langaza.” - -But as yet she was only half awake, and in her semi-consciousness had -forgotten her other lover who now lay in the church cemetery on the high -land above Ajvatli. - -The noise of the sheep and the goats herding down the uneven street -brought her to full consciousness, and, sitting up in bed, the smile -slowly faded from her face, a scowl, almost a snarl, taking its place. -For she had remembered that to-day was the anniversary of the death of -her other lover and that, though Orosdi had made the thought of her dead -sweetheart sometimes hateful, yet fear of her neighbours would, she -knew, compel her to weep and pray at his grave and fondle the bones that -had once been covered with stubborn flesh. She sat and scowled; then, -suddenly, having taken up a mirror that lay on a chair by her side, she -smiled entrancingly at her reflection. She pulled back her lips and -looked at her white teeth; she bared her breasts and, holding the mirror -below them, looked at and admired the twin curves reflected therein; -then, making slits of her eyes, she looked from the corners of her -eyelids--looked roguishly, invitation in her glance. - -“Oh, you dear creature!” she exclaimed; “how good of you to be so -beautiful!” - -All morning she was at work in the fields whilst her wifeless father sat -drinking cognac in the village. She herself loved wine, but when with -Orosdi drank only mavrodaphne, the “black holly” that makes lovers more -ardent and leaves no sting behind. The plain, covered with vineyards and -mustard and poppies, blazed hotly. Banked roadways, infrequently used, -were covered with multitudinous flowers, flowers that were warm to the -touch and almost sickly with the sun’s day-long kiss. Stephanie, -stooping over her work, wiped away with the back of her hand the drops -of perspiration that stood gleaming on her forehead. The heat did not -trouble her: she loved it, for her strength was that of an animal. The -sun, the flowers, and the call of cuckoos made Heaven for her, and she -praised her Heaven to the utmost height of sublimity whenever she looked -at Langaza, white among green poplars, where her lover lived. - -“How white it is!” she said to herself; and then something in her brain -whispered: “_How white they will be. How white they will be to-night, in -so few hours!_” - -She caught her breath and bit her under-lip. Her cheeks paled. “What do -I mean? What do I mean?” she asked herself, hurriedly. But only too well -did she know what she meant. Her brain was thinking of her dead lover’s -bones, which to-night would lie in her hands--bones that, washed in wine -a year ago, had been placed back in his shallow grave at Ajvatli, and -which were as white as the cambric that comes from England. Her -religion, her loyalty, her dead love--everything that demanded her -acquiescence in the customs of her race--meant nothing to her: but the -opinion of her neighbours meant everything. People in small villages can -be very cruel. “Oh, yes,” said Stephanie, pitying herself, “they would -be cruel. Father most of all.” - -With a resolute gesture she turned from Langaza, and bent over her work. -How wonderfully decisive and final is the thrust with which the -diabolically selfish can rid themselves of uncomfortable thoughts! With -an: “Oh! I’ll go through with it!” she put the little grave aside, -forgetting the dead youth’s dear kisses that, how brief a time ago, used -to run from her brow to her eyes, from her eyes to her mouth, and from -her mouth to her breasts where they used to cling and turn her girlhood -to maidenhood. - -At midday she stopped her work and, seated on a high bank, ate bread and -olives and drank a little of the wine of Samos. I think I can show her -to you. The bank is covered with high grass and tall flowers--such -flowers as you will see in England any real June. So, of course, she is -half hidden in a little swimming mist of colour of blue and yellow and -green. Her skirt is pulled above her knees and you can see the thick -woollen stockings that do not mar the beauty of her long ankles. Her -dark face is sallow and red, her hair black; her bosom--you can see it, -for her blouse is opened two buttons at the neck--whiter than the paper -on which this little history is printed. She wears no hat, and her -blouse is a dusky red, the colour of her cheeks. Her eyes are pits of -darkness in each of which a flame burns brightly, almost fervently. An -animal, of course. But a beautiful animal, with a beauty that not one -woman in a thousand Greek women possesses. But is she Greek? She says -so. But is she? Some lusty Bulgar, perchance, raped her grandmother, or -a Turk, insinuating and cruel, crept to the bed of some maternal -ancestor. These things happen there in Macedonia, as elsewhere. - -You will not like the way she eats, for her lips are not closed and her -right cheek bulges. And her hands, face, neck, and breasts are wet with -perspiration. A woman to be loved and feared, I think: more feared than -loved.... - -But she has finished her little meal.... - -She lay on her back, the sun smiting her, the sun of Greece that two -thousand years ago smote men to greatness, that burned men and melted -them and recast them as poets, orators, sculptors, writers of dramas. -She turned over on her side and murmured something, pressing her lips to -the ground, and smiling.... - - * * * * * - -Orosdi was drinking at Langaza. He was sleek and lazy, but his brain was -bright, and he was now busy purchasing two mules from his father. For -Orosdi had a farm of his own, and prospered as all physically lazy men -may prosper if their brains are deep and cunning and if they retain the -accumulated traditions of their ancestors. - -“Ninety-five drachmæ,” said Orosdi, placing his plump hand on the thin, -vein-corded hand of his father. - -The older man smiled. - -“You are the son of my father,” he said, enigmatically. Then he added, -reminiscently: “He always began with half the price he was willing to -pay. We will talk of this to-morrow.” - -“No, no. It is pleasant here. Let us finish the business now.” - -He turned aside and called to the keeper of the inn outside which they -were sitting. A dirty creature limped from the dark interior to the -doorway. - -“You have my bottle of whisky there, is it not so? Well, open it. And -bring two clean glasses.” - -His father started a little. - -“’Tis an old trick,” observed he. “You would make me drunk and then buy -from me? I would rather give you the mules than that you should do -that.” - -“Father, I brought the whisky for you because ... because, well, you -know why.” He looked affectionately at his parent. - -The old man, gazing at his handsome son, felt his eyes becoming moist. -An impulse overswept him. - -“You were always a good son to me,” he said. “Let me _give_ you the -mules.” - -“Father!” - -“Well, after all, I’m at the end of my life, and you.... You know, -Orosdi ... but do you know?” - -“Father, father!” - -But the dirty innkeeper interrupted the conversation by putting the -whisky bottle and two glasses on the table. - -“Come, let us drink,” said Orosdi, feeling a little uncomfortable and -pouring out the liquor. - -They drank the spirit neat, and almost immediately the old man’s worn -face became flushed and active. - -“Well, they are yours,” he said; “I will bring them to you to-morrow.” - -His son rose and kissed him on the cheek. - -“What can I give you in return?” he asked. - -His father sat silent for a minute, twisting his fingers under the edge -of the table and looking on the ground. He darted a shy glance at the -young man. - -“I would like only one thing,” said he. - -“It is yours.” - -“I would like you to come.... But perhaps you have already arranged.... -If you were to come and sit with me to-night, I should be very happy.” - -Orosdi’s jaw sank and his face clouded. - -“To-morrow, father,” said he, “of course I will come. But to-night I go -to Ajvatli.” - -The old man poured out more whisky and drank it greedily. He sighed, and -began again to twist his fingers under the edge of the table. - -“Not to-night, then,” he murmured, with resignation. - -“But why especially to-night?” urged Orosdi. - -“Have you forgotten? It is my birthday.” - -“Blast!... Yes, father, of course I will come. I will come three -hours--two hours--after sunset. I thought of your birthday yesterday: -you were a good deal in my thoughts.... But to-day! But you know me, -father. I _am_ like that. I have always been so. But you do know, -father, don’t you, that no one comes before you in my love?” - -“You see, my son, I am old. To-day I _am_ seventy-three. And it seems to -me that the nearer I get to the grave the more lonely I become. -Sometimes I wish that we lived together ... that if we lived -together....” - -“Oh, but, father--it was you who urged me to strike out for myself ... -to do what I could without hindrance--that is how you put it, father: -you called yourself a hindrance.” - -“Did I?” questioned the old man, dully. “I forget. You may be right.” - -“Come and live with me, father,” said Orosdi, impulsively. “You can sell -your bit of land....” - -“No,” interrupted the old man, proudly, “no, Orosdi. This is just a -minute’s weakness: every one has these moments. You must go your way; I, -mine.” - -He poured out more whisky and drank it. - -“And now, Orosdi,” said he, looking at the half-empty bottle, “I think I -will go home.” - -“And I will accompany you to your door. You must take the whisky with -you.” - -Orosdi recorked the bottle and put it in his father’s hands. - -They rose and walked together through the village until they reached its -outskirts, where, coming upon a detached, terraced house where the old -man lived, they parted. The old man closed the door behind him. The room -into which he stepped straight from the street was large, but badly lit; -it smelt stuffily of leeks. Lurching across the tiled floor, he reached -a little stool on which he sat, his hands clasped in front of him, his -head bent low. His lips moved, and he trembled with the ague of age. - -Presently, feeling intolerably tired, he rose and shambled to a rug -lying in a corner. Casting himself upon this, he was soon asleep; dreams -came trooping to him, dreams of hatred of Stephanie Miniati who was -taking his dear son from him. How he loved Orosdi of the lazy smile, -Orosdi whose shoulders were so strong, Orosdi who could be as tender as -a woman, and as faithless. - - * * * * * - -The sun had already set when Orosdi went forth from Langaza to see his -love at Ajvatli, and he pulled his body together sensually as he trod -the long, white road. Frogs splashed and croaked in the ditches, -nightingales sang, a big moon stared. But he cared for none of these -things. The world to him was one woman: a woman whose kisses were -fierce, and whose clasp would not let him go. - -His mood was a little bitter and cruel. Stephanie had played with him -too long. She would not marry him and she would not let him.... What was -the use of a love like that? It was not that she was virtuous: she was -simply afraid? After all, why shouldn’t she marry him? Her old lover had -been dead these years, and there was no reason for her ridiculous -clinging to his memory. It was true, she had been the cause of his -death, for he had given his life to Langaza Lake in attempting to save -her from drowning. But that was an accident: a happy accident.... He -smiled grimly. - -But to-night he would bring the business of his passionate courting to a -head. The thing was wearing him out. His robust body was failing him. To -clasp and kiss ... to clasp and kiss and never really love! That was -play for children. - -He quickened his pace and passed through the outskirts of Ajvatli. The -crooked village was full of black shadows, and even to him who was -familiar with them, the twisting, inconsequent streets were like a maze; -nevertheless, Orosdi could without difficulty have found his way -blindfolded to Stephanie’s house. His nearest way there lay past the -central inn, outside which many men were sitting, drinking. For a moment -the young farmer hesitated; then, calling for a bottle of mavrodaphne, -he flung himself down in a chair and peered around him to see if he -could discern the face of Stephanie’s father by the light of the one -lamp that hung outside the inn. Several acquaintances greeted him: he -replied to them curtly, almost insolently. Miniati was away, they told -him. He had set out for Seres in the afternoon, and would not return for -nearly a week. - -He grunted his satisfaction, uncorked his bottle, poured out a glass of -wine, and slowly drank the sweet intoxicant. Almost at once he felt its -stimulating effect; it fired him and his passion, and, with a gesture of -impatience, he rose and made his way to Stephanie’s house. Having -arrived there, he knocked, but there was no reply. He tapped with a -stick on the high window, but no one came. - -“Blast!” he whispered between his teeth. - -“And don’t you know where she is?” asked a voice behind him. - -He turned to see a wrinkled old woman who was bent almost at right -angles over a stick that supported her. - -“No,” he answered, impatiently, “where is she?” - -“Where should she be to-night if not with my grandson?” - -He remembered. The old woman was the grandmother of Stephanie’s dead -Mercury, and the girl herself would be in the cemetery with the boy’s -bones. He kicked at a stone angrily, and, turning on his heel, walked -past the church to the graveyard above. At the open iron gate he paused -and looked about him. Not a soul was to be seen. Going down on his hands -and knees, he crept behind the diminutive gravestones until he came to -within a few yards of the grave he sought, where he lay prone, scarcely -breathing, his eyes hard and glittering, his upper jaw closed anxiously -over his lower lip. He could see his girl. She knelt at a very shallow -open grave; touching her knees was a heap of disordered bones; a white -skull, small and boyish, reflected the moonlight. - -But Stephanie was not looking at what remained of her Mercury; she was -gazing into space with unseeing eyes, her arms by her side, her body -held loosely, dejection in every line of her figure. Once or twice she -stirred uneasily as though half aware of Orosdi’s presence. - -He, cunning and alert, watched for his opportunity. A mood of disgust -might presently come to her. Or she might melt in tenderness at thought -of him.... - -There was a wind in the trees, and in the air the scent of lilac. Orosdi -heard the wind and smelt the lilac. The earth gave forth the warmth of -the day’s sun; it excited him, and his teeth bit more deeply into his -lower lip. His Stephanie looked cool and apart in her white robe.... - - * * * * * - -Less than a dozen yards away, peering over the wall was an old man whose -lips moved angrily. But he was patient in his anger, for he was afraid -of his son. He felt himself to be futile, and it was deep misery to -stand here and watch Orosdi worshipping that handsome and destructive -Greek girl: still, he must remain. He had a morbid craving for -self-inflicted pain, and the whisky he had drunk earlier in the day -twisted things out of focus. He would do nothing; he would only watch. -He would learn the worst. - -After a very long time, he saw Orosdi crouch like a cat and glide like a -snake. He saw him glide behind Stephanie, rise to his feet and approach -her till he stood above her, holding out his arms. - -And then a violent thing happened. Orosdi, having stood irresolute a -moment, suddenly stepped to his lover’s side, kicked away the bones that -lay at her knees, threw his arms around the girl’s body, lifted her from -the ground, and carried her away to the shadow of the little stone -building in which, hidden in rows of sacks, lie the bones of Ajvatli’s -dead. There was no sound save a small hysterical laugh of joy from the -girl. The old man heard them sighing in the shadow, and, like a knife, -the thought of his own honeymoon stabbed his soul. He muttered rapidly -to himself, and frowned. Then, pulling himself laboriously over the -wall, he walked rapidly to the graveside, gathered the scattered bones -together, and replaced them in the shallow grave. He did this quickly -but tidily, feeling his decency shocked, and feeling, as he had never -felt before, that his son was a stranger to him. He filled up the grave -with earth, and smoothed the surface with the palms of his hands. And -then, with a frightened prayer, he rose to his feet, made his way to the -wall and clambered over. On the far side he stopped to listen a moment. -But no sound reached him; the lovers were quiet in their bliss. - - * * * * * - -It was nearly midnight when they rose, and all the guardian semi-wild -dogs of Ajvatli seemed to be barking together. Orosdi was full of quiet -happiness: Stephanie had given herself to him and had promised herself -in marriage. He placed his arm around her and began to lead her towards -the iron gate of the cemetery. But, very gently, she put him away, -saying: - -“Leave me alone. I will see you to-morrow.” - -“No!” he insisted. “You are mine now. What does it matter who sees us?” - -“But you forget,” she protested. And as he did not appear to know what -he had forgotten, she added: “You forget what we are leaving behind. I -must put him away again.” - -She walked towards the grave, he by her side. Simultaneously, on -emerging from behind a tree, they discovered that the bones had -disappeared, that the grave had been refilled, and that the earth above -it was smooth and tidy. They stopped, and her hand sought his. He put -his arms about her protectingly, though his fear equalled her own. - -“He has gone back!” she muttered, awe-struck. And she stood gazing on -the grave as though hypnotized. - -“Come away,” he said, trembling; “your Mercury may return.” - -Without another word they turned and, panic-stricken, rushed from the -cemetery. At her house-door they stopped. - -“What does it mean?” he asked. - -“It means he no longer loves me. You kicked him. You kicked my Mercury -who was always so good to me.” - -She looked at him wild-eyed, accusingly. - -Without a farewell embrace she opened the door and entered the house, -leaving him alone. - - * * * * * - -The old man was lying on his rug when his son entered. He had finished -the bottle of whisky and he knew not what his mood was. - -“Two hours ago it was my birthday,” he said, aggressively, “my birthday, -and you did not come, though you promised.” - -He protruded his under-lip and, seizing an empty glass that stood near -him where he lay on the floor, he cast it on the tiles where it was -smashed to fragments. - -Orosdi, weary and a little afraid of what the night had brought him, sat -down and sighed. - -“Do not be angry with me, father,” he said, gravely. - -“You have done three evil things this night,” said the old man. - -“One is not always virtuous.... But I will see you in the morning. I -must sleep. You also, father. You are overwrought.” - -“No. I’m drunk. Men see truth when they are drunk. They see things they -dare not look at in their sober times. Your mother, who was a scholar, -used to say there is truth in wine. Damnable truth. Never mind, Orosdi, -my son. We cannot help ourselves.” - -But Orosdi had slipped from the house, and the old man was talking to an -empty room. He continued maundering for a long time until, overcome by -sleep, he fell heavily on the floor and closed his eyes. - - - - - -KATYA KONTOROMPA - -To -Jack Kahane - - - -Mrs. Kontorompa waddled into her large drawing-room at Hortiach one May -morning calling “Katya! Katya!” in a voice more shrill than a parrot’s. -She progressed rather magnificently in spite of her waddle, for she had -both weight and solidity, and it was not without dignity that, having -reached the window, she leaned out and surveyed her hot garden blazing -with colour. “Katya! Katya!” she shrilled. - -“What is it, mamma?” asked a languid voice from the depths of a -luxurious chair near the piano a yard or two away. - -Mrs. Kontorompa’s irritation vanished instantly. - -“Oh, Katya, dear, I have just been speaking to your father on the -telephone. He said....” - -“I know what he said,” interrupted her daughter. “He said no. He always -does say no. But I warn you, mamma, I’m just about at the end of my -patience, and either to-day or to-morrow I shall ... well, I shall do -something desperate.” - -Mrs. Kontorompa’s most benevolent face assumed a look of anxiety. - -“But what can _I_ do?” she asked, despairingly. - -“Nothing, dear mamma. We have always known--you and I--that you could do -nothing. It’s not your fault. But papa is so stupid, is it not so? Why, -in the name of God, he sent me....” - -“Katya, you must not swear. Besides, you have promised me not to.” - -“Very well, mamma, I won’t. Why, in the name of respectability then, he -sent me to Brussels--Brussels, of all places--I can’t understand.” - -Her luminous blue eyes, deep and tender, formed large patches of colour -above her very pale cheeks, and her pouting red lips, half smiling, -concealed her regularly irregular white teeth. - -“Your father, Katya, dear--well, you know what your father is. He -blunders, but he means well. He thought Brussels would be good for you.” - -“Oh, it was, _it was_: most awfully good. The Avenue Louise, mamma, on a -May morning with Captain Pierre Lacroix by my side--oh, _that_ was -heaven! Yes, Brussels was heaven, and I lived there among the male -angels--I mean the deliciously wicked men--for one very short year. But -if Brussels was heaven, Hortiach is hell, and I really do believe father -is the devil himself.” - -Her mother smiled reluctantly. - -“Katya, dear, you musn’t talk like that. At all events, only when we’re -alone.” - -It was Katya’s turn to smile, and in the middle of her sweet smile she -broke out, impulsively: - -“Father is a dear, really, you know; but he is so awfully blind and dull -and stupid. Fancy thinking Salonika is too wicked for _me_ to live in! -Why, if he only knew the things I did....” - -She paused and her eyes grew naughty with reminiscences. - -“Yes, Katya?” her mother whispered, invitingly. - -“Oh nothing. I say ‘nothing,’ but I mean everything.” - -“_Everything?_” - -“Well, not quite everything. Yet I sometimes wish I had gone what my -English friends used to call 'the whole hog.’ All the way, you know.” - -“Oh, do, _do_ be careful, Katya. You will be married some day, you -know.” - -“That’s just the point--_shall_ I? Whom can I marry in Hortiach? Is -there a single soul good enough? You know there isn’t. Yet in Salonika, -only fifteen miles away, there must be scores of the most delightful -creatures. Oh, mamma, I _do_ love men, don’t you?” - -“I used to, dear. But now I love only your father.” - -“Poor mamma! But how awfully sweet for father!” - -They sat in silence for a few minutes whilst the still garden hummed -with insects; the sun smote the flowers, and a trickle of water made a -tepid sound in the well close by. - -Then, suddenly, Mrs. Kontorompa, having brushed away a fly that had -settled on her nose, turned to her daughter. - -“I will persuade your father to let us join him in Salonika for a -fortnight. I will really, Katya. I know how to do it. We will go next -month.” - -“Oh, you are sweet, mamma dear, aren’t you? I _do_ think you’re sweet.” - -And Katya, rising from her deep chair and gliding to the pianoforte, -began to play Chopin’s Polonaise in C-sharp minor, crashing out the fat -discords with all the exuberance of youth. With her hands folded on that -part of her body lying below her waist, Mrs. Kontorompa sat admiring her -daughter: admiring this daring and bewildering creature who, only a -month ago, had come from a Belgian school whither she had gone to add -smartness to her education: admiring and loving her, and feeling that -she would sell her soul to be like Katya--eighteen, beautiful, -devil-may-care, clever, wilful, and so terribly worshipful. Then, Katya -having begun the great Nocturne in C minor, with its quivering and -mounting octaves, Mrs. Kontorompa rose and left the room to supervise -the mysterious workings of her Grecian household. - - * * * * * - -It was quite early the same morning that Katya, white and wonderful, -left her father’s house and walked higher up the mountain to the side of -which Hortiach clings. She was in a mood of half-angry revolt, and as -she walked along a sheep-track winding among the rocks, she told herself -that if only Elise Deschamps were with her, they would surely find -something amusing to do. Elise respected the opinions of no one. And as -Katya Kontorompa’s mind was busy thinking of her friend, suddenly, from -behind a rock stepped a tall, slim youth, hatless, bare-chested, -carrying a flute in his hand, his black curly hair surmounting a face -that was at once grave and beseeching. - -“Oh!” said Katya, half-aloud, as she caught her breath and passed him. - -He, giving her a rapid, shy glance, walked across her path and made his -way to a shaded pool that even at midday is always cool and fresh. - -She watched him as he, far off, sat down in the sunlight that, dripping -from the fig-tree above him, flecked him with patches of green and -white. She could just hear the low, watery tones of his flute as he -improvised with the careless ease of an artist. She had seen him thus on -several occasions, and, seeing him, had always felt a little thrill of -desire. She wished to love him just for an hour, to have those slender -arms about her body, to feel his curved, inexperienced lips against her -own. But he was shy and a little afraid. Yes, she was sure he was -afraid, for every time she had crossed his path he had hastened his pace -to almost a run, and had never once looked back to meet her inquiring -and inviting gaze. His fear of her spurred her on to an adventure with -him, for she could not understand his sexless eyes, and to her it was -ridiculous that a handsome youth should run away from a beautiful and -willing girl. - -Sitting down in the shade of a rock, she half closed her eyes and looked -lazily at him as he sat by his deep pool of coolest water. His flute -still gave its music, music that was as free from care and all -self-consciousness as the song of a bird. What a dear, foolish and -charming boy he was! He could be no more than a year younger than -herself, and yet she could swear he had never loved a woman. -Loved?--why, not even kissed. - -Though she felt angry with him because of his passionless eyes, she -could not help experiencing a certain yearning for him, a tenderness -that was half laughter, half tears. When, at length, he wandered away, -she sighed. - -“Oh, damn!” she whispered. “The little fool is an abject idiot! Do I -really love him? I wonder.... In any case, I will have some fun with -him. If he will not love me, he shall at least hate me.” - -Happy with her new interest in life, she planned her mischievous and -immodest scheme. Like all Greek women, she was discretion itself, and -the first question she put to herself was: “If I do it, will he tell?” -But this so necessary question required only a moment’s consideration. -Of course he wouldn’t tell, for, in any event, whatever the outcome of -her escapade might be, the story of it would be against himself. -Moreover, she would so cleverly contrive matters that it would appear -that the entire occurrence was one of the many affairs of chance. - -And, musing over her plan, she walked rather rapidly down to her -garden-home. - - * * * * * - -Mrs. Kontorompa never dressed for breakfast. In the warm days she -always breakfasted in a flimsy dressing-gown on the little veranda -outside her bedroom, and it was here early one morning that Katya, -looking very demure, joined her. She carried a French translation of one -of Joseph Conrad’s books. - -“Good morning, mamma,” she said, “how perfectly sweet you look in that -pink thing!” - -Mrs. Kontorompa, who knew very well that she did not look sweet in -anything in the world, smiled. - -“You do say such nice things, Katya dear.” - -“Oh, the coffee’s here already. Do pour me out a glass, mamma. I’m -terribly thirsty--and hungry, too.” - -She ate bread, butter and honey, and smiled at two kissing butterflies. - -“How nice to be a butterfly!” she said, munching. - -“Yes, but why?” - -“Well, a butterfly does just what it wants. It does not wait to be -introduced. It is so wonderfully unmoral.” - -Her mother surveyed her for a moment. - -“Do you know, Katya, you sometimes talk just like some of the women in -those French novels you brought home with you from Brussels.” - -“Do I? Well, I feel like them. I’m going for a bathe this morning, -mamma.” - -“A bathe! Where? Why?” - -“In the little pool by the fig-tree. Because I want to.” - -“Very well, I’ll come with you.” - -“That would be lovely,” said Katya, “if I were selfish enough to allow -you. But you’d make yourself ill, climbing up there in the sun.” - -“But, Katya....” - -“You know you would, mamma. No, I’m going alone. No one ever goes near -the place: I shall be quite all right.” - -And when she had finished her breakfast, she went to her room, put on a -big sun-hat, took a towel from her bedroom cupboard, and stepped very -silently downstairs. But her mother issued from the drawing-room just as -her daughter reached the bottom of the stairs. - -“But you have nothing to cover yourself with--no bathing costume!” Mrs. -Kontorompa objected. - -“Ah, that’s just it!” said Katya mischievously. - -“What is?” - -“Oh, nothing, mamma, my precious. Good-bye.” - -And she ran into the garden, swinging the towel over her head. - -There was still a little coolness of dawn in the air, especially under -the trees, and the freshness of the air and the hard exercise of -climbing up the mountain-side brought an unaccustomed tinge of rose to -Katya’s cheeks. The clear pool was waiting for her, and, stepping to its -rocky edge, she bent over a little and gazed at her reflection in the -cool water. - -“Really, I grow more beautiful every day,” she murmured, pleased and -excited. - -She knelt down behind a rock and began to undress, now and again turning -her eyes in the direction from which she expected her flute-player to -come. But when her garments were ready for taking off, she did not -remove them; instead, she sat down and surveyed the romantic and -picturesque village below. - -Yes, it was romantic enough, she thought, but it was so stupidly -familiar. She knew every house, every tree, every rock, and if she did -not know every man, woman, and child, it was because she did not care -to. Yet, after all, people mattered enormously. The most seductive -scenery in the world was not romantic except in its relationship to -human beings. And even this boy, this flute-player, had a certain air, -an atmosphere, something of distinction and attraction. - -With sudden impatience and self-disgust, she shook herself, and then -leaned over the edge of the water. - -“Fool!” she ejaculated to her reflection; “sentimentalist! He is a -little nincompoop and you know it. You are going to teach him a lesson: -you are going to terrify him out of his wits.” - -Raising her head, she saw the object of her thoughts issuing from the -outskirts of the village and making his way up the mountain to the pool. -He walked with an easy stride. - -Hastily she took off her clothes, hid them in a cleft of the rocks, and -stepped into the water which took her beautiful body with a laugh and a -sigh. She swam about for a minute or two and then, calculating that by -now he would be near at hand--the intervening rocks hid him from -sight--she swam to a little narrow bay where the water was deep, and -where she was hidden from view, and clung with her finger-tips to a -ledge in the rocks. - -The wrinkled surface of the pool had only just had time to become smooth -again, when the flute-player, very silently, walked to the fig-tree and -sat down in its shade. Almost immediately he began to play, and the -melodies he invented were very melancholy. Katya smiled with malice, -though she approved of and liked his skill. - -“What a clever little fool it is!” she said to herself, as, giving -herself to the water and pressing her feet against the side of the rock, -she pushed herself out toward the middle of the pool and began slowly to -swim in the flute-player’s direction. So quickly did she go, and so -absorbed was he in his music, that he did not see her even when she was -within a dozen yards of him and was standing, the water reaching to her -waist, regarding him with wide, malicious eyes. She raised her hands and -brought them down on the water with a heavy splash. - -A run he was playing broke in the middle like a thread that is snapped, -and, startled, he let his instrument fall to the ground. His eyes had -the look of one whose dreams have come true; it was as though he had -been evoking a nymph and she had at last arrived. Motionless and -absorbed, he stared at her, his eyes very round, his lips parted; but he -spoke no word, and something in the earnestness of his gaze--a look a -little unearthly, indeed, holy--made her, who had wished to frighten -him, herself afraid. There was no abashed look in his eyes, as she had -expected, no look of dismay, no hint of fear: merely an expression of -incredulity--the look of a boy to whom a long-awaited miracle has at -last happened. - -Their long gaze into each others’ eyes lasted many moments, and as his -eyes did not droop under hers, but indeed, stared and stared -unflinchingly, Katya began to experience the shame of a child who has -been discovered in some wickedness. She had expected him, on her -appearing, to run away in terror and shocked modesty. If he had blushed -even, or had looked confused, or had turned his back upon her, or -exhibited any of the signs of awkwardness and shame, she would have -known how to continue the comedy. But he accepted her. Moreover, she -knew that some wonder had been expected from that water. To him she was -not human, but the spirit of the pool come at the bidding of his music. - -Her courage and her impertinence deserted her, and, with a sudden -movement, she disappeared under the water, and swam back to the deep bay -where she had left her clothing. She heard him cry out excitedly, and, -with equal excitement, she swam towards the edge of the water, touched -the ground with her feet and began to walk to the shore. He was there -waiting for her, for he had run rapidly round the pool, and now stood -with his flute in his hand, his face full of ecstasy, with white teeth -shining in the sun. - -For a few moments he stood thus on a high rock looking down upon her. -But when she had reached the cleft where her clothes were hidden, and -when he saw her take them in her hands, his face instantly changed from -ecstasy to bewilderment, and then from bewilderment to loathing. - -“It’s you--you--_you_! You dreadful black woman!” he called out. - -She raised her head to look at him, and saw that he was trembling with -anger. His brown face was yellow and distorted. He tried to speak some -more words, but his throat choked him, and his inability to speak -increased his anger so greatly that all his body shook like one -convulsed. - -Raising his flute on high, he threw it into the water with terrific -force, and, turning, ran up the mountain side with a frantic speed that -had not decreased when she could no longer see him.... - -Pressing her white dress to her face, Katya wept and wept. She wept with -shame, with mortification.... She wept with love. - - - - - -THE BATHS MURDER - -To -Edwin Morrow - - -Before you had crossed the threshold you felt the humid air as it -stealthily assaulted your flesh, and the dank stone couches, some bare -and perspiring, others half covered with painted rags, gave the -impression of tawdry self-indulgence. - -I have tried many times to determine precisely what it was about those -cavernous baths that gave me the impression of wickedness, and because -my attempts have always been unsuccessful I have been driven to -entertain the possibility that the wickedness lay in myself, and was -evoked by the semi-darkness, the drip of water, the lamps that flickered -but did not die, the humid air, the long treacherous corridors, the -dirty domes, and the soft secrecy of scandals stealing up the stair. But -why should these things, either separately or collectively, suggest -evil? I do not know. But they did. They do. And the little poisoned -glasses of cognac which, one by one, used to be placed at one’s side so -that one might sip before and after sleep, seemed to me lewd and -violently unnecessary.... - -In that place worked Aristides Kronothos, lean Kronothos, who, with his -lack-lustre eyes, his long, dangling arms, and air of patient -resignation hid, and hid well, the venom in his breast. A year ago he -lived in Soho with his wife and worshipped child. To their little -restaurant came a man of mixed blood--some Armenian, some -Montenegrin--who, with money and promises, stole Aristides’ wife and -left England for Greece. Kronothos, having knowledge of his lair in -Salonika, sold his business and followed. He loved desperately and hated -desperately. But the man of mixed blood was well protected, and seemed -out of reach of all revenge, for though it is true that Kronothos, -almost any day, might have slit his throat in full view of the street -and its people, he had no desire to be caught and punished. He felt -greatly, profoundly; but he did not feel tragically. His skin was of -immeasurable value to himself. - -So he used to go about his work in those cave-like baths feeling -thwarted, and I am told that, on slack days, he would sit, chin in hand, -brooding, his unfocused eyes looking into spaceless space, his long, -lean neck jutting ostrich-like from his towel-robe, his nervy fingers -twitching. - -He was a good worker. Rompapas told me that. Rompapas always insisted to -me that Aristides Kronothos had an almost extravagant sense of duty. For -example, he would stay after hours hosing and even scrubbing the filthy -corridors, trying to vanquish their musty smell; and so constant and -devoted was he that in time he was entrusted with the keys of the great -watery and wandering place, and would lock up two or three hours before -midnight, and dismally seek his dismal room. - - * * * * * - -Half drunk and full of vanity, the man of mixed blood--George Georges -was his fantastic name--plunged out of the Olympos Hotel and bawled for -a _gharry_. At his command three came. His great, hulking body sank into -the first and bent its crazy framework into a capital U. - -The city had just lit its myriad lights, and the sky was like purple -velvet. Georges gave it a contemptuous glance, and as the driver turned -round for orders, his temporary master waved a fat hand in the air and -grunted: - -“Anywhere! Take me out of this damned hole!” - -But which damned hole he meant the driver did not know, for Georges’ -gesture embraced the universe. The _gharry_ jolted and swayed along the -quay and, turning to the left, entered a semi-suburban region of large -houses, evil smells, and gutter children. It was dark here, and Georges -hated darkness. - -“Take me out of _this_ damned hole as well,” he shouted. - -And in a minute they emerged into Rue Egnatia and passed the Baths. -Georges had a thought. - -“I’ll get washed,” said he. “And after that,” he added, for he was a man -of some education and humour, “I will stay me with flagons and comfort -myself with apples.” - -So he stopped the _gharry_, alighted, and, paying his driver rather -regally, turned to the Baths. - -He arrived at the precise moment when Aristides Kronothos, having -decided that further custom that night was most improbable, was about to -discard his towel-robe and don his ordinary garments. In those dim Baths -he saw his enemy and recognized him, and, shrinking behind a pillar, -said in a high-pitched assumed voice: - -“Perhaps His Highness will take a room on the right.” - -Georges rolled up the half-dozen steps and entered the room. - - * * * * * - -Aristides was a man of great resource and some courage, and when his -mind, trumpet-like, had shouted to him: “My moment has arrived!” he ran -quickly to the outer door, bolting and locking it. Then he sped to a -little chamber, turned on a light and seized a razor.... - -There is no disguise like disfigurement, and within two minutes -Aristides had shaved off his eyebrows, taken out his prominent false -teeth, and cut a deep gash in his right cheek. The sight of his own -blood, as it fell into the bowl of water he had prepared, excited him -excessively, and as he swathed the lower part of his face in bandages he -breathed stertorously, and his eyes began to glitter with internal -light. But he worked quickly and without clumsiness, and he smiled with -satisfaction as he saw his thin blood creeping and spreading on the -bandage like red ink on blotting-paper. - -“It must just show,” he said to himself, “not enough to alarm or sicken -him, but sufficient to assure him that my bandage is necessary.” - -By now Georges was clapping his hands and calling for cognac, and it -was a very large glassful that Aristides, obsequiously bowing, handed to -him a moment later. - -“God!” exclaimed Georges, “you are bleeding.” - -“Yes,” said Aristides, “but it is nothing.” - -“But I wanted a massage, and you look ill.” - -“I assure you, it is nothing. It does not even hurt.” - -Georges drank the cognac with a gulp, and sighed with vexation. - -“I hate to see wounds,” he said, “are you sure your bandage is securely -fixed?” - -“Your Highness need not be afraid. I shall not take off my bandage while -Your Highness is here. And it will not slip,” he added with a humour -that he felt to be daring. - -“Very well, then: I’m ready. Sandals--a small pair.” - -His wooden sandals clicked down the steps as he followed Aristides. In -single file they crossed the large court-like entrance hall, entered a -passage that twisted and turned inconsequently, passed through a room -whose ceiling dripped incessantly, found another passage, and, turning -suddenly to the right, entered a circular room whose ceiling was a blind -dome. Here also the water dripped. - -“Like a cave,” observed Georges, with an utter lack of originality. “One -can imagine stalactites and stalagmites forming here and, in the course -of time, meeting and crusting together.” - -Aristides stood listening deferentially. He knew his man. He knew that -Georges, with his insatiable vanity, was seeking to impress him. - -Georges slipped off his towels, sat down on the raised marble slab and -submitted himself to his massage. - -Nothing, of course, can reach the mind except through the channel of the -senses. Yet something reached Georges’ mind that his eyes did not see, -nor his ears hear, nor his flesh feel. Fear began to bud and blossom in -his mind like a monstrous fungus. Yet, curiously, he did not fear -Aristides: he feared himself. - -“You are a clever masseur,” he observed, thinking banal conversation -might rid him of his terror. - -“I am glad Your Highness thinks so.” - -Aristides stopped in his work. He was kneeling by the side of his enemy, -and he fixed his glittering eyes on him with hate-hunger. - -“I think I’ve been massaged enough,” said Georges, feeling suddenly -sick. “I am not very well. Perhaps it was the cognac.... How silent this -place is! No sound but water dripping.” - -“We are here alone,” said Aristides. Though he spoke with no meaning in -his tone, Georges started violently and looked at the closed door. - -“Yes, it is locked,” said Aristides. - -And, without a word, the masseur rose languidly to his feet, crossed the -little chamber, and sat on the only chair it contained. Georges raised -himself to a sitting posture. His flabby face was pale, and -involuntarily he looked up at the windowless domes. - -“There is no way out here,” said Aristides, smiling grimly. - -“No. Why should there be? Will you fetch me some water? I feel faint and -damnably sick.” - -“Certainly.” - -Aristides brought a glass from a cupboard, filled it with water, and -handed it to his enemy. - -Georges, having drained its last drop, rose, swayed for a moment, and -sat down, wiping his perspiring forehead with the back of his hand. - -“You _look_ ill,” said Aristides. - -“I have drunk too much, I think. I drank on an empty stomach. Help me -out into the cooler air. All the air here has been used up: it has been -through a hundred lungs.” - -But Aristides did not move to help him. For a full minute there was -silence: a great silence emphasized by the drip-drip-drip of water -within the circular room. Georges was dimly aware of the water vapour -rising from the wet marble floor, and some strange inquiring part of his -brain wondered why the vapour made no noise as it floated upwards -through the dome. At length his wandering eyes were caught and held by -the eyes of Aristides, whose glance was sharp and poisoned. Georges -recoiled a little. - -“Surely I have seen you before?” he asked. - -“It is possible. It is likely. But I do not remember our meeting.... -Does Your Highness feel better now?” - -“A little. But I want air.” - -And then Georges suddenly began to tremble, for as he stopped speaking -he became blindingly aware of the identity of his masseur. His physical -cowardice was astonishing, but he had a bold, sinewy mind, and he -summoned all its subtlety to his aid. - -“Good God!” he exclaimed, with a welcoming smile, “you’re Kronothos! How -extraordinary! But I thought all along, somehow, that I knew you.” - -He held out his hand with a great gesture of pleasure. Aristides took -it, and with his own communicated to Georges an indefinable feeling of -impending woe. He did not speak. - -“But _you_ must have recognized _me_!” urged Georges. “Why did you not -say so? We were friends once, you know.” - -Aristides saw his fear and loved it. - -“Once it did certainly seem as though we were friends,” he admitted, -“but now, you see, I am the husband of the woman you live with.” - -Terror shook Georges in his very vitals, and he leaned over as though to -vomit. - -“Ah! Yes, yes!” he muttered. And his consciousness seemed to dart about -in his brain like a ferret in its cage. - -Aristides stood savouring the quaking fear of his victim, but it was -with difficulty he prevented himself from rushing upon his enemy and -crushing out his life. - -“Your Highness will wait here a little time whilst I tidy up,” he said. - -And he began folding the towels and swabbing the floor. Georges, sitting -with his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand, watched him with -apprehensive eyes. Finding this period of waiting no longer bearable, he -said, humbly: - -“Will you let me go? I am too ill to.... You know, I am not entirely to -blame. She was tired of you.... Living with you made her....” - -He stopped, fearing to speak more. Then: - -“Please let me go,” he added. - -With a bound Aristides was upon him, his wiry hands about Georges’ fat -throat, his finger-tips disappearing as far as the first joint into the -flesh of his wife’s seducer. He held on viciously, his fingers as firm -and frenzied as a bulldog’s teeth. Georges rolled over on his back, his -muscleless arms waving in the air like branches swayed by a breeze, and -a sound, half groan, half hiss, came from him as Aristides pressed his -right knee on his enemy’s chest. It lasted little more than a minute, -and at length the fat man of mixed blood lay soft and limp upon the -couch of marble whilst Aristides, exhausted, sat examining him -eagerly.... - -If you wish, you can be with him for a moment. In those spacious, -thick-walled Baths there is always deep silence save when customers and -workers are there; but the silence is constantly broken by big drops of -water that fall from roof and walls to the paved floor. As you listen, -there appears to be some purpose in this sound: some elaborate -scheming, maybe: some nefarious business afoot. It is the persistence of -it that counts, and it is the deliberateness of it that makes you -suspect conspiracies. - -After violence there is always reaction, and a reaction came to -Aristides very quickly as he sat dumbly looking on the dead body of his -victim. He had a feeling of approaching catastrophe--a feeling that -implied that what had happened was as nothing compared with what was -about to happen. Disaster had been released, like a lion, from its den, -and ravage must necessarily follow. He, so careful of his own life, felt -himself drawn, dragged, into disaster. And the agent of disaster was -himself. - -He rose, gave a final frightened glance at the body, unlocked the door, -and stumbled his way to the entrance of the building. He wanted to run -quickly and unthwarted to his doom. So he cast off his towel-robe and -began to don his outdoor clothing. And as he dressed he kept repeating -to himself: - -“Kalamaria! Kalamaria! I will go to Kalamaria to die.” - -For beyond Kalamaria, where the little cliffs are, the sea is deep, and -the water would take his body and smother it. He did not want to die, -and a deep fear shook his heart as he thought of death. But he could not -help himself. Something within him--the lion he had let loose--was -driving and goading him on towards death: his terror of death was as -nothing compared with his terror of discovery, for discovery would mean -prolonged torture as well as death, and he had already been tortured to -his soul’s full capacity. - -What could bring him solace? Drink. Of course. The very word already -soothed him, as the promise to lend money immediately soothes the eager -borrower. He took a bottle of cognac from the shelf and drank deeply and -agitatedly. The liquid burnt his throat and stoutened his heart. He -stopped and gasped for breath, and then drank again, and again gasped. -Yes: yes: the stuff was already averting disaster: the lion would, in -the latter end, pass him by. For, after all, what had he done? Simply an -act of justice. Nothing more. An act of bare justice, for was it not -right that a seducer of women should die? He had, it is true, taken the -law into his own hands. But what man wouldn’t? What man doesn’t?... - -Oh, yes: he felt much happier, much stronger, now. Nearly, very nearly, -he was content. The cognac fumes dizzied his brain, and as he rose to -leave the Baths, he lurched and laughed insanely at himself for doing -so. Turning out the lights, he opened the door and looked into Rue -Egnatia twenty yards or so away. The shops were lit: there was plenty of -traffic: an electric tram clattered by. The entire city, except these -loathsome Baths, seemed very friendly. And he was about to issue forth -into the night when the thought of the unconsumed cognac came to him. If -the half-bottle he had already drunk had killed his fear, would not the -remainder remove the very cause of that fear? The drink-fumes in his -brain assured him it would, and he re-entered the baths, felt his way to -the shelf, and carefully groped for the bottle his soul desired. He -found it and drank deeply. - -And then he sat down and began dully to think--a stupefied brain in an -exhausted body. The bottle fell from his nerveless fingers, and the -liquor, pouring out, filled the air with the thick, sickly smell of -scented alcohol. Through the open door came a stray dog; it gazed round -in the darkness and wandered away. - -Throughout that night Aristides Kronothos slept heavily and -dreamlessly--slept for an hour or two in a sitting posture until, -swaying a little, he overbalanced himself and fell stupidly and without -protest to the floor. It was there, Rompapas told me, that he was found -next morning, still crazy with liquor, still confident that he had -averted disaster. - -When last I heard of him he was in the Citadel--a mild, gentle figure, -pathetically happy, and with a keen and soul-comforting remembrance of -his last encounter with George Georges. - - - - - -THE DREAMER - -To -Edith Heald - - -Every few years, gathering his small savings together, he left -intolerable Salonika and went to Athens where he dreamed away a month of -spring on the Acropolis, in the great weed-overgrown cemetery where -remnants of ancient beauty lie broken and marred, and in the Temple of -Jupiter in which he imagined he could hear faint music, and where, of a -surety, he witnessed dim processional rites unseen by others. And always -a few days were spent in Eleusis--fever-stricken Eleusis, so foul -to-day, so fair yesterday: Eleusis that still holds its Mysteries known -only to the gods: Eleusis where, each morning at dawn, he issued from -the muddy, sordid inn and, slipping off his white tunic, bathed in the -Ægean, singing to himself and gazing long and long into the clear -waters. - -Athens to him was a White Paradise, and he would have left Salonika -years since to make his home there had not his bedridden mother clung -with increasing fretfulness to the gaudy city where her forefathers had -lived ever since the great exodus of Jews from Spain, centuries ago. To -her son, Salonika was hateful, for it was ever in conflict with his -dreams, and dreams were his life. They kept his soul winging. Whereas -Athens threw him into a quiet ecstasy. The present slipped into -nothingness, and the past lived.... - -There was a certain marble figure in the museum which seemed to him to -hold all Ancient Greece in its limbs and face.... A green lizard -clinging, sun-smitten, to a white wall seemed to belong to a remote age; -and a valley full of white butterflies--butterflies so thickly clustered -that they looked like dancing snow--was even now haunted by Pan. And at -night the moon on the marble of the Parthenon made him giddy with the -piercing realness of life.... - -But this evening he was at home, standing at his shop-door at the corner -of the Place de la Liberté. He gazed with shy eagerness up Venizelos -Street, that ill-paved gutter of a street where Birmingham and Hamburg -jewelry compete with one another for Jewish gold. Here, every evening, -he was to be seen, and, when no customer was in his shop bargaining for -a cast of Venus or for some piece of ivory carved by the Dreamer’s -sensitive hands, he would stand there in the daytime also, his rather -tired eyes full of hunger. For--but it was not likely--she might come by -day, though a years-old intuition insisted that the time of her arrival -would be some evening between sunset and dark. - -Many people knew him and saluted him as they passed by: to these salutes -he responded gravely, and a little dignified gesture of his hands spoke -in duet with his voice: “God be with you! I pray you, do not speak to -me.” Hands so beautiful might well have made him vain, but he never -thought of himself. And though he lived so intensely, he was very rarely -conscious of his happiness except each night when, having closed the -street-door, he sought his bed with strange relief. - -Venizelos Street was never beautiful, or even picturesque, till the -great fire of August 1917 came like a giant and, in a few hours, twisted -it to fantastic shapes. And the Dreamer loathed it, though he made -himself spend many hours of each day in gazing upon its squalidness, his -eyes ranging from the Place de la Liberté up to the point where the -street narrows and the Arcade and the Bazaars begin. But he had one of -the secrets of happiness: he could look at things and not see them: -better, far better, he could see things that were not there. Stein’s -steel-walled shop did not exist: Orosdi Back had never been there with -his wine and pickles: Tiring was only the faint echo of a name. -Salonika’s life-blood moved sluggishly in that main artery; but the -slowness was a predatory slowness--the cautious movement of men and -women for ever on the prowl. Sometimes his eyes would rest for a moment -on the discontented rich as they sat on their little chairs outside -Floca’s, drinking syrups and haggling over prices. They were nearly as -unreal to him as Jesus Christ is to the Christian. - -He rarely glanced towards the sea, for he was sure she would not come -that way. The mountains were her home. She would come drifting like a -wraith, and, leaving the mountains, place her tiny feet on the plain, -flutter past Lembet and Karaissi, enter the town, and, turning to the -left down Rue Egnatia, reach this ugly street that sloped to and ended -in the tideless sea. Surely, crocuses and anemones would bloom on the -pavement when she came, and with her would come the stirring of a -breeze. It must be so: he had pictured it so often. She had radiant -eyes, he knew. She had always been young, ever since the beginning of -the world. Youth was hers for ever. And her hair ... his heart leapt, -for it seemed to him that her hand was about his heart: his heart cupped -in her hand: a hand cool and, in some curious way, conscious of itself. -Her hair was in his eyes, blinding them. A great light shone about her. - -When she came, she would not speak to him: but, all the same, she would -know. That was what he was waiting for, living for: that she should -know. - -A complaining voice came from the room just above his head. Turning -swiftly, he passed through the shop where a few pieces of statuary -gleamed white against the walls and shelves painted black, and quickly -mounted the staircase. - -“God be with you, mamma!” he breathed, as he bent over a little -curled-up figure that lay on a bed near the window. The paralysed woman -murmured a little something he could not hear. - -“I am here,” he said. “Feel me.” - -And he placed a lean cheek against one of her hands. - -A devastating weakness overcame her and she cried a little, but her -weeping, suffocated by exhaustion, soon ceased. She lay still and -seemingly asleep, and the Dreamer, kneeling by her side, felt pity -rising like a fountain in his heart. Her sallow face was like his own, -aristocratic, broad-brewed, patient. The eyes were still full of Jewish -ardour. He worshipped her always as a devotee worships the Madonna. It -was she who had quickened his love for the Beauty that lies behind -beautiful things, who had taught him that all life was a Seeming, who -had added glamour and twilight and witchery to his entire environment. - -“Great little mamma!” he whispered. - -She smiled wanly and opened her eyes for a brief instant. - -“Were you watching?” she asked. - -At this he started guiltily, for he had told no one, not even his -mother, why he stood nightly at the street-door. - -“Yes,” he said simply. - -“My poor son!” she murmured, her face tense with anxiety. “What you wait -for will never come.” - -“No?... But if she did, and I were not there? You see how it is, mamma. -I _must_ be there.” - -“Yes, yes. One must always be there, waiting.” - -Her face composed itself, and, after waiting a few minutes, and thinking -she slept, he tiptoed away, his heart rushing before him to welcome the -lady of his dreams. - -(Yet how was it that, having reached the doorway and having darted a -glance up the street, an expression of immeasurable relief lit his face -when he had satisfied himself that she was not coming down that way?) - -Darkness was beginning, and demireps issued from side streets to the -Place. Greek women, flat-footed and unbeautiful, waddled by, virtuous -and miserable in their virtue. They carried virtue with them like a -shroud. The demireps, haughty and impudent, were like flowers in the -dusk. Lights appeared in the shop windows and the street traffic ebbed. -Plashing of waves against the quay almost level with the water less than -a hundred yards away, could faintly be heard. The Dreamer, looking -towards the sea for a robbed minute, saw divine Olympus, purple and -august, glowing and dying in the glowing and dying sky. So all beauty -faded and died, to be reborn richer for its ancestry, more wonderful for -its age. - -He sighed, and his hungry eyes sought his lady. His brain was washed -clean of life: nothing dwelt in his mind but his dream. And -unconsciously he clenched his hands to convince himself for a moment of -his ecstasy, and to make that ecstasy more intense.... - -Those gracious, tender figures on the Acropolis! How chastely their -garments hung! They had only life that _was_ life, and perchance even -now--oh, yes, _now_, for a faint slip of moon was gliding down the -sky--they were walking, hand in hand, silently, in the Parthenon. They -mysteriously were she, his lady, his lady who must never speak to him, -but who one day, or one evening like this, would appear among this -depravity, and, looking on him, know and for ever remember.... - -The thought of Olympus dying away in the South came to him, and he -stole another glance at the mountain’s almost dead glory. Its summit was -white. A small boat heaped up with fruit was at the quay’s edge. Golden -oranges were massed together.... Yes: she would wear golden sandals, and -on her wrists would be gold, and gold would be on her hair.... His -impressions mingled confusedly; thought lay dead. - -I do not think that in all Salonika, and perhaps in all the world, there -was so happy a man that night as the Dreamer in his hours of watching -and longing. - -He lingered in his doorway until the streets became silent. She was not -coming. Not to-night. She was not coming with her everlasting youth, -bringing with her also his own renewed youth. For many years he had -waited, but every night she had disappointed him. - -The night was now full-starred, for the moon had gone. A dog, shapeless -in the dark, nosed in the gutter. Two whispering old men passed close -by. - -At length, exhausted by his vigil, the Dreamer turned and re-entered his -shop. His happiness, his sense of relief, was too great for expression. -As he closed the door quickly behind him, it was as though he were -shutting out the Dreadful One. He stood dazed in the darkness. The -oblong room in which he stood was perfumed and sweet. The white pieces -of statuary standing against the walls made themselves just visible; -they seemed made of mist, intangible; their outlines were blurred. -Rubbing his eyes, he stared at the statuary and smiled. Then he -stretched his arms to their utmost above his head and, bending his head -back, turned his face to the ceiling. In utmost weariness he stretched -himself and yawned. - -And then, uttering a cry of delight, he rushed upstairs to his mother. -He fumbled with a lamp and lit it. Then he went to his mother’s bedside. - -“Oh, mamma, mamma,” he said, “she has not come. It has not happened. My -dream has not come true. Oh, I am so happy, so very happy!” - -He kissed her cheek. Her eyes, opened wide, searched him through and -through, as they had done on so many occasions. - -“Oh, my son, my son!” she exclaimed, pityingly. - -But he smiled with serene happiness, and taking a wisp of her meagre -hair between his finger and thumb gently rubbed it. - -“The gods be with you,” he said, “as they are with me.” - - - - - -WHEN THE GREEN ROSES CAME - -To -Trevor Johns - - - -There are only two people in this story: Zuleika, a large, indeed -massive, Jewess from Bucharest, and a rather elderly English diamond -merchant with a slight body and a white moustache. - -For some odd reason--largely, I think, because he was both infinitely -courteous and gaily reckless--he attracted me, and, because I had been -some considerable time in Salonika and he had only just arrived, he -requested me to “show him round.” Before proceeding to do so, I asked -him what were the three things in the world he loved most of all. He -replied at once: “Animation, colour, and women.” - -“Then,” said I, “my task is easy. Come with me.” - -So we stepped into a _gharry_ (we were staying at a farm a little off -the road to Hortiach), and bumped down the Lembet Road, past the funny -old cemetery on our right, and stopped importantly in the middle of that -disastrously sordid square in which the Rue Egnatia and the road from -Lembet meet. - -“And that’s that,” remarked Twelves as, having stepped from the -_gharry_, we watched it waggle away. - -It was May 1913. The afternoon was late, and a cool breeze swept along -the sun-strewn street. My friend had (which I have not) the carriage of -a soldier, and, though I could give him at least three inches, I am -confident that, in the eyes of the women we met, he appeared to tower -above me. I think he was conscious of this, though he seemed to try to -hide it. To him, fresh from a tedious voyage from Bahia, Venizelos -Street was Paradise, and when we came to the Place de la Liberté, he -stood and looked at the gay crowd outside Floca’s with a slow, beguiling -smile about his mouth. - -“I am beginning to sit up and take notice,” he remarked; “this, if I am -not mistaken, is indubitably IT.” - -If “IT” meant laughter, light, and delicate linen discreetly displayed, -he was right. People from all the countries of Europe were there. The -ladies, being large and languid, and the early afternoon having been -insufferably hot, wore as little as possible. This, Twelves pointed out -with unnecessary particularity, was precisely as it should be. - -But I am not going to tell you about Floca’s, for the tragedy did not -begin there; indeed, nothing really began until well on in the evening -when, as we were starting dinner at the White Tower, the sound of music -came to us from the adjoining room. - -“It is Debussy’s ‘Les Poissons d’or,’” said Twelves, swallowing -whitebait, “and this is just the right atmosphere for it.” - -Then, placing his napkin upon the table, he rose from his seat. - -“In a minute I shall return,” he said, excusing himself and hastening -from the room. But ten minutes passed before he rejoined me, and a -single glance at him revealed that something of importance had happened -to him in the meantime. - -“I’ve just seen Jezebel, or Cleopatra, or Zola’s Nana in that room,” he -said, excitedly, jerking his head in the direction from which the music -was proceeding. “She’s stunning. The restaurant people tell me they have -dancing in there after dinner--dancing and music. Shall we go?” - -A curious, half-insane gleam of desire was in his eyes; he looked as -though he were on the point of attaining something for which he had been -striving all his life. His hands shook a little and he moistened his dry -lips with the tip of his tongue. - -Now Salonika is the City of Evil Women, and not a few rapacious demireps -prowl like sleek tigers, subtle and wise, through the garish rooms and -prim gardens of the White Tower. They are wonderful to look upon; their -voices are like soft music; their hands are fluttering white moths; -their mouths are innocently crooked. Gorgeous works of art they are, -and, as works of art, entirely commendable; but to speak to them is to -be poisoned, and to embrace them is to place one’s arms around Death. I -said as much to Twelves, but he did not appear to listen, and as he was -at least fifteen years older than myself and a man of more worlds than -one, I did not venture to make my words more insistent or pointed. - -As we were eating ices and hot cherries, the music, which had hitherto -been played by a master, became vulgar and tawdry. It was a vapid valse -given with a lunging and immoderate accent on the first beat of every -bar. - -“That’s the sort of thing that makes cities loathsome,” remarked -Twelves, referring to the music; “let’s go and stop it.” - -We arose, and I looked regretfully at six fat red cherries which, -against the yellow of my ice, appeared almost purple. - -A minute later we had entered the great room with its stage, its smooth -floor, its half-moon of boxes. As yet only a few people were there; they -sat round small tables imbibing vicious drinks and gazing with -half-contemptuous amusement at the _pianiste_. I saw at once that she -was the woman who had so rapidly inflamed Twelves’ passion, for even her -back was voluptuous, and her neck reminded me of certain passages in the -Song of Solomon. She was sensuality incarnate--sensuality brainless, -horrific, devastating. - -Twelves walked up to her and, placing his hand firmly on one of her -white shoulders, said: - -“Stop playing! You are making yourself ridiculous. Listening to you is -worse--infinitely worse--than being in Clapham. Come over here with my -friend and me and tell us of some of the wicked things you have done.” - -Her eyes swooped into his. They were large and lustrous, but, as they -sank into his, they decreased until the pupils became mere points of -light. Then her lips parted and she showed her little teeth in a broad -smile. I noticed that her skin appeared as firm and healthy as that of a -plum not wholly ripe. She ceased playing and, with a sharp gesture, -banged her fist upon the treble notes of the piano, placed one hand -upon Twelves’ arm and the other on mine, and walked between us to an -unoccupied table in the far corner of the room. As she did so she turned -and smiled triumphantly at the other ladies of her profession, and her -smile said: “See how easily I secure my prey! You, poor things, will -have to scheme and ogle till midnight.” - -Even before she was seated she clapped her hands to summon a waiter, and -presently ordered a bottle of champagne. - -“I always drink champagne with Englishmen,” she observed, “Beaume with -the French, and with the Germans--beer!” - -She looked at Twelves for his approval, and the smile he had ready for -her was ample assurance that she had said a very witty thing. - -“I come from Bucharest and my name is Zuleika,” she announced, -inconsequently. Her self-satisfaction was that of a deliciously vain -child. Then, with strange disconnectedness: “Would you like to see my -coins?” she asked. - -We expressed the greatest interest. - -“From Cairo,” she said, as she patted her satchel of beads the colour of -pigeons’ blood. She took therefrom a number of bright foreign coins and -held them in the cup made by her hollowed hands. - -But Twelves did not even glance at them. - -His strong, lithe fingers were embedded in the white flesh of her arm, -like manacles, and his eyes held hers. - -“Well, well, well,” she laughed, “but you must be good and patient.” - -She released her arm and touched him lightly on the cheek with the tips -of her fingers, smiling at him all the time. - -And then the waiter placed a silver bucket of ice on the table; in the -middle of the ice wobbled a bottle of Moet and Chandon. Zuleika showed -her teeth in a broad smile, and turned swiftly round to examine the -faces of those who, in the meantime, had sat down at neighbouring -tables. Her eyes gave a rapid signal to a silly-looking creature -immediately behind her; he had a face of lard, a drooping moustache, and -googly eyes. - -“Ah, Maestro!” she exclaimed, clasping his hands with gipsy ardour. - -She turned round to us just as Twelves was taking a 25-drachma note from -his pocket-book. Her face immediately assumed a cunning expression, and -she stretched out a plump arm, gripped the bottle by the neck, and -poured out the wine. - -“Another five drachmas,” she said softly, “that is the price in this -room.” Then, without a second’s pause, and holding her glass within an -inch of her ear in order to listen to the icy hiss: “I have been in -Salonika three weeks,” she announced, “and I think it is very nice. And -you?” - -“We both leave to-morrow,” he said. - -We clicked glasses and drank. The room was rapidly filling, and an -orchestra of scarlet-coated musicians played the latest Austrian waltz. -We talked about nothing, yet we were not bored by Zuleika’s -brainlessness, for Twelves was aflame with desire, and to me she was a -new type of huntress. Full-bosomed ladies, absurdly conscious of the -number and whiteness of their teeth, have always seemed to me much too -grotesque to love. - -It was not long before I began to perceive that Zuleika had no intention -of succumbing either to Twelves’ masterfulness or his money. She knew I -knew this, and was particularly charming to me in consequence. She -desired neither him nor me: her mind was in Twelves’ pocket-book, -counting his money: but she sought to make me her accomplice by securing -my silence. Her design was the design of all hunters--to fasten her -teeth on her prey and not lose hold while there was blood left to suck. - -A watery-eyed waiter hovered near, like a bat. She plucked his sleeve. - -“Another bottle!” she commanded imperiously, and, magically, it was on -the table in twenty seconds, but this time the neck of the bottle -emerged from a silver bucket filled with white roses. Evidently we were -now customers worthy of special attention. - -“C’est a vous,” she said, nodding and smiling in my direction, and -evidently it was, for the bat, with folded wings, stood by my side. - -It was while I was paying him in ten-drachma notes that an acquaintance -squeezed his way past our table, stooped and murmured in my ear: - -“Do you know how much she gets for each bottle you pay for?” - -“Haven’t the remotest,” said I, “about how much?” - -“Just a matter of ten drachmas. I hope she’ll prove worth it. But that, -I suppose, remains to be seen.” - -He went, and, turning round to the table, I saw much to my astonishment -that there were now four clean glasses on the tray the waiter had -brought. Zuleika was filling them all to the brim. - -“Maestro! Maestro!” she called, without turning her head. From the table -behind came the man with the googly eyes. He smiled familiarly yet -guardedly at us as he took the glass of champagne which Zuleika handed -him. He would have spoken to us if he had not seen the hostility in -Twelves’ and my eyes; but, without the slightest indication of -embarrassment, our uninvited guest tossed the contents of the glass into -his mouth, let them dwell there a moment, and then swallowed them with -an audible gulp. - -“He is my brother,” explained Zuleika, enthusiastically. - -“That may be so,” said Twelves, “nevertheless, he is an extremely -disagreeable person.” - -And his long hand darted out like a hawk and again plunged into the -flesh of her arm. He looked at her meaningly; indeed, his gaze was like -a shout saying, “I want you! I want you! I want you!” She turned away -from him impatiently. - -“Very well, then,” she said, “but you must wait a little. When the green -roses come. These are white, but round the fifth bottle there will be -green.” And she spread her hands over the white roses surrounding the -champagne bottle. - -“Oh, damn the green roses!” growled Twelves. “Here, waiter, another -bottle, quick!” - -She glanced at him from the tail of her eye, and then immediately became -absorbed in the performance of a tall angular girl who, with exquisite -art, was singing a rapid French song full of diablerie. She had no -looks, no voice, and no figure; but she had personality, genius. Silence -had fallen upon the drinkers, and every one listened and watched; only -the waiters, more than ever like bats, moved swiftly about, bearing -absinthe and vermouth on purple trays. The singer exhaled a charm that -diffused itself about the room; suddenly, she ceased singing, made a -faint gesture, threw a kiss to the audience, and vanished. Immediately -there was a great shouting and a stamping of feet. - -“It is always like that,” complained Zuleika, pouting. “The men love -her. Why? She is ugly and she is all bones and skin: Ugh! It makes me -sick to see so ugly a woman driving the men mad.” - -But the third bottle of champagne caught her eye, and she burst into a -laugh. - -“See,” she said, pointing to the roses, now pink, that surrounded the -bottle, “see my passion is--what do you call it?--rising--yes, rising!” - -In proof thereof, she threw her arm lightly round Twelves’ neck and -kissed him behind the ear. He paled with desire. As for me, I turned a -little to one side and made a pretence of studying the audience. The -next thing I was aware of, they were both leaning over the table, their -heads together, whispering. She was smiling, cunning and triumphant, -whilst his face wore an expression of irritation and baffled desire. - -“Come on, waiter, damn you!” he called, “another bottle and another. -Yes--two! Blood-roses round the first, and round the second green. And -that,” he added, “makes five.” - -“Yes, five. One, two, three, four, five,” she counted on her fingers. -“It is enough.” - -And in due course the two fresh bottles appeared. The bucket containing -the blood-red roses was placed in front of Zuleika: that containing the -green before Twelves. When the waiter had opened both bottles, Zuleika -ordered him to take one to the neighbouring table for “the Maestro.” - -“You seem to be very fond of your brother,” observed Twelves, “but it is -strange he should be willing to drink a whole bottle of wine paid for by -a complete stranger.” - -She looked at him darkly. - -“You wish to quarrel with me,” she said, “very well then, I am quite -content.” - -“So _that’s_ your game, is it?” exclaimed Twelves, with unexpected -ferocity. “You drink champagne with me for a couple of hours and then -think you can do what you like. The green roses have come and you must -pay for them.” - -He pulled out his pocket-book in order to pay for the wine, but before -he had handed the waiter the money, she held out her hand, palm upwards, -and placed it on the table. - -“One hundred and twenty-five drachmæ for me,” she whispered; and, -without a moment’s hesitation, he handed her five 25-drachmæ notes. - -Then an amazing thing happened. Quite openly, she swung round in her -chair and handed the five notes to the man she called “the Maestro.” He -took them and placed them carefully in his pocket; but, as he did so, he -kept his eyes fixed on Twelves. Twelves returned his gaze steadily. In -the eyes of the stranger I saw a look of amusement and half-veiled -contempt. And certainly Twelves was appearing in a contemptible light. -Even physically he was contemptible, for he looked very diminutive by -Zuleika’s side, and it was only his firm jaws and clear eyes that -redeemed him from futility. - -“Before we go we will drink this last bottle,” she said. - -They sat side by side without a word, drinking their champagne. As I -was, so to speak, out of it, I turned my head and gazed at the scene of -mad revelry that met my eyes, wondering and trying to discover precisely -what it was that made the frantic abandonment of the night different -from similar evenings I had spent in Paris, Marseilles, Cairo, and -Athens. I came to the conclusion that the difference was chiefly in the -women. They had no tenderness, no passion, no sense of adventure, no -enjoyment. They were simply rapacious. They did not walk: they prowled. -They did not sit: they couched.... - -During the last half-hour the chairs and tables in the middle of the -room had been removed and a few couples had started a bizarre form of -tango. A woman with bared breasts and arms, a broad crimson sash wound -three times round her body her only clothing, focused the onlookers’ -attention. She was tall and graceful, and her body imitated the -movements of a snake. It was horrible, but it was fascinating, and the -beast that is in most of us leapt to the faces of the men who looked on -and made them seem inhuman. Here was another huntress, but I felt that -her potential victims were as rapacious as she, and that soon she would -be their prey. - -From the tail of my eye I saw Twelves and Zuleika rise and move from our -table. It was as I had guessed. She would not repulse him here, but in -the spacious hall outside, for even in the White Tower “scenes” are not -tolerated. - -I followed at a discreet distance, feeling a sudden nausea at the vice -around me and longing for the northern mountains of Greece where I had -spent the winter. There was a sickly smell of heliotrope, and the air -was misty with tobacco smoke. - -When they had reached the hall, Twelves and Zuleika stopped in earnest -conversation, but I moved on to the cloakroom to get our hats and -sticks. This occupied me for only a minute, but when I had returned I -found my companions in the midst of a furious, though subdued, quarrel. - -Twelves hardly spoke, but when he did so, he jerked out a sentence in a -whisper so passionate that it sounded more urgent than a scream. -Fragments of the conversation reached me. - -“But it’s impossible,” exclaimed Zuleika, “to-morrow. Not now.... My -husband is here. Yes, yes, yes! I have told you already. The Maestro is -my husband. He would kill me.... How _dare_ you! But you Englishmen are -all pigs. I go back to the room. And you ... you clear out!” - -She stretched out her arm with a superb gesture and pointed to the door. -But Twelves stood resolute. - -“You red fiend!” he whispered, “but I will have you yet.” - -Two waiters had stopped to watch. One of them, a lascivious Greek, broke -into a giggle. - -“You are coming with me and you are coming now,” said Twelves, “if you -don’t, I shall have no mercy on you.” - -Then she laughed and threw her beaded satchel over Twelves’ head to one -of the waiter’s behind her. He caught it, and she folded her arms. - -“I could laugh at you,” she said, “but if I once began I should never -stop. What is it you say in England--‘No fool like an old fool,’ isn’t -it? And a fool always threatens what he can’t do. _You will have no -mercy on me!_ Boo!” - -And, swift as lightning, she thrust out her arms and caught him by the -shoulders. For a few seconds her massive frame towered above him and she -shook him violently. The waiter renewed his high falsetto giggling. -Then, placing one foot behind her, she lunged her body forward, and her -muscular arms shot out like two piston-rods. Twelves fell backwards, his -head striking a heavy chair four paces behind him. As he did not move, I -rushed forward to his help, but, as I rushed, the waiters ran also, and -we arrived at Twelves’ prone body at the same moment. - -Twelves, though badly injured, was perfectly conscious. - -“Take me out,” he said, “I feel bloody sick.” - -And that is all that happened. - -At the beginning of this story I called it a tragedy, but perhaps you -think that “comedy” describes it better. Well, on the whole, so do I. - -I only hope Twelves does too. - - - - - -PAUL OF TARSUS - -To -Julius Harrison - - - -Paul had finished his day’s work at the quay-side of Thessalonica -unloading a cargo of timber, and now sat watching two young men, -followers of Christ and dear friends of his own, who, naked to the -waist, were washing the day’s sweat and dirt from their arms and faces. -They were Greeks--handsome, athletic, and full of gaiety. - -“Art thou tired, Master?” asked the younger of the two, walking up to -the great traveller and preacher and offering him a wet cloth for his -face. - -“What--with this kind of work?” said Paul, smiling. “Thou thinkest I am -old and weak, I know,” he added, taking the cloth from his young friend -and pressing it gratefully against his bared throat. - -“No, dear Father, I don’t.... I will sit by thy side until Aristarchus -has finished cleansing himself.... Father, I want to ask thee -something.” - -“Well, my son: ask.” - -But the young man stared across the sea to Olympus and would not speak. -Paul, divining the mood that was upon him, touched his arm gently. - -“Ask me any time, my son.” Then he added eagerly and with some passion: -“Hast thou told Aristarchus thou wishest to marry?” - -“Marry?” - -The young man laughed nervously and self-consciously. - -“Father, I might have known thou wouldst guess,” he said. “No, I have -not told Aristarchus. I have told no one: not even her.” - -“And it is about her thou wishest to speak with me?” - -“Yes, Father, it is,” answered Lycastus. - -But again he sat silent, not being able to speak one single word; and -presently Aristarchus came over to them, his bronzed face wet, his neck -and arms bare. - -“Jason will be expecting thee,” he said to Paul. - -“Yes,” assented Paul. “And thou, Aristarchus? Whither art _thou_ going?” - -“I am going home to my wife and little son to talk of Jesus Christ. But -I will walk some way with thee, Master,” he said. “Come, Jason will have -his food spread for thee, and, I doubt not, some wine for thy tired -body.” - -“Aristarchus, thou knowest I am not tired,” said Paul, reproachfully, -“it is only here that I am weary,” he added, placing his hand against -his heart. “Come, Lycastus and Aristarchus, we will walk together.” - -But though Paul had protested that he was not weary, he walked half a -pace behind the young men and placed a heavy hand on the shoulder of -Aristarchus. They walked in a westerly direction, towards the marshy -mouth of the great river, and when they were clear of the city walls, -they slackened their pace. Already the air was cooler, for the evening -was coming and the sun was now sliced across by the horizon. Olympus, in -a delicate mist, burned milkily like an opal. - -“Aristarchus,” said Paul a little absently, “Lycastus has something to -tell thee.” - -But Lycastus, hanging his head, did not speak. - -“Lycastus, what is it?” asked Aristarchus. “But I see how it is with -thee. Thou art shy. Thou art in love and thou wishest to marry.” - -He laughed a little. - -Lycastus placed his arm for a moment on the arm of his friend. - -“_Thou_ knowest also? Who told thee?” - -“Thyself. Has he not told us, Master? Thou hast been very happy these -last weeks, Lycastus, and sometimes thou hast been sunk deeply in moods -of the sweetest misery. And sometimes the blood has come quickly to thy -cheeks for no reason that I could see, and has gone as quickly as it -came. It is only a maid who does that to a man. What is her name?” - -“Her name is Drusilla.” - -“And she loves thee?” asked Aristarchus, encouragingly. - -“I think she does. I have prayed that she may.” - -They walked on in silence for a little while, Paul’s eyes bent on the -ground. - -“What dost thou say of it, dear Father?” asked Lycastus, timidly. - -“If thou hast been praying to Jesus Christ and He has helped thee, what -can I say? Those who must marry must marry. But I shall lose thee as I -have lost Aristarchus.” - -“Oh, Master: thou knowest well thou hast not lost me!” exclaimed -Aristarchus, reproachfully. “We love and serve the same God. It was you, -Master, who gave Jesus to me and I still have Jesus.” - -“Nevertheless, thou hast gone from me. I feel thou hast. Thy wife -has--stolen thee.” - -Aristarchus, angry and resentful, moved a little away from Paul so that -Paul’s hand slipped from his shoulder and his arm fell dead and limp. - -“It is not true, Master,” he said. - -“No, dear Father, it is not true,” urged Lycastus. - -“Only I,” said Paul, “can know who are those who dwell in my heart, and -thou, Aristarchus, are not one of them.... But here I leave thee. This -road on our left is mine and, as thou hast reminded me, Jason will be -waiting for me.” - -The three men stopped at the cross-roads in the dusk. It was the short -time of half-light. The sky in the east was the green of apples, and in -the west it was like the red of the pomegranate’s fruit. All three men -were disturbed and sad. Aristarchus, so loyal and patient, felt his -anger melt suddenly: the something hard in his bosom softened and went. - -“Come, Master,” he said, “come to my home. Come and speak with my wife. -Thou dost not know her because thou wilt not.” - -“But, Jason will be....” began Paul, the words dying on his lips. - -“Go with him, dear Father,” urged Lycastus, “I will come with thee.” - -So Paul turned without a word and went with his young friends, but the -dark look on his face matched the dark shadow that, from the northern -mountains, was swallowing up this land. - -It was but a short way to the house of Aristarchus, and as they entered -the little stone dwelling they found a woman awaiting them. Aristarchus -saluted his wife with a kiss, placing his hands one on each shoulder. - -“Master, this is my wife, and here, Philyra, is Paul of Tarsus of whom -thou hast heard me tell so many times.” - -“Welcome, Master,” she said, and she pressed herself against the doorway -to let him pass. - -Inside there was but little light. The son of Aristarchus and Philyra -was asleep in a wooden cradle on the floor near the centre of the room. -On a table near by were wine and food. - -“Thou wilt sit and drink, Master?” asked Philyra. - -But Paul waved her aside and remained standing. - -The child woke and, seeing his father, said some little words. He was -fair, like his tender, beautiful mother. As Aristarchus moved forward to -greet his son, Lycastus pulled his garment, but Aristarchus, paying no -heed, walked to the crude cradle he had made, and bent over his babe. He -gave the child his finger to play with, and lingered by him a moment or -two. - -“Didst thou finish thy work?” inquired Philyra, abashed yet very eager. - -“Yes. It was very hot. Our Master has come to talk with us, Philyra. -Thou wilt sit, Master?” - -“No,” answered Paul, “I came for but a minute. Jason awaits me. And I -would be alone. Farewell!” - -“Stay, Master, stay!” cried Philyra. “I have heard thee talk of -Christ--many times I have heard thee in the market.” - -She shrank a little after she had spoken, afraid that she had said what -should have been left to others. - -Paul looked at her kindly, but with no trust in his eyes. - -“Thy son has been baptized?” he asked. - -“Oh, yes. Indeed, yes,” she answered. - -“And thou and Aristarchus are already followers of Christ! Why, then, -should I linger? So many are unsaved.” - -“I think,” said Lycastus, “some men and some women want support in their -faith. When the light is withdrawn, there is darkness.” - -“Put not thy faith in man, Lycastus,” said Paul, sternly. “Light -proceeds from God, and God never withdraws Himself.” - -“Then if thou art not the light,” said Philyra in a whisper, “thou art -the lamp that shields the light, that keeps it burning--for us.” - -But Paul’s dark face remained dark, and when the child in the cradle -began again to speak little words, the great teacher turned to go. He -withdrew very silently, saying only, “Farewell!” as he reached the door. -As he disappeared, Lycastus asked Aristarchus a question with his -eyebrows, and, in reply, Aristarchus gravely lowered his head. - -So Lycastus followed Paul into the night which by now had come. He -could see his Master outlined against the thick stars. Paul was walking -slowly; his heavy frame was bent, and his robe trailed in the dust. -Lycastus, fearing to incur his anger, walked some paces behind his -Master, and his sandalled feet stepped warily. - -He loved Paul dearly, and to-night his heart ached for him and his -conscience smote him. But so full of tenderness is the heart of man, and -so sweetly selfish is man’s love for woman, that in a very short time he -had forgotten his Master and, in imagination, Drusilla walked by his -side, her slender fingers in his, her head on his heart. For Lycastus -was never alone. As soon as he was withdrawn from others, Drusilla was -with him. To-night the stars were in her hair, and the little breeze was -her breath. And he fell to thinking of the house they would share and of -the babe that would be born to them, and in his heart of hearts he knew -that what Paul had said was true. Paul had lost Aristarchus, and -Lycastus soon would be lost to him also. - -“It must be so! It is right it should be so!” said Lycastus to himself. - -Yet he felt sad when he thought of Paul, and he sought in his mind for -something he could say or do to comfort him. - -Presently they were at the cross-roads. Paul stopped, turned, and saw -his young friend approaching. But he would not return Lycastus’ -greeting; instead, he stood firm and rigid, his thick neck and noble -head immovable. The wild eyes had in them light that was not borrowed -from the stars. - -“Pass on!” he said. “Trouble me not!” - -So Lycastus passed on to his home and, ere he had unloosened his robe, -had forgotten Paul and was already dreaming of Drusilla and the glad -days to come. - - - - - -THE MOON MAN - -To -Samuel Langford - - - -Sour and always a little miserable, Vuk Karadjitch worked all day in the -fields, feeling that life had brought him nothing. Life was as tasteless -as water, as unmusical as the chink of money on a counter. He could not -conceive why he had been born; existence was a casually organized series -of accidents. Every thing that happened was accidental. Death was the -only event that the gods had deliberately and elaborately planned: one -saw death coming almost from the very moment that one was born. - -Karadjitch had the lithe body of an aristocrat: the features also, and -the poise of head. His neck had proud muscles, and his throat was -shapely. But though he had the appearance and carriage of one highly -born, his birth was lowly, and the education he had snatched, almost -stolen, from life was not of the kind to increase his money-earning -capacity. - -His mind, a little marred at birth, had been almost ruined by knowledge. -His brain fastened itself on the past--on mythology--the sweet legend of -Hylas, and on the golden story of Helen of Troy. It is so easy to make -the past more real than the present: it is so pleasant to do this, so -fruitful of happiness. So Vuk Karadjitch lived in the days that were -long before his birth. - -And as he worked in the orchards that lie above Kirekoj--working at -night to keep robbers away--he stared continually at the moon, the moon -that was to him the oldest and most tired thing in all God’s universe. -Ever since he had been a boy this wayward planet had excited him, and -the coming of manhood had not lessened the strange sympathy, even -longing, that he felt for the great globe of light wandering with such -self-conscious pride among the stars.... - -His mother, a harassed, reserved woman, used years ago to put little Vuk -to bed with fear whenever the moon shone through the high, shutterless -window. She would cover his head so that he should not see the blue -light on the wall. - -“Go to sleep, child,” she would whisper as she bent over him; “do not -walk to-night.” - -But almost of a certainty he would rise in his sleep and walk to the -room in which his mother sat, his eyes open and luminous, his little -hands stretched palm upwards in front of him. Then she would tremblingly -put down her work, go to him, and just touching him with the tips of her -fingers, guide him back to bed. - -If, as often happened, the boy’s father was in the house when Vuk -walked, the gnarled old man would roughly seize him and shake him into -terrified wakefulness. - -“It’s a beating the lad wants,” the father would say; and, indeed, one -night he raised his hand and his son staggered and shrieked under the -blow he received. - -Vuk’s father had reason, though he knew it not, to dislike the boy. -Karadjitch was a cuckold, but so little suspicion had he of this, that -he smiled with secret pleasure when neighbours remarked how like to him -was his wife’s handsome boy. - -One evening the mother arranged a curtain over the bedroom window so -that the moon could not get at her son. But even on that night Vuk -walked. And, a few evenings later, softly entering his room, his mother -saw him standing on the back of a high chair at the window, his body -precariously balanced, his dilated eyes fixed most questioningly on the -molten moon.... - -She spoke nothing to her neighbours of all these things which, I must -tell you, happened fifteen years ago in that most lovely of -towns--Doiran so white and perfect standing by the blue, deep lake whose -name is also Doiran. - - * * * * * - -Kirekoj has no lake like Doiran, yet Vuk, now a young man of -twenty-three, loved this place cupped so gently in the mountains. He had -only to walk up through the vineyards and orchards and drag himself to -the top of the ridge to see Langaza which, though not so beautiful as -Doiran, is perhaps more mysterious. - -Just as, when a boy, he had been employed to scare away birds from the -crops, so was he now paid to guard the fruit-burdened orchards from -robbers.... - -One night in August his depression was so great that, as he sat with his -back against a young pomegranate tree, he allowed his mind to become -numb with wretchedness. There was no moon this night, and he had come to -depend so much upon this far-off friend of his that a great loneliness -oppressed him. A dog, snuffing in the undergrowth, came to him and put -his nose in Vuk’s open hand. The young man made no response, but the dog -licked and liked him and stayed with him. And every night the -affectionate wild creature would come and sit by him. Never once did Vuk -give him a caress or vouch him a word. Yet he never wished the dog to go -away. - -The man and woman in Kirekoj with whom Vuk lived were kind to him, -though they thought him strange and often wondered what his thoughts -were. When Vuk set out in the evening to his work, the woman would give -him a little parcel of food--bread, a handful of olives, and a bottle of -red wine, and Vuk would smile at her shyly and say some words of thanks. -The young men of the village--mostly Bulgars--had long ago accepted him; -at first, they had teased him a little, but as he always replied with a -smile of good-nature, they had soon come to see that his oddness was not -a thing to give them amusement. - -Sometimes Vuk would try to throw himself into their company, forcing -himself to be one of them. He was afraid of his own strangeness. But his -abnormal shyness barred his way, and the sensitive distaste he had for -life was too strong to be overcome. He envied his fellows. He envied -their capacity for comradeship, their day-long happiness, the ease with -which they laughed and talked. But he could never become like them. His -self-distrust increased with the years, and he turned more passionately -than ever to his dreams of the past and to his silent companion in the -sky. - -One afternoon, the man with whom he lived came in from his work in the -fields and found Vuk reading a book. - -“Will you drink wine with me?” the man asked. - -“Thank you: I will,” answered Vuk, shrinking a little. - -The man poured out two glasses, and, as the day was very hot, Vuk -drained his at a single draught. The man silently refilled it, and in -five minutes the glass was again empty. - -His host, looking at him, smiled. - -“Why don’t you go to the inn and drink with Stepan and the other lads?” -he asked. “To get drunk sometimes is good for a man.” - -Vuk, returning his gaze, smiled also. - -“I will drink with you, if you like,” he returned, for the wine had -excited him, and he did not feel as much afraid as usual. - -So his host brought another bottle and yet another and, after some time, -Vuk began to talk. - -“Am I in your way living here?” he asked, his eyes looking wounded and -beseeching. - -“No. I like you to be here. My wife likes you to be here. We are all -happy together--eh?” - -“I am happy with you,” said Vuk. “I often want to say things to you, but -I can’t. I am not stupid. I understand things, but--somehow---- ” His -voice trailed off to a murmur. Then, clenching his fists and tightening -all his body, he said with an effort: “I understand things, but I cannot -speak about them. It seems as though you are all so far off that you -wouldn’t grasp what I said. And I am always afraid that I might say -something that would be strange to you.” - -His host laughed tolerantly. - -“We are all strange, eh? And what would it matter if we didn’t -understand you? You must talk: it is good for every man to talk. Perhaps -you are wise, and no one understands wise men.” - -This comforted Vuk a little. - -“Perhaps I am,” he said; “I do not know.” He paused for a moment. “Have -you--have you ever noticed at night how, though it may be very silent, -it is still more silent when the moon appears?” - -His companion considered a moment. - -“No, I don’t think I have,” he answered, shifting uneasily in his chair. - -Vuk took another mouthful of wine. - -“Well, you listen one night and you’ll hear. Especially when the moon is -just rising--red and swollen on the horizon. Of course, she is angry -then, and at those times I always think she is like some raging, drunken -queen rising from her couch in the middle of the night.” - -His companion stared at Vuk for a moment and then laughed. But by now -Vuk was too exalted and excited to notice that his host was -uncomfortable and perhaps a little contemptuous, and, putting his arms -on the table and leaning forward, he began to talk volubly. - -“I wish I had money to buy jewels,” he said, “especially certain jewels -like opals. I would like to hold many opals in the hollow of my hand: I -would like to crush them together between my hands. You know that all -fire is the sun. Did you know that? Yes. I’m telling you. Take coal. -Coal is buried wood. And what is wood? Wood is trees. And it is the sun -that makes trees grow. It pulls at the ground and draws them out; it -warms them and feeds them. When you burn wood and coal, it is the sun -that leaps out at you--a little bit of the sun that has been silently -hiding for many years. A good deal of the sun is stored under the ground -and a good deal of it is alive and burning there. Well, it is the same -with the moon. Some precious stones absorb the moon. Opals do. That is -why I want to hold many opals in my hand and crush them together. And I -am sure that the moon gives herself to water, especially to large sheets -of water like Lake Langaza.” He paused a few moments, his thoughts far -away. “You can feel the moon, soft and sliding, on your limbs, if you -bathe at night when the moon is high in the sky: but when the dawn -comes, the light of the sun destroys all the moon that is in the water.” - -He noticed, for the first time, that his companion’s eyes were shut and -that his heavy breathing was developing into a snore. - -“I am explaining this to you!” exclaimed Vuk, peremptorily. - -But his host sank deeper into slumber, and for a little while Vuk talked -quietly to himself until he, too, slept. - - * * * * * - -That evening at dusk Vuk, dazed with wine, made his way to the orchards -above Kirekoj. For a long time he sat brooding among the trees, until -the moon, full and splendid, went redly up the sky. He watched her so -closely that he could see her moving. To-night she did not seem to -glide: she moved with just perceptible jerks--“Like the hands of a very -large clock,” said Vuk to himself, for he had wandered far and had lived -in many big cities. - -He watched the trees appearing out of the blackness: they seemed to be -marching upon him, closing in upon him. So he arose and began to walk, -and presently came to the edge of the orchard and looked up at the -mountain at whose feet he stood. He began to climb, and soon, after -leaving the vineyards behind him, he came upon large, bare rocks in the -clefts of which grass and flowers grew. It was while he was climbing -both with hands and feet that his dog-friend, excited but silent, joined -him. - -“Tchut! tchut!” said Vuk, beneath his breath. - -The dog, honoured by human speech, became still more excited, and Vuk -could see him dimly as, having rushed to the top of a high rock, he -stood open-mouthed, wagging his tail. - -Now, there was no one either in Langaza or Kirekoj who was more bound by -conscience to his work than Vuk Karadjitch, and it was very strange that -on this night he should, without effort, have left his master’s orchards -to wander up the mountains. He did not know where he was going or, -indeed, why he was “going” at all. But I have no doubt that something in -his brain--one of the many selves that were Vuk--was urging him forward -to some secret purpose of its own. - -Stillness and the moon’s rays held the night, and though the moon -falsified distance and misled even Vuk who was used to the moon’s -deceit, he reached the top of the mountains sooner than he had expected. -There, unseen, Langaza lay beneath him. Looking in Langaza’s direction, -he suddenly became aware of his motive in coming thither. Turning to the -dog, he muttered threateningly: - -“Go away! Go away!” - -But though he threw stones at the animal, it refused to leave him. So, -muttering to himself, Vuk proceeded down the other side of the mountain, -making his way to Langaza with impatient strides. - -Langaza is a lake without banks, and even a careful investigator will -find it difficult to determine where dry land ends and water begins. -Rushes and grasses, tropically luxuriant, grow from dry earth, mud, and -the lake’s bed. In hot weather the air is miasmatic, and millions of -mosquitoes make with their wings high shrieks as they fly their way -through the air. - -When Vuk found himself on the edge of this poisoned richness, he was -covered with sweat, and the fumes of the afternoon’s wine had left his -brain. For a little time he stood looking at the moon--not at the moon -in the sky, for that was too far away, and its very distance mocked him; -but at the moon in the lake that was so near. Man cannot without wings -soar into the sky, but his own weight will carry him to the bottom of -the deepest abyss. - -He walked into the rushes and grasses and, in a moment, was surrounded -by them; they towered above his head, and soon his feet began to sink in -the slime and mud of the lake’s true edge. The dog, with velvet paws, -followed a pace behind him. Vuk had forgotten him, for Vuk’s mind was -now full of the moon and inflamed by it. - -In a very short time walking became laborious and slow, for Vuk’s feet -sank into the mud until it covered his ankles, and it was with a great -effort that he drew them out again. The sucking, explosive sound they -made, and the Moon Man’s heavy breathing startled many large water-birds -that, with flopping wings and raucous throats, announced their fear as -they rushed away. - -Guided by the moon, Vuk at length reached the inner edge of the rushes. -In his journey he had fallen many times, and his clothes, his hands, and -his face were thick with ooze; the spiky rushes had pierced his flesh, -and his face and neck were bleeding. The water now reached his thighs. -He stood still while he undressed. His impatient hands feverishly -unwound the long cloth that circled his stomach many times. When naked, -he waded still further into the lake, and then, lifting his feet and -pressing his chest against the water, he swam towards the moon lying in -the lake. The dog, devoted and dumb, and seemingly driven by the same -fate, followed him. - -Vuk could swim well, but he was already exhausted before he had emerged -from the forest of rushes and grasses. It was a long, long way to the -moon in the lake, and in a little time his strokes became feeble and -there was only just enough movement in his arms to keep him afloat. -Turning himself on his back, he rested. All deep desire had gone from -his mind. Weary, he wished for oblivion. The moon was at the bottom of -the lake, waiting. He had only just to sink now where he was, and -slowly, very slowly, but oh! how safely and inevitably, he would go to -her. - -He began to sink and to be smothered.... After a time he reappeared, -feebly struggling. The dog snatched at and missed him. Vuk sank again. -And after that Vuk’s body, remaining, for how long I know not, midway -between the water’s surface and the lake’s bottom, was never again seen. - -The dog swam in ever-widening circles round the spot where the Moon Man -had disappeared until he, also, sank, perhaps joining the only friend he -had ever known. - - - - - -HOW HIS FRIENDS DESTROYED HIM - -To -Olive Warnock - - - -To Harry Bruton it seemed an eternity before the little steamer, -_Caucase_, was berthed, the gangways placed in position, and the -passengers allowed to disembark on the quay at Le Pirée. For nearly half -an hour he had been standing on the quay-side shouting inanities to his -friend Dick Cassels who, clad in flannels, a straw hat, and a -lemon-coloured tie, stood grinning on the deck and failing to catch a -word that was called to him. - -“Had a good time?” shouted Bruton. - -Cassels, examining his watch and craning his neck forward, yelled back: - -“Just 8.40.” - -“Oh--damn! Can’t you hear?” - -“What do you say?” - -“Damn!--that’s all.” - -This sort of thing could not go on indefinitely, and Bruton, shrugging -his shoulders, began to laugh. Nevertheless, he was terribly anxious for -Cassels to come on shore. Every minute mattered. God alone knew what -might be happening at this very second in that big house on the -outskirts of Athens--that house whose garden even now, in April, was one -huge, thick cluster of flowers, crimson, blue and yellow. - -Bruton had been in Greece a couple of years. Leaving Oxford at the age -of twenty-three, he had gone to Athens to study and write. Cassels was -coming to him for a few days on his way to Constantinople. Friends of -many years standing, both had for some weeks been looking forward -eagerly to this meeting, and now, though they were within a stone’s -throw of each other, they could not clasp hands. At last the gangways -were pushed from the boat to the quay, and Cassels was one of the first -to step on shore. - -“Let’s hurry through the Customs as quickly as possible,” said Bruton, -“I’ve got a car waiting on the road.” - -Five minutes later they were in the car rushing at top speed in the -direction of Athens, four miles away. - -“And now that those rotten Levantine Jews have ceased pawing my baggage -and me,” said Cassels, “how are you?” - -“Top-hole. And you?” - -“Never fitter in my life. Good lord, it’s fine to see you again, Harry. -Had a ripping time on board. There was a French girl who sang....” - -Bruton interrupted him by placing a sudden hand on his friend’s arm. - -“An awf’ly rotten thing’s happened, Dick. I must tell you all about it -before we arrive. I’ve got a friend here in Athens--a man called -Gascoyne. Yesterday his girl jilted him and ran off God knows where with -another fellow. She played up to him--to Gascoyne, I mean--to the very -last moment: spent the evening with him the day before she skedaddled. -Well, Gascoyne’s done--absolutely broken. All yesterday and last night I -was with him, literally keeping him from suicide. I am going to him now: -I daren’t leave him alone.” - -“Good Lord!” exclaimed Cassels. “Rather a weak sort of devil, isn’t he? -And why the dickens should _you_ bother about him, anyway? This is going -to knock the bottom out of our holiday.” - -“I’m afraid it is. But, you see, he’s all alone and I’m his closest -friend. His mother’s dead, his father’s away, and there he is with just -one man-servant, a Greek, living alone in an enormous, rambling house. I -scarcely liked to leave him even while I came to meet you.” - -Cassels cursed under his breath and lit a cigarette. - -“I’m beastly sorry,” said Bruton, “but what can I do? If anything should -happen to him I should blame myself for ever.” - -“Oh, you’re doing quite the right thing, old son,” Cassels assured him, -“but what a damned ass the man is! It makes me sick the way young fools -carry on about women.” - -“But he’s not a fool. As self-contained and manly a chap as you could -wish to meet. Now, listen. What I propose to do is this. We’ll go and -seek him now, have breakfast together, and persuade him to come back -with us to my place. I can easily put him up. Wherever we go we’ll take -him with us. He wants pulling out of himself, and in a day or two he’ll -probably be all right. But just at present he’s dangerous--dangerous to -himself, I mean, though I may tell you I’ve got his revolver all right. -But here we are.” - -The car slowed down and stopped in front of a big white house with green -shutters, standing well back from the road. A great wooden gate barred -their way. In response to their ring, an oldish man came hurrying from -the house. - -“Everything all right?” asked Bruton. - -“Yes, sir. Mister Cyril’s digging in the garden.” - -And at the back of the house they found Gascoyne, a fair handsome fellow -with blue eyes and freckles; he wore no coat, and his open white shirt -revealed a magnificent chest. - -Shaking hands with Dick Cassels, he invited them indoors. - -“Coffee and things are waiting for you,” he said. - -“Good!” exclaimed Cassels; “for I’m dreadfully hungry. On the boat we’ve -been breakfasting at 10.30. Such a rummy breakfast! Wine and rolls and -_hors d'œuvres_ and cheese.” - -They stepped into the house and entered a large cool room with -whitewashed walls; the pine-wood floor was bare except for an occasional -Persian rug whose smooth colours held and gratified the eye. - -“Do help yourselves,” said Gascoyne. “No, don’t. Sit in these easy -chairs and I’ll wait on you.” - -His fresh face was a little haggard and his eyes glittered. He busied -himself with cups, plates, and food, and when his friends had begun -eating, he eagerly and tremblingly seized a decanter of whisky, filled a -champagne-glass to the brim, and drank it off neat in two gulps. - -“Oh, I say,” exclaimed Cassels, “I didn’t know you had any whisky -there. Do give me some.” - -“Certainly. I’ll get you some soda.” - -When Gascoyne had left the room, Bruton turned to his friend. - -“What on earth are you drinking whisky for at this time of the morning?” - -“Well, the great thing is not to let your friend think he is doing -anything unusual. He knows we are watching him carefully, and a watched -man always poses. He is suffering, and perhaps he is a little -unhinged--all the more reason why we should not only make no comment on -what he does, but should behave ourselves as nearly as possible in the -same way that he does.” - -“I wonder,” said Bruton. - -Gascoyne entered with three or four bottles of soda-water. - -“Oh, really, you shouldn’t have troubled,” protested Cassels, “for I’d -much rather have it neat. I’m sick of red wine, and they hadn’t even a -drop of whisky on board.” - -And he helped himself to a glassful. - -“How shall we spend the morning, Cyril?” asked Bruton. “Shall we drive -to the Acropolis and sleep for an hour in the shade of the Parthenon?” - -Gascoyne looked at him curiously for a moment, and then laughed. - -“What a funny old thing you are!” he said. “No. Been to Athens before?” -he asked Cassels. - -“No--this is my first visit.” - -“Very well, then. We’ll go to the Acropolis to-night. There’s a full -moon, and one’s first sight of the Acropolis should always be by -moonlight. This morning we’ll take the car to Eleusis. There are -Mysteries there,” he added, darkly, “undiscoverable Mysteries. The -Temple of Demeter is now a confusion of broken stones. We can bathe -there. The sea is blue.” - -He drank more whisky and still more, and while his friends ate their -breakfast he had continual recourse to the decanter. But he exhibited -none of the more obvious signs of intoxication: his voice and gait were -steady; only his eyes were wild, and his face strained. - -After pacing the room for a short while, he sat down in a deck-chair -facing his friends. - -“Finished?” he asked. “Do have some more. Those oranges were plucked -only this morning. No? Well, then, come upstairs with me: I’ve got -something rather magnificent I want to show you.” - -He rose and led the way from the room. The house was full of greenish -light reflected from the half-open shutters. The staircase leading to -the upper story was made of white marble flushed gently with pink. -Gascoyne, opening a door, said: - -“This is my bedroom.” - -They entered and he pointed to a plaster cast of a woman’s head nailed -upon the wall opposite the window. Walking to the window, they -half-seated themselves upon the dressing-table there and looked at the -cast. Instinctively, Cassels knew it was Gascoyne’s love. - -“It is very beautiful,” said he softly. - -The face had the inscrutable smile of La Gioconda; there was mystery in -the mouth, imagination in the eyes, and holiness dwelt on her brows. - -“Who did it?” asked Bruton. - -“Some artist chap,” answered Gascoyne; “as a matter of fact,” he -continued, carelessly, “the man she’s run away with. He’s very clever, -don’t you think?” - -He walked up to it, as though scrutinizing it for the first time; then, -returning, he put his face close to the face of Bruton and said: - -“Damned little devil, isn’t she?” - -But it was Cassels who answered him. - -“She has the most wonderful face I have ever seen,” he said; “the -kindest face. But, then, nearly all faces are masks. That, I suppose, is -what they’re for--to deceive, I mean.” - -“Outside,” said Gascoyne, “I have the most gorgeous view.” - -They turned and looked. The windows were wide open. Beneath them was a -thick, undulating carpet of pear-blossom as thick as a heavy fall of -snow, and as brilliant as snow in the sun. The orchard was several acres -in extent. In the distance were blue mountains; the sky above them had a -faint tinge of purple. - -“Good Lord! How wonderful!” exclaimed Cassels. “And is this Greece or -Paradise?” - -“It was both--till yesterday,” said Gascoyne. “Now it’s hell. By the -way, Cassels, are you a good shot with a revolver?” - -“Pretty fair. At least, I used to be, but I’ve had no practice for -years.” - -“I wonder if you can shoot as well as this.” - -And on the instant he turned round and, at arm’s length, held out a -Webley, pointing it straight at the cast on the opposite wall. In rapid -succession he fired six rounds, smashing the cast into a hundred pieces. -His friends, standing one on either side of him, looked on without a -word or movement. - -“Rather good shooting,” said Cassels, at length, as though it were the -most ordinary thing in the world to pour lead into bedroom walls after -breakfast. - -Bruton, pale and trembling, exclaimed: - -“But I thought I’d taken your revolver!” - -“Have you taken my other revolver?” asked Gascoyne, his face working -with anger. “What the devil for? Where is it? Give it me now. Get it, I -tell you! Who in God’s name are you to come here stealing the things I -may want at any minute?” - -Bruton put his hand on Gascoyne’s arm. - -“Don’t be angry with me, Cyril,” he said, penitently. “I was a fool to -do it, I know. But I was so upset last night--I scarcely knew what I was -doing.” - -“But why did you take it?” - -But again it was Cassels who answered him. - -“He told me on the way here why he had taken it. He was afraid you would -find the--the other man and kill him.” - -Gascoyne’s face cleared a little. - -“In any case, it was a damned silly thing to do,” he said. - -“I know it was,” said Bruton, “but you’ve forgiven me, haven’t you? It’s -up at my place--I’ll get it you this afternoon or some time to-morrow. -Look here, Cyril. Why not come and stay with me? I’ve plenty of room. -It’ll be a change for you.” - -“Thanks. But I don’t want a change. As a matter of fact, I’m damned -tired. I think I’ll go to sleep.” - -He was still holding his revolver, but now he put it down on the -dressing-table with a gesture of disgust. - -“I’ll not go with you to Eleusis,” he added. “Use my car, won’t you? -You’ll find it round at the hotel garage, and Eurinikos will drive you -if you want him. I’ll call for you to-night after dinner, and we’ll all -go together to the Acropolis.” - -“Right,” said Cassels. - -“But are you sure you’ll be able to sleep?” asked Bruton, involuntarily -glancing at the revolver. - -“Of course I shall be able to sleep,” answered Gascoyne, irritably; “why -the hell shouldn’t I?” He hesitated a moment. “Well, good-bye for the -present,” he added, in a matter-of-fact voice. - -“See you to-night, then,” said Cassels, smiling frankly. - -The two friends left Gascoyne, Bruton closing the door in careful -silence. Out in the street, he asked: - -“What do you think of him?” - -“Look here, Harry,” said Cassels, “let’s not talk about it at all. If -you think you ought to stay with him we’ll wait downstairs until he -wakes up. But if you think he can be safely left, let’s go out for the -day together and forget all about him. With a chap like that you don’t -know how much is sincere and how much is acting. Probably the poor devil -doesn’t know himself.” - -“But he’s got his revolver with him!” - -“Yes, he has. What then?” - -“He may use it.” - -“Precisely. For Heaven’s sake, Harry, do make up your mind what you are -going to do. But let me tell you this--your presence irritates him, and -it is much better for him to be left alone.” - -“Well, then, we’ll leave him. We go this way for the garage.” - - * * * * * - -Dinner that night at the Minerva Hotel was rather a dull affair, for -Bruton even at the third course began to fidget about Gascoyne and to -wonder if his friend were lying dead in his bedroom. - -“Let’s have some wine, Harry,” said Cassels. “What’s that golden booze -the people at the next table are drinking?” - -“Some native stuff--Olympus they call it, I think.” - -“Well, we’ll have a bottle--two bottles.” - -But the more Bruton drank the more despondent he became, and over coffee -and liqueurs he said: - -“It’s quite time he was here. Half-past nine.” - -“For heaven’s sake, do keep calm. We can do nothing but wait.” - -“Yes, I know. But I feel we ought not to have left him alone all day. -How rotten he would feel when he woke up! And, in his present condition, -he may be annoyed that we’ve come here to dine. I do hope my servant has -given him my note telling him where to find us.” - -He moved restlessly, and then rose to his feet. An idea had struck him. -It was possible Gascoyne had left a note or a message for him at his -flat across the way. - -“Excuse me a minute, won’t you? I’ve left something at my flat that I -want.” - -He hurried away. In five minutes he was back again, holding a note in -his hand. - -“He left this at my flat this afternoon,” said Bruton, agitatedly; “what -does it mean?” - -Cassels read the following. - - _I’m not coming to-night. I’m staying at home. All the loveliness - of the world has become cruel. Sympathy is an intrusion and - kindness bruises. Yet if you and your friend would like to come and - get drunk with me to-night, you will be welcome._ - -“I understand his mood well enough,” said Cassels. “We’d better be -getting along, hadn’t we? The best thing we can do is to let him drink -himself to sleep. To-morrow we’ll put the screw on.” - -They hurried down the road and in a quarter of an hour had reached the -big white house with the green shutters. In the moonlight it looked -insubstantial, ethereal, like some enormous ghostly bird preparing for -flight. The door of the main entrance showed there was a light in the -hall, and through the half-closed shutters of one of the rooms on the -ground-floor more light revealed itself. - -They rang, but there was no response. Nor did their knocking evoke any -movement they could hear. Ringing and knocking alternately, they stood -for five minutes or so, speaking little, but into the hearts of both of -them fear had begun to creep. - -“Damned funny!” said Bruton, at length. “Look here, Dick, will you stay -where you are while I go and investigate? He may be in the garden -somewhere, or he might have dropped off to sleep in one of the -outhouses.” - -Cassels, sitting down on the top step, lit his pipe. Summing up the -situation and attempting to calculate the chances of Gascoyne’s having -committed suicide, he muttered: “More than likely--more than likely. A -chap like that might do it just for the sake of making an effect--just -to give the whole affair its proper dramatic close.” - -Bruton was a long time away. At last he returned, running. - -“Are you there, Dick? No: I’ve found nothing. He’s not there. I’ve tried -all the windows I can get at, but they’re all locked. His servant sleeps -out, and I don’t know where to get hold of him. We must break one of the -windows.” - -“Yes, I suppose we must, if it’s only to ease our own minds. This damned -business is getting on my nerves.” - -They selected the smallest window, broke it open, and entered the house. - -“You’d better let me go first,” said Cassels, “my nerves are a bit -steadier than yours.” - -They entered the lit-up room--the room in which they had breakfasted. It -was untenanted. The decanter which, earlier in the day, had been half -full was now empty; by its side was a bottle of brandy holding a third -of its original contents. Without a word, acting on the same impulse, -they left the room, ascended the stairs and entered Gascoyne’s bedroom. -This also was untenanted. Near the door the floor was covered with the -debris of the shattered cast. Bruton walked to and almost pounced upon -the dressing-table, opening one drawer after another. - -“His revolver’s gone,” he said, as if the final word had been spoken. - -“Is there a piano in the house?” - -“Yes--why?” - -“Let’s go and play it. It’ll pull us together a bit. After all, what is -there more likely than that he’s gone for a long tramp? Or he might have -changed his mind and gone to your place after all. In any case we can do -nothing now but wait.” - -A little comforted, Bruton led the way to the music-room. - -“Play something, Dick: I’m too shaky,” he said. - -So Cassels played some of the humane if rather turgid music of Schumann -in which one may always find balm for the poisoned mind. The brooding -sound brought them both consolation for a time, but at length Bruton’s -mind wandered away from the music, and he began to tease and lacerate -his spirit with horrible thoughts. - -“Supposing he is lying dead in a cupboard somewhere,” something -whispered to him, “or in a bath. He might have cut a vein and even at -this moment be bleeding to death. Or he might have gone on to the roof.” -Then, rising from his chair, he said, hurriedly: - -“Dick--we must go and look for him--we must go and find him!” - -At the first word Cassels’ fingers dropped lifeless on the keys. - -“I was thinking the same thing myself,” he said. “We’ll do the -ground-floor first.” - -Slowly and in silence they went from one room to another, switching on -the electric lights and looking in every place--likely and -unlikely--which a man might have chosen to hide his own dead body in. -The rooms, for the most part, were large and sparsely furnished, and a -mere glance was in many cases sufficient to assure them that there, at -least, no tragedy had been enacted. But in a narrow, long passage -leading to the back premises, and in the back premises themselves, were -many cupboards. These they opened one by one and, striking matches, -peered inside. - -“Damn the whole business!” exclaimed Bruton; “my legs feel like jelly. -Each time I look I expect to see--something.” - -And Cassels found that the hand with which he held the matches on high -trembled. His body was cold and he felt sick. - -Nothing on the ground-floor. In the room upstairs there was much more -furniture, and they feverishly opened the lids of boxes and ottomans, -looked under beds, pulled open the doors of wardrobes, and searched -behind curtains. Coming out of the third bedroom they had searched, they -both suddenly stood still with a sensation of terrible and grotesque -fear: Gascoyne was standing at the doorway, leaning drunkenly against -the jamb and watching them. - -“Looking for me?” he asked. - -“Yes,” said Cassels, who was the first to collect himself; “we thought -you had fallen asleep in one of the bedrooms. We’ve come to drink with -you.” - -“Drunk enough,” said Gascoyne. “Been drinking all day. However, you -fellows help yourselves: plenty of drink downstairs. Staying the night? -Good. I’m going to bed. Choose your own rooms. S’long.” - -He groped his way to his bedroom. Bruton followed him. Cassels, standing -in the passage, heard the following conversation. - -“Are you sure you’re all right, Cyril?” - -“Course I’m all right. Why the hell shouldn’t I be all right? What’s the -matter with me, eh? That’s what I want to know--what’s the matter with -me?” - -“Oh--nothing. Of course there’s nothing. Good night, then.” - -Bruton emerged from the room pale and excited. When they had reached the -foot of the stairs, he whispered: - -“I’ve got it. I’ve got his revolver. I took it out of his coat-pocket. -Look! All six chambers are loaded.” - -After a drink the two friends, choosing separate rooms, went to bed. - - * * * * * - -It must have been about three o’clock next morning that Cyril Gascoyne -awoke with an intolerable thirst. For a little while he lay wondering -where he was and trying to remember the events of the previous day. Like -a nightmare they came to him, and with them came a feeling of -self-disgust. - -Sitting up in bed he groped about for his coat and, taking a box of -matches from one of his pockets, struck a light. Some blind instinct -made him feel in the right-hand side-pocket to discover if his revolver -was still there. The pocket was empty. - -In a flash he jumped out of bed and turned on the light. - -“Damn him!” he muttered; “he’s got them both now!” - -And then his brain, overwrought and dizzied with the fumes of alcohol, -began to breed the thoughts and desires of madness. - -“So Bruton thought I was going to commit suicide, did he? And he’s tried -to outwit me! The damned fool! Why, blast it, if I’d wanted to shoot -myself I would have shot myself. Why not? But I’ll show him. He can’t -get the better of me--I’m damned if he can.” - -He chuckled with insane laughter, and his eyes became deep with cunning. -Having turned out the electric light, he lit a candle, noiselessly -opened the door, and listened. Not a sound. Yes: breathing--the sound of -someone breathing deeply in his sleep. He crept along the passage, -stopped and listened again. The sound came from the room on his right, -the door of which was open. For a brief second he looked inside: it was -Bruton, fast asleep. - -Gascoyne had no doubt at all that his revolver lay under the pillow -beneath Bruton’s head. He was as confident it was there as if he had -seen it. He extinguished the candle, put it on the floor, and crept into -the bedroom on his hands and knees, making no sound, and breathing -through both mouth and nostrils. His fingers slid along the mattress -until they reached the pillows. Then for a minute he paused. Gently, -gently his open hand felt its way inch by inch, pressing itself hard -upon the mattress. Again he paused. The sleeper did not move. Then, once -more, his hand began its stealthy work, exploring, sensitive, -apprehensive.... - -In ten minutes he was sitting on the floor holding the revolver, sweat -on his forehead, a dreadful dryness in his throat. And now he rose to -his feet and walked quickly and agitatedly but very silently to his own -room, locking the door behind him. - -“I’ll show him!” he muttered. “I’ll teach him to meddle.” - -Taking a thick eiderdown quilt from a cupboard, he spread it carefully -on the bed. Then, with the revolver still in his hand, he crept -head-first beneath the clothes, dragging them closely around him.... - -No one heard the shot that was fired.... - -Not until the marvellous April dawn of Greece came that morning did -Bruton wake up and, jumping out of bed, try oh! so quietly to open -Gascoyne’s door. For, if Gascoyne slept, he did not wish to wake him. - - - - - -THE VICTIM - -To -Marcel Xystobam - - - -I suppose there are few civilian prisons in the Near East more humanely -conducted and governed than the cosmopolitan Citadel of Salonika. Yet -the Citadel is most inhuman. Men rot there: their brains rot, and their -bodies become flabby, sickly and inert. - -If, as a casual and inquiring visitor, you enter through the archway, -you will be told to go to the right and then make a sudden turn to the -left into a kind of cage which leads you to a staircase; mounting the -stairs, you reach a platform placed high in the true centre of a circle. -The circle below you is divided into four roofless segments: in one -segment are Greeks; in another, Bulgars; in the third, Turks; in the -fourth, Armenians, Montenegrins, Spanish Jews, and men of many other -nationalities. The prisoners are separated by high walls; for if they -mingled with each other they would fight, and perhaps kill; but -well-behaved victims of law, if they choose, may leave for a short time -one segment for another. - -The Citadel is inhuman because the men living there are not compelled to -work. Any work is better than none. Even a treadmill is a boon compared -with everlasting indolence. I have been there many times and, -fascinated, have watched young men sitting with their backs to the -walls, staring with unfocussed eyes at--nothing. Always staring at -nothing and, no doubt, thinking of nothing, and hoping nothing and -regretting nothing. - -For this reason they decay. - - * * * * * - -Euripitos Cavalcini--half Greek, half Italian--had not yet recovered -from the shock of his arrest, trial and sentence. Three months ago he -was one of the proudest men in Salonika--nay, one of the most -overbearing, one of the most insolent. He owned much land, two -breweries, and four streets of houses in the slums; he kept a flaunting -large-bosomed courtesan; he was a patron of the arts, and the walls of -two of his large rooms sported many of Rops’ indecencies. He commanded -respect, admiration. As soon as he entered a bank, lo! the manager was -by his side. And before he had time to sit down at a restaurant table, -the head waiter was reporting to him the latest additions to his -wine-cellar. - -But successful and magnificent though Euripitos Cavalcini was, he had -his limitations. Life intoxicated him, and his grandiose vanity was an -incessant drug. In Salonika there were cleverer men than he, and when he -floated the India Bazaar Company with a capital of half-a-million, he -felt strong enough to own half the world as enemies. But he was found -out. The colossal swindle ruined many families, and even before he was -pronounced guilty great crowds of men and women would gather round the -court to cast insult upon him as he was taken in and escorted out. - -The sentence of two years’ imprisonment broke him. His magnificence -fell from him in a single hour, and the insolent, hot spirit of him -became abased and cringing. - -That is why, when in the Citadel, he was so humble. The lord of life had -become life’s slave. He was afraid of the meanest and most wretched of -his fellow-prisoners. Life had turned upon him once and brought him to -the dust, and some dark fear warned him that even yet life had not had -its full revenge. - -So he humbled himself and served others. The courtesan whom he had loved -used, twice a week, to bring him food--cooked meats, fruit and sometimes -a bottle of wine. These he would press into the hands of -others--especially those who eyed him with contempt or who were harsh to -him. Particularly did he cultivate the friendship of the big and strong, -partly because he feared them, and partly because he hoped that in time -of need--physical need--they would come to his defence. - -Soon he became the victim of a great bearded man with small eyes of -cunning, a man who, towering contemptuously above others, strode up and -down the prison half his waking hours, his thick bare arms folded on his -chest, his head set defiantly upon a bullock-like neck. This man was -named Aristides, and it was said he was there because he had half-killed -a demirep who had not kept faith with him. - -“Take this, Aristides,” said Cavalcini, one afternoon, pulling a bottle -of wine from beneath his cloak and furtively handing it to the bearded -giant who was striding hither and thither. - -Aristides, taking the bottle by the neck, held it up above his head -against the sky’s brilliant blue. - -“It is full?” he asked. - -“Yes, it is full. And I have some grapes also.” - -A big bunch of grapes changed hands. Aristides, having torn off a -mouthful with his teeth, chewed them meditatively, spat out the skins on -Cavalcini’s feet, and then stared down on his victim. - -“Anything else?” he asked, loudly. - -“No,” faltered Cavalcini. - -With a snarling smile of amused contempt, Aristides resumed his walk. - - * * * * * - -There were terrible hours when Cavalcini gave way to morbid -introspection. There was nothing in him that he kept sacred from -himself; there was nothing so vile that he did not wish to understand -it. Yet this habit of introspection dragged him deeper and deeper into -dejection. - -One morning he threw himself on the ground near the wall and covered his -face with his cloak. - -“Why am I so afraid?” he asked himself. “What harm can come to me here? -Aristides will not hurt me. Aristides is my friend.” - -Presently, he slept. It was a burning July day, and here, in this -roofless prison, the air burned one’s skin. There was a faint, foul -odour. The hard, enamelled sky and the sun beating on the walls mocked -the prisoners. The sentry on the little raised platform in their midst -looked pale and ill. A boy-prisoner--he had stabbed his mother--moaned -occasionally in his sleep. There was little sound in any of the prison’s -four compartments, for everyone was lying down exhausted--some asleep, -some merely stupefied. Everyone except Aristides. The giant, saturnine -and insolent, promenaded like an emperor who has covered himself with -degradation. His eyes, examining the sweating men around him, picked out -Cavalcini. Walking up to him, he kicked his victim on the buttocks. -Cavalcini lifted his head and, seeing Aristides, staggered to his feet. - -“Walk with me!” commanded Aristides. - -For a full hour they strode up and down, no word passing between them, -Cavalcini apprehensive and trembling, Aristides bearing himself as -though ten thousand eyes were upon him. - - * * * * * - -A slow month crawled from the future into the past. There were -hours--especially at night time when all the prisoners lay herded -together in the big room upstairs--in which Cavalcini took the edge off -his suffering by thoughts and half-formulated plans of escape. In his -heart he knew he would never escape, that he would never attempt it, but -it gave him pleasure to devise schemes for eluding the sentry, for -scaling the walls, for leaving Salonika for the freer world of -Marseilles or Port Said. - -One day he thought he would curry favour with Aristides by talking to -him of his plans. So, very humbly and with his eyes on the ground, he -walked over to where the big bearded man was standing. - -“I’ve had something on my mind for a long time past,” he began; -“something in which you might be willing to help me.” - -“Well,” said Aristides, “what is it?” - -“Escape--escape from this den--this den of animals.” - -His companion laughed. - -“Isn’t that what most of us have been thinking of ever since we came -here? Try again: think of something new.” - -“But it could be done. I’m sure of it.” - -“Can you scale the wall?” asked Aristides, nodding towards the outer -wall that seemed to tower in the sky. - -“No. But I might walk through gates that are locked and barred.” - -“How? Speak out. Don’t play with _me_.” - -“I mean bribery. I have money--plenty of money. That is to say, I can -get plenty.” - -“How much?” - -“A thousand drachmæ. Ten thousand drachmæ.” - -“Ho-ho?” - -Aristides spat. - -“You want my help?” he asked. - -“I thought we might get away together,” said Cavalcini, afraid of what -he had already spoken, and horrified at the things he yet might utter. -“Two can sometimes contrive a thing that is impossible for one,” he -added. - -“Well,” said Aristides, “ten thousand drachmæ would not be enough. Can -you get twenty thousand?” - -“I might. I will try. My friend is coming this afternoon with my food. I -will ask her what she can do.” - -And as Aristides stood silently contemptuous, Cavalcini turned miserably -away, feeling that he had committed himself to some frightful scheme he -could not possibly carry out, and that he had done so to no purpose, for -it was obvious Aristides was no better disposed towards him now than he -had been before. - -“I must not talk to anyone again,” he said to himself; “my nerve is -gone, and I say things I do not mean.” - -It was true he could get the sum of money he had named, but it was not -true that he wished to attempt to escape. Only heroes and very desperate -men escaped from that prison, and he was too deeply involved in misery -to be desperate. But when his mistress came and he spoke to her for a -few moments, as the prison rules permitted, he told her how to get the -money. - -“Bring it next time you come--bring it in hundred-drachmæ notes. Wrap -them into a little parcel and when you are talking to me, slip it into -this pocket of my tunic. I will stand as I am standing now. But be very -careful you are not observed.” - -“But where shall you go when you escape?” - -“I don’t know,” he said, miserably. - -She looked at him with eyes of compassion, took him in her arms and -kissed him. - -A few days later she called again, and passed the money into his pocket, -unobserved. - -“Don’t get yourself into worse trouble than you are in now, _mon -p’tit_,” she said, her eyes full of tears. - -He took the notes to Aristides, retaining five hundred drachmæ for -himself, of which he told Aristides nothing. - -“I have brought you the money,” he said. - -Aristides’ small eyes almost disappeared into his head with greed and -cunning. - -“Do not give me it now,” he said; “many eyes are upon us. That swine of -a sentry is looking. Wait until we go to bed.” - -And he turned on his heel and began walking disdainfully to and fro. - -Now, at the time of which I am writing, the sentry on duty over the -prisoners in the Citadel was relieved every two hours. By day there was -only one sentry; by night there were two--one in the “compound,” one on -the gallery above. Against one of these men Aristides nursed a fanatical -hatred. They had known each other for a long time; indeed, they were -both from the same mountain village; but they had not met for many -years. Critias had married the girl Aristides loved, and though she was -now dead and Critias had come down in the world, nevertheless -Aristides’ hatred had flamed anew at sight of his old enemy. Nor had -Critias wished for a reconciliation; on the contrary, he had sought -every opportunity to revile and taunt Aristides in his state of bondage. -Aristides had sworn to have revenge on the sentry before he left the -prison, and so near was his hatred and so dear was the thought of -vengeance, that he could not persuade himself to attempt to escape until -he had done his worst against his old enemy. - -As he walked hither and thither, his thick hairy arms folded on his -chest, his chin on his bosom, he matured the half-formed plans that had -come to his mind on the first occasion on which Cavalcini had spoken to -him of escape. His term of imprisonment had only three more months to -run: he would gladly serve those months if he could compass the death of -his enemy, throw the guilt upon another, and secure at least a -substantial portion of the money Cavalcini possessed. - -The whole thing was so simple that he smiled contemptuously at Cavalcini -as he passed him. - - * * * * * - -That night as they were preparing for bed, Cavalcini once more offered -the money to Aristides. - -“Give me half,” said the giant, “and keep the other half for yourself. I -will tell you my plans to-morrow.” - -“But where shall I hide it?” asked Cavalcini. - -“Where I hide mine--in the pocket of your robe. Nobody would think of -looking there for valuables.” - -And he ostentatiously put the notes Cavalcini had given him in the -inside pocket of his robe. - -But before an hour had gone Aristides had secretly removed them to the -middle of the straw in his mattress. - -Cavalcini could not sleep. His head was hot and light with anxiety. He -would, he knew, have to attempt to escape with Aristides, yet the -prospect of this attempt terrified him. But Aristides, it was evident, -was depending upon him, and he did not dare to disappoint him. - -Because of his apprehensiveness, Cavalcini’s senses became abnormally -keen, and it was with a feeling of nausea that he felt the sour odour of -his fellow-prisoners as they turned in their beds. He could hear a low -voice in distress at the far end of the room, and he told himself that -it must be the wretched boy-prisoner talking in his sleep. - -And then he became aware of someone moving: there was no sound, and the -sense of movement was not conveyed to his brain by his eyes. It was as -though stealthy and impending disaster were in the air, impinging on his -brain through some unknown sense-channel. - -He raised his head an inch and saw the bulky form of Aristides -approaching. Cavalcini shook with fear. The giant was undressed, and his -form, without his long, flowing robe, seemed much larger and stronger -than when fully clad. Nearer and nearer he crept until he reached -Cavalcini’s bed, where he stopped. The little man simulated sleep, but -under his lids his eyes watched what might befall. Aristides took -Cavalcini’s robe from the end of his bed and donned it; it fitted -grotesquely. Then, in silence, he passed the foot of the bed and made -his way to the treacherous, winding stone stairway leading to the four -compartments below. - -Terrified, hypnotized, Cavalcini sat up in bed, crawled to its foot, and -watched this wanderer in the night. He saw Aristides--for there was a -moon--descend the steps and crawl by the side of the wall as cruelly and -as sinuously as a tiger. The sentry, twenty yards from Aristides, -appeared to be facing him, but it seemed certain he saw nothing, for he -made no movement and called out no challenge. Aristides stopped, -advanced a little, and stopped again, crouching. His body was so tightly -squeezed against the wall that to Cavalcini it seemed to have become -part of it. For a long time he did not move. But when the sentry turned -his back on the would-be murderer and with slow regular paces began to -walk away from him, Aristides rushed forward with a bound. Cavalcini -could not see what happened next, but he caught the glint of a knife -raised on high, and a few seconds later he saw the sentry lying -motionless on the ground and the giant running back to the stone -stairway. It had all taken in place in absolute silence. For a few -moments Cavalcini did not realize what had happened. When, at last, he -understood, his brain seemed to freeze with horror. Trembling, he sank -back on his pillow and shut his eyes. He dared not move: it was -dangerous even to breathe. He felt, rather than saw Aristides return and -pass his bed, and he knew that his robe had been replaced. - -Silence, save for the rapid, distressed muttering of a boy-prisoner at -the far end of the room. After what had happened, it seemed an outrage -that the night should continue. Cavalcini, feeling himself to be the -victim of evil powers it was useless to resist, lay shivering with cold -in the warm night, saying to himself over and over again. - -“He has killed the wrong man! Why didn’t he kill me? He has killed the -wrong man! Why didn’t he kill me?” - -Suddenly, down in the “compound” below, a voice, sharp and clear, rang -out. The guard was being summoned. The body had been found. Armed -soldiers entered. Torches and candles were brought. Orders were given -and countermanded. Swords were drawn and bayonets fixed. In two or three -minutes the soldiers began to climb the stairway and take up positions -along the gallery, fifteen paces apart, by the prisoners’ beds. A shrill -whistle was blown many times until all the prisoners were awake. - -“Every man will sit up in bed!” called out the officer in charge of the -guard, speaking alternately in several languages. “If anyone attempts to -get out of bed, he will be shot.” - -And then began a systematic search. Cavalcini only dimly realized what -was happening, but when the officer and a sergeant reached his bed he -became a ghastly victim of terror. His very looks condemned him. The -officer eyed him with searching suspicion. - -“Get out of bed and stand up!” he ordered. - -Cavalcini put his feet on the floor and attempted to stand, but he -collapsed on the bed, a miserable heap of quaking fear. - -“Blood!” exclaimed the sergeant. “Look! There’s blood on his gown!” - -“Stand up!” commanded the officer. - -Cavalcini slipped to the floor and crawled forward on his hands and -knees, gibbering. - -Then the officer, searching the pockets of Cavalcini’s gown, pulled out -a handful of hundred-drachma notes. - -“Arrest him!” he said, calmly. - -Cavalcini was pulled on to his feet and half-dragged, half-carried to -the dark little hole, less than four feet high, that is to be found in -the stone wall at the top of the stairway. - -There he lay in a muddled heap, bereft of sense, every nerve quivering. - - * * * * * - -Three months later, Aristides, with his woman, was dining at one of the -flashy restaurants on the quay-side. - -“Tell me!” she said, pressing her foot upon his and rubbing his calf -against her knee; “tell me! Where did you get all your money?” - -“Well,” said he, smiling at her cunningly, “it was given me by a great -friend of mine in prison. He used to give me half of everything he had. -Poor devil! He’s dead. They shot him. He didn’t behave himself very -well. He murdered one of the sentries.” - - - - - -TRENCH MADNESS - -To -Ellary Warden - - - -Le Grand Couronné was the last of the mountain peaks to disappear in the -darkness that so quickly follows twilight in Greece. To Valentine -Latimer, excited by malaria, it seemed to curtesy as it went. He raised -himself on to the fire-step, took off the gauze mask that protected his -face from mosquitoes, and handed it to his orderly. - -“Won’t you keep it on, sir?” asked his orderly; “the mosquitoes are out -in their millions to-night.” - -“It’ll make no difference,” said Latimer, “and I can’t breathe with that -damned thing smothering me.... How heavy the air is!” - -His servant stood behind him leaning with his back against the rock -trench-wall, his head--so tall was he--almost touching the parados. - -“We’d better visit the sentry-groups, Morgan,” said Latimer. - -The man had slung his rifle, but Latimer did not move. He was listening -to the fitful rustle of the trees immediately overhead. The sound -reminded him of his father’s garden at home--the garden in which he had -spent the happiest hours of his life. The little breeze went its way, -and almost immediately a sour smell stole up from the trench. Into his -fevered brain came the word “decay ... decay,” and stayed there like a -drop of poison. - -“Everything is strangely quiet,” he observed. - -“Yes, sir,” said Morgan. - -And, indeed, the silence was as heavy as the heavy air. Latimer had the -curious feeling that he and his orderly were the only people in that -country-side, and when a cough broke upon the stillness, he started. - -“That’s number two group,” said he, mechanically; “Corporal Davies is in -charge there, eh, Morgan?” - -Some sickly lines of Edgar Allen Poe started up in his brain and began -to race along it, repeating themselves again and again. Though he was a -little worried by their repetition, they gave him a sense of romance, of -power. - -“We’ll start from the ravine and work upwards,” he said, stepping onto -the duck-boards. - -Though both officer and servant were well acquainted with those steep -and winding trenches, they had to feel their way along, so black was the -night, so ineffective the light of the glinting and eager stars. They -came upon a group of men in a fire-bay; two of them, stretched on the -fire-step, were asleep. The sentry on duty stood looking over the top of -the trench; by his side was the N.C.O. in charge of the group. - -“Everything all right, Corporal?” asked Latimer, in a low voice. - -“Everything, sir,” whispered the corporal. - -A few yards further on, Latimer stopped. He wanted to cry out. He longed -to scream wildly and break this conspiracy of silence. Suddenly, it -seemed to him as though the entire country-side were for a brief second -illuminated by a magnificent burst of light: Le Grand Couronné was -revealed from top to toe; in the slits crinkling the breasts and flanks -of the mountain he saw dark, bearded Bulgars, bullet-headed and -yellow-toothed. They were all gazing at him with cruel, malignant -eyes.... The hallucination passed. - -“I feel ill, Morgan,” he said. - -Morgan, a man twice Latimer’s age--for Latimer was still in his -teens--took from his pocket a bottle of tabloids. - -“You ought to have gone sick this morning, sir,” said Morgan; “or, -better still, let me take you to the telephone dug-out.... Have a drink -from my water-bottle, sir.... Ask Captain Mitchell to send another -officer out to relieve you.” - -“Oh, no; I’ll stick it out. But let me have a drink.” - -But the water had none of the virtue of water: it was tepid and sickly, -and it tasted slightly of grease.... - -The sound of a single rifle-shot from the enemy’s lines ripped the -silence. It meant nothing: it _was_ nothing. Yet Latimer cursed beneath -his breath. - -“Let’s get on,” he said, and proceeded to feel his way towards the -ravine. - -In a few minutes they reached it. Here was another sentry-group. -Assuring himself that all was in order, he began to retrace his steps. -He was conscious of nothing except the procession of fantasies and -memories within his brain: verses he had written last year beneath the -young flowering laburnum in his father’s garden; a girl’s hand in which -his heart seemed to be inevitably cupped; a flannelled figure, with a -rapid, crushing serve, on the other side of the tennis-net; barbaric -music from “Boris Godounov,” which he had heard in that wonderful -summer of 1914; a great day on the river with his friend. At first these -memories came singly; then they clustered together horribly and seemed -to menace him. - -“Fever: just fever,” he assured himself. - -“Yes--just fever,” echoed his orderly. - -Latimer turned upon him with his arms outstretched. - -“Did I talk aloud?” he asked, in dread. - -“Why, yes, sir. Weren’t you speaking to me?” - -Soon their way became very steep, for the system of trenches took the -side of a hill: here and there they were compelled to climb with hands -as well as feet. When near the top of the hill, Latimer took off his -heavy metal helmet and wiped his wet forehead with the back of his hand. - -“Only one more sentry post, thank God!” he said. - -Then, suddenly, an enemy battery opened fire on that sector of which -Latimer had temporary charge. Most of the shells dropped in the Little -Wood down below. A machine-gun from La Tortue, on their right flank, -chattered incessantly, and two trench-mortars from the same place shook -the air and shattered it. - -Latimer hurried down the hill with his orderly behind him. In five -minutes they were in the Little Wood. All the shells were dropping -short. This sort of thing was likely to continue at intervals all night: -it was the enemy’s usual procedure. - -In the Little Wood, which smelt so stalely, Latimer sat down and -suddenly began to vomit. His orderly stood by regarding him -compassionately; he took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to -his master. In a few minutes Latimer, trembling and cold, rose and -started to creep down the trench to the ravine.... - -A few hours later dawn began to paint the sky yellow, and the mountains -moved out of the dark and assumed their daily places. In half-an-hour -Latimer would be relieved. - -“Report yourself to Sergeant Black, Morgan: I shan’t want you any more.” - -He turned for a second to give his orderly a ghost of a smile, and then, -placing his arms on the parapet, watched what was happening to the -mountains and the sky. His large eyes glistened. - -“Oh, how beautiful! How very beautiful!” he exclaimed aloud, as he gazed -at the violet mist at the feet of the Belashitza Mountains. “I do wish -father was here.... I do wish father....” - -“Hello, Latimer! How goes it?” - -The boy turned round: his company commander was standing behind him, -looking at him curiously. - -“You see how it is, sir,” said Latimer, gravely, “When night goes....” - -His eyes quickly became dilated, and he swayed a little. - -“You’re ill, laddie. Come back to Headquarters with me.” - -“Fever--just fever. People have been playing tennis in my head all -night. And Morgan’s killed. I wish I was dead myself.” - -His lips trembled and a dry sob shook his shoulders. - -“I do wish father was here,” he said. - - - - - -LOOT - -To -Frank Harris - - - -In their little flat between Rue Egnatia and the northern end of Rue -Venizelos, Marie and Alys Cruchot deemed themselves safe from the great -fire which, no one quite knew how, broke out in Salonika that oppressive -Sunday in August, 1917. Their habit of holding themselves aloof from -their neighbours, of disdaining even to recognize their neighbours’ -existence, had isolated them from all local news, and in the hours of -excitement that filled Sunday evening they held themselves more proudly -than ever. The fire was a very long way off, and even if it should -spread in their direction, it must be days before it could reach them. - -Marie, the elder sister, was golden-haired and slim and tall: her skin -was golden, and gold-brown were her eyes. She was twenty-three. Alys had -her sister’s straightness and slimness; but her hair was dark, her skin -was very white, and her eyes were almost lilac-blue. Alys was nineteen. - -Their father had been chaplain to the French colony in Salonika, and -immediately after his death in 1914 the two girls had been compelled to -rely upon their own efforts for the means of support. Refusing all -offers of help from their friends, they quickly acquired a working -knowledge of shorthand, and were now employed as typists in the great -store in Rue Venizelos from ten till six. - -None guarded their virtue so carefully as they guarded theirs: no lives -were more secluded or better ordered. To those whom circumstances -compelled them to know, they were very gentle; but to strangers they -presented a reserved and haughty front that protected them from all -whom their beauty attracted and fascinated. - -“Shall we go to bed?” asked Marie, late in the evening. - -“Well,” said Alys, rather gravely, “to tell you the truth, I feel too -excited to sleep.” - -She was standing at the window looking at a livid sky. - -Marie rose from her work at the table and joined her sister. - -“Look!” said Alys; “isn’t it wonderful? I think it’s going to be one of -the big fires of history. Some day children will learn about this in -school-books.” - -Marie put her arm round her sister’s neck and patted her cheek. - -“Yes, little princess, it _is_ wonderful. Look at that smoke, how it -rolls and writhes!--just as though it felt angry.” - -Alys nodded and nestled closer to her sister. - -“Are you afraid?” asked Marie. - -“Oh, no: not afraid: it is too beautiful to make me afraid. Perhaps I am -what is called awe-struck.” - -In the street below men and women were rushing to and fro distractedly, -carrying armfuls of their household goods--blankets, mattresses, pots -and pans, bird-cages, babies, carpets, cradles, chairs, etc. They dumped -them in the street, the womenfolk sitting on them whilst their men went -far afield seeking means of transport. Across the street, on the second -storey, a wine-merchant, at his wits’ end, was hurling casks of wine -onto the pavement below; each burst open with a crash, the wine rushing -out and making a thick stream in the gutter. No one stopped to laugh at -him. - -“What cowards these natives are!” exclaimed Marie, with disgust; “they -always begin to squeal before they’re hurt.” - -“I should like to go out and wander about and see what everybody is -doing,” said Alys. - -“Better not,” counselled Marie. “There’ll be a lot of looting, I expect, -and half the natives will be drunk. Look how frightfully excited they -all are! But we must not get too excited or we shall never sleep. We -have to work to-morrow, you know.” - -Still, they stood for a long time at the window, fascinated yet -contemptuous. The scene below grew wilder minute by minute. The vast -white furnace half a mile away lit up the street. Confusion was -everywhere. Occasionally, a woman’s shriek came up to them like a stupid -bit of theatricality. Now and again a band of young men brandishing -sticks marched down the street, singing and laughing. - -At last, Marie drew her sister within the room. - -“Thank God we are not as other people,” she said, smiling. “Let us go to -bed.” - -They shared the same room. Alys was afraid, but she did not dare confess -her fear to her sister. Marie had always taught her that they were -better than other people. No doubt they were better. Nevertheless, she -trembled a little as she knelt down to pray. Her fear increased when she -discovered that she was mumbling words without any thought or hope -behind them. - -Suddenly, she started and rose to her feet. - -“What is that?” she asked, panting. - -They heard the noise of heavy furniture being moved in the flat above. - -“I was wondering how long they would dare to stay,” said Marie, -contemptuously. “This is a city of cowards.” - -Alys slipped into bed, and Marie, who slept at the other side of the -room, came over and kissed her. - -“Are you quite sure?” asked Alys. - -“What do you mean, little dear?” - -“Oh, nothing. But we really are safe, aren’t we?” - -“Of course we are. Even if they don’t put the fire out, it can’t reach -us for days and days. Good-night, princess. Sleep well!” - -She put her arm round her sister’s neck and, for a little minute, -lingered in love, blessing her. Then she rose, walked over to her own -bed and, having drawn the thick curtains over the windows, blew out the -solitary candle. - -But Alys could not sleep. She only half-slept. Her tired little body -seemed to sleep, but her mind buried itself in fancies--the sort of -fancies that come to us in fever. This is what her imagination said to -her: - -“_If_ the fire should come up the stair, walking, running. Then Marie -and I would have to jump from the window.... You can buy fire. They put -fire on the end of little match-stalks and sell him. They imprison him -in tiny bits of phosphorus.... Oh, yes: just rub a match between your -moist palms in the dark and your hands seem to be on fire. But it isn’t -fire, really--just a strange kind of light.... Imprison! But no one -likes being caged up. Fire doesn’t. Sometimes he leaps out of his -cage--like to-night--and just shows you.... If we were in the street, we -should be trampled on. Marie has not thought of these things.... Tiny -bits of phosphorus. Just matches....” - -Most wildly did these fancies crowd upon her. Real sleep came at last. - -Marie and Alys were the only two who slept that night in that quarter of -the town. - - * * * * * - -Adolph’s face was thin and intellectual. He had beautiful hands, and his -wrists and ankles were as thin as an athlete’s. He sat in his gaudy -brothel, drinking. - -“A real God-send,” he said to his partner, and as he spoke he tapped his -fingers on the little table holding their drinks. “A real slap-up -present from the Almighty. Delivered free of charge.” - -“Oh yes, oh yes: God is good. But what are we to _do_?” asked his -partner, the man whom they called Tansy. - -“Well, it’s simply a matter of choice. We’ve plenty to select from. All -our customers are sick of these Barcelona girls: they haven’t a bite -left in them. They start in Paris. Their bloom off, they go to London. -When London’s sucked them dry, they go to Marseilles and from -Marseilles to Port Said and from Port Said they come here and from here -they go to ... well, I suppose they go to Hell. Not a single one comes -from Barcelona. Now, we could do with half-a-dozen virgins.” - -“Virgins?” asked Tansy, leering filthily. “And what strange fowl may -they be?” - -“Well, the Cruchot girls are virgins. Marie and Alys. I’ve had them at -the top of my list for three years. They’re worth six thousand drachmæ -apiece. From Pedro’s report here, the fire should reach their house at a -quarter to one.” - -“They’ll have skedaddled by now,” said Tansy, “it’s just on midnight.” - -“They were at home an hour ago!” exclaimed Adolph. - -“Well, what do you say to getting these two to-night and leaving the -second-rate stuff till to-morrow?” - -Adolph nodded. - -“We’d better take Mrs. Knumf along with us.” - -He rang a bell. Presently a male servant entered. - -“Tell Mrs. Knumf I want her. She must put on her outdoor things,” said -Adolph. - -He dismissed the man with a motion of his flawless hand. - -“Another drink,” suggested Tansy. - -“I’ve had enough.” - -“Share a bottle of champagne with me; this is a night of nights. -Besides, we want priming. Those Cruchot girls will require a hell of a -lot of managing. You see! If the elder one suspects anything, she’ll -fight like a demon.” - -He opened a bottle of champagne and filled two glasses. They drank. -Tansy sat leering and perspiring. Soon the door opened and in walked a -woman of incredible and revolting respectability. She was dressed in -black. - -“Ah! Mrs. Knumf,” said Adolph. “Sit down. Have some wine. Now, you know -the Cruchot girls, don’t you?” - -“Oh, yes. At least, by sight,” said Mrs. Knumf, sipping her wine -genteelly, and simpering. - -“Well, Tansy and I are after them. They’re still in their flat. In -half-an-hour or so the fire will be upon them. We must let them nearly -get caught, and then we’ll rescue them. It should be simple enough. We -will take the carriage. They will come back here with you. This is your -private house: it is the headquarters of the Sisters of Mercy of the -Orient: it is a branch of the Sacred Heart League: it is anything you -like to call it. You understand? Well, then, come along.” - -Mrs. Knumf eagerly swallowed the remainder of her champagne and rose. -She composed her face and began to fiddle with a pair of black gloves. -She coughed behind a delicate hand. - -They passed into the street and entered a carriage. Even here, near the -quay, they could hear the explosive noises that the hundred-acre furnace -made. A vast belt of smoke blotted out half the stars. Millions of -sparks were jerked into, and quenched by, the smoke, like water -frantically forced through a hose-pipe. - -They had but seven or eight hundred yards to go; the streets were -crowded and they could proceed only at a snail’s pace. So intense was -the light and so black the shadows that the streets and buildings looked -grotesquely unreal. Almost everybody was shouting wildly. Many carried -open bottles: their eyes were wide and glittering. An old man sat in the -gutter laughing horribly and shouting indecencies to people as they -passed. Some of the smaller shops had been broken open, and looting -proceeded apace. - -The fire strode about the city like a giant. It littered young pythons -of fire that glided subterraneously hither and thither and set a red -doom on old wooden warehouses and shops. It stretched quivering tongues -of flame across the streets and knit up one quarter of the town with -another. It triumphed scarletly in the night and, pushing violently -against lofty walls of brick and stone, sent them rattling to the -ground. - -“It is a good night for everyone except the insurance companies,” said -Mrs. Knumf, complacently. - -But when they stepped from the carriage on to the road, a gust of hot -air carried to them the brain-sickening smell of burnt flesh. - -“A good many people will be missing to-morrow,” remarked Tansy. - -“I suppose Hell’s a bit like this,” was all that Adolph found to say. - - * * * * * - -Half-an-hour later the two girls were escorted by Mrs. Knumf to the -discreet, private entrance to the brothel. They had been rescued with -the utmost difficulty, and both of them were now shaken and a little -distraught. - -“You would like to rest, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Knumf, leading the way to -a double-bedded room. - -“You are very kind,” said Marie, looking at her a little distrustfully. -Then she turned to her sister who was seated on the edge of one of the -beds, trembling a little. - -“Undress yourself, dear,” she said, “we will stay here until the -morning.” - -“You will have some refreshment first?” asked Mrs. Knumf. - -But Marie refused, and the woman, walking quickly to the door, vanished. -Almost immediately, through a second door on the opposite side of the -room, Adolph and Tansy entered. - -“Well, ladies,” said Adolph, looking keenly at Marie, “it was a narrow -escape, wasn’t it?” - -“Yes,” answered Marie, impulsively; “we owe you our lives. We thank you -from the bottom of our hearts.” - -She moved over towards Alys as though to protect her. - -Adolph suddenly lurched forward. - -“Well, you’re pretty well beat, I should think,” he said; “what about a -bottle of wine?” - -“Oh, no! Indeed, no!” protested Marie, standing by Alys’ side, and -placing a hand upon her shoulder. “We only want to be left in peace.” - -“Oh! but you must!” said Adolph. “Mustn’t they, Tansy?” - -“Of course they musht,” said Tansy, eagerly. “Ring for wine. Champagne’s -the stuff: we’ve plenty of it.” - -Marie suddenly made up her mind. - -“My sister is ill--can’t you see she is? I beg you to leave us. You have -been very good to us: we are both grateful to you: do not spoil -everything by thrusting upon us further kindness that ... that is not to -be endured.” - -“She’s right,” said Tansy, with drunken conviction, “absholutely right. -What did I say? ‘Leave ’em a bit': thash what _I_ said. Leave ’em to -simmer down. Now isn’t that just what _I_ said?” - -“Very well,” said Adolph. “If you want anything, just ring. Mrs. Knumf -will attend to you.” - -They left the room by the door through which they had entered, and Marie -heard the key turn in the lock. - -She turned to Alys bravely. - -“Get into bed, little one,” she said, “I will sleep with you.” - -Two gilt candelabra, each holding half a dozen lighted candles, -illuminated the room. Marie examined the room with apprehensive eyes. -There were no windows: only bare walls faced her on every side. Near the -ceiling, on one side of the room, were three ventilators. She crept to -the door through which Mrs. Knumf had left the room and softly turned -the handle: it was locked. - -Without a word and with a faint smile she approached Alys. - -“Do not take your clothes off,” she said; “let us sleep as we are.” - -Leaving the candles still burning, she lay down by her sister. Folded in -each other’s arms, they lay for a long time without sleeping. Vague -noises, whether in the house or not they could not tell, disturbed them -from time to time. - -“The fire’s coming nearer,” whispered Alys at length. “I _know_ it is: I -_feel_ it is. Marie, let us go away from here: we shall be caught.” - -She sat up in bed and looked wildly round the room. - -“Lie down, little one,” said her sister, soothingly, as, rising on to -her knees, she placed her arm round Alys’ waist. “We can do nothing till -the morning. Lie down in my arms. You are quite safe.” - -But Alys’ instinct was right. The fire was spreading with incredible -rapidity, and even now was within a few yards of the brothel. The vague -noises grew louder and more sinister. - -Both the girls were in that condition which is neither sleep nor -wakefulness when one of the doors quietly opened and Adolph and Tansy -entered. The former, after rapidly glancing at both the beds, locked the -door, pocketed the key, went to the nearest candelabrum and extinguished -all the candles it contained. - -Marie, holding her sister’s hand, slipped out of bed. - -“Leave those other candles alone,” she commanded. - -“We have come for our reward,” said Adolph, thickly. - -Tansy seated himself on the table and made himself steady by placing his -hands on the table on either side of him; even with this support he -swayed a little. Alys had also risen from the bed; she now stood by her -sister’s side. - -“What do you want?” asked Marie. - -“Well, aren’t you going to rest?” asked Adolph. “Let me help you to -undress.” - -But instead of approaching Marie, he lurched towards the younger sister -and placed a cruel, beautiful hand upon her arm. Alys winced as though -her head had been struck with a whip. For a moment, Marie hesitated: -then her fist shot out and caught Adolph between the eyes. He staggered -and fell, but on the instant rose to his feet. - -“Come on, Tansy,” he called, mad with drink and lust; “it’s going to be -a fight--it’s _got_ to be one.” - -Tansy, abandoning the support of the table, rushed blindly on to the two -girls, his bestial face alive with cruelty. Alys, sick and faint with -horror, fell to the floor. - -“She’s mine!” shouted Adolph, dropping on his knees by her side and -bending over her. - -“Let her alone! Let her alone!” shouted Marie, ceasing to struggle with -Tansy in whose ape-like arms she was imprisoned. “Take me--both of you. -Do what you like with me--only leave her untouched.” - -But Adolph answered her with an insane, triumphant laugh. - -“You belong to Tansy,” he said, and raising Alys from the floor, he -carried her to one of the beds. - -A great accession of strength seemed to flow through Marie’s body and -limbs from her brain; her excitement and terror were inexhaustible -sources of energy. With a superhuman effort, she released herself from -Tansy’s grasp, and rushed like a flame across the room to the bed on -which Alys, only half-conscious, was now stretched. Throwing herself -upon Adolph from behind, she put her long fingers about his throat, and -it appeared to her as though her will to destroy pumped wave after wave -of power along her shoulders, down her arms, and into her fingers, and -made them stronger than steel. The man, half turning, struck her several -blows upon her face; but she felt nothing. Tansy, in attempting to -pursue her, had stumbled over a chair, crushing his head against a -corner of the table. He now lay on the floor, moaning. - -It was while Marie’s fingers were still about Adolph’s throat that she -became conscious of dull explosive sounds immediately outside one of the -doors. At the same moment some one began to attempt to force an entrance -through the other door. A voice shouted excitedly, warningly. But Marie -still clung to her victim until all the strength left his limbs and he -fell to the floor. A key rolled out of one of his pockets. She tried to -pick it up, but a sudden faintness overcame her, and she sat on the edge -of the bed unable to move, her head light and empty, her legs trembling -with the utmost violence. - -As one who dreams, she heard a great blow upon the door from beyond -which the strange explosive noises had been coming, and with unbelieving -eyes she saw the door fall inwards, torn from its hinges by a great beam -that had fallen against it. An inexhaustible cloud of black smoke rushed -into the room, almost suffocating her; with the smoke came a wave of -heat and the noisy crackle of burning wood. The excited warning voice at -the second door had ceased to shout. - -All Marie’s senses were incredulous of her approaching doom. She gazed -on her surroundings with the detachment of an onlooker who was not -directly affected by those surroundings. She said to herself: “If Alys -and I don’t escape soon--now--we shall be burned alive.” But still she -did not move. She could not. She tried to lift her arm, but it remained -inert on the bed. She attempted to speak to her sister, but no sound -came from her lips.... - -The fire came roaring down the passage and entered the room. It was so -hot that Marie felt her skin was being scorched. The horror of dying in -flames seemed to her much less dreadful than the horror from which she -had just escaped. Yet it would now be a comparatively easy matter to get -away if only she could move. Her heart was beating violently, and her -breath came and went most stormily. With a supreme effort she gathered -all the forces of her mind together and concentrated them, willing -herself to move; in response to this effort, her body rose from the bed -and began to obey her wishes. Her hand picked up the key from the floor, -her arms folded themselves about her sister and half-dragged, -half-carried her to the second door. She fitted the key into the lock -and turned it. In a second the door was open, and she and her sister -were in the passage. - -The door banged to after them, imprisoning the two half-conscious evil -men. - -With many intervals for rest, Marie carried her sister to the end of the -passage and out into the open air. The brothel was almost surrounded by -fire: another five minutes, and she would have been too late. As she -emerged into the street and looked around her, she saw it was deserted. -No one in Salonika was interested in the burning of a brothel when great -hotels, huge warehouses, and fine palaces were being destroyed. And -degraded women are but poor loot when compared with jewels and drink. - -As for Adolph and Tansy.... - - - - - -HOW IT GREW - -To -T. Michael Pope - - - -I suppose that, after all, I am at heart a good deal of a snob, for I -remember taking enormous pleasure in being seen in Captain Porritt’s -company as we sauntered by British Headquarters, and passed along by the -side of the quay until we reached the Café Roma. For Porritt was most -decidedly a notability in Salonika. He would have attracted attention -anywhere. He was dark and sudden, like a Spaniard. He had an air of -distinction, even of disdain, and though his face was peculiarly -animated, it never revealed anything. He looked what he was; an eager -young aristocrat, absorbed in and hugely entertained by his -surroundings. Every part of him had intuition: his hands _knew_. - -Now, I must explain that Porritt had been in some little trouble. A -lady, I think; certainly not drink. She was somebody else’s wife, and -Somebody Else happened to be a millionaire merchant. So for three weeks -Salonika had been closed to Porritt, and to-day was the first day of the -ban’s lifting. - -“I’d better go slow the first day, Old Thing,” he said; “we’ll go to the -Roma instead of the White Tower, and after lunch, if that little room’s -empty, you shall play Brahms to me--especially the Little Valse.” - -We mounted the stone stairway that takes you so unexpectedly to the -restaurant. As soon as the manager saw Porritt he came fussing towards -us. - -“Ah, monsieur!” he exclaimed, delightedly; “you once more! Are you -well? Yes?” - -“Excessively. But how crowded you are!” - -The manager gazed around at his cosmopolitan clients, and smiled -reassuringly. - -“There, in the corner--a table for two. True, it is engaged for somebody -else, but you shall have it.” - -He tangled fatly through the room, and, when at the table, turned about -and smiled. - -We sat down, and our guide handed a wine list to Porritt. - -“It is some weeks since you were in Salonika?” he suggested, rather than -asked. - -“Yes; three. Very busy up-country. Very busy ... ve ... ry ... bu ... sy -...” Porritt’s eyes were among the champagnes. - -“Ah: Indeed! Something important then?” (He had not heard of Somebody -Else’s wife.) - -Porritt looked up and winked knowingly. “Rather! You wait and see.” He -lowered his voice, adding, confidentially: “There’s a move on.” - -“Ah! The Big Push!” - -His eyebrows shaped themselves into a question. - -Porritt nodded gravely and impressively. - -“The Big Push! The Big Push!” breathed the manager once more. - -He murmured the words reverently and softly, and at once increased in -stature a couple of inches, thus falsifying the spirit, if not the -letter, of the Scriptural axiom. He was one of the Few who Knew. He was -a personality. - -He tangoed away for a bottle of Veuve Cliquot. Porritt grinned. - -“You watch!” he said. “It’ll spread as quickly as a scandal in a -cathedral city.” - -And, really, the effect of this purely imaginary piece of news, -deposited in the bosom of the manager, was electrical. He passed from -table to table, and dropped a bomb on each. In five minutes the -restaurant was seething with excitement. - -“The Great Push at last!... In France as well, no doubt.... Every -front.... Yes, the Great Push. I always said it would begin in May.” - -At one table the manager lingered for some little time. He was talking -with some animation to three journalists, correspondents of French -newspapers. Two of them were busy writing in note-books. It appeared -that the manager had no lack of news to impart: he spread out his plump -hands, lifted his shoulders, and wrinkled his brows. And then he looked -furtively towards us, and whispered something behind his hand. The -journalists also looked, half rose, thought a second time, and sat down -again. - -“Damned funny, isn’t it?” said Porritt. - -“I’m afraid you’re rather in for it,” I remarked. - -“Oh, I’ll soon dispose of _them_.” - -Only one table went on smoothly and systematically with its eating. -Seated at it were two Fleet Street men, who had just come to Salonika to -conduct _The Balkan News_. They had listened to the manager, but had -remained unmoved. But, presently, one of them took a slip of paper from -his pocket, wrote a few words, and sent it across to us by a waiter. - -Porritt unrolled the slip. On it was written: “Is there anything in it?” -He hesitated a moment, then wrote underneath: “Damfino.” “Which,” said -he to me, “being interpreted, means: ‘I’m damned if I know.’” And that -is all the English journalists got; as a matter of fact, it was all they -wanted, and they sat back in their chairs, and watched the rumour grow. - -Extraordinary our human love of the sensational! Extraordinary our -inability to pass on a piece of news without adding to it! Extraordinary -the credulity we give to impossible stories we desire to be true! - -“Let’s have our coffee and liqueurs down at Floca’s,” suggested Porritt. -“It’ll be rather jolly to see to what fantastic shapes my Yarn has grown -down there.” - -Floca’s, of course, is just underneath the Roma, but though only a floor -and a ceiling divide them, they are as different in mental atmosphere as -the gilt-mirrored lounge of the Café Royal, and the dining-room at -Morley’s Hotel. - -The word “seethes” is banal; nevertheless, Floca’s seethed. For the Yarn -had grown. It now had many twisted forms, each fashioned according to -the desires and fears of the individual gossiper. Porritt, the only -begetter of this disturbance, leaned back with a gratified smile on his -lips. - -“One must amuse oneself,” said he. - -“Ah! Porritt! Porritt! Little do you know the mischief you have done! At -this moment the news is on its way to Athens, thence to London, Berlin, -Vienna--everywhere. At about seven o’clock this evening, just when the -night editors are beginning to think of dinner, it will reach Fleet -Street, perhaps by way of Zurich or Amsterdam. Even now, as I speak, the -world is beginning to wake up to this great new event. Thousands of -pounds will be spent on cables. Reputations will be lost. Perhaps -Roumania will be induced to come in at last. Greece will stir uneasily, -the Kaiser will wire to Hindenburg, the Stock Exchange....” - -“Would it were all true!” interrupted Porritt. “Do you know, Cumberland, -I have never felt so important in all my life? Look over there!” - -He pointed to a neighbouring table. At it were seated two men, both of -whom I knew well by sight. One a fat, hairy Greek Jew with a pendulous -jaw, and great bags under his eyes, was a fabulously wealthy financier; -the other his confidential clerk. They had been taken unawares by the -news, and forgot that a dozen eyes were upon them. The financier was -white and trembling, and time after time he tried to rise from his -chair, only to sink back repeatedly in a condition of distressing -exhaustion. Fear, a devastating fear, dwelt in his eyes. - -“What is he afraid of?” I whispered to Porritt. - -“Only his clerk knows. But evidently he thinks he is ruined.” - -“Tell him!” I urged; “tell him it’s not true--that it’s only your -invention.” - -“Why should I? If people will speculate in human lives, let them take -the consequences.... And now,” added he, “I must go to the canteen to -get those six cases of whiskey. I’ve a limber waiting for me just off -Piccadilly Circus.” - - * * * * * - -It reached Fleet Street precisely at nine. - -“I think we might have a leader on it--in any case, a short one,” said -Hartley, Editor of the _Trumpet_, that powerful organ of democracy, to -the night editor. “Tell Bisham to come along.” - -Like a lizard, Bisham darted in, an unlit stump of a cigar between his -thin, intelligent lips. - -“Well, Bish, the Big Push is on at last. All fronts. Just through on the -wire. Waiting for censor’s permish. No details. Let’s have a couple of -sticks, in case. The news about Salonika; the wire itself--it comes from -Zurich--will go in under any circs. And, you, Beale,” he added, turning -to the night news editor, “wire Amsterdam, and do the necessary with -Paris. Now, trot along both of you. I’m busy.” - - - - - -KATYA’S WOOING - -To -Jack Kahane - - - -It was in May, 1912, that Katya Kontorompa met cosmopolitan Guy Fallon, -and decided to make him fall in love with her. She was staying at the -Olympos Hotel, in Salonika, with her mother, and Fallon had a suite of -rooms on the ground floor. He was tall, dark, and vivid; moreover, he -was young; best of all, he was fabulously wealthy. - -“A week next Thursday,” said Katya one afternoon to her mother, as they -sat on the shaded balcony on the first floor, “Guy Fallon will propose -to me. It will take place in the evening in one of those boats.” - -She nodded towards a flotilla of little rowing-boats that stirred lazily -to the rhythm of the lazy waves. - -“Yes?” inquired her mother, who sat in a low chair looking benevolently -at the world that God had made specially for her. - -“And though I shall be a little timid at first,” continued Katya, “I -shall say yes as soon as he has kissed me passionately on the mouth. But -not until. I think he would kiss rather well, don’t you?” - -“I think he would be thorough, dear.... But we musn’t talk like this. I -never used even to _think_ like it till you came home from Brussels.” - -“Would you like Guy for a son-in-law, mamma?” - -As a matter of fact, Mrs. Kontorompa was fascinated by Fallon almost as -much as her daughter was, and it was with a wholly sensuous feeling that -she closed her lids and said: - -“Yes, dear, I should--very much.” - -“But the kind of kisses he would bestow upon you, mamma, would be very -different from those I should get,” said Katya, mischievously. - -But though Fallon saw a good deal of the two ladies during the next few -days, there was something in his manner that made Mrs. Kontorompa -suspect he had no intention of marrying her daughter. He was in love -with her--yes; but it was not quite the kind of love that leads to -marriage. Rather was it the kind of hot, uneasy passion that persecutes -a man until he has gained his desire, when it shrinks and dies like an -orchid in a night of frost. But Katya, of course, was extraordinarily -clever: ignobly so. She was directing the affair with elaborate -carefulness, confident that in the end she would trap this bright tiger -of a man in her net of conspiracies. - -Though living in the same hotel, Fallon wrote to her twice every day. -Sitting up in bed in his yellow pyjamas each night, he wrote just before -he slept, and the note was delivered by his valet to Katya’s maid at -eight o’clock every morning. And just before dinner in the evening he -also wrote, and this letter he himself handed to Katya as they said good -night. Fallon knew how to write. He had a habit of intoxicating himself -with words, and though each letter said: “I love you! I want you!” he -rescued himself from monotony and her from boredom, by saying the same -thing in a hundred different ways. But he was never tender, and Mrs. -Kontorompa, who eagerly read the letters Katya passed on to her, was -driven on one occasion to remark: - -“It is not marriage-love. Your father has never loved me like that!” - -“Poor mamma!” murmured Katya; “poor mamma! But don’t you wish he had?” - -Fallon was with the Kontorompas almost every hour of every day. In the -afternoons, when Mrs. Kontorompa slept, the two lovers played pianoforte -duets in the big, deserted lounge. Fallon was a masterful pianist, and -he played in a manner that suggested intense hunger of the soul. In -these hours he had no courtesy, and when she bungled a passage he would -scowl at her and call her a little fool. And at this she would laugh and -play carelessly in order to taste his anger once again.... - -“To-day is Thursday,” announced Katya, one morning, as she and her -mother breakfasted alone in their room. - -“So it is,” agreed her mother, without conviction. - -“But I mean it’s _the_ Thursday. This evening Guy will ask me to marry -him. After dinner he and I will walk to the White Tower. There we shall -get a boat. Guy will row. There will be a moon.” - -She spoke as though she had arranged for the moon to be there. - -“Do take care of yourself, dear. Mr. Fallon is so dark and so ... so -impulsive. You know what I mean.” - -“Yes, I know what you mean, mamma; but those little rowing-boats are -quite safe in more senses than one.” - -And because she was so anxious for the evening to come, Katya found the -bright hours of the day tepid and slow. She was very quiet and subdued -in the afternoon, when Fallon found her in the empty lounge. - -“Come and play!” he commanded. - -“I feel languid and lazy, like a cat in the sun,” she said; “besides, -I’m reading.” - -“Very well--we’ll play the _Petite Suite_ of Debussy’s and some other -tame stuff. Let’s sentimentalize together.” - -“Oh, but you’d find out too much about me. We should get too close to -each other in that soft, melting music.” - -“Is it possible for us to get too close to each other?” he asked, with a -laugh that seemed to be half a sneer. - -She rose, and together they walked to the piano. - -Only those who have played in concerted music know how easy it is for -two souls to mingle in sound. They enjoy an intimacy which no passionate -avowals, no tender pleadings, and, indeed, no physical contact can -provide. Debussy is never entirely innocent: even his gold-fishes swim -wantonly in their pool: and the very tender miniatures of the _Petite -Suite_ are decadent with faint exhalations of patchouli. - -Fallon detested the casual promiscuities of secret lovers--the pressure -of hands, the stolen kisses, the entire vocabulary of illicitness. He -had the fastidiousness of the gourmet, and as yet his body had tasted -nothing of Katya’s delights, save the sharp thrill that eyes can -communicate, and the peculiar, ghostly, but sensuous intimacy supplied -by music. - - * * * * * - -Katya’s moon was in its appointed place as the two lovers silently -descended the quay at the White Tower and embarked in their little boat. -Guy rowed out into the bay. There was no breathing in the air, no ripple -on the sea. The stars made magic in the sky, and conspired with the moon -to create a feeling of far-off voluptuousness. - -Fallon rowed lazily until they were a mile or so from the town, which -was visible as a vast congeries of lights--chains of lights, terraces of -lights, huge constellations poised in the air, lonely points of flame -burning in solitary places. - -“Like a huge window full of jewels,” said Katya. - -The tens of thousands of lights were reflected in the sea as clearly as -a face is reflected in a mirror. - -“Which is the more real?” asked Fallon; “the city’s illumination or the -sea’s version of it?” - -“The water is quite warm,” said Katya, laying a white hand on the -surface of the indigo sea. - -“Yes,” said Fallon. “You could, if you wished, more easily plunge your -hand into my heart than into that water.” - -“I know,” she said; “perhaps some day I will.” - -“Perhaps some day it will be too late. I cannot go on loving you like -this--desperately--for ever. Love can be broken by its own strength.” - -“You must not threaten me,” she said. “Your attraction for me is your -strength: strong people do not threaten. They do not even warn.” - -“Then you do love me?” - -“Of course. That is, if you call it love.” - -“If I lean forward I can kiss your ankle.” - -She laughed. - -“Humour must be preserved even if propriety isn’t,” she said; -“nevertheless, you may kiss it.” - -She felt the long warmth of his lips through her puce-coloured silk -stockings. A hot wind suddenly came from the south, stirring the sea to -life. - -“And now,” she said, “you’d better row back.” - -“We were fools to come here,” he said. - -“Yes?... Why? Tell me.” - -But he sat moodily for a minute without speaking. Then he lit a -cigarette, and by the light of his match Katya saw the passion in his -eyes. - -“You’re a bit of a tiger,” she said. - -“And you’re much of an iceberg,” he retorted. - -“Passionless, cold, serene,” she quoted. “I wonder if I am. I’ve never -yet had the chance of finding out.” - -But he made no reply. His silence, his lack of directness, the lazy -contemptuous manner in which he smoked his cigarette, whipped her to -anger. - -“Let’s go back,” she said, abruptly. - -“No,” he replied, with grimness. “I’ve got you here.” - -“Very well,” she said; “then give me a cigarette.” - -He threw her a case and a box of matches. - -Then, suddenly, words came from him in a torrent. - -“You confess you love me. Well, if you do--passion’s what I want. -Affection’s nothing to me. You’ve ‘never yet had a chance of finding -out.’ Do you expect me to believe that? You were made to tempt men ... -and to satisfy them. Listen, Katya: I love every bit of you. You’re not -cold. You could kiss, I know. Let me row you back.” - -His cigarette gave a little hiss as it hit the water. He threw his arms -forward, desperately. - -“Yes, let me row you back,” he repeated. - -“I love you,” she answered, “but I can never be your mistress. I’m not -angry with you....” - -“Do you think I should care if you were?” he interrupted, violently. “Do -you think I care a damn for your anger?--or your love? You would like to -be cruel to me: _I_ know: I know your sort. But I can wash you from my -mind as easily as the sea has put out my cigarette.” - -“Oh, no!” she said; “you can’t do that. You know you can’t. Something -of me will be with you always.” - -He took the oars and began to row. The little indigo waves passed by -them; the feathered oars slid along their crests. At each pull the boat -leapt; something of his strength was imparted to her body; she quivered -in response. - -At the quay of the White Tower he was rough and insolent. - -“Get out, quick!” he commanded; “let’s finish this ridiculous business -as speedily as possible.” - -She turned upon him with an amused smile. - -“You have the most dreadful manners of any man I have ever met,” she -said, with a little laugh. “When you are in a temper, you are about -twelve years old.” - -He called a _gharry_, waited until she had stepped into it, and then -strode away. - - * * * * * - -Mrs. Kontorompa was sitting up in bed, reading, when Katya opened her -mother’s bedroom door. She looked at her daughter with a contented -smile. - -“Nothing happened,” announced Katya. “He does not want to marry me.” - -“My poor child! Never mind: there were weeks and weeks when I used to -think the same about your father. Men never know their own minds.” - -“But Fallon shall know his,” said Katya; “I’m as clever as any man I’ve -come across yet.” - -“Do be careful, dear. You were careful to-night?” - -“Very. He only kissed my ankle.” - -“_Your ankle!_” exclaimed her mother, in amazement; “whatever for? Why -should he want to kiss your ankle?” - -“Well,” said Katya, laughing, “I’ve got rather a nice ankle, you know.” - -Mrs. Kontorompa, who had no ankles at all, but merely calves terminating -in feet, sighed anxiously. - -“Your father never kissed _my_ ankles,” she said, disapprovingly. - -“Ask him to!” urged Katya, mischievously; “it’s a delightful feeling.” - - * * * * * - -A week later Fallon, dressed in white duck, knocked early one morning at -Mrs. Kontorompa’s drawing-room door. Katya and Katya’s mother were to go -with him to Langaza to picnic. But at the very last moment Mrs. -Kontorompa, as had been arranged between her daughter and herself, felt -indisposed. - -“You will come by yourself,” said Fallon. - -“Of course,” answered Katya. - -The chauffeur was discreet and unobservant: he was paid a very large -salary for not seeing things. - -Their car was fitted with a lace awning, but the air was so hot and dry, -that before they were well over the deserted Lembet plain they were -inordinately thirsty. So Fallon stopped the car and opened a half-bottle -of champagne. - -“I didn’t bring champagne just because it’s expensive,” he explained, -“but because I know you like it. Look!--the ice is half melted already.” - -“It will be cooler by the lake,” said Katya; “there may even be a little -breeze. I never drink champagne on a hot day,” she added, “without -longing to have a bath in it. It would tingle so deliciously, like -electricity.” - -“Sensualist! I’ve often noticed you love the sensations you’ve never -experienced.” - -“The worst of it is, there are so few of them left.” - -But Fallon was not interested, and he threw the empty bottle on the -roadside with a gesture of boredom. - -“Drive on!” he ordered the chauffeur. - -When a mile from Langaza Lake, the car was drawn up by the side of the -deserted road, and their chauffeur spread out their lunch under the -shade of a little grove of poplars. - -In silence they ate and drank. The sun-baked plain sent waves of visible -heat into the sky. No birds sang. The bronze sound of a sheep-bell came -from afar. - -“Life passes,” said Katya, at length, “and we grow older.” - -“True,” answered he, mockingly. “It is only the grass that never -withers. It was here ten thousand years ago, and it is here to-day.” - -“But you and I!--how quickly age will come to us!” she said. - -“How foolish, then, to waste our youth!” he urged. “Sometimes I feel -angry at those days which slip by empty of ecstasy. Waste! It’s all -waste! Waste of days, of months, of years! Just because we refuse to -take what life offers us. We do not live for ever, and the things that -taste sweet to-day will in a few years be but bitterness and ashes.” - -He allowed his wine-glass to slip from his lax fingers on to the grass. - -“Let us walk,” he said; “I’m restless.” - -So they rose and walked slowly towards the lake. - -“What is that parcel you are carrying?” he asked, when they were near -the lake’s border. - -“Oh, I thought perhaps I’d do some sketching when we got to the lake. We -can sit down, and you may smoke while I work. No, thanks: I can easily -carry it myself.” - -They walked on in silence. Then: - -“You were talking about waste,” she said. - -“Was I? Yes. But it’s a dreary subject. I was lecturing you, really, you -know; for you’re wasting my life as well as your own. You’re destroying -these days. It’s just a week since you told me you loved me.” - -“Yes, but I said ‘if you call it love.’ To you love is one thing; to me, -another.” - -“Why? What do you imagine _is_ my idea of love?” - -“Just appetite--the satisfaction of an appetite.” - -“And your idea?” - -“Service.” - -He laughed on a high note of contempt. - -“You deceive yourself,” he said. “Do you think I don’t know you? Do you -think I live with my eyes shut? If you were to confess that your idea of -love is a means of obtaining security against life, I’d believe you. In -other words--you like me in my brutal moods, don’t you?--if I asked you -to marry me, you would serve me for what I would give you in return. Is -that what you mean by service?” - -“You believe, then, I would accept your invitation if you asked me to -marry you?” - -“Most assuredly. Let’s finish this subtle, month-old fight of ours, and -speak in plain words.” - -“But we understand each other so well without plain words!” she -protested. - -“Do we? I wonder. Tell me, then: why don’t I ask you to marry me?” - -“Because you don’t love me. Your body merely aches for mine. You suffer, -I know.” - -“Yes, I do,” he acknowledged; “but I can endure pain. Most men can’t: -that is why they are willing to incur the discomfort and long penance of -marriage--anything rather than continue to suffer.” - -“Then why don’t you go away? Why don’t you leave me altogether?” - -But he did not answer. - -“Is it,” she asked, “because you still hope to win me without marriage?” - -He turned upon her savagely. - -“Temptress and taunter!” he exclaimed. “I know your sort. You love to -feel your hideous power. You suck delight from my misery.” - -He drew nearer to her and seized one of her wrists. - -“I love you,” he whispered; “isn’t that enough?” - -They were in a little pathway among the rushes by the lake’s side. -Suddenly, she wrested herself away from him and, raising her right arm, -threw the parcel she carried into the lake. It floated on the surface, -and the gentle south wind moved it slowly across the water in the -direction of Langaza village, a couple of miles away. - -She looked at him with a mocking smile. - -“Let us go back,” she said, “for this is merely the waste of another -day.” - -“Why have you thrown your sketching things away?” he asked, stupidly. - -“I haven’t. The things I have thrown away were once yours. Then they -became mine. They will belong to the person who finds them.” - -The words came hysterically, and she trembled a little. - -“What are they?” he asked. - -“Your letters to me. I have finished with you. This is the end.” - -He began to laugh, but his laughter quickly died in his throat. - -“You fool!” he exclaimed; “you spiteful little devil! My name is on each -of those letters.” - -He quivered with anger, and raised his fist as though to strike. - -“I know,” she said. “That is one of the reasons why I threw them away. -It is time your folly was known to others besides me.” - -She looked upon him with malice, delighting in his anger. Then she -laughed softly, taunting him. - -“Can’t you swim?” she asked. “See, it isn’t very far off.” - -But he strode away in the direction of the motor-car. She called after -him, gently, lovingly. - -“Guy! Guy!” - -He stopped and turned, his face and attitude contemptuous. Running up to -him, she threw her arms about his neck and, half-sobbing, half-laughing, -stammered: - -“Guy! Dear Guy! I was only fooling you. They were not your letters--not -one of them. Your dearest letters I carry in my breast, next to my -heart.” - -He pressed his face hard against her neck. - -“You little devil, you! Why do we torture each other like this?” - -She clung to him desperately. - -“Marry me! Marry me!” she implored. - -“Yes, I will: I’m damned if I won’t. But, I warn you--look out! We shall -both have a hell of a time.” - -“But there’ll be a month or two of heaven first,” she said, and, opening -his shirt at the neck, she kissed him low down on his breast. - - - - - -THE STORM - -To -Mary Harrison - - - -Xavier Petrovski was English in spite of his name, appearance, and his -temperament. - -“As for his appearance,” said Judith Lesueur to her sister, Marian, -“well, it’s too ravishing for words. Eyes that melt, my dear--melt with -their own fire.” - -Marian laughed. - -“I never like your little gods, your little tin gods; your little gods -of flesh and blood. And I particularly hate the melting variety. Just -like the butter you get in the Café Roma in August.” - -His temperament was melancholy, for he was cursed with a hot, uneasy -ambition that goaded him on to work till his body grew tired, his brain -stale, and his spirit dejected. He believed himself to be a musical -composer. - -“I have genius: I _know_ I have genius,” he said, over and over again in -spring nights when he lay in his lodging overlooking the sea. - -And then he would sleep and dream, his brain ravished by sumptuous -harmonies, his very flesh soothed by sound. - -For a living he played the violin in the Orient Café, for he was a -member of the Ostrovsky Quartet. From three o’clock in the afternoon -till midnight he played, whilst the loose men and women of Salonika -danced and drank and ate. In the mornings he composed music and counted -up the money he had saved. For Xavier was nothing if not practical. He -was not going to miss the reward of his genius by foolish conduct or -faulty management of his affairs. Already he had saved £800. Not a penny -was spent that could by any contriving be added to his hoard. In a -little while he would take his money to London, and then! Oh, then he -would show them! The finest orchestra in the world should play his music -and the critics should praise it; it should be printed and sold; his -name should be on the lips of every man. Fame: money: the companionship -of the great: the smiles of women: the intoxication of life lived to the -full. All should be his. In a little while. He was sure of it. - -At least, sometimes he was sure. In his happy moments, his moods of -exaltation. But there were black moods. - -“Is it possible that I have written these inanities?” he would sometimes -ask himself. “I am a fool, sick with vanity, eaten up with egomania.” - -In one of these unendurable moods he met Judith Lesueur, the most -beautiful and most cultured demirep in all Salonika. - -“Oh, Miss Lesueur,” he exclaimed, “do help me.” - -“What is it?” she asked, smiling. “Has someone been horrid to you?” (She -always treated him as though he were a child.) - -“No: but I’m terribly depressed: my music won’t come right. I looked at -my String Serenade this morning, and it is inconceivable that I should -have written such ridiculous stuff. And when I was writing it I thought -it was so splendid.” - -“It probably _is_ splendid,” she said, sympathetically; “everyone has -moods. Come to the Café and drink with me.” - -“Oh, no!” he protested. “This rotten feeling--I must walk it off. Drink -would only make me worse.” - -But, instead of going a long tramp as he had intended, he returned to -his lodgings, and sat brooding at his open window. His thoughts turned -to his dead father: he also had been a composer of music, and he had -been one of life’s failures. He had worked hard and very patiently, but -no one had ever played anything he had written. - -Xavier rose from his chair and walked across the room to a big chest -full of MSS., all in his father’s neat writing. He turned over page -after page--symphonies, overtures, songs, string quartets. How like his -father this music was!--mystical, tender, exquisite. “Like the poems of -Rossetti,” Xavier murmured to himself. Soon he became so absorbed in his -father’s work, that he nearly lost consciousness of himself. The music -he was reading murmured and sang in his ears. His father’s very spirit -seemed to suspire from the pages. Almost could his voice be heard. It -was as though the soul of the dead man was brooding over his living -son.... - -Some of the music had been written only ten years ago: it was very much -in advance of its period, and perhaps it was for this reason that both -publishers and conductors had disdained it. Xavier’s father had lived in -London where, it is true, good music cannot for long go unrecognized; -but he had been proud and almost vainly sensitive, and the rejection of -a composition used to throw him into a condition of despair so great, -that months would pass before he could persuade himself to give the work -another chance. His sensitive pride had been his ruin.... - -Xavier, wrapped up in his own work, had not for some years examined his -father’s music, and had never divined its true quality; but now he -recognized its extraordinary distinction, its peculiar originality, its -brooding power and barbed eloquence. Oblivious of time, he read on until -his landlady entered with his lunch. - -“We are going to have a thunderstorm,” she said, looking at the copper -sky. - -“Very likely,” he said, his eyes still on the music. - -And while he ate his frugal meal, he continued reading his father’s -music; he absorbed it until it was time to go to the Orient Café. As he -walked slowly thither, he felt that during the last few hours his -personality had undergone a strange metamorphosis. He was not himself: -something had been added to him: some luxury, a kind of mental -wantonness--had entered his spirit unawares. His mind was larger, his -imagination more rapid and higher in its flights. - -There was something ghostly in this, something, perhaps, even -threatening. But no doubt the minatory feeling came from the sulphur sky -that hung so low, a sky heavy with electricity and sulky with spleen.... - -The dances he and his comrades played that afternoon and evening meant -less than nothing to him, for he did not even hear them. One performs -mechanically the acts one performs frequently. The music that was in the -air about him was the music he had read that morning. - -At midnight, the day’s work over, he left the Café and sought his -lodging. There were no stars. Thunder had begun to mutter, but as yet no -rain had fallen. Faint fires trembled in the sky. Xavier felt the -excitement of something important about to happen. His brain teemed with -ideas. As soon as he got home, he would begin to compose. - -“‘The Storm!’” he said, suddenly, speaking aloud. “The storm that never -breaks--that’s an idea, and a damned good one, too. The storm that is -always threatening and never begins. Something brooding, something -gathering itself together, something couching, something licking its -chops. And nothing ever happening.” - -He knitted his brows in deep thought, and by the time he had reached his -room, musical ideas for his composition were already filling his mind. - -He sat down and wrote. Muted horns cried mysteriously on the paper -before him in discords that were continually on the point of being, but -never were, resolved.... At the end of an hour he read what he had -written; from the very first bar it was good. It was with difficulty -that he kept his excitement under control. He worked without effort, -without thought, but with deep and disturbed feeling. His pen moved -mechanically, and he could but wonder at its strange activity. - -Just before dawn, he lay down and fell asleep. At the end of the third -hour of his slumber, he awoke suddenly, all his senses fresh and alert. -The sun was in his room. Anxiously he bounded out of bed, and sat down -at his little table near the window, scanning his MS. with eager eyes. -The muted horns made magic music. Yes--it was fine! Every note of it was -fine! How mysteriously yet significantly the strings stirred! How -broodingly the wood-wind kept suggesting the principal theme that was -never fully stated! - -It was with a trembling fear that he took his pen in hand. Had his -inspiration failed? Had that mood gone? No: without effort he began at -the point at which he had left off. Though it was happy day outside, the -storm was still brewing on his paper. Little flickers of flame danced on -his sky’s edge: a black turbulence was at his zenith.... - -Three days later, his Symphonic Poem was finished, and he sought out -Judith Lesueur that she might share his joy. - -“Oh, Miss Lesueur,” he said, bursting into her flat, “do sympathize with -me!” - -“What is it?” she asked. “Has someone been horrid to you?” - -“No: I’m so happy I can’t remain alone. I’ve written a wonderful work: I -can’t believe it is I who have written it. And really--don’t laugh at -me!--it just seemed to me all the time that somebody else was writing it -for me.” - -“Oh, I’m _so_ glad. If you weren’t so terribly virtuous, I would kiss -you.” - -Involuntarily, he moved a pace or two away from her. She held out her -hand. - -“Don’t be afraid, dear friend!” She smiled on him. “If you are happy, I -am also. And now, I suppose, you’ll be going to London and I shall see -you no more. Poor Judith!” - -“Yes,” he answered, “I shall be going soon. It describes a storm--the -gathering of a storm: clouds coming out of the vacant blue and massing -together: yellow, treacherous vapours emerging from God knows where: -enmity in the air. But the storm never breaks. All the thick, heavy -passions of nature mingle until they become clogged. And then the music -stops, choked by its own congestion.” - -Judith did not understand him: he was just a little mad, she thought. - -“I do hope it will be a success,” she said. “I’m sure it will. But I -wish I was coming to London with you to hear it.” - -He glanced at her rather shyly. - -“Do you?” he asked. “Do you, really?” - -“Why, of course I do. I want to _see_ your success: I want to be with -you in the midst of it.” - -“Perhaps, some day ...” he said, vaguely, blushing a little. “Well, -good-bye,” he added, “I must be off to the Café now.” - - * * * * * - -London was much kinder than Xavier Petrovski had anticipated, for he -had not reflected that all cities, all people, are kind to men who have -money to spend. He came with letters of introduction, and was soon on -friendly terms with many musicians, critics, and people of social -influence. A German firm of publishers had already accepted a volume of -his songs, and the wealthy amateur, Countess Idionowsky, had arranged -for an evening of his music to be given at her house in Portman Square. -His timid manner, his air of distinction, and the “melting” eyes, which -Judith had tried to describe to her sister, made him very popular with -women, and he received more invitations than he could accept. - -More satisfactory than anything else, he had been able to secure Queen’s -Hall for an evening in the first week in June, and Marcel Xystobam was -to conduct for him, and the great soprano, Alice Gardner, was to sing a -group of his songs and a scene from his opera _Dido_. - -On this concert, and in advertising it, he had spent a large portion of -his hoard. All his hopes for the future were centered on this event. If -it failed, his life would be broken, his ambition killed. But the -thought of failure rarely entered his mind, so full were his days of -happiness, so continuous was the flow of praise he received from his new -friends. - -In the afternoon of the day before his orchestral concert, a stranger -called to see Xavier at his hotel. He was a tall ascetic-looking man, -fashionably dressed, courteous, even a little deferential. - -“My name is Shaw--Geoffrey Shaw,” he said, “and I have called to see you -because I knew your father well: indeed, he was a dear friend of mine.” - -Xavier, who had been writing at a desk when the stranger entered, rose -excitedly to his feet. - -“You knew my father?” he asked. - -“Yes. I was with him when he died. In those days I was not so ... so -well-circumstanced as I am now, or perhaps he would not have died when -he did. I was one of those who had faith in him--in his genius.” - -“Tell me about him. You know, I was only fifteen when he died, and -during the last two years of his life I never saw him at all.” - -So the stranger told Xavier of his father’s last years--of his patient -courage, his extraordinary capacity for work, his sensitiveness. - -“He really had very great powers,” Shaw continued, “but the weakness in -him was that he had not sufficient faith in himself. His faith came and -went. A single hostile word was sufficient to make him suspect his own -genius.” - -He stayed for half-an-hour and then rose to go. - -“I am going to your concert to-morrow, of course,” he said; “perhaps you -will come and sup at my flat when it is over. My place is in Oxford -Street, less than five minutes’ walk from Queen’s Hall.” - -“I shall be delighted.” - - * * * * * - -There are few experiences so salutary, and yet at the same time so -galling, as that undergone by an inexperienced composer when he listens -to the first performance of his orchestral works. His music may look -extraordinarily lucid on paper, but in actual performance all kinds of -elaborately calculated effects fail to “come off”: they are destroyed by -lack of balance between the different sections of the orchestra. The -ideas are there, but they are not heard. - -At the long rehearsal of his music, Xavier suffered deeply. It seemed to -him that his compositions were like exquisite paintings at which -handfuls of mud had been thrown: the tender sound would suddenly become -meaningless noise: muddy patches here and there stopped and choked the -logical continuity of his work. - -When he first noticed this, his instinct was to throw the blame on his -conductor, Marcel Xystobam, but two or three minutes’ reflection -disclosed to him that the fault was in the writing itself, and not in -the manner of its interpretation. Only one work, “The Storm,” came out -in sound precisely as he had heard it in his inner ear; his other -compositions were palpably the work of an untried, though gifted, -amateur. - - * * * * * - -Xavier Petrovski sat writhing at his own music. - -The large audience was obviously bored; even Alice Gardner’s appearance -did not lift them out of their apathy. During the interval many left the -hall. The applause bestowed on each composition could only just be -heard. All the critics were already congregated round the refreshment -bar. Nothing but a miracle could prevent the concert from being the most -conspicuous failure of the season. - -There was nothing from which Xavier could derive consolation. The fault -was his own. His music was the music of a man who had not learned the -technique of his art; the sounds that reached him from the orchestra -were not the sounds that had come to him in the silence of his room in -Salonika; through lack of skill--through want of experience--he had -failed to record what he had heard. - -After what to the composer seemed hours of misery, the last work was -reached. He knew well that if the audience were in a mood to listen, -“The Storm” could not fail of its effect. In rehearsal, it had been -peculiarly impressive. Not a single note was miscalculated: it was the -work of a mature mind: it had all the attributes of genius. - -And to-night, the very first bars gripped the tired and disappointed -listeners. They forgot their disappointment in listening to this strange -disturbing sound. Brooding yet passionate, the music filled the hall: it -flickered like flame; it rolled, like heavy waters; it menaced, like -distant, just-heard thunder. It made its listeners believe that -something terrible was about to happen. And when all the black beauty of -it had passed away without its threatened terrible culmination, the -listeners felt an exquisite relief that expressed itself in thunderous -applause. - -Not until the conductor had signified with an expressive gesture that -the composer was not present and could not therefore bow his -acknowledgments from the platform, did the audience begin to -disperse.... - -At the entrance of the hall Xavier Petrovski found his new friend, -Geoffrey Shaw, waiting for him. The meeting of the two men was -constrained; it seemed almost as though they were enemies compelled to -meet on a matter of business. They began to walk towards Oxford Street. - -“I wish to God I had stayed in Salonika,” said Petrovski, at length, -“for it’s all been waste.” - -His companion tried to comfort him. - -“You have not yet had the experience that every composer needs before he -can become successful--the kind of experience that you can’t get out -there in Greece. You must stay in London--live here. You would learn -quickly all that is required.” - -“But my ‘Storm’ succeeded, didn’t it?” - -For a moment Shaw made no reply. Then: - -“Yes,” he said; “that work was a great success.” - -“But they tell me the critics did not stop to hear it. They all left the -hall long before the concert was finished. I do not blame them, but it’s -a pity they did not hear my best work.... I feel like a beginner, Mr. -Shaw--I have everything yet to learn. And for some years I have been -flattering myself that I was a master of my art.” - -“Don’t be too despondent, my dear fellow. You’ve got the stuff in you -all right: it only wants bringing out and putting into proper shape.” - -“Yes; but the curious thing is that my work, ‘The Storm,’ is absolutely -free from all faults of inexperience. It might almost have been written -by another man.” - -They had now reached Shaw’s flat. His host unlocked the door and led him -to his dining-room where supper was laid. - -Shaw’s sympathetic kindness and, no doubt, the wine also soon put -Petrovski into a more hopeful frame of mind. When they had finished -supper, Shaw invited his guest into his library. The room contained -nothing but books, a desk, and a couple of easy chairs. - -“I have something here I want to show you,” he said, very gravely. “It -is a MS. of your father’s--he gave it to me a few weeks before his -death. I happen to know it is the only copy in existence; and I was -present when he destroyed the preliminary sketch on which this -composition is founded.” - -Taking a thin volume from a cabinet, he opened it at the first page and -placed it before his guest. - -At the very first glance Petrovski uttered an exclamation of surprise. -Then, bending over it, he examined it hurriedly and with the utmost -agitation. His hands trembled so violently that he could scarcely turn -over the pages. - -“Good God!” he exclaimed at length; “it’s ‘The Storm'--note for note--my -own work!” - -He transferred his gaze from the MS. to his host. - -“What does it mean?” he asked; “in God’s name, what does it mean?” - - - - - -THE MAN WHO GAVE HIS SOUL - -To -Walter H. Mudie - - - -Dmitri passed his life in doing good. In that lay all his happiness. In -the whole of Salonika there was no man or woman so vile, so incorrigibly -steeped in iniquity, as to fail to stir his compassion. All men were his -brothers: all men, he sometimes thought, were himself. - -He preached in the streets and in the markets, and this is the gospel -the young man brought to his hearers. - -“All forms of consciousness are God. If the trees are conscious, then -they are part of God. If lions are conscious, they also are God. The -more alive a man is--the more conscious he is of himself and his -environment--the more of God’s spirit does he possess. For God is a -vast, infinite, potential Intelligence that is conscious of itself only -through us--and, perhaps, through forms of life that are not human, and, -maybe, through certain minerals and gases that appear to have some of -the attributes of consciousness. Of these last things I do not speak -with certainty. But sure it is that each man and woman has within him -and her something of the Holy Spirit. God sees through our eyes and -hears with our ears. Therefore, we are all God: we are all the same. -Between the ‘wicked’ man and the ‘good’ man there is no shadow of -difference. If one hates another, he is hating himself.” - -His pleasant, eager smile, his vehement eyes, and his tall, athletic -frame made many women desire him, but he went to bed with none, for all -the grosser appetites of his body seemed to have been sublimated into an -ecstatic spiritual passion that spent itself in a thousand deeds of -compassionate love. - -They thought him mad, but they never reviled or taunted him, for he was -known throughout the entire breadth of that city as a man of noble deeds -and imperishable kindness. - -“Poor boy!” said Susannah, the Jewish woman who sold vegetables, “‘tis a -pity so fine a fellow should be wasted. Those lips of his were made for -kissing.” - -“You say what is right,” agreed Zacyntha, a lewd Greek woman. “A night -of love with him would but whet one’s appetite.” - -Strange it was that none of those women of the half-world ever attempted -to tamper with him, but vileness must always recognize and fear what is -pure. They gazed at him often with eyes of longing, it is true, but the -gaze he gave in return was always the very negation of sex. - -“A fool! A Parsifal!” commented the respectable ladies, for most of them -would most gladly have lost their respectability had Dmitri been willing -to snatch it from them. - -Now, in a dark street of that city it was that Dmitri dwelt, inhabiting -two rooms in the house of Jacques Laborde, a young Frenchman who taught -many languages. Jacques and his wife, Madelein, loved him for his -goodness, but a time came when they were afraid on his account. - -“You have noticed something, eh?” asked Madelein one night, as she and -her husband sat alone. - -“About _him_?... Yes, yes. How can one express it? It is just as though -he had begun to lose himself, as though he had spent so much of himself -that there was little left to spend--less every day.” - -“Yes--that’s it. Yet his appetite is good, he is as strong as ever, and -he has never been more cheerful.” - -“Do you ever feel,” asked Jacques, after a pause, “do you ever feel when -he is talking to you, that he is giving you something of -himself--merging his personality into yours?” - -“That _is_ the feeling. I don’t like it. Just as though his soul was -escaping from his body into mine.... Sometimes, Jacques, I’ve felt as -though something of his personality--something ghostly, ghastly, -too--had floated from him to me. It’s made a change in me. It’s coloured -me faintly, like a few drops of red wine in a glass of water. Is such a -thing possible?” - -“I don’t know,” answered her husband, uneasily. “Tell me: has the change -in you been for evil or for good?” - -She pondered a minute. - -“Neither one nor the other, I think,” she answered. “The change has made -me more vivid: it has sharpened me--put an edge on my feelings. Perhaps, -really, it has made me more myself.” - -“Why have you not spoken of this before?” - -She laughed, nervously. - -“Because it was uncanny, and I was uncertain. I’m not certain even now. -One gets fanciful in my condition. Mamma has warned me to expect strange -thoughts.” - -Jacques clenched and unclenched his fists. - -“It’s only fancy--of course it’s only fancy.” - -“Yet there _is_ a change in Dmitri!” urged Madelein. - -“Yes. But if Dmitri changes, we don’t.” - -He put an end to the conversation by going into the kitchen to draw -beer. - -But when, later that evening, Dmitri entered the house and looked into -their room for a chat before going to bed, they were immediately -startled by his appearance and manner. - -“Is all well with you?” asked the young Greek, standing in the doorway. - -“Yes, indeed,” answered Jacques. “And you?” - -“I am so happy,” answered Dmitri, “that I could almost shout with it. I -am getting to the heart of the Great Secret at last. I am beginning to -prove from my own experience that what I have always preached is true.” - -His large, magnetic eyes dropped their gaze first upon Jacques and then -upon Madelein: upon her eyes his gaze floated, and then sank into them. -He was not looking at her eyes, nor yet beyond them: he was penetrating -within them. The woman did not flinch, but greedily drank his gaze. - -“What are you doing?” she asked, in a whisper. - -“Do you not feel,” he asked, slowly, “that you are not now what you were -a minute ago?” - -“Dmitri! Dmitri!” exclaimed Jacques; “you must not do that.” - -But the Greek did not move his gaze from the woman’s face. - -“We are all one,” he said; “there is no real separation between any of -us: it is merely these houses of flesh that keep us divided. When our -bodies die, all our souls will merge into one Soul.” - -Jacques rose timidly, and put his hand on Dmitri’s arm. - -“You must not do that!” he said, gently. - -And because Dmitri still gazed into Madelein’s eyes and she into his, -Jacques placed himself between them and broke the spell. - -“Sit down, Dmitri,” said Jacques. - -Dmitri’s face had the look of a man whose soul is being disintegrated. -He had lost his personality. His eyes were dull, his face was lifeless. -His body, his movements, his attitude still suggested abundant strength: -simply, his spirit had suffered eclipse. - -“I want to give myself to my fellows,” he muttered, “but no one will -take me. I am the rejected of all men. My soul is sent back to its home -each time it tries to escape.” - -He sat down heavily, and brooded. - -There, a little later, they left him, for his mood of gladness had been -transformed into one of gloom, and though next morning, as he dressed, -Dmitri sang out of a deep heart filled to the brim with joy, Jacques -looked significantly and sorrowfully at his wife. She, in turn, -questioned him with her eyes. But neither spoke. - - * * * * * - -A week passed. - -There came a day when Dmitri, feeling that almost any time now his soul -might leave his body never to return, decided to stay indoors and give a -final revision to the little book he had written. - -His bedroom window looked upon a narrow street. Across the way was a -wine-shop, and even at this early hour a few men were sitting drinking -at the little tables placed on the pavement. For a few minutes Dmitri -stood gazing lovingly and compassionately at the passers-by; then, -abruptly, and with a sudden sigh, he turned away, and sat down at a -small table upon which he had placed the MS. of his book. - -He read steadily from the beginning. Half-way through he came upon this -passage. - - _The soul clings to its body; the spirit yearns for its - companion-flesh. Is it true that only death can separate them?_ - - _It is impossible for us to love others more than we love - ourselves, if our souls cling to us in this despairing way. Loving - is giving: loving is surrender of one’s self: one’s self is one’s - soul.... But my soul refuses to be surrendered. It will not leave - me. Even when, because of my love for others, I try to banish it - from my body, it will not go, or, if it does go, it soon returns. - Is it refused, I wonder, by those to whom I give it?_ - - _Often I feel people wanting me; often I feel them asking for me. - The magnetic ones draw me._ - -He sat and pondered. He recalled how, throughout the whole of his life, -he had with joy spent himself upon others. A passion for giving had -always been his. As a boy, he frequently had felt an aching desire to -give himself to the sea--to swim out into the depths and, spreading out -his arms, swoon away into nothingness, making himself a part of that -water. Sometimes, even, he had wanted to give himself to fire, to walk -naked into a white, inviting furnace. And, always, when on the edge of a -cliff, he felt the great pull of space--a quick eagerness to disappear, -to dissipate himself into nothingness.... To give himself--no matter to -what, if only it were greater than he--was the passion that haunted him -continually. Not to cease his existence; not to cast the universe from -him; not to repudiate the life that had been given him. But to live more -fiercely in flame, more largely and grandly as a part of a great giant -ocean, more freely as an atom in illimitable space. - -Best of all, to give himself to humanity: not to live in one body, but -in a million bodies.... - -As he sat, a thought came to him--a thought that thrust into and pierced -him, as a sword thrusts and pierces, that shook him to the very -foundations of his being. - -“If one man cannot draw from me my soul, a great crowd of men may--nay, -must,” he told himself; “I know that even one man or woman can take from -me and absorb for a brief period something of my spirit; surely, when a -thousand men and women are pulling at me like a thousand magnets, my -spirit will go entirely out of me and live in them for ever.” - -The argument seemed so logical and so obvious, that he wondered at -himself for not thinking of it before. - -He abandoned the reading of his MS., and began to pace the room. His -excitement almost frenzied him, and his thoughts ran wildly. - -“I must dress for the occasion. A purple robe. And a message. I shall -give it out that I have a message. At the north of the Citadel it shall -be, and as I talk to them I shall face the east.” - -He visualized the waiting crowd so vividly that his body acted as though -the occasion had already arrived. He stopped walking and threw out his -arms. His eyes became dilated. His lips moved. And then from his moving -lips a torrent of speaking poured. He held his hearers. Even the little -children in his brain were awed: he saw them huddling against their -mothers.... With a shudder he came to himself. - - * * * * * - -There were many newspaper offices to visit. One of them, in return for a -column advertisement, agreed to publish an “interview” with him. He -advertised his meeting outside the Citadel in every newspaper, however -obscure, for he felt he had no further use for his savings. “When my -soul leaves me altogether,” he whispered, to himself, “my body will -die.” He bought a scarlet robe in the Bazaar. - -Jacques and Madelein watched him anxiously during the following days. -Several times he spoke to them of his “ending,” and told them it was -near at hand. He put his small affairs carefully in order, and handed -what remained of his savings to Jacques. - -“I will keep it for you,” said Jacques. - -“No: it is yours. In a day or two I shall have no further use for money. -Only the husk of me will remain.” - -Jacques looked at him very sternly. - -“Have I been a good friend to you, Dmitri?” he asked. - -“Why, yes. Always. You and Madelein have always been my best friends.” - -“Well, then, tell me what you are going to do. Why do you hand me your -money? Why do you speak of only the husk of you remaining? What is the -meaning of your advertisements in the newspapers?” - -Dmitri smiled. - -“Do not be anxious about me, Jacques,” he entreated; “no harm will come -to me--only a great good. The most wonderful thing that can happen to -anybody is about to happen to me.” - -And Jacques’ further persuasion had no power to make Dmitri speak. - - * * * * * - -As Dmitri, clad in his purple robe, walked through the streets of -Salonika on the evening appointed for his meeting outside the Citadel, -he was followed by a large crowd of friendly people; indeed, he walked -in the midst of the crowd, talking as he went. He bore himself regally, -and his face shone with joy. - -He had only a mere handful of disciples, but there were very many, both -rich and poor, who liked him, and there were still more who were driven -by curiosity to that high ground outside the city walls, which looks -towards the jagged mountains above Hortiach. - -Having arrived at the place he had selected for the delivery of his -Message, his disciples went among the assembled people, directing them -where to sit. Men and women, to the number of nearly a thousand, seated -themselves in a semicircle on the higher slopes of the hill; on the -hill’s summit stood Dmitri, looking down upon the faces lit by the sun -in its setting. - -Bareheaded, he stood and raised both arms for silence. The eager speech -of his beholders died suddenly. Dmitri stood for a long minute without a -word: then, just when the silence was becoming uncomfortable, he spoke -in his golden voice. - -“Many of you have come here from curiosity; a few have come because of -their love. But I have the same message for everyone. All the great -teachers of the world have loved their fellows: no man can teach or be -taught without love. Because I desire to teach you something now, I ask -any of you who hate me, or secretly jeer at me, or despise me, to kill -that hate and that mockery and that contempt. Indeed, no man among you -can hate me without also hating himself. For we are all one. We are not -a thousand different souls, but one soul. There is only one soul in all -the wide world, but each of your bodies contains a part of that soul: -the great, brooding spirit of the Universe is split up into millions of -parts. Of those millions of parts I possess but one. It is the dearest -thing I have: it is the _only_ thing I have. My body is nothing--just -dust. It is the same with you all: your bodies are merely the prisons of -your souls. - -“Many of you will not understand me now, but I ask you, when I am gone -from among you, to consider my words. You will all, however, understand -this: no man gives unless he loves. If I want to give you something, it -is because I love you. I _do_ want to give you something. I want to give -you myself: my soul. It is yours. Take it.” - -He paused. The blank faces of the men and women hurt him. They thought -him mad. He could see that many of the people were whispering to each -other. Some were even smiling. - -“Listen!” he shouted, passionately. “I want to give you myself so that I -may prove to you that we are all one--that our souls are one soul. If my -soul can depart from my body into your bodies, then you will know that -we are, in truth, all one, and that to hate or hurt your neighbour is to -hurt and hate yourselves, and that to injure yourselves by wickedness is -to injure all the souls in all the world. - -“I ask all who love me, and who have understood the words I have -spoken, to make themselves ready to receive me.” - -With excitement and passion, he attempted to confuse his mind and reduce -it to chaos by inviting a multitude of varied thoughts. He stiffened his -muscles and opened his eyes to their widest. He willed his soul to -depart. Madness painted his face a ghastly white, his features became -convulsed, the veins in his forehead stood out horribly.... - -And now the onlookers stared in fascination. A few murmured with fear -and disgust. - -For a minute and more Dmitri stood in silence, goading himself on to -unrestrainable madness. His mind broke. He began to paw the air with his -hands. And then, smiling stupidly, he sat down and played with his -fingers. - -His disciples rushed upon him. - -“The miracle has come to pass!” exclaimed one. - -“Poor Dmitri!” said a man who was not a disciple; “he gets worse and -worse! His madness is incurable.” - -Hundreds of men and woman crowded round him, but Jacques was one of the -first to reach his side. With the help of others, he led Dmitri from the -crowd and took him home. - - * * * * * - -A month passed. - -Dmitri came downstairs to the room in which Jacques and Madelein were -sitting. His face had no meaning. His eyes were empty. - -He sat down at the table, and tears began to run down his cheeks. - -Jacques stared at him for some little time in profound distress. - -“We must get rid of him,” he said, aloud, to Madelein, “if only for your -sake.” - -“Yes,” answered his wife, sorrowfully; “I can bear him no longer. He -must go.” - - - - - -THE STRANGER - -To -Adrian L. Burns - - - -When my friend Trevor Hempel disappeared from among all his friends, he -left me the following letter: - - * * * * * - -I am off to Australia to-morrow, and I’m going without saying farewell -to any one. It is a choice between my committing murder and leaving -Europe for ever. Nature has played me false--has tricked me. Between my -wife and me she has placed something monstrous: a “sport” so hideous -that to live any longer as a husband would mean a swift corrosion of -anything good that is left of me. - -I felt, my dear old friend, that I must speak out my mind to some one. -It is a selfish feeling. I want to rid myself of the obsession of this -wickedness. I want you to share its knowledge with me. The thing is of -such a kind that it ought not to have happened. Nature ought not to lie -in wait for us and spring out like a baboon from behind a tree. We know -Nature is cruel, but not until lately did I know she could be malignant, -damnably malignant, looking years ahead, calculating craftily all the -time.... - -It is nine years since I met the woman who afterwards became my wife. I -was in Salonika on one of my quarterly business visits. At the house of -Madame Leconte de Stran it was that I met Judith for the first time. Her -husband was with her: a dark evil man, short, with a great head and -depth of chest and long, deformed arms. She was as spiritual as he was -gross: very quiet, but full of character, and with a mind both strong -and active. - -I remember going up to Madame de Stran. - -“Who is that woman standing against the piano?” I asked. - -“Mrs. Sterling. Don’t you know her?” - -At the word “Mrs.” I felt that quick annoyance that sometimes comes to -one when one hears for the first time that a woman one admires is -married. - -“No. Is her husband here?” - -She indicated the shambling figure I have described to you. - -“That!” I exclaimed. “That evil-looking beast her husband? Impossible!” - -Madame de Stran gave me a quick, inquisitive look. - -“Professor Sterling,” she said, “is perhaps the most distinguished man -of science in Salonika. Why do you call him a beast?” - -“Did I? I’m sorry. Tell me more about him.” - -“Well, he describes himself as an experimental psychologist. He -experiments in hypnotism, vivisects brains, and.... Last year he -published in Rome a book that is talked about rather secretly.” - -She stopped for a moment, and then laughed. - -“All this sounds rather horrible,” she added, “but I suppose it isn’t -really. At all events, he is greatly respected here by all men of -learning.” - -“If an opportunity arises,” I said, “will you introduce me to her? What -I mean is, I don’t want the introduction to be conspicuous.” - -She nodded and smiled. - -“You’ll find her very charming,” she said, as I walked away. - -And later on Madame presented me to Judith. - -From the very first moment we talked without restraint. But then, as I -learned afterwards, she was never restrained with anybody. She was -utterly frank and natural; interesting, too; full of curiosity about -life. - -What appealed to me most in her, I think, was her careful choice of -words when discussing any subject that really mattered. Her speech was -free from all exaggeration; she never invented opinions on the spur of -the moment as so many people do in casual conversation. This pleased and -attracted me. But there was something in her that repelled--that kept me -at a distance. All the time we talked, I felt that the best part of -her--the most exquisite part--was on the other side of the room with her -husband. She was not really with me: she was with him. I resented this. -I had no right to resent it; but I did. For, already, I was in love with -her. - -Lovers move craftily. So I sought out her husband and was presented to -him. He looked me over carefully. - -“You have been talking to my wife,” he observed. - -“Yes,” said I. “We have been talking to each other.” - -His rather large mouth smiled insincerely. - -I felt he had guessed my secret. Certainly, his personality emanated a -faint hostility. He turned to Luigi Papash, ... the man who has since -become famous as a poet, and began to talk to him. I was dismissed.... - -You would be bored if I were to describe to you my feverish lover’s -restlessness during the next three weeks. I did many foolish -things--neglected my business, wandered about alone, and sought every -opportunity to be within sight and sound of Judith. I had only to shut -my eyes to see _her_ eyes, calm and grey, her pale oval face, her dark -hair. She seemed pitiful. My jealousy burned me. It was impossible for -me to see her and her husband together without a horrid excitement.... -But you know these things: all men feel the same about them. - -I learned very little more about her. The previous year, I was told, she -had had a child, a baby-boy, who had died when eight months old. She had -been married three years. Her husband kept his work hidden from her. He -never discussed it, never referred to it. But of their mutual idolatry -there was no shadow of doubt. No two people were more essential each to -the other; yet (or do I mean because?) they were entirely different. - -At the end of three weeks I went back to Athens. - -Madame de Stran knew my secret; oh, I suppose every one knew it. Every -one except Judith who, absorbed in her husband, never exercised her -intuitions with regard to myself. Madame wrote to me occasionally; she -was very kind. Just news of Salonika people. And somewhere in each -letter would be a sentence: “The Sterlings are still here”; or, -“Professor Sterling has just published a pamphlet on ‘The Nature and -Origin of Cancer': I am sending you a copy”; or, “When I told Mrs. -Sterling I was writing to you, she wished me to send you her -remembrances.” - -Then, one morning, opening a letter of Madame de Stran’s before I -touched any of my other correspondence, I read: “Professor Sterling is -seriously ill. They say he has brain fever.” - -He would die: I _knew_ it. I prayed that he should. I willed it. I -thought of nothing else all day. That detestable, dark man must die. -Judith must be released.... - -“Released”? What arrogant vanity distorts the vision of all lovers! -Released? Why, she was happy. Her husband’s brain was not for her a -prison: it was the wide world. His enfolding arms were freedom.... - -That same evening I took the steamer from Le Pirée to Salonika.... - -I want to describe that night to you, because it was the happiest in my -life. You must remember that for a long time I had been suffering under -a strain so cruel that my nerves and brain were bruised and quivering. -The sea--the stars--space! They brought me solace. - -I remember leaning over the rail and looking down at the sea; it was -saturated with stars and moonlight. It seemed to me that I became part -of what I looked at. Does that convey anything to you? I was released -from myself. I had got rid of myself. I had become renewed.... It is -impossible, my dear friend, for me to describe what change took place in -me for that one night. It was a sudden cessation of pain, a freeing of -the soul, an accession of power. Illusion, no doubt--I mean the -consciousness of power. If I had been Zeus himself----! - -At all events, no sleep came to me that night: I wanted neither sleep -nor rest. I was not going to Judith, for Judith already was with me. She -was with me more closely that night than she ever was, though I married -her. My mind was full of poets’ phrases: “His silver skin laced with his -golden blood”: lines from “Annabel Lee”: the “magic casements” of Keats: -some stupendous things from Whitman. These did not tease or worry me: -they were like the potent delicate fumes of a drug. All life was poetry: -there was no possible interpretation of life except the romantic -interpretation. Happiness lay not in gathering and garnering beauty, but -in surrendering oneself to beauty. And, in a burst, Wagner’s “Tristan” -rushed flood-like upon me; I was drowned in its pleasure-pain---- - -Well, he died. He was dead when I arrived at Salonika. The news gave me -no pleasure, for what had happened I had known would happen. - -Madame de Stran received me. - -“You look ill,” she said; “or perhaps you are tired?” - -I made her sit down and tell me all she knew about Judith. - -“I wish to God she had never borne him a child!” I said, when she told -me she had seen a photograph of the baby taken just before the illness -from which it died. - -“He was very like his father: dark, misshapen, vulpine,” said Madame. - -“Don’t speak of him. The father and the child are dead: only she -remains. Has she any close friends in Salonika?” - -“No--not one that is very close, though many people like her. She did -not make intimacies. You see, her husband absorbed her.” - -“And now what will happen?” - -Madame told me that she had already written to Judith offering her help: -probably a reply to her letter would come in the morning. She promised -to summon me if I could be of the slightest use, and with this small -comfort I returned to my hotel to brood. Inaction lay so heavily upon me -that it was scarcely to be endured. I wanted to help--to _be_ something -to her. - -That night I lay awake in dark dejection. In those days I was not used -to suffering, to anxiety. At length I slept.... - -Day after day I stayed on, hoping to be summoned, Madame de Stran giving -me all the comfort she could. He was buried. Judith shut herself up in -her house! At night I would walk from my hotel towards Kalamaria and, in -the complete darkness, wander in the garden surrounding her home. I -remember that I used to touch the flowers with my fingers. I used to put -my foot on the pathway and say to myself: “_Her_ foot has been there!” -The garden was magical with remembrances of her. Yet she was absent, and -the ache in me grew and grew. My eyes used to become hot with unshed -tears. Though it was torture to linger there, yet I could never draw -myself away until very late, and one night, sitting down on a bank, I -fell asleep. As I woke, the scent of dew-laden roses weakened me -unmercifully; and I sobbed without tears.... - -I must tell you all this: it matters: it is the heart of the tragedy -that has happened to me: that, and the remembrance of her brute-husband -who so wickedly, so monstrously, still lives in my son.... - -One night, while in her garden, I saw her. I was standing in a little -grove of pepper-trees. She came slowly towards me. I stepped back to -conceal myself. Her little feet on the grass made no sound. What were -her thoughts? Oh, of him--him whom she had loved and was still loving. -It was he who for her haunted this garden, not I. If my body had been -multiplied a hundred-fold and all my hundred bodies were hiding there in -the trees, she would have felt nothing. She passed and repassed, and -then disappeared into the gloom of the house. - -At length, under the implacable pressure of my own self-torture, I wrote -to her. I told her I knew of her grief, that.... In short, I asked to be -allowed to come and see her. - -Months later, she told me that my letter had terrified her. Some phrases -in it had called up many dead memories and, pondering, she had seen in a -flash that I loved her. Her spirit was too sore even for sympathy, and -offering her love was like offering her an unsheathed sword. My letter -brought no answer, and two days later Madame de Stran told me mournfully -that Judith had left Salonika for Constantinople.... - -Four months passed; to me, working in Athens, they were four years. I -did not deceive myself by telling myself I would try to forget her: no -man ever tries to forget the woman he loves. Madame de Stran wrote -occasionally, promising, and repeating her promise in each letter, that -she would tell me as soon as she received news of Judith’s return. My -business prospered: you know, I have always been successful. I threw -myself into my work, and exhausted my false, feverish energy by violent -exercise. I rode my horse an hour each day: I swam: I walked: and, -occasionally, I sought the baleful comfort of drink. - -September came and went. Then in October I was visited by a mood of such -unremitting desperateness that I suddenly stopped my work and my violent -exercise. I felt incapable of any action, for I had exhausted all my -energy. I had used up my capacity for suffering; I could feel neither -pain nor pleasure. For days I sat stupidly in my office, staring at -nothing. I closed my door to all visitors; I transacted no business; I -answered no letters. - -Then, one morning, as I was moodily pacing up and down my private room, -a clerk entered with a telegram. Idly I tore open the envelope and read -its contents. It was from Madame--just one word, “Come.” But that word -meant everything: it changed the whole world for me.... - -Two days later I was in Salonika. I did not wait even to call on Madame -de Stran, but went straight to Judith’s house. - -It was early afternoon. I was admitted. The room into which I was shown -was empty. Already greatly agitated, I felt my excitement increasing -almost beyond bounds whilst I waited. What should I say when she -entered? Would she still be thrall to her dead husband? Would his -personality still envelop hers and obscure it? - -She entered so silently that, though my eyes were fixed on the door, I -scarcely realized she was there. A swift searching of her face told me -she was well. - -She was courteous, she was kind; but she was timid. She spoke of her -friends in Constantinople. - -“I have been very busy with my work,” she said, smiling. - -As she looked at me it seemed to me that she was doing everything -possible to be gentle with me; it was as though she knew she had the -power to hurt me, and was afraid that some chance word might wound. - -“Work?” I asked. - -“Yes. My husband left his last book half finished--a great mass of -notes, and a rough synopsis of each chapter. I wrote the book as he -wished it to be written. He helped me all the time.” - -“He _helped_ you!” I exclaimed, shocked. - -“Yes. You do not believe in communication with the dead? He did not -speak to me, it is true, but he guided me.” - -I felt suddenly sick and cold. - -“You must not believe it!” I exclaimed. “It is impossible! Such things -do not happen! You may think it happened, but it didn’t!” - -She smiled gently, as she said: - -“Ah! But I _know_!” - -“But, dear Mrs. Sterling ... why, such a thing has never come to pass in -the whole history of the world. Why, then, should it happen to you?” - -She shook her head. - -“Do not let us discuss it,” she said. “Besides, the book is finished.” - -“And does he still communicate with you--_guide_ you?” - -“No,” she answered sadly; “all that is finished--he has gone from -me--gone, I am convinced, for ever.” - -“I also have been working,” I said, “working hard.” - -“You look tired. Have you been in Salonika long?” - -Our talk drifted to commonplace things, and soon I rose to leave. - -Next day I sought her again. She was in the garden, for, though it was -now late October, the weather was very warm and sunny. She seemed -disturbed, but not surprised, when she saw me. We wandered slowly under -the trees; their leaves left the branches as we came and fell upon our -way. I did not feel that she was unhappy. I asked if I might come to see -her every afternoon. - -“Why, yes,” she said, “if it pleases you.” - -So every afternoon I spent an hour with her, and, when the cold weather -came with the Varda winds, we sat indoors. - -By Christmas she had promised to marry me.... - -Now, my dear friend, you must understand that even before our marriage I -realized that she was not, nor ever could be, wholly mine. In some -inexplicable way, she still belonged to _him_. Many women are like that: -the best women are. Sterling’s name was never mentioned; after our -engagement he was not referred to even remotely. Yet she was his. Then -why, you ask, did she marry me? Out of pity; I am sure of it. Yet, in a -way, she loved me and loves me still. No one could have been more -tender, more generous, more self-sacrificing: it weakens and unmans me -to think of these things.... - -I took her away with me to Athens. I was very happy. I had never -believed such unalloyed bliss as mine was possible. It never faded. And -Judith, in her fashion, was happy also. - -Sometimes, it is true, Sterling passed ghost-like between us. There were -occasions when ... but let me give you an instance. - -One day, in the April after our marriage, we went to Eleusis by rail and -wandered over the ruins of that once-wonderful place. Tired, we sat down -to rest on a broken column. We were silent and alone. There came upon me -one of those moods of gentle ecstasy in which the soul seems to nestle -softly in one’s body, satisfied and glad to be there. Judith’s hand was -in mine: I felt she was really _with_ me, in body, in mind, in soul. My -ecstasy increased. Lifting my eyes to her face, I saw that she also was -a-thrill with bliss. Her eyes were softened with unshed tears. Her -throat trembled visibly. Her breath came quickly.... But, Christ! not -for me! Not for this moment, nor this place! But for _him_! For some day -of long ago--for some never-forgotten hour of love with him.... - -Gently, very gently, though I suffered as never before, I withdrew my -hand from hers. She trembled violently, turned her face to mine and, -with a little cry, flung her arms about me. - -“Oh, little one!” she cried; “forgive me! Forgive me!” - -And the tears that had gathered for him were shed for me.... - -And now I have to tell you of the slow horror that began to creep upon -me--upon us both. For a long time, I thrust it away with my hands, I -closed my eyes to it, my mind refused to admit it. Only to-day, indeed, -for the first time, do I really accept and believe it, though for years -it has hung about my neck most loathsomely. - -A year after our marriage Judith bore me a male child--a healthy baby -who came into the world without unnecessary fuss and who continued to -thrive from the moment of his birth. Though, of course, I was very fond -of the little chap, I did not see much of him. Indeed, as you know, I am -not the kind of parent who gloats over his offspring. - -We employed a nurse, and both baby and nurse lived in the rooms set -apart for them. When I returned home from my work each evening, our baby -was generally asleep, and I rarely saw him on these occasions. If I did -go to his cot, Judith always accompanied me; indeed, I used to tease her -on account of her appearing never to wish me to be alone with our child. - -Two months after his birth I went alone to London on business, expecting -to be away a month or so. But I was detained in England much longer than -I had expected, and when at length I returned to Athens I had been away -four months.... - -When, my dear fellow, I began this letter, I meant to tell you all my -tragedy in detail, but now, when I reach the very heart of it, I feel I -must hurry its telling. - -I saw my son--a little black creature--and it seemed to me he looked at -me with eyes of hate. He was not mine: I could not feel that he was -mine. His nurse, looking from him to me, said kindly: - -“He is very like you, sir--he has your forehead.” - -“Yes,” breathed Judith, who stood by my side; “we have often said that, -haven’t we, nurse?” - -I turned to look at her, but she fluttered away to the other end of the -room, and I could not see her face. So, with an effort, I bent low over -the cot in which my son lay and scrutinized each feature of his face in -turn. But I could see none of my blood in him. Nothing of mine was -his.... The dead past had come to life. Sterling still survived.... - -I am sure that my manner of living at this time puzzled and distressed -my friends--you, in particular. If you will carry your mind back to two -years ago, you will recollect how I plunged myself into wild dissipation -for a time, and how in a fit of most reticent yet hot anger I left wife -and home for Persia, then India, then China. All the time I was -away--until, indeed, yesterday when I returned home after my long -absence--I was trying to forget. To forget my son, I mean. For a time I -hated Judith. It was through her that Nature had dealt me this blow. If -she had not so dearly loved Sterling, I thought, this thing could not -have happened to me. But as the months went by I softened to my wife; my -hatred of her broadened into a hatred of life itself. - -In the letters she wrote me she never made even passing mention of our -son. - -Then, yesterday, I returned. Judith was expecting me. Her manner, -generally so calm, was disturbed, agitated. She has grown very thin, -very old. - -“Where is he?” I asked. - -“Upstairs--in the nursery. But do not go to see him now,” she urged. -“Stay with me a little while.” - -And she put her arms about my neck and kissed me fondly. My flesh -responded to hers. But whilst we stood locked in each other’s arms, my -memory, hating me, threw up before my eyes a vivid picture of the dark -little creature I left behind two years ago. I shuddered. My braced arms -slackened. I turned away. - -“I must see him now,” I said; “is he well?” - -“Yes,” she answered--regretfully, I thought. - -We went to the nursery. He was sitting on the floor, playing with his -toys. She stood between him and me, as though shielding him. It was -Sterling--Sterling as he must have looked at the age of two and a -half--an eager, intelligent face, long, deformed arms, a great breadth -of chest, a vulpine look in his eyes.... - -As his eyes caught mine, his whole body stiffened. He put up a little -hand against his face and made a sound of rage. - -I do not know what movement I made, but Judith, suddenly stooping, -caught her child up from the floor and folded him in her arms. - -“You must not touch him!” she said, pale and distraught. - -And she placed a hungry kiss upon his lips.... - -And so, my dear friend, farewell. - - - - - -A LITTLE CORRESPONDENCE - -To -Bertram Pace - - - -Marriage seemed to Katya a much jollier game than she had anticipated. -She liked her house, her garden, her servants; as for Guy, he was too -utterly adorable for words. Most of all, she liked patronizing those of -her friends and acquaintances who were less fortunate than herself: she -enjoyed giving them little dinners during which she would speak a few -barbed, malicious words that made her listeners wince. - -One afternoon, sitting among her roses in the silent garden, she began -to think of Captain Pierre Lacroix, her Brussels lover, in whose arms -she had nestled so often the previous year. He had really been quite -perfect, and since she had returned home to Greece she had frequently, -when lying awake at night, reproached herself for not having yielded to -his wild solicitations. Never in the years that remained to her was she -likely to meet so fine an animal, so fierce a lover, so fascinating a -personality. - -Her husband, Guy Fallon, was adorable, but he was not Pierre Lacroix. -God had made only one Pierre. And he was thousands of miles away in -Brussels. Still, she could write to him; if she could not throw herself -into love’s furnace, she could at least play with love’s fire.... - -So she left her roses and went into her cool house with its tiled -floors, it great entrance-hall where a white fountain so cleverly made a -mist of water, its great walls on to which hung, like butterflies, so -many Segantinis, and its wide passages that somehow made her feel like a -princess of Ancient Rome. - -Her boudoir, however, was rather small. Its furniture was of inlaid -rosewood. There were many full-length mirrors sunk deeply into frames of -unusual shape, and the stove was made of porcelain, painted green. -Sitting down near the open window, she began to write. - - “MY DEAR PIERRE,--Do not be grieved. I always promised you I would - never marry any one but you, but I have been unable to keep my - word. What fool was it who years ago said the flesh is weak? My - flesh is not like that. It is too strong. It has overwhelmed me. I - am married. Yes: it is the end. One is finished when marriage - comes. There is nothing left but to sit down and wait until the - children arrive. - - “When we meet, we must not kiss each other as we used to. You may - kiss me like a brother; I, in return will, like a sister, kiss you. - That will be all, but even that will be nice. Do you think you will - ever be able to come to Salonika to be my brother? No? - - “It is strange that, though I have been married so short a time, I - should still be thinking of the boulevards, the Avenue Louise and - the Bois de la Cambre--that I should still be thinking of you, and - you, and still you. This is naughty of me, I know, but sometimes I - wish that in those days I had not been quite so ... what is the - word?... timid?--proud?--cruel? - - “Never mind: do not be angry that I was married six weeks ago. You - will soon recover from your disappointment, your love-hunger. - - “As for me, I am happy. My husband is rich: he adores me. I have - many friends. I play the piano better than any one in the whole - city of Salonika. And, dear Pierre, I have you to dream of in my - idle hours.... Take my advice and marry a nice simple girl and - settle down; but she must not be so clever as I am, nor so - beautiful, nor so mysterious. And you must not love her as much as - you once loved (and perhaps now love?) me. - - “Do not forget: when we meet we must kiss as sister and brother. - - “From your KATYA.” - - -She read her letter over and liked it. - -“If he can leave, he will surely come!” she told herself. - -And, rising from her chair, she walked to a large oval mirror and gazed -at herself smilingly. Then a thought struck her: she was tired: she -would go to bed and rest. - -Her bedroom was very long and rather narrow; at each end was a large -window. In this room also were many full-length mirrors. Several of them -were on movable stands furnished with castors. Three of these she so -arranged that they formed a kind of triangle, the mirrors facing -inwards. Stripping herself nude, she stepped within the triangle, and -placed herself in such a position that she could see the reflection of -every part of her body. For a little while she gazed at herself -critically, anxiously, a small frown crinkling her forehead; but the -frown gradually disappeared, and in a minute or two criticism had -changed to whole-hearted admiration. - -“Why, I do believe I am more beautiful than ever,” she said as she -slipped her warm body between the cool sheets. - -Placing under the pillow the letter she had written to Pierre Lacroix, -she was soon slumbering. - - * * * * * - -A fortnight later there came for her a letter with the Brussels -postmark. She pushed it under her plate, for she and her husband were at -breakfast, but as soon as the meal was over she sought her rose-garden, -tore open the envelope and read what follows. - - “MADAME,--What is it you mean by writing to my husband of kisses? - It is shameful, incredible! For three days he was strange to me. I - knew not why. But now I do know, for this morning I found your - letter in a secret pocket of his coat. I do not know you; I do not - want to know you. If you write to him again, your letter will be - returned to your husband. I have been married to Pierre a year: - already I have a baby and another is on the way. Kisses, indeed! - - “JEANNE LACROIX.” - -Katya was both angry and amused. - -It amused her to know that her letter had lain close to Pierre’s body -for three days, but she was very angry that he had married. Why, he must -have sought a bride within a few weeks of her leaving Brussels for -Salonika. It was evident he had married a fool, a breeder of children, a -jealous woman who could not write a clever letter. It was good that he -should have married a fool. But it was an evil thing that he should so -soon have forgotten her for whom he had vowed he would remain single for -ever.... - -Her thoughts wandered from her to her husband, and she felt a sudden -passionate desire. Having torn Mrs. Lacroix’s letter into tiny pieces, -she made a hole in the flower-bed with a broken stick, thrust in the -bits of paper, and covered up the hole with the heel of her shoe. - -Then she called to her husband who, at her summons, came from the house -to meet her. - -“Hello!” he said. - -She put an arm round his neck and drew his face down to hers. - -He smiled and began to tease her. - -“Is our honeymoon going to last for ever?” he asked, holding his head -back so that his lips did not quite touch hers. - -“Very well, then,” she said; “I _don’t_ want to kiss you.” - -He looked up the garden to the field where the thick weeds grew -profusely many feet high. - -“Shall we hide ourselves in the grass?” he asked. - -She pretended to draw away from him. So he put his arm about her waist -and compelled her to walk by his side. They passed through the flowers -and reached the edge of the field. When they stepped into the luxuriant -weeds, the grasses almost touched their shoulders. At the field’s centre -they stopped. - -“I love you much better than Pierre,” she whispered. - -“Who is Pierre?” he asked indifferently, taking his lips from her neck -in order to speak. - -“I don’t know,” she answered, “I have forgotten.” - - - - - -THE DEAF-MUTE OF KILINDIR - -To -Christina Walshe - - -At Kilindir two men loved the same woman. Marania was tall and dark and -gentle; he had the devotion of a dog; his instinct for self-sacrifice -was as great as that of a good woman for the husband she loves. Sobraji, -on the other hand, was small and fair and cunning; as a boy he tortured -animals, and as a man he tortured his mother and sisters. - -The name of the woman was Pabasca. She was very dainty and pretty, and -her cheeks were like red poppies seen in the half-light. But she was -also very evil. - -It was Sobraji whom Pabasca loved, but Sobraji was poor; Marania, on the -other hand, owned land and cattle. - -“If I am careful,” said Pabasca to herself one evening, as she sat -outside her mother’s cottage, “if I am careful, I can have both -Sobraji’s love and Marania’s money. It has been done before--I have seen -it.” - -This thought had lain broodingly in her mind for weeks, but she had -spoken of it to no one--not even to Sobraji. And yet if she were to -carry her plan into effect, Sobraji was the one man in all the world who -must be told. - -It was time something was done, for the ardent love of the two men was -wearing her down. Only this morning she had received another of -Marania’s strange letters. She could remember some of its phrases. - -“Last night I lay awake listening to a nightingale; your voice was in -that bird’s throat.... The rushes bending in the wind this afternoon -were like your supple body.... I sometimes think your soul is in my -hands.” - -It was impossible not to be pleased by these phrases that her mean -little soul could only half understand, but her pleasure was tinged with -contempt. - -Sobraji did not make love in that way. He wrote no letters. When he met -her at night he whispered amorous indecencies in her ear which made her -laugh and laugh. - -Nearly every sentence began with: “How I would like to ...!” and there -was no end to the ingenious ways of love his cunning mind devised. - -But she had kept her body untouched by both men. Though love was heady -and intoxicating, she was too calculating, too distrustful, to give her -body: when the time came, her body should be sold. But Sobraji had begun -to demand, and Marania to pray for, an answer to the question each had -put so many times. It was tiresome, she thought, to be driven to speech -when she was not ready for speech. If Sobraji came to-night, she would -have to tell him her plan. - -He did come. It was dark. He crept among the bushes, and she heard him. -Then, stealthily, he emerged from the plantation and touched her on the -shoulder. His hand slid down her arm to her hip and lingered there. She -bent over to him, and he seized her roughly, brutally, as a faun might -seize a virgin, and pulled her body to his. - -“Oh!” he half whispered, half groaned, “how I would like to....” - -Almost she swooned with ecstasy. - -“Come into the plantation!” he urged. - -She obeyed, and when they were among the trees, he seized her so -savagely that she turned upon him with fear and anger. - -“What are you doing?” she asked, placing her hands on his shoulders and -pushing him violently away. - -“Well, you won’t marry me!” he protested. “What is a man to do if the -girl he loves won’t marry him? It isn’t as though you don’t love me--you -do: you know you do.” - -“If I married you, I should starve,” she said; “or, at all events, I -should have to work so hard that I should have no joy in you. Listen -while I tell you something.” - -And then in a very low voice she revealed her plan to him. - -“I will be Marania’s wife, but you shall be my lover. We will meet in -secret. And some of the money he gives me I will hand over to you.” - -She spoke for a long time, her voice excited but very low, urging upon -him the advantages of this scheme. She explained how he had everything -to gain and nothing to lose, whilst she stood to lose everything. - -“But if he found out!” interrupted Sobraji, “he would kill me! Surely he -would kill me!” - -Pabasca stirred angrily in his arms. - -“You must risk that!” she said disgustedly, though she knew very well -that Marania was too gentle, too long-suffering, and too profound a -believer in Fate, to wish to kill any one. - -“When will you marry him?” he asked. - -“Soon. Now. In a fortnight.” - -“Very well,” said he; “then let me love you now.” - -But she drew away from him, pushing him back with her white arms. - -“Your beautiful teeth--how white they are!” he said; “and I can almost -see your white breasts through your....” - -“Hush!” she warned, as she heard footsteps on the pathway leading to the -cottage. “It is Marania. I will go to him and tell him I love him and -will marry him.” - -Sobraji lingered a minute after she had gone, his body a-tremble with -desire. Then, in the dark, he parted the bushes with his hands and went -his own way. - -Marania met Pabasca with a smile that could be seen even in the -darkness. He took her hand in his for a moment and patted it gently. - -“Though I cannot see you,” he said, “I know you are as beautiful as the -night itself.” - -He led her down the pathway on to the ill-made road. Embarrassed, she -remained silent. - -“Listen!” he said; “that’s the nightingale I heard last night--I’m sure -it is--the one I wrote to you about.... Did you like my letter?” - -“Oh, yes: of course I did. But what did you mean when you said my voice -was in its throat?” - -“Well, as I lay in bed, it was so easy to imagine that it was you -singing.” - -“But I never sing.” - -“No? But if you did, you would sing like that. Listen!” - -They stopped walking, and he placed his hand upon her shoulder. - -“When I think of you, that’s how my heart feels,” he said. “All people -must be happy when they think of you.” - -“Marania, you think too well of me,” she said craftily. - -“My heart is empty because you do not love me, and my house is as empty -as my heart. Think of it!--that big house with no one in it save myself -and my deaf and dumb servant, Cesiphos. It is not a home: it is only a -house. No house can be a home without children.” - -“Yes, children,” she said softly, deceiving him. “And a woman is not -really a woman until she has borne a child.” - -She had read that in a book and had wondered at it; she was very glad -that she had remembered it now. - -“Won’t you marry me, Pabasca?” he asked hopelessly, for he had asked -this question many times, and had always been blankly refused. - -“I don’t know,” she replied. - -His heart leapt and he drew nearer to her, placing his arm about her -waist. They were still standing, and the nightingale was pouring out his -heart. He held her firmly and, stretching out his arm to its utmost -limit, his hand closed gently on her breast. - -“You are changing?” he asked; “you are growing to like me better--to -love me?” - -Her body yielded to his embrace and she turned to face him. - -“Kiss me, Marania,” she said, panting a little, and pouting her lips. - -But he kissed her brow instead of her mouth. A wave of irritation passed -over her. - -“You do not love me!” she said. - -“Not love you, little dear?” - -He held her away from him for a few moments, looking inquiringly into -her face; but she closed her eyes and set her mouth. “How stupid he is!” -she thought. He could just see the dusky red of her cheeks. The -nightingale’s song ceased suddenly. - -“Not love you?” he repeated. “Why, you are everything to me--the moon -and the stars, my food and drink, my dreams and my work. You are a part -of everything that is good.” - -He again drew her to his breast. Her thoughts fastened on Sobraji, her -imagination transforming Marania’s body into that of the man she loved. -She threw her arms about him wildly. - -“Kiss me!” she murmured; “kiss me on the mouth!” - -Incredulous, he hesitated a moment; then, with a smothered cry, he -placed his lips on hers, and he stood in that deep silence lost in the -sweet bitterness of unaccomplished love. - - * * * * * - -Cesiphos, the deaf and dumb servant of Marania, had no interest in life -save to please his master. His happiness was greatest when Marania, with -a smile and a sign, thanked him for some work he had done. On these -occasions, Cesiphos would return to his quarters with a glad heart and -singing eyes. His master was pleased with him: that was all that -mattered. - -But when Marania brought home his wife, Pabasca, Cesiphos felt cold and -angry. No longer would he be first in his master’s eyes. The work in -which he took so much delight would be done not for Marania alone, but -for Marania’s wife also; moreover, Pabasca herself would superintend the -working of the household, and he, Cesiphos, would be relegated to the -position simply of a paid servant. - -But matters did not turn out quite as Cesiphos had anticipated. It is -true that he had to work for Pabasca as well as for his master, but he -was mistaken in thinking she would superintend the household. Pabasca -did nothing at all. She conducted herself like a Salonika lady. All day -long she was idle and peevish, and whilst Marania was sweating in the -fields she was either lying in bed or wandering aimlessly about the -house. - -One day when Cesiphos was working with the other men in the orchard, he -looked down from the ladder on which he was standing and saw Pabasca -staring at him in a most curious manner. He flushed hotly and went on -with his work, and though he could feel that his master’s wife was still -gazing upon him, he did not look down again. His figure stretched to its -full extent was that of a giant, and his long arms, busy among the -branches, were brown and muscular. - -Like many people of bright intellect who are deprived of one or more -senses, Cesiphos appeared to possess a sixth sense, and there was little -that transpired in Marania’s household of which he was not conscious. He -soon discovered that Pabasca had no love for her husband; so he watched -her--always watched, suspicious, contemptuous, angry. - -There came a day when Marania announced that he was going to Salonika -for four days on business. When he signalled this news to Cesiphos and -told him that he was leaving his wife in his servant’s charge, Cesiphos, -proud and grave, inclined his head, and then turned his gaze swiftly -upon Pabasca who, in return, gave him the curious look she had bestowed -upon him in the orchard. It was a look of invitation, of lust. Cesiphos’ -stern face did not betray that he had understood, or even noticed, the -look she had given him. - -At midday Marania departed, and immediately he had gone Pabasca’s -spirits rose. She took from a cupboard her three dresses and, leaving -her bedroom door open, tried on each in turn. Then she went into the -room which Cesiphos used as a kitchen and prepared herself a meal. -Towards dusk she left the house, but returned soon and went to bed. - -Cesiphos sat up smoking his pipe. After a time, he rose, climbed rather -noisily upstairs, went to his room and closed the door. For a little -while he stood motionless as though listening; then, having taken off -his boots, he opened his bedroom door with elaborate carefulness, -stepped on to the little landing, closed the door silently, and crept -soundlessly downstairs. - -Some instinct told him that Pabasca would not sleep alone that night, -and he knew very well that her visitor would be Sobraji, for many times -before her marriage, Cesiphos had seen her and Sobraji together at night -in lonely places. In all probability, Pabasca had given him the key of -the front entrance; indeed, when Cesiphos examined the door and found it -unbolted, he was sure of this. So he took up his place in the entrance -and waited. - -After Cesiphos had waited a long time, the door opened slowly and -Sobraji entered. In the darkness he did not see Marania’s servant -crouching there, and without hurry he closed the door behind him and -locked it. - -Then suddenly Cesiphos sprang upon him, his large hands encircling -Sobraji’s throat; squeezing his victim hard, he banged his head against -the wall, until the little man hung heavy and limp in Cesiphos’ hands. -Then the servant unlocked the door and opened it; gathering Sobraji in -his arms, he threw him out into the night and locked the door upon him. - -During his struggle with Sobraji, Cesiphos had been too excited to pay -any attention to Pabasca, who, almost as soon as the struggle had begun, -had come downstairs with a lamp. She had stood quietly by watching -eagerly. It was too late for her to interrupt; indeed, after her first -shock of surprise and dismay, she had no wish to do so. She was thrilled -by Cesiphos’ strength, by his skill, by his machine-like calmness. - -Cesiphos, having locked the door, turned round and saw Pabasca. The -light of the lamp fell full on her face, and she smiled at him. In -return, he frowned, looked away from her, and quickly made his way -upstairs. He entered his room and closed his door. Almost immediately -Pabasca followed him, and placed the lamp upon the floor. - -Approaching Cesiphos, she took his hand, gazed lingeringly into his eyes -for a moment. He shook himself free from her, and his eyes blazed. Again -she approached him, her arms outstretched; but his anger became so -fierce and his face worked so terribly, that she shrank from him, and, -leaving the lamp on the floor, hurriedly went to her own room. - -During the days that passed before Marania’s return, Cesiphos went about -his work with a grave face. Whenever he was in Pabasca’s presence, he -averted his eyes. Each night when he went to rest, she could hear him -dragging his bed across the floor and fixing it against the door. - -His simple nature was badly bruised by what had happened. He had always -known that life was not all good, but evil had never come so close to -him as now. All through the day and during a portion of each night he -tortured himself by asking how much, or how little, he must tell his -master when he returned. Clearly it was his duty to disclose to Marania -the conduct of Sobraji, but it seemed to him unwise to tell the story in -such a way that Pabasca would be implicated. Besides, he had no proof -that Pabasca had expected Sobraji to visit her, though in his heart he -knew that an assignation had been made and nearly kept. - -Upon one thing he was resolved: he would say nothing about Pabasca’s -overtures to himself, for that might lead to unimaginable misery for all -of them. Nevertheless, it tortured him to keep any of these things -secret, but he knew not a soul to whom he could unburden his mind. - -On the evening of the fourth day Cesiphos slipped unseen from the house -and went to the station to meet his master. It was a cool evening with a -feeling of largeness in the air, but Cesiphos was weighed down with -anxiety and nervousness. How much should he tell? In what manner should -he tell it? Should he break straight into the subject, or should he -introduce it in a roundabout fashion? - -These questions which he had been asking himself for four days were -still unanswered when he saw Marania, carrying two very large parcels, -step from the train. Cesiphos hurried up to him, and Marania placed both -parcels on the ground whilst he shook hands with his servant. He was in -good spirits and glad to be home again. Cesiphos, having picked up one -of the parcels, led the way from the station, his chin upon his breast, -his heart heavy within him. - -They had covered but a short distance when Cesiphos plucked his master’s -sleeve and indicated that he wished to speak with him. With a sigh of -impatience, Marania put his package on the ground and sat upon it. -Cesiphos followed his example, and began to talk on his fingers by the -light of the moon. - -“Master, I have something I would tell you.” - -Marania bowed his head. - -“Very late in the night following the day you left, Sobraji entered your -house. He had a key, the door was unbolted.” - -He stopped, hoping his master would say something; but Marania only -stared at him wonderingly and again bowed his head. - -“I was waiting for him....” - -Marania interrupted his servant by placing a hand upon his arm. - -“Why were you waiting for him?” - -Cesiphos fumbled with his fingers, but spelled out not a single word. -Marania struck him lightly on the arm and again asked: - -“Why?” - -“Because ... because, somehow, I thought he was coming. The door was -unbolted.” - -His master shook him angrily. - -“Why were you waiting for him?” he asked a third time. “How did you know -he was coming?” - -Cesiphos began to tremble. He did not know why he had believed Sobraji -would come that night. Something in his mind had whispered it to -him--instinct, suspicion, hatred. But he could not explain this to -Marania. So he sat fumbling with his fingers. At length his master -signed to him: - -“Go on with your story.” - -“I was waiting for him behind the door. He entered and closed it after -him. I sprang upon him and nearly choked him. I banged his head against -the wall. Then I opened the door and threw him outside.” - -“Does your mistress know of this?” - -“Yes. She came down with a lamp in her hand and watched us.” - -His hands stopped working. Very deliberately Marania rose, lifted his -parcel and proceeded on his way home, Cesiphos followed him in deep -dejection. The servant knew that his master had not accepted his story: -yet it was true--every word of it. - -They soon reached Marania’s farm. Pabasca was waiting outside to receive -her husband. She ran to him with a cry of delight and threw her arms -about his neck. He embraced her, at first tenderly, then with passion. - -In the meantime, Cesiphos had carried his package into the house and had -begun to prepare food for his master. It was with a great effort that he -moved his body about, so sick he felt, so dismayed, so full of -apprehension. Through the open door he saw his master and mistress go to -their living-room. He could feel them talking together. For a long time -they talked until, suddenly, with blazing eyes, Marania entered, rushed -up to his servant and dealt him a heavy blow between the eyes. Cesiphos -staggered and fell. He rose, whimpering. - -Marania then went to the entrance-door and opened it wide. Pointing with -one hand to the door, he seized his servant with the other and -violently dragged him into the passage. Still whimpering Cesiphos -stumbled into the night. The master whom he had loved and served now -hated him. - -Marania locked and bolted the door, and returned to his wife. - -But though she was weeping he would not comfort her, and that night and -for ever afterwards he slept in the room that Cesiphos had occupied. - - - - - -LA BELLE -DAME SANS MERCI -To -G. A. E. Marshall - - -It has always seemed to me a most extraordinary thing that Victor -Lovelace should have been able to speak five languages. He was English, -and Englishmen are notoriously stupid in this respect. But Lovelace -spoke his languages perfectly, and as he was extremely obliging and full -of information he was far and away the most popular waiter at the -Jupiter Hotel in Athens. - -I have never believed Lovelace was his real name; but that concerns -neither you nor me. Lovelace has a romantic sound, and this young man of -twenty-three looked romantic. Tall he was and slim: he carried himself -well: unlike all the other waiters in the whole world, he looked you in -the eyes when he spoke to you, and the eyes that looked into yours were -large, brilliant, and unquestionably full of passion. - -In April 1914, I stayed at the Jupiter Hotel, and at dinner on the day -of my arrival I sat down at a table occupied solely by an Englishwoman -who appeared to be travelling alone. Lovelace waited on us. Before we -were half-way through our dinner I was convinced that the -Englishwoman--her name was Dorothy Langdon--was in love with him. -Whenever he brought her food, she looked quickly up into his eyes, and -once I observed her touch his hand lingeringly as she assisted him in -supporting the dish from which she was helping herself to vegetables. - -I confess I was interested: people always do interest me. And I said to -myself: “Is this love? Or is it passion--a very frenzy of the senses?” - -Lovelace, for his part, showed neither desire nor distress. Perhaps he -was a little more assiduous in his waiting on the lady than he was in -attending to my wants; but this might mean simply that she was a woman -and I was merely a man. - -During dinner Miss Langdon and I talked. - -“You arrived to-day?” she asked. - -“Yes, I came from Marseilles by the _Ispahan_. Do you know the -Messageries Maritimes boats?” - -“Jolly little things, aren’t they?” she said, smiling. “I like the -cosmopolitan passengers they carry, and I love curry for breakfast.” - -She was very fair. Her neck, wrists and ankles were exquisite, as -thoroughbred as the human animal can ever hope to be. - -“What I liked most of all,” said I, “was the rummy little music room on -the deck with the piano that made such tender, melting sounds. I used to -feel tremendously sentimental in the evenings. There was an Italian girl -who sang Neapolitan songs as though she really meant them.” - -“I know,” she said eagerly; “wouldn’t it be fine if all life were like -that? But I suppose it wouldn’t, really. Sweetness so soon cloys.” - -“Yes,” I agreed, “we all require bitter days in between: they add zest -to our appetite when the good days come along.” - -We talked obvious things of this kind all through the meal. - -“Will Madame have coffee here or in the lounge?” asked Lovelace when we -had finished our fruit. - -She looked up at him and smiled divinely, and in return he smiled a -pleasant English smile that meant nothing of what she wished it to mean. - - -“It all depends on Monsieur,” she said, turning to me. “Shall we have -coffee here?” - -“As you please,” said I. - -“Very well, then, here.” - -She took the cigarette case that was lying on the table at her side and -offered me a smoke. - -“This hotel is very pleasant,” she remarked; “have you ever stayed here -before?” - -“No, this is my first visit to Athens. And you?” - -“I also have never been here before.” - -Our little table was in a corner of the room farthest away from the -door. All the diners except ourselves had left. Lovelace stood some -little way off, waiting I suppose, to minister to our possible wants. -Suddenly, he put down the table-napkin he was holding, and began to move -towards the door. Though my companion was not facing him, she saw--or -felt--his withdrawal. - -“Lovelace!” she called softly. - -He turned and approached our table. - -“Where are you going?” she asked. - -“To wait on the ladies and gentlemen in the lounge,” he answered. - -“Must you go?” - -“Not if Madame desires me to stay.” - -“You may please yourself, of course. But if you went I should miss you.” - -Without embarrassment he bowed, walked a few paces away, and stationed -himself out of reach of our talk. - -I do not think my attempt to look unconcerned was entirely successful, -and I betrayed myself, I am sure, by asking: - -“Have you been here very long?” - -(What I meant, of course, was: “Do you know Lovelace well?”). - -“Just five days,” she said, as though I had asked the most ordinary -question in the world. Then, after a pause, she asked: “I surprise you?” - -“No, why?” - -She smiled. - -“You lie so well,” she said, “that I feel I can trust you.” - -I feebly protested my sincerity. - -“I knew him last year in Oxford,” she explained; “but he refuses to know -me now. He is afraid of me.” - -“Surely not!” I exclaimed. “Why should he be afraid?” - -She did not answer me, but went on to speak of other things. - -“Will you promise me something?” she asked. - -“Of course I will. What is it?” - -“I want you to promise always to sit at this table for your meals. They -never lay more than two places here. If you speak to the head waiter, he -will reserve that place for you.” - -“You are very kind,” I said; “I shall be delighted. Thanks awfully for -asking me.” - -And, this time, I meant every word I said. - -In a few minutes we rose from the table and prepared to leave the room. -She preceded me, and, in passing Lovelace, gazed at him with a look so -despairing and beseeching that I could but wonder he maintained so -undisturbed a countenance. - -Having reached the door, she turned. - -“Good night, Lovelace,” she said. - -And behind me I heard his voice, low and grave: - -“Good night, Madame.” - - * * * * * - -If she was beautiful that night, she was still more beautiful next -morning at breakfast. Poets have described the kind of woman she was: I -cannot. I can but give you a few clumsy hints. She was as delicate as -porcelain. Her hair had the colour and the sheen of polished brass, and -her face, when composed, was all innocence and trust. Her innocence was -a lure. One felt her sex. In the corner of her lips there lurked a -mysterious suggestion of cruelty--or was it of hunger? - -Though she chattered a good deal whilst we ate, I felt that she was -preoccupied. Whenever Lovelace approached her, she seemed to expand and -open like a flower in the sun; whenever he withdrew, she closed in upon -herself again. She rarely spoke to him without addressing him by name. - -Of the two it was he who interested me most, and after breakfast I -sought an opportunity of talking to him. - -I asked him about--the best means of getting there, its distance from -Athens, and so on. - -He answered my questions with politeness, but without deference; his -manner was easy, even polished. It was quite evident he was a gentleman, -and a gentleman of culture and experience. - -I told him that I had recently attended a course of lectures at Oxford -on the social life of ancient Athens, and at the word Oxford he started -a little and flushed. A minute later I noticed he was trembling and that -his cheeks were pale. - -“She is getting on his nerves,” I said to myself. - -I had little compunction in trying to solve this mystery, for I had, so -to speak, been dragged in to sit and watch its development. And after my -ten minutes’ conversation with Lovelace I formed the theory that he was -as deeply in love with Miss Langdon as she was with him; but whereas her -love was mingled with triumph and cruelty, his was strained with fear. -His love urged him to remain, but his fear, I thought, was continually -warning him to escape. - -Though I had business elsewhere, I returned to the Hotel Jupiter for -lunch, thinking I might witness the “curtain” of the first act of this -almost silent drama; but she did not appear. Lovelace was pale and, I -thought, anxious; but he kept himself so well under control, and he -smiled so pleasantly when I made a joke about King Constantine, whom I -had that morning seen outside the Palace, that I felt his seeming -anxiety must be only the product of my imagination. His attitude towards -me was both aloof and friendly: he was determined to keep his “place,” -yet I was sure he liked me. I had copies of that month’s _Fortnightly -Review_ and _Nineteenth Century_ in my bedroom, also three or four -recent numbers of _Punch_; these I brought downstairs and gave to him, -though I remember that, as I did so, the thought flashed into my mind -that I might appear to him to be trying to purchase his confidence. But -if he had such a suspicion, he did not show it. - -I spent that afternoon in the Museum, visiting the Temple of Jupiter -before returning to the hotel. The enervating climate of Athens in the -early spring had tired me, and I felt a little depressed as I walked -across the Palace Square. On entering the hotel I heard a woman’s voice -singing in the drawing-room. Opening the door, I discovered Miss -Langdon, the only occupant of the room, sitting at the piano, -accompanying herself. Seeing me, she rose. - -“May I come in and listen?” I asked. - -“Do. I love having an audience. Do you play?” - -“Yes. Rather well. At least, I accompany well. You were singing Reynaldo -Hahn, weren’t you?” - -“Yes--I’ve only just got to know him. Rather like overripe fruit, don’t -you think? Only, of course, the very best fruit.” - -She laughed. - -“Come and play for me,” she said. - -“Thanks awfully. I was hoping you would ask me to.” - -Quite the most exciting occupation in the world is to read new -pianoforte music for a good singer. Reynaldo Hahn is the most -atmospheric of composers, the most delicate, the most decadent: not a -great man, of course, but an interesting man. Like my companion’s voice, -his music has no colour: it consists of whites, blacks, and innumerable -shades of grey. - -“You play almost as well as I sing,” she remarked, after we had gone -through an entire volume of songs. - -“You make me play well,” I said; “you are sympathetic. That’s a silly -word--but you know what I mean.” - -“But it’s really very heartless music,” said she; “it’s so sentimental, -so insincere. It suits me. I can’t do the real things--not even the -modern people--Hugo Wolfe, for example. The great men lacerate me so, -and I don’t like being lacerated.” - -“No,” said I mischievously, “you’d rather lacerate other people. Your -friend from Oxford for example.” - -“Ah! Lovelace, you mean. I thought you would be curious about him.” - -“Well, I confess it: I _am_ curious.” - -She laughed teasingly. - -“If you wait long enough, you will find out everything. But there goes -the first dinner-gong, and you’re not dressed.” - -I hurried away to change. Though I dressed as speedily as possible, the -dinner had begun when I entered the dining-room. As I noticed that -Lovelace was bending low over the table at which Miss Langdon sat, and -that she was speaking to him with some vehemence, I approached them very -slowly and deliberately; even so, their conversation was not finished -when I had sat down at my place. - -“ ...And what happened to Walter had nothing to do with me,” she -protested, though she knew I was present; “and if it had--what then? Am -I to love all the men who love me? Are men children that they require -nurses?” - -“No, Madame,” he said. “Will Madame take thick or clear soup?” - -“I will take no soup at all. Write down your answer on a piece of paper -and bring it with the entrée.” - -He departed, white and trembling, and for a minute my sympathy was -entirely with him. - -“What surprises me,” I said to her, “is that you asked me always to sit -at your table.” - -Though a minute previously she had been speaking passionately, almost -angrily, to Lovelace, she now turned to me a face at once gentle and -beseeching. - -“Do you mind?” she asked. - -“Well--no. To be perfectly frank, you _do_ make me feel a little -uncomfortable. Lovelace is a gentleman. Even if he weren’t, I shouldn’t -like to interrupt your private conversations with him.” - -“But you don’t,” she protested. - -“Well, then, I don’t like overhearing them.” - -“That,” said she, “is unavoidable. Believe me, you are doing me a -kindness by sharing my table. If you didn’t sit there somebody else -would--and I trust you. Really, you are doing me a great kindness.” - -“Very well, then. If that is the case, I don’t mind--or, at all events, -I shall try to mind as little as possible.” - -Presently, Lovelace brought our entrées. - -“Where is my answer?” she asked. - -Without a moment’s pause, he replied: - -“The answer, Madame, is ‘No.’” - -“But,” said she firmly, as though stating an incontrovertible fact, “but -you _will_ change your mind.” - -When he had left our table, she turned to me with a smile. - -“Have you ever been in love?” she asked. - -“Well, I have often thought I was in love. But it soon passed. It always -passes.” - -She shook her head and smiled. - -Immediately after dinner she disappeared. - -The night was ghostly with a swollen moon. Looking from my bedroom -window at about ten o’clock I saw white buildings with ink-black -shadows. The streets were almost deserted. Somebody out there was -singing a restless song, and the restlessness of the music awakened in -me an almost insufferable pain--an ache--a dark turbulence of the -spirit. I felt my heart beating wildly, and in my soul there was a deep -desire to scatter myself on the night. What was the matter? Was I in -love once more? And if so, with what?--with whom?... When one asks -questions of this kind, one already knows the answers; nevertheless, one -does not stop asking those questions. I was in love with _her_. - -I left my room and sought her vainly in the lounge and in the -drawing-room. Then I went to the deserted entrance-hall and thence to -the open door. On the top step Lovelace was standing irresolutely, his -hat on. I stepped up to him. - -“Don’t go!” I said in a low voice. - -It was a random shot, but it hit the mark. - -“I don’t wish to,” he said, “but she draws and pulls.” - -He was trembling violently. - -“I thought of visiting the Acropolis,” I said, though indeed I had no -such thought. - -“After dusk one requires a ticket to pass through the gates,” he said. -“_She_ is there. She will be standing like one of the Caryatides, the -moon on her face, hatless. And perhaps her feet will be bare.” - -“Oh, but this is madness!” I exclaimed. “What is she to you or you to -her?” - -“I wonder,” he answered helplessly. Then, obeying an impulse he seemed -unable to control, he held out a ticket. - -“Take this!” he said. “It will admit you through the gates. She will be -waiting.” - -“No,” said I. “It is you she wants.” - -“But I can’t go. I may not. I daren’t. I told her I wouldn’t.” - -And, with a deep sigh, he turned and walked into the hotel. - -All that night I lay midway between reality and dreams. My senses -mingled, and I knew not what was reality and what was phantasy. Was it -possible I should see her at breakfast next morning? Was there really -such a woman or had I imagined her? Had I been dreaming these last -thirty-six hours? - -The spirit of her was in my brain and in my veins like a drug. At length -I must have slept, for I heard whisperings and a voice of menace, and -again a loud voice threatening mankind and me, and then voluptuous -sighings and secret whisperings; mænads rushed to and fro in ghostly -meadows, and on them the moon poured golden blood; and then again the -voice reached me and each word it uttered was like a heavy weight -falling upon my bleeding heart. - -I awoke and sat up in bed and: - -“Lovelace! Lovelace!” I heard, or seemed to hear, breathed through the -corridor. - -“The huntress!” I exclaimed. “The authentic vampire! The incarnation of -hungry sex!” - -Shuddering I rose, raised the blind and leant through the open window. -The world outside was unreal: it brought me no solace. The houses were -insubstantial; the solidity of my own body was incommunicable to my -senses; all the world was an illusion; nothing existed save the brain -that had placed things there.... - - * * * * * - -A cold bath early next morning did little to restore my nerves to -health. My soul was sick: it was covered with indestructible dust from -the vampire’s wings. - -I arrived at our table before she did. Lovelace brought me food. Though -his manner was calm, his face was deathly pale. Had he, like myself, -been agonized through the night? I spoke to him, and he looked into my -eyes distrustfully. - -“I am going to Eleusis to-day,” I said. “Can you get a few sandwiches -made up for me? And some fruit and a bottle of wine?” - -“Yes, certainly. I will tell the head waiter. But be careful. Don’t go -into any of the cottages, for fever is raging there.” - -“Thanks, I won’t.... I say, Lovelace.” I spoke low, and he bent down to -catch my words. “Lovelace, I say. Tell me: what is the meaning of all -this--of everything? Do you not believe I am your friend?” - -“But you love her!” - -“Or hate her!” I exclaimed. “Which is it?” - -“They are both the same,” he said. - -And then, most quietly and with a wild mænad-look in her eyes and about -her lips, she sat down and: - -“Good morning, Lovelace,” she said. - -“Good morning, Madame.” - -I could see that he was putting forth a great effort in order to master -himself. - -She turned to me and began to talk of the weather. With difficulty I met -her gaze. Yes, there was a wild look in her eyes; it was as though she -had learned some secret in the night. Though she sat quite calmly, she -seemed to be shedding vitality all around her. Her presence quickened -me. And the sound of her voice was both a lure and an excitement. - -“I am going to Eleusis to-day,” I told her, “but I shall be back for -dinner.” - -“And what do you expect to find there?” - -“Not very much, I’m afraid. Just a heap of broken marble.” - -“But underneath the marble are the Mysteries--the Eleusinian Mysteries. -Do you know what they were?” - -“No,” said I; “does any one?” - -“Yes: I do. They were sex mysteries. The Ancient Greeks worshipped woman -in the form of a goddess. They sacrificed to her. In those days they -feared women, and they were continually trying to propitiate them. But -since then they have tamed my sex. Only a few of us remain.” - -“‘Us'?” I queried. - -“Yes--the devastators--the women who have no use for a man once they -have known him. You have heard of the marriage in the sky?” - -I shook my head. - -“The queen bee marries the best male of the hive high in the blue of -heaven, out of sight. The ecstasy over, the male drops down to earth, -dead. You will find it all in Fabre.” - -“Yes? And then?” - -“Nothing--that’s the end of it.” - -“Was that the end of Walter?” I asked, goaded on by I know not what. -And, as she did not reply, I added: “Is that to be the end of Lovelace? -Is that why he is afraid of you? Do you carry about with you some evil -spell?--some enchantment of death?” - -She drew away from me a little and sat back in her chair. - -“You are afraid of me,” she said. - -“I think not,” I answered, “but you disturb my dreams. Most horribly you -disturb them.” - -“So already it has begun to work on you,” she said with mild interest. - -“Have you cast a spell upon me?” I asked. “Am I in a state of -semi-hypnosis?” - -“I have done nothing. It is not you whom I want. It is Lovelace.” - -I made but a scanty meal, and as I walked to the station I was resolved -that Miss Langdon should not enter my thoughts all day. She had spoken -the truth: I was afraid of her. I feared her as the drunkard fears -alcohol, as the morphinomaniac fears his drug. - -But who can command his thoughts when those thoughts have for their -breeding-place senses that have been whipped to excitement by the -invitation of sex? I was unhappy all day. - -From Eleusis I walked along a narrow track to the sea. I bathed, and -then sat naked in the sun. Again I bathed among the rocks, and once more -sat gazing upon the blue islands and the purple islands and the green -land near. No human being was in sight, no dwelling-place, no sign of -life. Even the sky was empty of birds. - -It was not difficult for me to imagine it was two thousand years ago. -Then everything--sky, sea, and land--would appear exactly as it did -now. Perhaps in those times men were wiser than they are to-day. True, -mankind had collected and co-ordinated a few million facts unknown to -the men and women who worshipped and sacrificed in the Temple of -Demeter, but, after all, what are facts? Are they not the very masks of -truth, as a man’s face is the mask of his soul?... - -Almost could I see her in the divine Temple, worshipped and feared.... -Woman enthroned; man on his knees, craving a boon. Woman in league with -Nature: man Nature’s victim. Woman accepting; man giving.... - -I dressed, and ate the food I had brought with me. The wine enervated -me, and soon I slept. - -Again she sent her thoughts to me, and my dreams were soaked through and -through with her rapacious personality. I was being nailed down under a -rich carpet in Samarcand. In another room of the Palace were proud music -and rejoicings.... - -Haunted myself by those dreams, I will not stain this page by recording -them.... - -I awoke. - -“If sleep means this,” I exclaimed aloud, “I’ll sleep no more.” - -On my way back to Athens I told myself that on the following day I would -set out for Corinth. I would escape. But I must see the Parthenon first. -I would borrow Lovelace’s ticket and go to-night. There would be a -moon.... - -There were no bounds to my relief when Lovelace, bringing me my soup at -dinner-time told me, in answer to my inquiry, that Miss Langdon was -resting. - -“Madame has a headache,” he said, “and will dine in her own room.” - -Immeasurable relief--yes! But profound disappointment and anxiety also! - -What an unaccountable hunger mine was! Love-hunger! The wish to love -what one fears and perhaps hates! - -“You look ill, Lovelace,” I said. - -“I am feeling ill,” he confessed. - -“And so am I. Not sick in body, but sick in soul.” - -“I also,” he said. - -“Come nearer, Lovelace. Bend down. Now--” I lowered my voice almost to a -whisper--“won’t you tell me? _Please_ tell me.” - -“It’s happened before in the world,” he said, “many times. Keats wrote -about it in his ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci.’” - -“But this is different,” I urged. - -“No, I think not. It is much the same.” - -“But that was poetry and this is madness.” - -“All things are very much the same. Even fire and water are not so much -opposed as we sometimes believe, and I remember being taught at school -that diamonds and charcoal are first cousins.” - -“Yes--but about Walter. Who was Walter? What did she do to him?” - -“She killed him,” said Lovelace; “he shot himself. He was my brother.” - -“Oh, do forgive me for asking you. I had no idea--I say, Lovelace, I’m -leaving to-morrow. I can’t stand it any longer.” - -“You are very wise. I am going also.” - -He moved away--this man who was a stranger to me, but whom I seemed to -know so well. - -I could eat very little, so I left the dining-room for the lounge, where -I ordered a large brandy-and-soda. I stayed there smoking and drinking -for some time, but she did not come, and, at length, I rose and sought -Lovelace. He was wandering about aimlessly in the hall. - -“I’m going to the Acropolis,” I said; “would you be so kind as to lend -me your ticket--that is, if you are not going to use it yourself.” - -He gave me a strange, inquiring look. - -“Certainly. I have it with me--here it is.” - -I went alone, half hoping, wholly fearing, that Miss Langdon might be -there. - -Passing the Temple of Jupiter, I walked up the steep road that winds -along the side of the Acropolis. Nothing stirred. The moon seemed to be -fixed in the sky by its own cold passion. The thick dust on the road -looked like powdered silver. A few crickets chirped. Up above, within -the Parthenon itself no doubt, a man was singing one of the -_Dichterliebe_. It was a night of intolerable heartache. My soul seemed -to melt and diffuse itself through every part of my body.... - -I arrived at the gates and, refusing the proffered services of a guide, -was admitted. Above me the columns of the Parthenon gleamed coldly in -the light of the moon. I mounted the marble steps, reached the nearest -column, and touched it. For a moment I felt soothed. Sitting down, I -pondered on that turn of Fate which had brought me to Athens, had -directed me to that hotel, had guided me to that table. Even here where -I sat her spirit was about me. Oh, if only she were there by my side! If -only my lips were on hers and her hand on my heart! - -Almost suffocated with longing, I arose and wandered to and fro, looking -at everything, but seeing nothing. - -Then, near the Caryatides, I stumbled upon her. She was lying -full-length on the ground. - -“So you have come, Victor,” she said. - -For a moment I paused, breathless and afraid. - -“No: it is I.” - -“You?” - -“Lovelace lent me his ticket.” - -“Thinking he himself would escape?” - -“I don’t know what he thought. I am not in Lovelace’s confidence.” - -“Sit down by my side!” she commanded. - -I dropped to the ground and lay down; my lips closed on hers; she rested -in my arms. Neither of us spoke; nor did we move. For some minutes we -had remained thus, when I began to experience a sensation of vague -discomfort which rapidly changed to one of fear. Something inimical and -powerful emanated from her body to mine. I withdrew my lips and she -sought them with hers. I slackened my arms and hers tightened about me. - -“Let me go!” I exclaimed. “What are you? For God’s sake, let me go!” - -Brutally I tore her arms away and flung her from me as a man would fling -away a snake that had coiled round him in his sleep. She sighed deeply -and moaned. - -“Pray do not leave me. I am ill.” - -But I walked rapidly away, unheeding. In an instant she was with me, -soft-footed, eager-eyed. She watched me as a panther watches its prey. -Her mouth smiled with mysterious knowledge, and her intuitive elflike -hands were spread out before her. In my terror I imagined I could feel -evil oozing from her pores. - -“Stay with me! Love me!” she said in a voice of most treacherous music. - -I turned upon her with arms upraised and fists clenched, threatening -her, but she sank all shuddering upon my breast. - -It was then that I was overcome by panic fear. Tearing her from me, I -ran to the entrance-gate, rushed down the pathway and on to the road, -and escaped to the hotel. Then I sought Lovelace. - -“Here is your pass,” I said. - -“Ah, you have escaped! She was there?” - -“It was an ‘escape’ then?” I asked. “She really _is_ evil?” - -“She is very much to be feared,” he said. - - * * * * * - -That night I slept not at all. I did not wish to sleep: I was afraid to -surrender myself to the Unknown. I kept my light burning and, to pass -the time, ruled many sheets of paper with the bass and treble clefs, -and began to write down Beethoven’s “Sonate Pathétique” from memory. -Strange how this noble music seemed to decay as it passed through my -mind! Strange how the familiar melodies were tinged with wickedness!... - -Night passed and dawn came early. At seven o’clock I rang my bell and -when the chambermaid appeared I ordered my breakfast. - -“Will Monsieur have it in his room?” - -“No” said I. “I will have it downstairs in half an hour. Please have my -bill made out ready for me.” - -The dining-room was deserted as I sat down. A waiter came. - -“Where is Lovelace?” I asked. - -The man hesitated a moment. - -“Where is Lovelace?” I asked again; “I wish to see him before I leave.” - -“Lovelace, sir? Monsieur will not betray my confidence?” - -“No, no. What is it? What has happened?” - -“We have orders not to speak of it. But Lovelace was found dead in his -bedroom an hour ago. He has shot himself.” - - - - - -INTO DUST - -To -Vernon W. S. Ply - - -Jason and Artemis had been married only two years when they learned, -beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the sickness from which Jason had for -some time been suffering was consumption. They were both young and very -brave; nevertheless, they bowed their heads in resignation. Jason was -doomed. Three brothers and sister had already died of the disease; -consumption had killed his mother and his paternal grandfather. Decay -had been poured into his blood-vessels by both father and mother, and -there was no course open to him but to submit to Fate. - -For ten hours a day they stitched carpets at the big factory near the -Cathedral, earning enough money to keep them in tolerable comfort in -their two-roomed lodging in Rue Egnatia. But the time soon came when -Jason was unfit for work, and the twenty-five drachma note that Artemis -carried home each week had to provide for the needs of both. Artemis -made a great show of eating big meals, but she denied herself even the -necessaries of life in order that Jason might have the costly foods that -nourished him. - -If she had loved him in health, she now worshipped him in sickness, for -Jason was not only husband--he was like a son as well. And, indeed, he -soon became as helpless as a little child. Her grief was bearable -because she was so constantly employed that she had no time in which to -brood upon it; the circumstances that poisoned her mind was that she -could not tend him in the daytime, for she was compelled by her work to -leave him in the care of their landlady. - -Very soon their savings came to an end. Medicines and rich foods -exhausted her weekly wage two days after she received it, and it became -imperative to earn a much larger sum. - -“Dear Artemis,” said Jason one evening, as he lay in bed watching her -mending a stocking, “it’s wonderful how far you make the money go. But I -think I can guess how you manage it. You don’t eat enough yourself. You -are pale and thin, and your beautiful hair is losing its lustre.” - -With her needle poised in the air, she turned to him with a smile. - -“I don’t eat enough? Why, I sometimes think I eat too much. I know I’m -pale and perhaps a little thin, but just think of the weather we’re -having! It’s the hottest August we’ve had for years and years. Besides, -I never was one to have much colour.” - -She continued looking at him, for she loved his handsome dark face, now -grown weirdly beautiful with the ravages of disease. - -“I wish the end would come more quickly,” he said. “Sometimes I think it -is wrong for me to take medicines and eat costly food. No one can save -me--what’s the use of it? Why prolong my wretched life?” - -“Because, living, you make me happy. In all the world I have only you, -Jason. Do not leave me an hour before you must.... But we must not talk -like this; we must not grow sad when the evening comes. I’ll light the -lamp; it will be a companion for us. And then, if you like, I will sing -you a new song I learned to-day from one of the girls at the factory.” - -But though she spoke so cheerfully, her heart was as heavy as lead. She -had come to the end of her money, and Jason’s food for the morrow had -yet to be bought. - -As she crossed the room to light the lamp, the half-conscious thought -that had lain buried in her mind for weeks stirred uneasily and leapt -up, alive and clamant. Instantly she acquiesced in its demands. If that -was the only way out, that way must be taken. - -The little lamp on the wall burned well. - -“Which do you think is more companionable--a clock that ticks and makes -a noise, or a lamp that burns and makes a light?” she asked. - -“Oh--a lamp. I love light, and silence doesn’t trouble me a bit. But I -would like to hear you sing. Sing softly--just for you and me to hear.” - -It was a Neapolitan song she had learned, a barcarolle that swayed -easily with the movement of a swung hammock or of a little boat on -gentle, regular waves. It told of a love that was constant, of a love -that would hold through all the sorrows of life, that would survive old -age, and cleave its way through the darkness of death. - - _And if, when I am dead, my heart_ - _Turns into dust, to dust my face,_ - _I’ll ride upon the swiftest wind_ - _And find your burial place._ - -“Again,” he said, when she had finished. - -So she sang it through a second time, her sweet, low voice vibrating -with passion. - -“Love _must_ last--it _will_,” he said; “it is the only thing that can -never die.” - -He turned over on his side and closed his eyes. - -“Do you feel ready for your sleep?” she asked, for Jason nearly always -slept uninterruptedly from nine till midnight. - -“Yes: I think I do.” - -So she went over to him, smoothed his pillow, drew the sheet above his -shoulders, and kissed him. - -“Good-night, husband,” she said, and kissed him again. “Good-night, -little boy,” she added, kissing him a third time. - -She resumed her work; but after a time, when she was sure he was safely -asleep, she rose, put on her hat, turned out the lamp, and crept softly -to the door. - -Out in the street, she began her mission, doing with a brave heart but -with shrinking flesh what tens of thousands of women have done for the -husbands they have loved. - -Turning down Rue Venizelos, she reached the quay and entered a café -where loose women plied their wares. She did not dare to sit down, for -she had no money with which to purchase a drink; so she walked slowly -through the café as though seeking some one. - -Now, Artemis was not beautiful, but she possessed something -more powerful, more subtly attractive than beauty. She had -innocence--innocence dwelt on her face, and the spirit of innocence -surrounded her like a halo. She was afraid of what she was about to do, -but she did not hesitate. She remembered that it had been said that -there was no greater love than the love which constrains a man to lay -down his life for his friend. But honour was dearer than life. - -She loitered in the noisy café for a minute, and as she was about to -turn and leave, a man’s insistent gaze caught her eyes and held them. -She smiled. He beckoned her. Walking towards him, she sat down at the -table by his side. - -“You are new to this game, aren’t you?” he said frankly, but not -unkindly. “What can I order you?” - -A waiter brought her coffee. Her companion examined her closely, -admiring her dainty hands, her clear eyes, her wealth of golden hair. - -“Do you know me?” he asked. - -“No: I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.” - -“Well, you must call me Onias. And I would like to call you by a pretty -French name I know--Lucette. Do you like your name, Lucette?” - -“Yes, I think I do. But do you think it suits me?” - -“Yes. It is dainty and so are you. And it is pretty and innocent, and I -think you are pretty and innocent also.” - -“But, _Onias_!” she objected. “That doesn’t suit you at all. Onias ought -to be fat and shapeless, with marks of grease on his waistcoat.” - -He laughed, pleased that she could talk as well as look pretty. - -“But,” he said, “Onias is my real name. Still, I’m glad I don’t live up -to it.” - -“You’re nicer than Onias,” she said, and as she spoke, she suddenly felt -afraid of her glibness. She had forced herself to forget her husband for -these hours, but without warning their little bedroom was before her -eyes. She shivered. - -“Are you cold?” he asked. - -“No, no. Quite, quite warm, thanks.” - -“This place is very noisy,” he said, “shall we go?” - -He preceded her, and at the counter bought her a box of chocolates. - -“Don’t do that!” she said piteously. “Don’t buy me anything!” - -“But, Lucette--” - -“I don’t want you to be kind to me,” she murmured; “I only wish....” - -But he took the box that was handed to him across the counter, and -carried it under his arm. - -The quay was thronged, and Onias offered Artemis his arm. After a little -hesitation, she took it. Though she herself was tall, he was very much -taller. He had the bright distinction of a man accustomed to issue -orders that were instantly obeyed. - -“You will come to my house?” he whispered, a little shyly. “I am a -bachelor and live alone with two servants. But perhaps you would like -some supper first?” - -“No--no thanks. I am not a bit hungry. And--I am so sorry--I can only -stay with you a little while.” - -“Why?” he asked; “stay all night with me--do!” he urged. - -“I am so very sorry,” she replied, “but it’s impossible. I must be home -by midnight.” - -“Very well,” said he, patting the little hand that rested on his arm, -“it shall be as you wish. But I’m terribly disappointed. Perhaps some -other night?” - -“No--indeed,” she said, “I must always be home at midnight, and later on -it may be that I shall not be able to come out at all in the -evenings.... Do not be angry with me!” - -“I am not angry: I am only sorry. Do not distress yourself, my dear. You -are very good and honest not to try to deceive me. Here we are: this is -my house.” - -He opened a massive iron gate that gave on to a garden of trees. A broad -pathway led to a detached house some distance from the road. He could -feel that she was trembling a little. - -“Do not be afraid,” he said, “I shall treat you kindly.” - -He took her hand in his and pressed it gently. - -“I am not afraid of you,” she said; “I am just a bit afraid of what I am -doing.” - -He unlocked the front door, and they entered a large hall. An elderly -woman came in response to his ring. - -“Serve supper for two in an hour’s time,” he ordered. Then, turning to -Artemis, he asked: “Do you like wine, Lucette?” - -“Oh, no, no. Do not order me any supper, I beg. I shall not be able to -eat to-night.” - -Puzzled and a little disturbed, he said: - -“Very well, dear. It shall be as you wish.” - -He dismissed his servant and turned to Artemis. - -“Do not be afraid. No harm shall come to you.” - - * * * * * - -An hour later they were again in the hall. - -“You can find your way home? You will be quite safe?” he asked. - -“Oh yes: I shall be quite safe.” - -“You will come to see me again?” - -“Oh, no, no!... But perhaps I must. But I cannot think of that now. -Good-night, Onias.” - -“You are satisfied? You have enough money for what you need?” - -“You have given me more than I expected,” she said innocently. - -“And you do like me a bit?” - -“How can I say I like you? Indeed, I ought to hate you, but that would -be unreasonable. But, Onias.... Let me go.” - -“You are free to come and go as you please. If you wish to see me again -in the evening of any day, come to the café. If I am not there, I shall -be here and shall be very, very happy to receive you.” - -He opened the door and offered her the box of chocolates. Gently shaking -her head, she refused his present. - -“Au revoir, Lucette,” he called softly when she was half-way down the -pathway. - -But though he listened very carefully, he did not hear her voice. -Indeed, by this time he was no longer in her thoughts. The three -twenty-five drachma notes he had given her were crushed into a ball in -one of her cold and trembling hands. - - * * * * * - -When Artemis reached her lodgings, her husband was still asleep; but he -had evidently been very restless, for she could see by the light shed by -the lamp in the street that the sheet that had covered him was flung to -one side. He was lying on his back, with his arms stretched out on -either side of him. - -Cold and trembling, she stood looking down upon him in the -half-darkness. Soon her face was wet with tears, though she made no -sound; with a gesture of annoyance, she stopped weeping and conquered -her mood of self-pity. - -Having undressed, she crept into her little bed at the other side of the -room, and lay still, waiting for Jason to waken. The clocks outside -struck midnight. But Jason slept on in silence, and soon Artemis began -to wander in that land which lies midway between sleeping and waking. - -It was nearly two o’clock when her husband’s voice wakened her. - -“Yes, dear, I am here,” she said, slipping out of bed. - -She lit the lamp, went into their other room, poured a glassful of milk -into a pan, and brought it to their bedroom where she heated it over the -lamp. - -“It’s nearly two o’clock,” she said; “you haven’t had such a good sleep -for a long time. Are you feeling better?” - -“Yes, I think I am.” - -She held the cup while he drank its contents. Then she smoothed his -pillow and, taking a thin blanket from a cupboard, spread it over him. - -Without a word he closed his eyes and in a few minutes he slept. - -But there was no more sleep for Artemis. Though she had not a single -regret, yet she felt unspeakably miserable. Her reason approved of what -she had done, but her spirit revolted against it. She lived over and -over again the hours she had spent between nine and midnight, torturing -herself by remembering every detail. - -Soon after dawn she rose, dressed, put on her hat, and went forth to buy -food for Jason. - - * * * * * - -What must be, must be, and it is only the hypocritical sentimentalist -who feels remorse for an act which he intends to commit again when the -occasion arises. Artemis neither suffered from remorse nor indulged in -it. Nor did she rail against the fate that compelled her to sell her -body in order that Jason might live. In certain moods she gloried in the -desecration of her body as a martyr glories in the flames that consume -him. - -At the end of a fortnight, the seventy-five drachmas she had earned from -Onias was all but spent. Her spirits were very low. She felt weak and -ill, and as she stared at her reflection in the mirror she realized for -the first time that less money would come to her if she allowed herself -to look jaded and ill-nourished. - -Early one Sunday evening she left her lodgings, telling her husband that -she was going to visit her mother who lived two miles away on the -Kalamaria Road. - -When she entered the café it was nearly empty, for the evening was yet -young; so she sat down, ordered coffee, and waited, examining the -half-dozen demireps who had already arrived. They talked at each other -in hard, loud voices. Three, sitting together, sparkled with the vulgar -arrogance of diamonds; they behaved as though they had just been -injected with cocaine. After a glance at Artemis as she entered, they -paid no further attention to her. - -Customers began to drop in in couples, and by half-past eight the place -was nearly full. Artemis, shrinking in a corner, glanced eagerly at each -fresh face. She was looking for Onias. Perhaps she might have attracted -the attention of some other man if she had tried, but Onias had wished -to see her again, and he had at least treated her kindly. Besides, this -evening she was full of lassitude, and too timid to seek a new customer. -She would wait a little longer; if he did not come, she would go to his -house. - -But presently he arrived with a woman--a frail creature who looked and -moved like a sulphur-coloured butterfly. Neither saw Artemis as they -passed, and her heart sank. He had forgotten her. He had asked her to -come again, not because he wanted her, but because he pitied her. She -must nerve herself to the point of engaging the interest of a stranger. -So she called for a glass of wine. - -In the meantime, Onias had passed up the café with his companion; -finding no vacant chairs at the far end, they retraced their steps and -sat down at a table only a few yards from Artemis. - -A waiter brought her wine and, as she glanced up at him, she saw that -Onias’ eyes were upon her. She heard his voice. - -“Ah, there’s Lucette!” he exclaimed. - -And, leaving his companion, who appeared to be quite indifferent to his -movements, he came across to Artemis, sat by her side, and smiled gaily -upon her. - -“Where have you been all this time, my dear?” he asked. Without waiting -for an answer, he continued: “But you are looking pale and tired, -Lucette. You have not been taking care of yourself; why have you not -been to see me?” - -She did her best to meet him in his mood. - -“I have seen no one,” she answered, “and the reason why I came here -to-night was because I hoped to meet you.” - -“That is very kind of you. Do you know Maisie, the English girl?” - -He indicated the sulphur-coloured butterfly. - -“No, I don’t know any one.” - -“Ah, well! It does not matter. You will come with me to-night?” - -Her grave, innocent face showed a moment’s confusion. - -“Thank you, yes. But I must be home early.” - -He laughed deprecatingly. - -“But Lucette, _you_ mustn’t thank _me_. I am only too glad to have you. -Some time, perhaps, you will stay all night with me?” - -“Oh, no: I don’t think I shall ever be able to do that. You promised you -would not be angry with me?” - -“I don’t like you to say things like that, Lucette; of course I am not -angry with you, and I never shall be while you are so honest and -truthful. But you, in your turn, must not be angry with me if I make you -eat something. I’m going to have some supper: I can’t eat alone: you -must join me.” - -“Very well,” she said, “I will.” - -She almost liked him, so indulgently did he treat her. - -“Excuse me a minute, please, while I explain to Maisie.” - -He went over to the beautiful girl, bent over her, and spoke a few -words. In reply, she shrugged her shoulders and turned away. - -“Ought you not to ask your friend to sup with you as well?” asked -Artemis when he had returned. - -He smiled. - -“Oh, Maisie and I are old friends; we understand each other.” - -He ordered wine and food. - -“But,” he said, turning to Artemis, “perhaps you would like us to have -supper in a private room?” - -“I should--very much,” she half-whispered, “for I feel strange here -among all these people.” - -“And so would I,” he agreed. - -“The summer-house, Monsieur, is not being used, if you would like that,” -said the waiter. - -Onias questioned Artemis with his eyebrows, and she nodded in reply. - -The large summer-house was cool and cushioned; concealed from the rest -of the garden by a high hedge, they were alone and unobserved. Onias -took his Lucette in his arms and kissed her gently. - -“I feel so sad about you,” he said; “won’t you tell me what is the -matter?” - -“Please don’t ask me about myself,” she said softly; “you must just -think of me as--as someone who pleases you for an hour.” - -“But perhaps I can help you?” - -“You _have_ helped me. You must let me keep my sorrows to myself.” - -With their supper the waiter brought a little lamp with a shade the -colour of the evening sky. It was now almost dark in this garden. Two -large white moths dashed themselves impetuously against the lamp, their -eyes shining with excitement. Excited, too, was the owl that called and -called somewhere in the grove of pepper-trees behind them.... - -As Artemis was about to leave Onias’ house that night, he placed five -twenty-five-drachma notes in her hand. - -“It is too much,” she said involuntarily. - -“Oh no: I like to give it to you.” - -“If it were for myself, I should not take it all; but it is for some one -who is dying.” - -“Poor Lucette! Some one you love?” - -“Yes. He has nothing but what I give him.” - -“I did not know that,” he said gravely. “Has life always been hard to -you?” - -“Oh no! It has been beautiful--beautiful. If only Jason were well, it -would be beautiful still. You know, Monsieur, he is like a little -child.” - -“Hush! hush! You must not call me Monsieur. To you I am Onias; to me you -are Lucette.... A little child?” - -“Yes. So helpless, so dependent upon me. And he does not want to die.” - -Sadly she turned away and walked towards the door. - -“You will see me again?” he asked. - -“Yes--I will see you again.” - -He pondered a minute. - -“Now,” he said; “may I ask?--is Jason your husband?” - -“Yes, oh yes.” - -“You love him?” - -“He is all I have--all I need.” - -“Well, then, you must come here no more. I will send you money.... But -while you love your husband, you must not do this. You have been -_driven_ to my arms: it is wrong. Yes, I will send you money. Or, if you -would like it better, I will leave it each Saturday at the café. I will -write on the envelope ‘For Lucette.’ I will tell the waiter who served -us to-night. If you ask him each time you call, he will give you the -money.” - -“But, Onias, I can’t take it. I shall not have earned it.” - -He turned on her angrily. - -“Don’t talk nonsense! I have plenty of money. I don’t want it. If it -pleases me to give it to you, I shall give it to you.... Come, Lucette, -be sensible. We shall meet again, some day, and then we can kiss each -other without--without this guilt.” - -She took his hand impulsively in hers and kissed it. - -“Good-bye, Onias,” she said softly. - -“And you will call at the café each Saturday?” - -“I will.” - -“You promise?” - -“I promise.” - - * * * * * - -During these last September days Jason rallied. His appetite improved, -he grew stronger, and every day he was well enough to get out of bed, -dress, and sit in an easy-chair for two or three hours. He ceased to -lose flesh, and his eyes no longer had their unnatural brightness. - -The old Greek doctor studied him attentively from day to day, and one -Saturday morning when Artemis was away at her work, he took Jason by the -hand and said: - -“You are not going to die, my son. You become healthier every day. A -miracle has happened.” - -“A miracle?” asked Jason. - -The doctor smiled. - -“Well, when we medical people come across something we don’t understand, -we call it a miracle. But you must continue to take the greatest care of -yourself, especially when the cold weather comes. If you could go to -Egypt for the winter....” - -Jason laughed. - -“Flying to the moon is not more unlikely than my going to Egypt....” - -When Artemis returned from her work early in the afternoon, tired, but -not unhappy--for the improvement in her husband’s health had filled her -with hope--Jason was up and dressed. - -“A miracle has happened!” he announced, laughing. And then, hurriedly -and impetuously, he told her of the doctor’s visit. - -“Oh, is it true?” she asked. “It is too wonderful! I _daren’t_ believe -it, Jason.” - -Placing the parcels she was carrying on a chair, she flung her arms -about his neck and kissed him. - -“Oh, my boy, my boy!” she cried. - -Worn out with the week’s work in the daytime and the nursing by night, -she could not keep back her tears; her sobs, deep and convulsive, -revealed to him the extent of the suffering she had so bravely endured -through the past few months.... - -At teatime he returned to bed, and she prepared to go out. - -“Sleep, if you can, Jason dear,” she said. “I am going to do the -shopping for the weekend.” - -She hurried off to the café with a light heart. The envelope with her -weekly seventy-five drachmas was waiting for her. As she was leaving, -she met Onias at the entrance. - -“Hello, Lucette!” he said, smiling and shaking hands; “how are you?” - -“Oh, Onias--Jason is getting better! The doctor came this morning and -said he wouldn’t die. If great care is taken of him, he will live. I am -so happy that I can hardly contain myself--and if it had not been for -your money....” - -Her eyes were now bright with tears. - -“Are you in a hurry to get home?” he asked. - -“No, not if you want me.” - -“I should like to take you for an hour’s row. You look so tired and -pale, and it will do you good. Will you come?” - -“Oh yes: I should like it.” - -Artemis’ experience of the world was very narrow. Until recently she had -always believed that men and women were either definitely good or -unmistakably evil. Onias, she supposed, was “bad,” and yet it was hard -to believe that this gentle, kind-hearted fellow was even tainted by -evil. She was quite sure now that she really liked him--not because of -his handsome looks and his fine, strong body, but because.... - -It was very pleasant to be with him here on the cool sea.... - -At nine o’clock she returned home, her arms full of parcels. - -Jason, a little feverish, was tossing on his bed. He was frowning, and -he looked angry. - -“You have left me alone for a long time,” he said; “where have you -been?” - -Startled, and having no answer ready, she said: - -“I went to see mother. Have you been wanting me, dear?” - -“No. Had your mother any news?” - -Artemis suddenly felt sick: she had told one lie, and now she would be -compelled to tell many more. - -“Nothing much. But I felt I _had_ to tell her about you. She was simply -overwhelmed with joy, as you can well imagine, and she sent all sorts of -nice messages to you.” - -Jason sat up in bed, his face wet with perspiration. His eyes were -brilliant with the brilliant hardness of polished glass. He looked at -Artemis imploringly. - -“I don’t know what has happened to me--to us,” he said. “Why do you tell -me such lies?” The sound of that last word seemed to whip him to anger. -“And where have you been getting all your money from?” - -She shrank away from him and went to the table near the window. - -“I’ve told you where the money comes from. My brother in London sends -it. He has sent it regularly ever since I told him you were ill.” - -But she knew that the very tone of her voice betrayed her. - -“You only tell lies to me because I am helpless; you wouldn’t dare to do -it if I were well and strong. You have not seen your mother to-day. She -came here just after you left, and went home only half an hour ago.” - -He lay down on his pillow, exhausted and breathing heavily. - -With feverish anxiety Artemis searched her mind for another lie that -would reconcile her own statement with the real facts. But she could -find none. - -“I have deceived you, Jason,” she said. - -“I know, I know,” he said sorrowfully. - -He did not ask her why, but turned his face to the wall. After a few -moments’ silence, he said: - -“You will find a letter on the mantelpiece: it is from your brother in -London. When you told me that he was sending you money, I wrote to thank -him. But he now asks what I mean. He says he has never sent you a penny, -and cannot do so as his wife is seriously ill.” - -Artemis sat down heavily. - -“Don’t say anything unless you can tell me the truth,” went on Jason; “I -will try to believe you had a good reason for what you have done.” - -Artemis, feeling that her small world had suddenly fallen into a black -abyss, sat still and silent for a long time; then, with an effort, she -stirred herself and went about her work. - -She dared not speak, for perhaps a single word would betray her. Her -secret would lie between her and her husband for ever, separating them -wider as the years passed, until, perhaps, they became strangers, even -enemies. - - * * * * * - -Ten days later Jason died in bed whilst Artemis was away at her work. In -a prolonged fit of coughing he broke a blood-vessel, and passed away -with his mind full of dark suspicions regarding his wife. - -Artemis, worn out with anxiety, her mind poisoned, her spirit broken, -felt no shock at his death. She was already numb with suffering: she -could feel no more. - -She buried him without tears, and a few days later left her lodgings and -took a single room in one of those ill-famed streets that lead down to -the quay. To her mother’s invitation to make a home with her she replied -that for the present she preferred to be alone with her grief. - -Throwing herself into her work with a feverish anxiety to forget, she -passed a few days, successfully keeping at bay the suspicion--now almost -a certainty--that she was even now only in the midst of her calamities. -Even if she could forget, her sorrows were not yet over. - -One restless night, when sleep was impossible, her spirit threw off its -numbness, and for the first time for many weeks she looked facts in the -face, and, speaking aloud, said: - -“I am with child, and the father of the child is Onias.” - - * * * * * - -At the end of November the Varda winds came. Artemis never ventured out -of doors except to go to and from her work and to buy the simple -necessaries of life. Since her husband’s death she had not visited the -café. She had, however, written to Onias, thanking him for his -generosity, and telling him of the death of Jason. At the same time she -asked him not to send her any more money, as she no longer needed it. - -During these months her mind had been full of evasions and duplicities. -To think was to suffer; to look into the future was to be filled with -anxiety. If, as so often happened, thoughts of Jason came to her, she -thrust them from her. - -Day by day Onias meant more to her. Each Sunday, as she sat sewing -little garments for his and her baby, she tried to recall every word he -had spoken to her. There were hours when she thought of him with -tenderness, almost with love. He was the father of her child. Jason had -never been that. - -She began to make discreet inquiries about Onias, but without much -result. As she sat in her little room during the winter evenings, she -dreamed impossible dreams. She pictured herself married to Onias, -protected and loved by him. There was no more anxiety about money, no -more fear of the future. Her child would.... - -In the middle of one of these dreams, she was thrown back into the -realities of life by the flame of her lamp burning low and expiring. She -had neither oil nor money. She must sit in darkness. - -But why should she endure small privations day after day when Onias was -ready and anxious to receive her? After all, he wanted her and, in her -heart of hearts, she wanted him. She must conquer her timidity. If she -told Onias what had happened to her through him.... Well, why shouldn’t -she? She would claim nothing from him; she would ask for nothing. She -would go to see him as an old acquaintance, an old friend. - -She sat in the dark screwing her courage to the sticking-point. She -longed yet dreaded to go. At last-- - -“I will go to the café--he may be there,” she said. “I will meet him as -though by accident.” - -Having hurriedly donned her hat and cloak, she went out into the bitter, -stormy night.... - -The warmth of the café welcomed her. The place was crowded, and for a -few moments she could not distinguish one person from another in the -smoke-laden atmosphere. - -When half-way down the long room she felt a gentle pressure on her arm -and, turning, saw Onias. - -“Well, Lucette!” he exclaimed, holding out his hand. - -She smiled up at him, her face radiant with joy. His very voice seemed -to caress her. He took her hand and held it for a few moments. - -“Are you alone?” he asked. - -“Yes,” she answered; “may I sit with you?” - -“Will you? Come along--I’ll find you a chair.” - -He had been sitting with a group of men and women friends, but he left -them and, taking Artemis’ arm, led her to the farthest end of the café -where, in a little alcove, he found a vacant table with two chairs. - -“Now tell me all the news. What has happened to you since your husband -died?--good things or bad?” - -“Nothing--nothing,” she said. “I felt very lonely to-night, so I came -here.” - -“Poor little Lucette! And are you happy?” - -“Yes--now, I am happy with you.” - -“And to-night?” he asked in a low voice. “You will come to my house -to-night? You will stay till to-morrow?” - -“I should like to, but, Onias....” - -“Yes, Lucette? Don’t be afraid. What is it you want to tell me?” - -“You will not mind?” - -His face suddenly changed its expression. - -“No, I shall not mind,” he said. - -A waiter came to their table for orders. - -“You will have wine, won’t you, Lucette?” - -“Please. Some Mavrodaphne, I think.” - -When the waiter had gone, Lucette still remained silent. - -“Now,” said Onias, “tell me.” - -“I am going to have a baby,” she said haltingly. - -“Oh! A baby? You are going to have a baby?” - -All the pleasantness had gone from his face. - -“Yes,” she answered; “and the baby is....” She hesitated in confusion. -Then: “Yes, I am going to have a little baby,” she added. - -There was a long silence during which Onias drew away from her. - -“Are you glad?” he asked at length. - -Her hands were clasped very tightly, and she pulled savagely at the -wedding-ring she was wearing. - -“I don’t know,” she answered. - -The waiter returned to their table with their drinks. Onias gulped his -down hastily. - -“I am going to Marseilles to-morrow,” he said casually. - -“Oh!” exclaimed Artemis, in sudden pain. “Marseilles is a long way off, -isn’t it?” - -“Yes, a very long way. I shall be there for a year.” - -His voice was cold, his manner distant. He took a cigar from his pocket -and began to smoke it. - -“Won’t you drink your wine?” he asked. - -She sipped it for a moment, and then put the glass down. - -“I don’t want it,” she said. “I--I think I’d like to go home.” - -“Shall I order you a cab?” - -“Oh, no, no! I will walk.” - -They rose simultaneously. - -“Please stay where you are,” she said; “I would much rather go by -myself. Good-night.” - -“Good-night,” he said, striving to hide the relief he felt. - - - - - -THE GRANDCHILD - -To -X - - -SCENE I - -_In Guy Fallon’s Garden_ - -KATYA. What you have never understood, dear, is that mamma is terribly -indelicate. Proper people nearly always are. - -MARIANA. Yes, but.... How _can_ she? - -KATYA. I don’t know. But she’s doing it now, this very minute. Imagine -Guy’s blushes. - -MARIANA. Poor Guy! But, really, if it’s any one’s duty to ask him, -surely it’s yours? - -KATYA. But I _have_ asked him! He always says no. He detests -children--or, at least, he says he does. It’s a disease with mamma. “How -I should like to hold a grandchild on my knee ... the patter of its -little feet ... its first childish attempts to talk ... its soft smooth -cheeks.” That’s how she goes on. Really, she embarrasses even me. - -MARIANA. Well, I s’pose it’s only natural. But what does your papa say? - -KATYA. Oh, it hasn’t got as far as that; I hope it never will. You see, -mamma will only amuse Guy; papa would make him angry. After all, dear, -it’s very soon. And you must remember that even mamma only had _one_. - -MARIANA. ’M yes. She needn’t talk, need she? - -KATYA. But she does. She has asked me all sorts of questions about Guy. - -MARIANA. Yes? What sort of questions? - -KATYA. _Mariana!_ As if I’d tell you! - -MARIANA. Do--_please_! - -KATYA. Can’t you guess? - -MARIANA. I’ve tried--hard. But, you see, I know so little about these -things. In fact, I know nothing at all. - -KATYA. These things? - -MARIANA. Well, you know what I mean. - -KATYA. Oh! you might mean anything. - -MARIANA. I do. - -KATYA. If you were married, now, I _might_. - -MARIANA. I should love to be there, listening. - -KATYA. It’s a grandson she wants. She’ll _order_ it from Guy. And he -will look so awfully solemn and feel so frightfully tickled. - -MARIANA. Oh, I _do_ wish I was married. It must be so -tremendously--well, exciting. So unexpected, you know--the things that -happen, I mean. - -KATYA. Well, it _is_ rather wonderful at first. I have a friend in -Brussels--Elise Deschamps. The other day she wrote me such a funny -letter. She wanted to know whether she ought to behave just naturally or -pretend to be shy. - -MARIANA. And what did you say? - -KATYA. What _could_ I say? - -MARIANA. Really, Katya, you’re frightfully exasperating. You always seem -to be on the point of telling me things, but you never do. - -KATYA. Well, there’s nothing to tell--nothing, that is, that you don’t -know already. - -MARIANA. Oh, how dreadfully disappointing! Isn’t there really more in it -than that? - -KATYA. Than what? - -MARIANA. Than what I know already. - -KATYA. But what _do_ you know? - - * * * * * - - -SCENE II - -_In Guy Fallon’s Library_ - -MRS. KONTOROMPA. I was just saying the same thing as I came upstairs. -“What an _ex_quisite day!” That’s what I was saying. - -GUY. But a trifle too hot. - -MRS. K. Ye--es. [_A long pause._] Oh yes, quite. - -GUY. Seen Katya? - -MRS. K. I waved my hand to her in the garden as I came up the drive.... -How _is_ Katya, Guy? - -GUY. Tophole. - -MRS. K. [_Significantly._] Have you anything to tell me about--well, -about Katya? - -GUY. Let me see, now.... N-no; I think not. She bought three new hats -yesterday, but I haven’t seen them yet. - -MRS. K. What I meant was.... Well, it’s no use beating about the -bush--_how is she_? - -GUY. But I’ve already told you, mamma. She has the appetite of a horse. - -MRS. K. Nothing at all? well--quite?... no sign that?... _you_ know! - -GUY. I wish I did. What is it you want me to tell you? - -MRS. K. Just the truth--the honest, simple truth. - -GUY. [_Wilfully misunderstanding her._] Oh, your new toque! How stupid -I am! I think it’s simply splendid. But you always do look nice in pink. - -MRS. K. [_Beaming._] How sweet of you, Guy! But that wasn’t it.... Have -you ever considered, Guy, that I should like to be a grandmother? - -GUY. No. Would you really? Really and truly? - -MRS. K. Yes, Guy. The patter of little feet, the ... the soft, smooth -cheeks.... - -GUY. But I detest children. - -MRS. K. Ah! You’ll never make me believe that. No good man hates -children. - -GUY. No, I s’pose not. But then, mamma, I’m not good. I remember that -when I was a boy.... - -MRS. K. But poor Katya! Consider her. Consider me. - -GUY. In what way? - -MRS. K. You--you know perfectly well what I mean. If I could only be the -grandmother of _one_ child--well, that would be something, wouldn’t it? - -GUY. It would be a great deal. - -MRS. K. For my part, I had four brothers and three sisters. My -grandmother had seventy-three grandchildren. - -GUY. Yes, people were very thorough half a century ago. Quite like the -Old Testament. - -MRS. K. But you will promise, won’t you? - -GUY. Do you know, mamma, you have the manner of being most direct and -open, but as a matter of fact you are speaking in riddles. Now, tell -me--what is it you want me to promise you? - -MRS. K. I don’t quite know. - -GUY. I thought you didn’t. - -MRS. K. You see, Katya is so reticent in these matters. But you’ll do -your best, I’m sure. To win over Katya, I mean. That is, if it _is_ -Katya. - -GUY. Who is to blame, you mean? - -MRS. K. Oh, I shouldn’t say “blame.” Although if it goes on much longer, -I may. But you’ll think it over, eh? That is the most I can expect at -our first interview on this subject. - -GUY. There are to be others? - -MRS. K. If necessary. - -GUY. But, mamma, you don’t know how much at sea I feel. As a matter of -fact, I’m not absolutely certain that we’re both talking about the same -thing. Will you tell me what _you_ have been talking about? - -MRS. K. N-no. You tell me first. - -GUY. I daren’t. - -MRS. K. That’s it! We _are_ talking about the same thing. I felt sure we -were. - -GUY. Well, so long as you’re satisfied, mamma.... - -MRS. K. I shall look forward to it with the greatest pleasure. You see, -you’ve got such a big house. I should have this room, if I were you. -Bars across the windows, and so on. - -GUY. But the stairs! - -MRS. K. A little wicket gate on the landing. They begin to prowl about -quite early. I remember Katya eighteen years ago--_always_ on her hands -and knees! - -GUY. She’s in the garden with Mariana. - -MRS. K. Yes, I saw her.... Well, then, _that’s_ settled. - -GUY. One can only do what one can. - -MRS. K. Yes, win her over, Guy: win her over. - - * * * * * - - -SCENE III - -_In Guy Fallon’s Garden_ - -MRS. KONTOROMPA. What an _ex_quisite day! How do you do? - -MARIANA. How do you do? Yes, isn’t it? - -GUY. We’ve been talking, Katya. - -KATYA. Yes?... I think the fuchsias are better than ever this year, -don’t you, mamma? - -MRS. K. Yes, darling. Oh, Katya, I _am_ so pleased. - -KATYA. How nice, mamma! I like you to be happy. But what has happened? - -MRS. K. Oh--er--nothing. Nothing that I know of. But Guy has promised -to.... - -MARIANA. I’m afraid I must be really going now, Katya, dear. - -MRS. K. Oh, don’t run away just because I’ve come. - -MARIANA. Oh, Mrs. Kontorompa, it wasn’t that. But, you see.... - -KATYA. Mariana feels embarrassed. - -MARIANA. Oh--no, dear: why should I? - -GUY. You felt that mamma was going to say something. - -MRS. K. Yes--that’s quite right. You’ve reminded me. Katya, I was going -to say that Guy has promised to.... - -GUY. To do my best to.... - -MRS. K. Win you over. - -KATYA. Me? Win _me_ over? To what? - -GUY. Bars on the window--a wicket-gate on the landing. - -KATYA. But I _am_ won over. I always have been. - -MRS. K. Then it _is_ your fault, Guy. - -GUY. If I’d only known! You see, you never told me. - -MARIANA. How mysterious all this sounds. - -MRS. K. Well, Mariana, this is how it stands. You see, Guy and Katya -have been married three years and.... - -MARIANA. Oh yes: quite. _I_ understand. _Good_-bye, Mrs. Kontorompa. -Good-bye, Katya. Goo.... - -GUY. _Really_, mamma. - -KATYA. _Really_, mamma. - -MRS. K. Oh, dear, dear! What _have_ I said? - -KATYA. Ah, here’s tea coming! - -MRS. K. Oh, I can’t stop. I must hurry home and tell papa the good news. -So _very_ satisfactory! These modern times--the things people _do_. -Don’t they, dear? - -MARIANA. And don’t do, too. - -MRS. K. Yes. Well, Guy, I keep you to your word. I shall expect to hear -some news shortly. Good-bye, dear Katya. _So_ satisfactory. Take care of -yourself, dear. - -GUY. Why, what has happened, Katya? - -KATYA. Nothing. Mother merely anticipates. - - - - - -NERVES - -To -Sieveking Pollard - - -When Dr. Julian Sylvester arrived at Doiran, he took a room at the house -of Draco’s mother, and his mule was put to grass in the fields behind -the town. Draco, rather shy, but hot with curiosity, carried his baggage -upstairs--a large trunk, six wooden boxes clamped with iron, and a small -sack of provisions. Placing these on the floor against the wall, he -turned to leave, but stopped when Sylvester called him. - -“You speak Greek, eh?” asked the doctor. - -“Yes, sir, and Bulgarian as well.” - -“Well, I’m going to stay here a week--see? And I want you to get me a -young and strong guide--a man who knows the country--every yard of it. -I’m collecting butterflies and taking photographs.” - -Draco’s face lit up and shone. - -“See here--this is the kind of thing,” said Sylvester, going down on his -knees and opening one of the wooden boxes with a key he took from his -pocket. “By the way, what is your name?” - -“Draco.” - -“Draco--right. Well, mine is Sylvester.” - -“Xilvesta?” - -“That’s near enough. Now, Draco, look at these bottles. Butterflies--all -butterflies, see? And here are some photographs I took outside Salonika. -I want more butterflies, more photographs. Ten drachmæ a day for the man -who’ll come with me and show me where to find what I want.” - -“I’ll come, sir.” - -“Will you? Yes, I think you’ll do. You look strong enough.” - -Draco was dark and bronzed and tall. He had quick, restless eyes, and a -smile that said: “How fine it is to be alive!” - -“Well, that’s a bargain, see?” said Sylvester. “We’ll start to-morrow at -six.” - -If ever there was a man made for the open air, that man was Draco. He -accepted his mother’s cottage as one of the unavoidable evils of life. -And he was a born hunter. His eyes swallowed everything, and his quick -elastic step was as graceful as the walk of a thoroughbred. His mind was -stored with facts. To look at his eager face with its large, vehement -eyes and sensitive mouth--all so desperately alive--was to receive the -impression that here was a man who, even in his sleep, could never be -entirely at rest. The sun, one felt, was in his blood. He was as -unstable and fluid as quicksilver. - -Sylvester took to him at once, and in their day-long walks over the -lonely, uninhabited mountains he learned many curious things from the -man who, engaged as a servant, at once became a friend. - -It was during one of these walks that, peering over a precipitous cliff, -they saw a golden eagle standing on a ledge below them. They lay -watching it for a long time, the almost vertical sun smiting their prone -bodies. - -“Its nest is sure to be somewhere near, Draco. I would give a hundred -drachmæ to get a photograph of the female sitting on her eggs.” - -“That _is_ the female,” said Draco, who was examining the bird through -Sylvester’s field-glasses. - -Presently, the great bird rose, flapped its heavy, bright wings, and -flew upwards until it had reached a ledge thirty feet below the two -watchers. There, just visible, was its nest. - -“Ah!” breathed Sylvester, drawing himself away, and sitting down well -out of sight of the eagle. “Can it be done, Draco? Can we get down to -her?” - -Draco was still looking down at the bird, his face alive with -excitement. He stayed there a long time. When, at length, he joined -Sylvester, his face and bared chest and arms were covered with sweat. He -pressed his hands to his forehead. - -“Yes, it can be done. But we shall want ropes. I could climb down with -the camera, fix it up a yard or two from the nest, return here and pull -up the rope. After that, it’s simply a matter of waiting for her to -settle again. The only thing is--have you got enough tubing? I reckon -you’ll want about thirty-five feet.” - -“Oh yes: I’ve plenty of tubing. It’s a great find this, Draco. If only -we can pull it off, see? Now, what do you say?--shall we leave it till -to-morrow, or go back home now, get our ropes and tubing, and come back -this evening an hour or so before sunset?” - -“Just as you like. But this evening would be a splendid time; for we -shall then have the sun shining straight on the nest.” - -As he spoke, he again pressed his hands against his forehead. He licked -his lips with the tip of his tongue. - -“You look a bit overwrought, Draco. Are you feeling all right?” - -“Well, it’s my eyes. The sun has got into them. My head aches a bit--but -it’s nothing.” - -They made their way down the hot, broken rocks until they saw Doiran, -white and gleaming, at their feet. Beyond was the wonderful blue lake, -and beyond the lake rose the Belashitza Mountains cutting the sky with -their fanged crests. - -“How wonderful it is!” exclaimed Sylvester. - -Draco gazed on the scene with his swollen pupils. - -“Yes,” he agreed. “I never, never get tired of it. I was born down -there.” - -It was now midday and the sun was at its hottest. The atmosphere danced -before them liquidly. No birds sang, for it was Pan’s hour. The sun had -smitten that world to silence. - -Five hours later they were again climbing the mountains. Draco’s head -was one intolerable ache, but he made no complaint. He had been like -this before; it would soon pass. - -But when they had nearly reached their destination, he was compelled to -stop and lie down in the shade of a rock. - -“You are feverish, Draco, see?” said Sylvester. “You really ought not to -have come out a second time. You’ve got a touch of the sun. Look here: -we’ll go back and come again to-morrow.” - -“No,” said Draco, “no.” - -And he tried to rise; but, his legs crumpling up beneath the weight of -his body, he fell down and lay full-length on the bare rock. - -Sylvester sat down by his side, took off his coat, folded it into a -pillow, and placed it beneath Draco’s head. - -For half an hour they remained in silence; then: - -“I feel better now,” said Draco. - -“Good. But you mustn’t go any farther. Do you feel fit to walk back?” - -“You go alone--to the nest, I mean. Can you climb down the rope and up -again?” - -“Oh yes: I’ve done that sort of thing many a time.” - -“Well, you go alone. I’ll wait here until you return. As soon as it gets -cool I shall feel much better. You are bound to come this way on your -way back.” - -“Very well, I’ll do that. Sure you’re well enough to be left alone?” - -Draco, his eyes large and bloodshot, glanced at his companion and -laughed. - -“Of course. This is not the first time I’ve been left alone in the -mountains.” - -Sylvester disappeared round the corner, and Draco, closing his eyes, -soon fell asleep. He breathed heavily, and for two hours he did not -move. The air grew cooler, and the sun was lurching fantastically behind -the mountain-tops when he awoke. The pain had gone, but he awoke with an -acute feeling of apprehension. For a moment or two, he could not -remember where he was or how he came to be there. Then, remembering -Sylvester, - -“It’s time he was back,” he said to himself. - -He looked at the sun: in an hour it would be dark. - -Scrambling to his feet, he hastened up the mountain, his heart beating -rapidly with a fear that he had never felt for himself. He blamed -himself for allowing Sylvester to go alone, for, after all, it was a job -for two men. Increasing his pace every minute, he reached the place, -breathless and alarmed. - -The rope was there. One end of it was securely fastened round a boulder. -Lying down at the edge of the cliff, Draco peered over and saw the other -end of the rope resting on the ledge; by its side was the camera. But -there was no sign of Sylvester. - -Seized by panic, Draco shouted into the chasm below. - -“Dr. Sylvester! Dr. Sylvester!” - -But the great spaces swallowed up the sound of his voice. A vulture swam -past him and disappeared. Again he called and, straining, listened. No -answer. No sound. Almost mad with a fear that crawled into his very -vitals, he shouted again and again without pause. - -Dark blue shadows crept out of the rocks; the purple sky darkened. He -could no longer see the ledge below him. - -It was then that his nerves conquered him and he became their victim. - -He rose and, running, retraced his steps. Anxiety made havoc of his -reason. If only he knew the worst! Almost blindly he ran, but instinct -and knowledge guided him. - -Half-way down the mountains he pulled himself up suddenly. He had -thought himself incapable of further suffering, but now he felt a pain -like a fretted blade sawing at his brain. Why, they would say that he -had murdered Sylvester! Who would believe his story? Would even his -mother believe it? It was as clear as the sun. He had taken Sylvester up -into the mountains, had robbed him, and then thrown him over the cliff! -His body would never be found in those inaccessible heights! - -He stood, chilled and trembling. Oh, God! if he only _knew_! - -Then reason left him. He scrambled hither and thither on the rocks on -hands and knees, calling “Sylvester! Sylvester!” as he went. His hands -and knees were bleeding, and something like blood seemed to be washing -about within his brain. Occasionally, he stopped with exhaustion, but on -each occasion before he had got back his breath he started again, saying -aloud: “I must waste no time. Where is he? Where is he?” - -The inhumanly human cry of jackals desolated the night. He paused and -imitated them. Then, having scrambled faster and faster in the dark, he -lay full-length, his airless lungs seeming to be about to burst open his -great, hairy chest. - -The pale-green dawn came up the sky and washed the rocks with its -colour. Looking around him he saw close at hand the rope by which -Sylvester had climbed down the face of the cliff. The place seemed -friendly: here he could find release. - -He stepped to the edge of the cliff and looked down. A faint mist -clouded the hollow below where his companion was lying. For a moment he -swayed, and then, with a start, drew back. He tried to totter over the -brink, but could not. Something held him back--fear! - -With an effort he fixed his mind on death and on the desire for death. -And again he tried to let his body go. But it hung stupidly back: he had -a coward’s body. - -He would try another way. Having walked fifty paces away from the -cliff’s edge, he turned about and began to run, his crimson hands and -knees dropping blood as he went. As he neared the edge, his body -instinctively tried to stop. But it was too late, the momentum he had -gathered was too great. Mind had conquered matter, and he ran and -vanished into space. - -At that moment, Dr. Sylvester, tired and weary-eyed, entered the cottage -of Draco’s mother. He had been walking all night. - - -THE END - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Tales of a Cruel Country, by Gerald Cumberland - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF A CRUEL COUNTRY *** - -***** This file should be named 60272-0.txt or 60272-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/2/7/60272/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Tales of a Cruel Country - -Author: Gerald Cumberland - -Release Date: September 10, 2019 [EBook #60272] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF A CRUEL COUNTRY *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="c"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="" /> -</p> - -<p class="c"> -TALES OF A<br /> -CRUEL COUNTRY</p> - -<h1> -TALES OF A<br /> -CRUEL COUNTRY</h1> - -<p class="c">BY<br /> -GERALD CUMBERLAND<br /> -<small> -Author of “Set Down in Malice”</small><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<img src="images/colophon.jpg" -width="100" -alt="" -/><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -NEW YORK<br /> -BRENTANO’S<br /> -PUBLISHERS<br /><br /><br /> -<small> -Copyright, 1919, by<br /> -BRENTANO’S<br /> -<br /> -<i>All rights reserved</i><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.<br /></small> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -TO<br /> -FREDERICK NOEL BYRON<br /> -</p> - -<div class="blockquot1"><p class="nind"><i>Then came sudden alarms; hurryings to and fro; trepidations of -innumerable fugitives, I knew not whether from the good cause or -the bad; darkness and lights; tempest and human faces; and at last, -with the sense that all was lost, female forms, and the features -that were worth all the world to me; and but a moment allowed—and -clasped hands, with heart-breaking partings, and then—everlasting -farewells! and, with a sigh such as the caves of hell sighed when -the incestuous mother uttered the abhorred name of Death, the sound -was reverberated—everlasting farewells! and again, and yet again -reverberated—everlasting farewells!</i></p> - -<p class="r"> -<span class="smcap">De Quincey</span></p> -</div> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="3" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="smcap"><a href="#THE_TWO_LOVERS">The Two Lovers</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_1">1</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="smcap"><a href="#KATYA_KONTOROMPA">Katya Kontorompa</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_19">19</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="smcap"><a href="#THE_BATHS_MURDER">The Baths Murder</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_33">33</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="smcap"><a href="#THE_DREAMER">The Dreamer</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_47">47</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="smcap"><a href="#WHEN_THE_GREEN_ROSES_CAME">When the Green Roses Came</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_57">57</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="smcap"><a href="#PAUL_OF_TARSUS">Paul of Tarsus</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_73">73</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="smcap"><a href="#THE_MOON_MAN">The Moon Man</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_83">83</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="smcap"><a href="#HOW_HIS_FRIENDS_DESTROYED_HIM">How His Friends Destroyed Him</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_97">97</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="smcap"><a href="#THE_VICTIM">The Victim</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_117">117</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="smcap"><a href="#TRENCH_MADNESS">Trench Madness</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_133">133</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="smcap"><a href="#LOOT">Loot</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_141">141</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="smcap"><a href="#HOW_IT_GREW">How It Grew</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_159">159</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="smcap"><a href="#KATYAS_WOOING">Katya’s Wooing</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_167">167</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="smcap"><a href="#THE_STORM">The Storm</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_183">183</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="smcap"><a href="#THE_MAN_WHO_GAVE_HIS_SOUL">The Man Who Gave His Soul</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_199">199</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="smcap"><a href="#THE_STRANGER">The Stranger</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_215">215</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="smcap"><a href="#A_LITTLE_CORRESPONDENCE">A Little Correspondence</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_235">235</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="smcap"><a href="#THE_DEAF-MUTE_OF_KILINDIR">The Deaf-Mute of Kilindir</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_243">243</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="smcap"><a href="#LA_BELLE_DAME_SANS_MERCI">La Belle Dame Sans Merci</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_259">259</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="smcap"><a href="#INTO_DUST">Into Dust</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_283">283</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="smcap"><a href="#THE_GRANDCHILD">The Grandchild</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_311">311</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="smcap"><a href="#NERVES">Nerves</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_321">321</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="THE_TWO_LOVERS" id="THE_TWO_LOVERS"></a>THE TWO LOVERS</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span></p> - -<p class="toot"> -To<br /> -Frederick Noël Byron<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE blossom of the lilac-tree gave a pulp-like sound as it thwacked -against her window, and curiously named Stephanie Miniati smiled to -herself as she turned in her bed and, placing a hand on her rounded -breast, closed her eyes in order that she might see Orosdi. For not only -did Orosdi dwell in her heart, but his big, black eyes burned in her -brain and lit it, and his sinewy hands were ever about her throat in -love-cruelty. She closed her eyes and, in imagination, summoned him to -her chamber. He came: not hurriedly, as an anxious lover moves, but with -long, lazy strides, his baby-face all smiles, his selfish, rounded chin -thrust a little forward. He stood by her side and then, in imagination, -she made him bend down suddenly and kiss her shoulder....</p> - -<p>She sighed in a luxury of love, and “Orosdi! Or-os-di!” she murmured. -And she thought for the thousandth time: “I am the most beautiful girl -in Ajvatli, and Orosdi is the most handsome lad of all who walk on the -plain of Langaza.”</p> - -<p>But as yet she was only half awake, and in her semi-consciousness had -forgotten her other lover who now lay in the church cemetery on the high -land above Ajvatli.</p> - -<p>The noise of the sheep and the goats herding down the uneven street -brought her to full consciousness, and, sitting up in bed, the smile -slowly faded from her face, a scowl, almost a snarl, taking its place. -For she had remembered that to-day was the anniversary of the death of -her other lover and that, though Orosdi had made the thought of her dead -sweetheart sometimes hateful, yet fear of her neighbours would, she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span> -knew, compel her to weep and pray at his grave and fondle the bones that -had once been covered with stubborn flesh. She sat and scowled; then, -suddenly, having taken up a mirror that lay on a chair by her side, she -smiled entrancingly at her reflection. She pulled back her lips and -looked at her white teeth; she bared her breasts and, holding the mirror -below them, looked at and admired the twin curves reflected therein; -then, making slits of her eyes, she looked from the corners of her -eyelids—looked roguishly, invitation in her glance.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you dear creature!” she exclaimed; “how good of you to be so -beautiful!”</p> - -<p>All morning she was at work in the fields whilst her wifeless father sat -drinking cognac in the village. She herself loved wine, but when with -Orosdi drank only mavrodaphne, the “black holly” that makes lovers more -ardent and leaves no sting behind. The plain, covered with vineyards and -mustard and poppies, blazed hotly. Banked roadways, infrequently used, -were covered with multitudinous flowers, flowers that were warm to the -touch and almost sickly with the sun’s day-long kiss. Stephanie, -stooping over her work, wiped away with the back of her hand the drops -of perspiration that stood gleaming on her forehead. The heat did not -trouble her: she loved it, for her strength was that of an animal. The -sun, the flowers, and the call of cuckoos made Heaven for her, and she -praised her Heaven to the utmost height of sublimity whenever she looked -at Langaza, white amo<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span>ng green poplars, where her lover lived.</p> - -<p>“How white it is!” she said to herself; and then something in her brain -whispered: “<i>How white they will be. How white they will be to-night, in -so few hours!</i>”</p> - -<p>She caught her breath and bit her under-lip. Her cheeks paled. “What do -I mean? What do I mean?” she asked herself, hurriedly. But only too well -did she know what she meant. Her brain was thinking of her dead lover’s -bones, which to-night would lie in her hands—bones that, washed in wine -a year ago, had been placed back in his shallow grave at Ajvatli, and -which were as white as the cambric that comes from England. Her -religion, her loyalty, her dead love—everything that demanded her -acquiescence in the customs of her race—meant nothing to her: but the -opinion of her neighbours meant everything. People in small villages can -be very cruel. “Oh, yes,” said Stephanie, pitying herself, “they would -be cruel. Father most of all.”</p> - -<p>With a resolute gesture she turned from Langaza, and bent over her work. -How wonderfully decisive and final is the thrust with which the -diabolically selfish can rid themselves of uncomfortable thoughts! With -an: “Oh! I’ll go through with it!” she put the little grave aside, -forgetting the dead youth’s dear kisses that, how brief a time ago, used -to run from her brow to her eyes, from her eyes to her mouth, and from -her mouth to her breasts where the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span>y used to cling and turn her girlhood -to maidenhood.</p> - -<p>At midday she stopped her work and, seated on a high bank, ate bread and -olives and drank a little of the wine of Samos. I think I can show her -to you. The bank is covered with high grass and tall flowers—such -flowers as you will see in England any real June. So, of course, she is -half hidden in a little swimming mist of colour of blue and yellow and -green. Her skirt is pulled above her knees and you can see the thick -woollen stockings that do not mar the beauty of her long ankles. Her -dark face is sallow and red, her hair black; her bosom—you can see it, -for her blouse is opened two buttons at the neck—whiter than the paper -on which this little history is printed. She wears no hat, and her -blouse is a dusky red, the colour of her cheeks. Her eyes are pits of -darkness in each of which a flame burns brightly, almost fervently. An -animal, of course. But a beautiful animal, with a beauty that not one -woman in a thousand Greek women possesses. But is she Greek? She says -so. But is she? Some lusty Bulgar, perchance, raped her grandmother, or -a Turk, insinuating and cruel, crept to the bed of some maternal -ancestor. These things happen there in Macedonia, as elsewhere.</p> - -<p>You will not like the way she eats, for her lips are not closed and her -right cheek bulges. And her hands, face, neck, and breasts are wet with -perspiration. A woman to be loved and feared, I think: more feared than -loved....<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span></p> - -<p>But she has finished her little meal....</p> - -<p>She lay on her back, the sun smiting her, the sun of Greece that two -thousand years ago smote men to greatness, that burned men and melted -them and recast them as poets, orators, sculptors, writers of dramas. -She turned over on her side and murmured something, pressing her lips to -the ground, and smiling....</p> - -<p class="asts">* * *</p> - -<p>Orosdi was drinking at Langaza. He was sleek and lazy, but his brain was -bright, and he was now busy purchasing two mules from his father. For -Orosdi had a farm of his own, and prospered as all physically lazy men -may prosper if their brains are deep and cunning and if they retain the -accumulated traditions of their ancestors.</p> - -<p>“Ninety-five drachmæ,” said Orosdi, placing his plump hand on the thin, -vein-corded hand of his father.</p> - -<p>The older man smiled.</p> - -<p>“You are the son of my father,” he said, enigmatically. Then he added, -reminiscently: “He always began with half the price he was willing to -pay. We will talk of this to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“No, no. It is pleasant here. Let us finish the business now.”</p> - -<p>He turned aside and called to the keeper of the inn outside which they -were sitting. A dirty creature limped from the dark interior to the -doorway.</p> - -<p>“You hav<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span>e my bottle of whisky there, is it not so? Well, open it. And -bring two clean glasses.”</p> - -<p>His father started a little.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">’</span>Tis an old trick,” observed he. “You would make me drunk and then buy -from me? I would rather give you the mules than that you should do -that.”</p> - -<p>“Father, I brought the whisky for you because ... because, well, you -know why.” He looked affectionately at his parent.</p> - -<p>The old man, gazing at his handsome son, felt his eyes becoming moist. -An impulse overswept him.</p> - -<p>“You were always a good son to me,” he said. “Let me <i>give</i> you the -mules.”</p> - -<p>“Father!”</p> - -<p>“Well, after all, I’m at the end of my life, and you.... You know, -Orosdi ... but do you know?”</p> - -<p>“Father, father!”</p> - -<p>But the dirty innkeeper interrupted the conversation by putting the -whisky bottle and two glasses on the table.</p> - -<p>“Come, let us drink,” said Orosdi, feeling a little uncomfortable and -pouring out the liquor.</p> - -<p>They drank the spirit neat, and almost immediately the old man’s worn -face became flushed and active.</p> - -<p>“Well, they are yours,” he said; “I will bring them to you to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>His son rose and kissed him on the cheek.</p> - -<p>“What can I give you in return?” he asked.</p> - -<p>His father sat silent for a minute, twisti<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span>ng his fingers under the edge -of the table and looking on the ground. He darted a shy glance at the -young man.</p> - -<p>“I would like only one thing,” said he.</p> - -<p>“It is yours.”</p> - -<p>“I would like you to come.... But perhaps you have already arranged.... -If you were to come and sit with me to-night, I should be very happy.”</p> - -<p>Orosdi’s jaw sank and his face clouded.</p> - -<p>“To-morrow, father,” said he, “of course I will come. But to-night I go -to Ajvatli.”</p> - -<p>The old man poured out more whisky and drank it greedily. He sighed, and -began again to twist his fingers under the edge of the table.</p> - -<p>“Not to-night, then,” he murmured, with resignation.</p> - -<p>“But why especially to-night?” urged Orosdi.</p> - -<p>“Have you forgotten? It is my birthday.”</p> - -<p>“Blast!... Yes, father, of course I will come. I will come three -hours—two hours—after sunset. I thought of your birthday yesterday: -you were a good deal in my thoughts.... But to-day! But you know me, -father. I <i>am</i> like that. I have always been so. But you do know, -father, don’t you, that no one comes before you in my love?”</p> - -<p>“You see, my son, I am old. To-day I <i>am</i> seventy-three. And it seems to -me that the nearer I get to the grave the more lonely I become. -Sometimes I wish that we lived together ... that if we lived -together....”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Oh, but, father—it was you who urged me to strike out for myself ... -to do what I could without hindrance—that is how you put it, father: -you called yourself a hindrance.”</p> - -<p>“Did I?” questioned the old man, dully. “I forget. You may be right.”</p> - -<p>“Come and live with me, father,” said Orosdi, impulsively. “You can sell -your bit of land....”</p> - -<p>“No,” interrupted the old man, proudly, “no, Orosdi. This is just a -minute’s weakness: every one has these moments. You must go your way; I, -mine.”</p> - -<p>He poured out more whisky and drank it.</p> - -<p>“And now, Orosdi,” said he, looking at the half-empty bottle, “I think I -will go home.”</p> - -<p>“And I will accompany you to your door. You must take the whisky with -you.”</p> - -<p>Orosdi recorked the bottle and put it in his father’s hands.</p> - -<p>They rose and walked together through the village until they reached its -outskirts, where, coming upon a detached, terraced house where the old -man lived, they parted. The old man closed the door behind him. The room -into which he stepped straight from the street was large, but badly lit; -it smelt stuffily of leeks. Lurching across the tiled floor, he reached -a little stool on which he sat, his hands clasped in front of him, his -head bent low. His lips moved, and he trembled with the ague of age.</p> - -<p>Presently, feeling intolerably tired, he rose and shambled to a rug -lying in a corner. Casting himself upon this, he was soon asleep; dreams -came trooping to him, dreams of hatred of Stephanie Miniati who was -taking his dear son fr<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span>om him. How he loved Orosdi of the lazy smile, -Orosdi whose shoulders were so strong, Orosdi who could be as tender as -a woman, and as faithless.</p> - -<p class="asts">* * *</p> - -<p>The sun had already set when Orosdi went forth from Langaza to see his -love at Ajvatli, and he pulled his body together sensually as he trod -the long, white road. Frogs splashed and croaked in the ditches, -nightingales sang, a big moon stared. But he cared for none of these -things. The world to him was one woman: a woman whose kisses were -fierce, and whose clasp would not let him go.</p> - -<p>His mood was a little bitter and cruel. Stephanie had played with him -too long. She would not marry him and she would not let him.... What was -the use of a love like that? It was not that she was virtuous: she was -simply afraid? After all, why shouldn’t she marry him? Her old lover had -been dead these years, and there was no reason for her ridiculous -clinging to his memory. It was true, she had been the cause of his -death, for he had given his life to Langaza Lake in attempting to save -her from drowning. But that was an accident: a happy accident.... He -smiled grimly.</p> - -<p>But to-night he would bring the business of his passionate courting to a -head. The thing was wearing him out. His robust body was failing him. To -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span>clasp and kiss ... to clasp and kiss and never really love! That was -play for children.</p> - -<p>He quickened his pace and passed through the outskirts of Ajvatli. The -crooked village was full of black shadows, and even to him who was -familiar with them, the twisting, inconsequent streets were like a maze; -nevertheless, Orosdi could without difficulty have found his way -blindfolded to Stephanie’s house. His nearest way there lay past the -central inn, outside which many men were sitting, drinking. For a moment -the young farmer hesitated; then, calling for a bottle of mavrodaphne, -he flung himself down in a chair and peered around him to see if he -could discern the face of Stephanie’s father by the light of the one -lamp that hung outside the inn. Several acquaintances greeted him: he -replied to them curtly, almost insolently. Miniati was away, they told -him. He had set out for Seres in the afternoon, and would not return for -nearly a week.</p> - -<p>He grunted his satisfaction, uncorked his bottle, poured out a glass of -wine, and slowly drank the sweet intoxicant. Almost at once he felt its -stimulating effect; it fired him and his passion, and, with a gesture of -impatience, he rose and made his way to Stephanie’s house. Having -arrived there, he knocked, but there was no reply. He tapped with a -stick on the high window, but no one came.</p> - -<p>“Blast!” he whispered between his teeth.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span></p> - -<p>“And don’t you know where she is?” asked a voice behind him.</p> - -<p>He turned to see a wrinkled old woman who was bent almost at right -angles over a stick that supported her.</p> - -<p>“No,” he answered, impatiently, “where is she?”</p> - -<p>“Where should she be to-night if not with my grandson?”</p> - -<p>He remembered. The old woman was the grandmother of Stephanie’s dead -Mercury, and the girl herself would be in the cemetery with the boy’s -bones. He kicked at a stone angrily, and, turning on his heel, walked -past the church to the graveyard above. At the open iron gate he paused -and looked about him. Not a soul was to be seen. Going down on his hands -and knees, he crept behind the diminutive gravestones until he came to -within a few yards of the grave he sought, where he lay prone, scarcely -breathing, his eyes hard and glittering, his upper jaw closed anxiously -over his lower lip. He could see his girl. She knelt at a very shallow -open grave; touching her knees was a heap of disordered bones; a white -skull, small and boyish, reflected the moonlight.</p> - -<p>But Stephanie was not looking at what remained of her Mercury; she was -gazing into space with unseeing eyes, her arms by her side, her body -held loosely, dejection in every line of her figure. Once or twice she -stirred uneasily as though half aware of Orosdi’s presence.</p> - -<p>He, cunning and alert, watched for his opportunity. A mood <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span>of disgust -might presently come to her. Or she might melt in tenderness at thought -of him....</p> - -<p>There was a wind in the trees, and in the air the scent of lilac. Orosdi -heard the wind and smelt the lilac. The earth gave forth the warmth of -the day’s sun; it excited him, and his teeth bit more deeply into his -lower lip. His Stephanie looked cool and apart in her white robe....</p> - -<p class="asts">* * *</p> - -<p>Less than a dozen yards away, peering over the wall was an old man whose -lips moved angrily. But he was patient in his anger, for he was afraid -of his son. He felt himself to be futile, and it was deep misery to -stand here and watch Orosdi worshipping that handsome and destructive -Greek girl: still, he must remain. He had a morbid craving for -self-inflicted pain, and the whisky he had drunk earlier in the day -twisted things out of focus. He would do nothing; he would only watch. -He would learn the worst.</p> - -<p>After a very long time, he saw Orosdi crouch like a cat and glide like a -snake. He saw him glide behind Stephanie, rise to his feet and approach -her till he stood above her, holding out his arms.</p> - -<p>And then a violent thing happened. Orosdi, having stood irresolute a -moment, suddenly stepped to his lover’s side, kicked away the bones that -lay at her knees, threw his arms around the girl’s body, lifted her from -the ground,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span> and carried her away to the shadow of the little stone -building in which, hidden in rows of sacks, lie the bones of Ajvatli’s -dead. There was no sound save a small hysterical laugh of joy from the -girl. The old man heard them sighing in the shadow, and, like a knife, -the thought of his own honeymoon stabbed his soul. He muttered rapidly -to himself, and frowned. Then, pulling himself laboriously over the -wall, he walked rapidly to the graveside, gathered the scattered bones -together, and replaced them in the shallow grave. He did this quickly -but tidily, feeling his decency shocked, and feeling, as he had never -felt before, that his son was a stranger to him. He filled up the grave -with earth, and smoothed the surface with the palms of his hands. And -then, with a frightened prayer, he rose to his feet, made his way to the -wall and clambered over. On the far side he stopped to listen a moment. -But no sound reached him; the lovers were quiet in their bliss.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>It was nearly midnight when they rose, and all the guardian semi-wild -dogs of Ajvatli seemed to be barking together. Orosdi was full of quiet -happiness: Stephanie had given herself to him and had promised herself -in marriage. He placed his arm around her and began to lead her towards -the iron gate of the cemetery. But, very gently, she put him away, -saying:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Leave me alone. I will see you to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“No!” he insisted. “You are mine now. What does it matter who sees us?”</p> - -<p>“But you forget,” she protested. And as he did not appear to know what -he had forgotten, she added: “You forget what we are leaving behind. I -must put him away again.”</p> - -<p>She walked towards the grave, he by her side. Simultaneously, on -emerging from behind a tree, they discovered that the bones had -disappeared, that the grave had been refilled, and that the earth above -it was smooth and tidy. They stopped, and her hand sought his. He put -his arms about her protectingly, though his fear equalled her own.</p> - -<p>“He has gone back!” she muttered, awe-struck. And she stood gazing on -the grave as though hypnotized.</p> - -<p>“Come away,” he said, trembling; “your Mercury may return.”</p> - -<p>Without another word they turned and, panic-stricken, rushed from the -cemetery. At her house-door they stopped.</p> - -<p>“What does it mean?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“It means he no longer loves me. You kicked him. You kicked my Mercury -who was always so good to me.”</p> - -<p>She looked at him wild-eyed, accusingly.</p> - -<p>Without a farewell embrace she opened the door and entered the house, -leaving him alone.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>The <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span>old man was lying on his rug when his son entered. He had finished -the bottle of whisky and he knew not what his mood was.</p> - -<p>“Two hours ago it was my birthday,” he said, aggressively, “my birthday, -and you did not come, though you promised.”</p> - -<p>He protruded his under-lip and, seizing an empty glass that stood near -him where he lay on the floor, he cast it on the tiles where it was -smashed to fragments.</p> - -<p>Orosdi, weary and a little afraid of what the night had brought him, sat -down and sighed.</p> - -<p>“Do not be angry with me, father,” he said, gravely.</p> - -<p>“You have done three evil things this night,” said the old man.</p> - -<p>“One is not always virtuous.... But I will see you in the morning. I -must sleep. You also, father. You are overwrought.”</p> - -<p>“No. I’m drunk. Men see truth when they are drunk. They see things they -dare not look at in their sober times. Your mother, who was a scholar, -used to say there is truth in wine. Damnable truth. Never mind, Orosdi, -my son. We cannot help ourselves.”</p> - -<p>But Orosdi had slipped from the house, and the old man was talking to an -empty room. He continued maundering for a long time until, overcome by -sleep, he fell heavily on the floor and closed his eyes.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span> </p> - -<h2><a name="KATYA_KONTOROMPA" id="KATYA_KONTOROMPA"></a>KATYA KONTOROMPA</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span></p> - -<p class="toot"> -To<br /> -Jack Kahane<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span>RS. Kontorompa waddled into her large drawing-room at Hortiach one May -morning calling “Katya! Katya!” in a voice more shrill than a parrot’s. -She progressed rather magnificently in spite of her waddle, for she had -both weight and solidity, and it was not without dignity that, having -reached the window, she leaned out and surveyed her hot garden blazing -with colour. “Katya! Katya!” she shrilled.</p> - -<p>“What is it, mamma?” asked a languid voice from the depths of a -luxurious chair near the piano a yard or two away.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kontorompa’s irritation vanished instantly.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Katya, dear, I have just been speaking to your father on the -telephone. He said....”</p> - -<p>“I know what he said,” interrupted her daughter. “He said no. He always -does say no. But I warn you, mamma, I’m just about at the end of my -patience, and either to-day or to-morrow I shall ... well, I shall do -something desperate.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kontorompa’s most benevolent face assumed a look of anxiety.</p> - -<p>“But what can <i>I</i> do?” she asked, despairingly.</p> - -<p>“Nothing, dear mamma. We have always known—you and I—that you could do -nothing. It’s not your fault. But papa is so stupid, is it not so? Why, -in the name of God, he sent me....”</p> - -<p>“Katya, you must not swear. Beside<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span>s, you have promised me not to.”</p> - -<p>“Very well, mamma, I won’t. Why, in the name of respectability then, he -sent me to Brussels—Brussels, of all places—I can’t understand.”</p> - -<p>Her luminous blue eyes, deep and tender, formed large patches of colour -above her very pale cheeks, and her pouting red lips, half smiling, -concealed her regularly irregular white teeth.</p> - -<p>“Your father, Katya, dear—well, you know what your father is. He -blunders, but he means well. He thought Brussels would be good for you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it was, <i>it was</i>: most awfully good. The Avenue Louise, mamma, on a -May morning with Captain Pierre Lacroix by my side—oh, <i>that</i> was -heaven! Yes, Brussels was heaven, and I lived there among the male -angels—I mean the deliciously wicked men—for one very short year. But -if Brussels was heaven, Hortiach is hell, and I really do believe father -is the devil himself.”</p> - -<p>Her mother smiled reluctantly.</p> - -<p>“Katya, dear, you musn’t talk like that. At all events, only when we’re -alone.”</p> - -<p>It was Katya’s turn to smile, and in the middle of her sweet smile she -broke out, impulsively:</p> - -<p>“Father is a dear, really, you know; but he is so awfully blind and dull -and stupid. Fancy thinking Salonika is too wicked for <i>me</i> to live in! -Why, if he only knew the things I did....”</p> - -<p>She paused and her eyes grew naughty with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span> reminiscences.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Katya?” her mother whispered, invitingly.</p> - -<p>“Oh nothing. I say ‘nothing,’ but I mean everything.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Everything?</i>”</p> - -<p>“Well, not quite everything. Yet I sometimes wish I had gone what my -English friends used to call 'the whole hog.’ All the way, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, do, <i>do</i> be careful, Katya. You will be married some day, you -know.”</p> - -<p>“That’s just the point—<i>shall</i> I? Whom can I marry in Hortiach? Is -there a single soul good enough? You know there isn’t. Yet in Salonika, -only fifteen miles away, there must be scores of the most delightful -creatures. Oh, mamma, I <i>do</i> love men, don’t you?”</p> - -<p>“I used to, dear. But now I love only your father.”</p> - -<p>“Poor mamma! But how awfully sweet for father!”</p> - -<p>They sat in silence for a few minutes whilst the still garden hummed -with insects; the sun smote the flowers, and a trickle of water made a -tepid sound in the well close by.</p> - -<p>Then, suddenly, Mrs. Kontorompa, having brushed away a fly that had -settled on her nose, turned to her daughter.</p> - -<p>“I will persuade your father to let us join him in Salonika for a -fortnight. I will really, Katya. I know how to do it. We will go next -month.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, y<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span>ou are sweet, mamma dear, aren’t you? I <i>do</i> think you’re sweet.”</p> - -<p>And Katya, rising from her deep chair and gliding to the pianoforte, -began to play Chopin’s Polonaise in C-sharp minor, crashing out the fat -discords with all the exuberance of youth. With her hands folded on that -part of her body lying below her waist, Mrs. Kontorompa sat admiring her -daughter: admiring this daring and bewildering creature who, only a -month ago, had come from a Belgian school whither she had gone to add -smartness to her education: admiring and loving her, and feeling that -she would sell her soul to be like Katya—eighteen, beautiful, -devil-may-care, clever, wilful, and so terribly worshipful. Then, Katya -having begun the great Nocturne in C minor, with its quivering and -mounting octaves, Mrs. Kontorompa rose and left the room to supervise -the mysterious workings of her Grecian household.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>It was quite early the same morning that Katya, white and wonderful, -left her father’s house and walked higher up the mountain to the side of -which Hortiach clings. She was in a mood of half-angry revolt, and as -she walked along a sheep-track winding among the rocks, she told herself -that if only Elise Deschamps were with her, they would surely find -something amusing to do. Elise respected the opinions of no one. And as -Katya Kontorompa’s mind was busy thinking of her friend, suddenly, from -behind a rock stepped a tall, slim youth, hatless, bare-chested, -carrying a flute in his hand, his black curly hair surmounting a face<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span> -that was at once grave and beseeching.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said Katya, half-aloud, as she caught her breath and passed him.</p> - -<p>He, giving her a rapid, shy glance, walked across her path and made his -way to a shaded pool that even at midday is always cool and fresh.</p> - -<p>She watched him as he, far off, sat down in the sunlight that, dripping -from the fig-tree above him, flecked him with patches of green and -white. She could just hear the low, watery tones of his flute as he -improvised with the careless ease of an artist. She had seen him thus on -several occasions, and, seeing him, had always felt a little thrill of -desire. She wished to love him just for an hour, to have those slender -arms about her body, to feel his curved, inexperienced lips against her -own. But he was shy and a little afraid. Yes, she was sure he was -afraid, for every time she had crossed his path he had hastened his pace -to almost a run, and had never once looked back to meet her inquiring -and inviting gaze. His fear of her spurred her on to an adventure with -him, for she could not understand his sexless eyes, and to her it was -ridiculous that a handsome youth should run away from a beautiful and -willing girl.</p> - -<p>Sitting down in the shade of a rock, she half closed her eyes and looked -lazily at him as he sat by his deep pool of coolest water. His flute -still gave its music, music that was as free from care and all -self-consciousness as the song of a bird. What a dear, foolish and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span> -charming boy he was! He could be no more than a year younger than -herself, and yet she could swear he had never loved a woman. -Loved?—why, not even kissed.</p> - -<p>Though she felt angry with him because of his passionless eyes, she -could not help experiencing a certain yearning for him, a tenderness -that was half laughter, half tears. When, at length, he wandered away, -she sighed.</p> - -<p>“Oh, damn!” she whispered. “The little fool is an abject idiot! Do I -really love him? I wonder.... In any case, I will have some fun with -him. If he will not love me, he shall at least hate me.”</p> - -<p>Happy with her new interest in life, she planned her mischievous and -immodest scheme. Like all Greek women, she was discretion itself, and -the first question she put to herself was: “If I do it, will he tell?” -But this so necessary question required only a moment’s consideration. -Of course he wouldn’t tell, for, in any event, whatever the outcome of -her escapade might be, the story of it would be against himself. -Moreover, she would so cleverly contrive matters that it would appear -that the entire occurrence was one of the many affairs of chance.</p> - -<p>And, musing over her plan, she walked rather rapidly down to her -garden-home.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span> Kontorompa never dressed for breakfast. In the warm days she -always breakfasted in a flimsy dressing-gown on the little veranda -outside her bedroom, and it was here early one morning that Katya, -looking very demure, joined her. She carried a French translation of one -of Joseph Conrad’s books.</p> - -<p>“Good morning, mamma,” she said, “how perfectly sweet you look in that -pink thing!”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kontorompa, who knew very well that she did not look sweet in -anything in the world, smiled.</p> - -<p>“You do say such nice things, Katya dear.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, the coffee’s here already. Do pour me out a glass, mamma. I’m -terribly thirsty—and hungry, too.”</p> - -<p>She ate bread, butter and honey, and smiled at two kissing butterflies.</p> - -<p>“How nice to be a butterfly!” she said, munching.</p> - -<p>“Yes, but why?”</p> - -<p>“Well, a butterfly does just what it wants. It does not wait to be -introduced. It is so wonderfully unmoral.”</p> - -<p>Her mother surveyed her for a moment.</p> - -<p>“Do you know, Katya, you sometimes talk just like some of the women in -those French novels you brought home with you from Brussels.”</p> - -<p>“Do I? Well, I feel like them. I’m going for a bathe this morning, -mamma.”</p> - -<p>“A bathe! Where? Why?”</p> - -<p>“In the little pool b<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span>y the fig-tree. Because I want to.”</p> - -<p>“Very well, I’ll come with you.”</p> - -<p>“That would be lovely,” said Katya, “if I were selfish enough to allow -you. But you’d make yourself ill, climbing up there in the sun.”</p> - -<p>“But, Katya....”</p> - -<p>“You know you would, mamma. No, I’m going alone. No one ever goes near -the place: I shall be quite all right.”</p> - -<p>And when she had finished her breakfast, she went to her room, put on a -big sun-hat, took a towel from her bedroom cupboard, and stepped very -silently downstairs. But her mother issued from the drawing-room just as -her daughter reached the bottom of the stairs.</p> - -<p>“But you have nothing to cover yourself with—no bathing costume!” Mrs. -Kontorompa objected.</p> - -<p>“Ah, that’s just it!” said Katya mischievously.</p> - -<p>“What is?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing, mamma, my precious. Good-bye.”</p> - -<p>And she ran into the garden, swinging the towel over her head.</p> - -<p>There was still a little coolness of dawn in the air, especially under -the trees, and the freshness of the air and the hard exercise of -climbing up the mountain-side brought an unaccustomed tinge of rose to -Katya’s cheeks. The clear pool was waiting for her, and, stepping to its -rocky edge, she bent over a little and gazed at her reflection in the -cool water.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Really, I grow more beautiful every day,” she murmured, pleased and -excited.</p> - -<p>She knelt down behind a rock and began to undress, now and again turning -her eyes in the direction from which she expected her flute-player to -come. But when her garments were ready for taking off, she did not -remove them; instead, she sat down and surveyed the romantic and -picturesque village below.</p> - -<p>Yes, it was romantic enough, she thought, but it was so stupidly -familiar. She knew every house, every tree, every rock, and if she did -not know every man, woman, and child, it was because she did not care -to. Yet, after all, people mattered enormously. The most seductive -scenery in the world was not romantic except in its relationship to -human beings. And even this boy, this flute-player, had a certain air, -an atmosphere, something of distinction and attraction.</p> - -<p>With sudden impatience and self-disgust, she shook herself, and then -leaned over the edge of the water.</p> - -<p>“Fool!” she ejaculated to her reflection; “sentimentalist! He is a -little nincompoop and you know it. You are going to teach him a lesson: -you are going to terrify him out of his wits.”</p> - -<p>Raising her head, she saw the object of her thoughts issuing from the -outskirts of the village and making his way up the mountain to the pool. -He walked with an easy stride.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span></p> - -<p>Hastily she took off her clothes, hid them in a cleft of the rocks, and -stepped into the water which took her beautiful body with a laugh and a -sigh. She swam about for a minute or two and then, calculating that by -now he would be near at hand—the intervening rocks hid him from -sight—she swam to a little narrow bay where the water was deep, and -where she was hidden from view, and clung with her finger-tips to a -ledge in the rocks.</p> - -<p>The wrinkled surface of the pool had only just had time to become smooth -again, when the flute-player, very silently, walked to the fig-tree and -sat down in its shade. Almost immediately he began to play, and the -melodies he invented were very melancholy. Katya smiled with malice, -though she approved of and liked his skill.</p> - -<p>“What a clever little fool it is!” she said to herself, as, giving -herself to the water and pressing her feet against the side of the rock, -she pushed herself out toward the middle of the pool and began slowly to -swim in the flute-player’s direction. So quickly did she go, and so -absorbed was he in his music, that he did not see her even when she was -within a dozen yards of him and was standing, the water reaching to her -waist, regarding him with wide, malicious eyes. She raised her hands and -brought them down on the water with a heavy splash.</p> - -<p>A run he was playing broke in the middle like a thread that is snapped, -and, startled, he let his instrument fall to the ground. His eyes had -the look of one whose dreams have come true; <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span>it was as though he had -been evoking a nymph and she had at last arrived. Motionless and -absorbed, he stared at her, his eyes very round, his lips parted; but he -spoke no word, and something in the earnestness of his gaze—a look a -little unearthly, indeed, holy—made her, who had wished to frighten -him, herself afraid. There was no abashed look in his eyes, as she had -expected, no look of dismay, no hint of fear: merely an expression of -incredulity—the look of a boy to whom a long-awaited miracle has at -last happened.</p> - -<p>Their long gaze into each others’ eyes lasted many moments, and as his -eyes did not droop under hers, but indeed, stared and stared -unflinchingly, Katya began to experience the shame of a child who has -been discovered in some wickedness. She had expected him, on her -appearing, to run away in terror and shocked modesty. If he had blushed -even, or had looked confused, or had turned his back upon her, or -exhibited any of the signs of awkwardness and shame, she would have -known how to continue the comedy. But he accepted her. Moreover, she -knew that some wonder had been expected from that water. To him she was -not human, but the spirit of the pool come at the bidding of his music.</p> - -<p>Her courage and her impertinence deserted her, and, with a sudden -movement, she disappeared under the water, and swam back to the deep bay -where she had left her clothing. She heard him cry out excitedly, and, -with equal e<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span>xcitement, she swam towards the edge of the water, touched -the ground with her feet and began to walk to the shore. He was there -waiting for her, for he had run rapidly round the pool, and now stood -with his flute in his hand, his face full of ecstasy, with white teeth -shining in the sun.</p> - -<p>For a few moments he stood thus on a high rock looking down upon her. -But when she had reached the cleft where her clothes were hidden, and -when he saw her take them in her hands, his face instantly changed from -ecstasy to bewilderment, and then from bewilderment to loathing.</p> - -<p>“It’s you—you—<i>you</i>! You dreadful black woman!” he called out.</p> - -<p>She raised her head to look at him, and saw that he was trembling with -anger. His brown face was yellow and distorted. He tried to speak some -more words, but his throat choked him, and his inability to speak -increased his anger so greatly that all his body shook like one -convulsed.</p> - -<p>Raising his flute on high, he threw it into the water with terrific -force, and, turning, ran up the mountain side with a frantic speed that -had not decreased when she could no longer see him....</p> - -<p>Pressing her white dress to her face, Katya wept and wept. She wept with -shame, with mortification.... She wept with love.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="THE_BATHS_MURDER" id="THE_BATHS_MURDER"></a>THE BATHS MURDER</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span></p> - -<p class="toot"> -To<br /> -Edwin Morrow<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">B</span>EFORE you had crossed the threshold you felt the humid air as it -stealthily assaulted your flesh, and the dank stone couches, some bare -and perspiring, others half covered with painted rags, gave the -impression of tawdry self-indulgence.</p> - -<p>I have tried many times to determine precisely what it was about those -cavernous baths that gave me the impression of wickedness, and because -my attempts have always been unsuccessful I have been driven to -entertain the possibility that the wickedness lay in myself, and was -evoked by the semi-darkness, the drip of water, the lamps that flickered -but did not die, the humid air, the long treacherous corridors, the -dirty domes, and the soft secrecy of scandals stealing up the stair. But -why should these things, either separately or collectively, suggest -evil? I do not know. But they did. They do. And the little poisoned -glasses of cognac which, one by one, used to be placed at one’s side so -that one might sip before and after sleep, seemed to me lewd and -violently unnecessary....</p> - -<p>In that place worked Aristides Kronothos, lean Kronothos, who, with his -lack-lustre eyes, his long, dangling arms, and air of patient -resignation hid, and hid well, the venom in his breast. A year ago he -lived in Soho with his wife and worshipped child. To their little -restaurant came a man of mixed blood—some Armenian, some -Montenegrin—who, with money and promises, stole Aristides’ wife and -left England for Greece. Kronothos, having knowledge of his lair in -Salonika, sold his business and followed. He loved desperately and hated -desperately. But the man of mixed blood was well protected,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span> and seemed -out of reach of all revenge, for though it is true that Kronothos, -almost any day, might have slit his throat in full view of the street -and its people, he had no desire to be caught and punished. He felt -greatly, profoundly; but he did not feel tragically. His skin was of -immeasurable value to himself.</p> - -<p>So he used to go about his work in those cave-like baths feeling -thwarted, and I am told that, on slack days, he would sit, chin in hand, -brooding, his unfocused eyes looking into spaceless space, his long, -lean neck jutting ostrich-like from his towel-robe, his nervy fingers -twitching.</p> - -<p>He was a good worker. Rompapas told me that. Rompapas always insisted to -me that Aristides Kronothos had an almost extravagant sense of duty. For -example, he would stay after hours hosing and even scrubbing the filthy -corridors, trying to vanquish their musty smell; and so constant and -devoted was he that in time he was entrusted with the keys of the great -watery and wandering place, and would lock up two or three hours before -midnight, and dismally seek his dismal room.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>Half drunk and full of vanity, the man of mixed blood—George Georges -was his fantastic name—plunged out of the Olympos Hotel and bawled for -a <i>gharry</i>. At his command three came. His great, hulking body sank into -the first and bent its crazy framework into a capital U.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span></p> - -<p>The city had just lit its myriad lights, and the sky was like purple -velvet. Georges gave it a contemptuous glance, and as the driver turned -round for orders, his temporary master waved a fat hand in the air and -grunted:</p> - -<p>“Anywhere! Take me out of this damned hole!”</p> - -<p>But which damned hole he meant the driver did not know, for Georges’ -gesture embraced the universe. The <i>gharry</i> jolted and swayed along the -quay and, turning to the left, entered a semi-suburban region of large -houses, evil smells, and gutter children. It was dark here, and Georges -hated darkness.</p> - -<p>“Take me out of <i>this</i> damned hole as well,” he shouted.</p> - -<p>And in a minute they emerged into Rue Egnatia and passed the Baths. -Georges had a thought.</p> - -<p>“I’ll get washed,” said he. “And after that,” he added, for he was a man -of some education and humour, “I will stay me with flagons and comfort -myself with apples.”</p> - -<p>So he stopped the <i>gharry</i>, alighted, and, paying his driver rather -regally, turned to the Baths.</p> - -<p>He arrived at the precise moment when Aristides Kronothos, having -decided that further custom that night was most improbable, was about to -discard his towel-robe and don his ordinary garments. In those dim Baths -he saw his enemy and recognized him, and, shrinking behin<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span>d a pillar, -said in a high-pitched assumed voice:</p> - -<p>“Perhaps His Highness will take a room on the right.”</p> - -<p>Georges rolled up the half-dozen steps and entered the room.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>Aristides was a man of great resource and some courage, and when his -mind, trumpet-like, had shouted to him: “My moment has arrived!” he ran -quickly to the outer door, bolting and locking it. Then he sped to a -little chamber, turned on a light and seized a razor....</p> - -<p>There is no disguise like disfigurement, and within two minutes -Aristides had shaved off his eyebrows, taken out his prominent false -teeth, and cut a deep gash in his right cheek. The sight of his own -blood, as it fell into the bowl of water he had prepared, excited him -excessively, and as he swathed the lower part of his face in bandages he -breathed stertorously, and his eyes began to glitter with internal -light. But he worked quickly and without clumsiness, and he smiled with -satisfaction as he saw his thin blood creeping and spreading on the -bandage like red ink on blotting-paper.</p> - -<p>“It must just show,” he said to himself, “not enough to alarm or sicken -him, but sufficient to assure him that my bandage is necessary.”</p> - -<p>By now Georges was clapping his hands and calling for cognac, a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span>nd it -was a very large glassful that Aristides, obsequiously bowing, handed to -him a moment later.</p> - -<p>“God!” exclaimed Georges, “you are bleeding.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Aristides, “but it is nothing.”</p> - -<p>“But I wanted a massage, and you look ill.”</p> - -<p>“I assure you, it is nothing. It does not even hurt.”</p> - -<p>Georges drank the cognac with a gulp, and sighed with vexation.</p> - -<p>“I hate to see wounds,” he said, “are you sure your bandage is securely -fixed?”</p> - -<p>“Your Highness need not be afraid. I shall not take off my bandage while -Your Highness is here. And it will not slip,” he added with a humour -that he felt to be daring.</p> - -<p>“Very well, then: I’m ready. Sandals—a small pair.”</p> - -<p>His wooden sandals clicked down the steps as he followed Aristides. In -single file they crossed the large court-like entrance hall, entered a -passage that twisted and turned inconsequently, passed through a room -whose ceiling dripped incessantly, found another passage, and, turning -suddenly to the right, entered a circular room whose ceiling was a blind -dome. Here also the water dripped.</p> - -<p>“Like a cave,” observed Georges, with an utter lack of originality. “One -can imagine stalactites and stalagmites forming here and, in the course -of time, meeting and crusting together.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span></p> - -<p>Aristides stood listening deferentially. He knew his man. He knew that -Georges, with his insatiable vanity, was seeking to impress him.</p> - -<p>Georges slipped off his towels, sat down on the raised marble slab and -submitted himself to his massage.</p> - -<p>Nothing, of course, can reach the mind except through the channel of the -senses. Yet something reached Georges’ mind that his eyes did not see, -nor his ears hear, nor his flesh feel. Fear began to bud and blossom in -his mind like a monstrous fungus. Yet, curiously, he did not fear -Aristides: he feared himself.</p> - -<p>“You are a clever masseur,” he observed, thinking banal conversation -might rid him of his terror.</p> - -<p>“I am glad Your Highness thinks so.”</p> - -<p>Aristides stopped in his work. He was kneeling by the side of his enemy, -and he fixed his glittering eyes on him with hate-hunger.</p> - -<p>“I think I’ve been massaged enough,” said Georges, feeling suddenly -sick. “I am not very well. Perhaps it was the cognac.... How silent this -place is! No sound but water dripping.”</p> - -<p>“We are here alone,” said Aristides. Though he spoke with no meaning in -his tone, Georges started violently and looked at the closed door.</p> - -<p>“Yes, it is locked,” said Aristides.</p> - -<p>And, without a word, the masseur rose languidly to his feet, crossed the -little chamber, and sat on the only chair it contained. Georges raised -himself to a sitting posture. His flabby face was pale, and -involuntarily he lo<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span>oked up at the windowless domes.</p> - -<p>“There is no way out here,” said Aristides, smiling grimly.</p> - -<p>“No. Why should there be? Will you fetch me some water? I feel faint and -damnably sick.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly.”</p> - -<p>Aristides brought a glass from a cupboard, filled it with water, and -handed it to his enemy.</p> - -<p>Georges, having drained its last drop, rose, swayed for a moment, and -sat down, wiping his perspiring forehead with the back of his hand.</p> - -<p>“You <i>look</i> ill,” said Aristides.</p> - -<p>“I have drunk too much, I think. I drank on an empty stomach. Help me -out into the cooler air. All the air here has been used up: it has been -through a hundred lungs.”</p> - -<p>But Aristides did not move to help him. For a full minute there was -silence: a great silence emphasized by the drip-drip-drip of water -within the circular room. Georges was dimly aware of the water vapour -rising from the wet marble floor, and some strange inquiring part of his -brain wondered why the vapour made no noise as it floated upwards -through the dome. At length his wandering eyes were caught and held by -the eyes of Aristides, whose glance was sharp and poisoned. Georges -recoiled a little.</p> - -<p>“Surely I have seen you before?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“It is possible. It is likely. But I do no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span>t remember our meeting.... -Does Your Highness feel better now?”</p> - -<p>“A little. But I want air.”</p> - -<p>And then Georges suddenly began to tremble, for as he stopped speaking -he became blindingly aware of the identity of his masseur. His physical -cowardice was astonishing, but he had a bold, sinewy mind, and he -summoned all its subtlety to his aid.</p> - -<p>“Good God!” he exclaimed, with a welcoming smile, “you’re Kronothos! How -extraordinary! But I thought all along, somehow, that I knew you.”</p> - -<p>He held out his hand with a great gesture of pleasure. Aristides took -it, and with his own communicated to Georges an indefinable feeling of -impending woe. He did not speak.</p> - -<p>“But <i>you</i> must have recognized <i>me</i>!” urged Georges. “Why did you not -say so? We were friends once, you know.”</p> - -<p>Aristides saw his fear and loved it.</p> - -<p>“Once it did certainly seem as though we were friends,” he admitted, -“but now, you see, I am the husband of the woman you live with.”</p> - -<p>Terror shook Georges in his very vitals, and he leaned over as though to -vomit.</p> - -<p>“Ah! Yes, yes!” he muttered. And his consciousness seemed to dart about -in his brain like a ferret in its cage.</p> - -<p>Aristides stood savouring the quaking fear of his victim, but it was -with difficulty he prevented himself from rushing upon his enemy and -crushing out his life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Your Highness will wait here a little time whilst I tidy up,” he said.</p> - -<p>And he began folding the towels and swabbing the floor. Georges, sitting -with his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand, watched him with -apprehensive eyes. Finding this period of waiting no longer bearable, he -said, humbly:</p> - -<p>“Will you let me go? I am too ill to.... You know, I am not entirely to -blame. She was tired of you.... Living with you made her....”</p> - -<p>He stopped, fearing to speak more. Then:</p> - -<p>“Please let me go,” he added.</p> - -<p>With a bound Aristides was upon him, his wiry hands about Georges’ fat -throat, his finger-tips disappearing as far as the first joint into the -flesh of his wife’s seducer. He held on viciously, his fingers as firm -and frenzied as a bulldog’s teeth. Georges rolled over on his back, his -muscleless arms waving in the air like branches swayed by a breeze, and -a sound, half groan, half hiss, came from him as Aristides pressed his -right knee on his enemy’s chest. It lasted little more than a minute, -and at length the fat man of mixed blood lay soft and limp upon the -couch of marble whilst Aristides, exhausted, sat examining him -eagerly....</p> - -<p>If you wish, you can be with him for a moment. In those spacious, -thick-walled Baths there is always deep silence save when customers and -workers are there; but the silence is constantly broken by big drops of -water that fall from roof and walls to the paved floor. As you listen, -there appears to be some purpose in this sound: <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span>some elaborate -scheming, maybe: some nefarious business afoot. It is the persistence of -it that counts, and it is the deliberateness of it that makes you -suspect conspiracies.</p> - -<p>After violence there is always reaction, and a reaction came to -Aristides very quickly as he sat dumbly looking on the dead body of his -victim. He had a feeling of approaching catastrophe—a feeling that -implied that what had happened was as nothing compared with what was -about to happen. Disaster had been released, like a lion, from its den, -and ravage must necessarily follow. He, so careful of his own life, felt -himself drawn, dragged, into disaster. And the agent of disaster was -himself.</p> - -<p>He rose, gave a final frightened glance at the body, unlocked the door, -and stumbled his way to the entrance of the building. He wanted to run -quickly and unthwarted to his doom. So he cast off his towel-robe and -began to don his outdoor clothing. And as he dressed he kept repeating -to himself:</p> - -<p>“Kalamaria! Kalamaria! I will go to Kalamaria to die.”</p> - -<p>For beyond Kalamaria, where the little cliffs are, the sea is deep, and -the water would take his body and smother it. He did not want to die, -and a deep fear shook his heart as he thought of death. But he could not -help himself. Something within him—the lion he had let loose—was -driving and goading him on towards death: his terror of death was as -nothing compared with his terror of discovery, for discovery wo<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span>uld mean -prolonged torture as well as death, and he had already been tortured to -his soul’s full capacity.</p> - -<p>What could bring him solace? Drink. Of course. The very word already -soothed him, as the promise to lend money immediately soothes the eager -borrower. He took a bottle of cognac from the shelf and drank deeply and -agitatedly. The liquid burnt his throat and stoutened his heart. He -stopped and gasped for breath, and then drank again, and again gasped. -Yes: yes: the stuff was already averting disaster: the lion would, in -the latter end, pass him by. For, after all, what had he done? Simply an -act of justice. Nothing more. An act of bare justice, for was it not -right that a seducer of women should die? He had, it is true, taken the -law into his own hands. But what man wouldn’t? What man doesn’t?...</p> - -<p>Oh, yes: he felt much happier, much stronger, now. Nearly, very nearly, -he was content. The cognac fumes dizzied his brain, and as he rose to -leave the Baths, he lurched and laughed insanely at himself for doing -so. Turning out the lights, he opened the door and looked into Rue -Egnatia twenty yards or so away. The shops were lit: there was plenty of -traffic: an electric tram clattered by. The entire city, except these -loathsome Baths, seemed very friendly. And he was about to issue forth -into the night when the thought of the unconsumed cognac came to him. If -the half-bottle he had already drunk had killed his fear, would not the -remainder remove the very cause of that fear?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span> The drink-fumes in his -brain assured him it would, and he re-entered the baths, felt his way to -the shelf, and carefully groped for the bottle his soul desired. He -found it and drank deeply.</p> - -<p>And then he sat down and began dully to think—a stupefied brain in an -exhausted body. The bottle fell from his nerveless fingers, and the -liquor, pouring out, filled the air with the thick, sickly smell of -scented alcohol. Through the open door came a stray dog; it gazed round -in the darkness and wandered away.</p> - -<p>Throughout that night Aristides Kronothos slept heavily and -dreamlessly—slept for an hour or two in a sitting posture until, -swaying a little, he overbalanced himself and fell stupidly and without -protest to the floor. It was there, Rompapas told me, that he was found -next morning, still crazy with liquor, still confident that he had -averted disaster.</p> - -<p>When last I heard of him he was in the Citadel—a mild, gentle figure, -pathetically happy, and with a keen and soul-comforting remembrance of -his last encounter with George Georges.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="THE_DREAMER" id="THE_DREAMER"></a>THE DREAMER</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span></p> - -<p class="toot"> -To<br /> -Edith Heald<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">E</span>VERY few years, gathering his small savings together, he left -intolerable Salonika and went to Athens where he dreamed away a month of -spring on the Acropolis, in the great weed-overgrown cemetery where -remnants of ancient beauty lie broken and marred, and in the Temple of -Jupiter in which he imagined he could hear faint music, and where, of a -surety, he witnessed dim processional rites unseen by others. And always -a few days were spent in Eleusis—fever-stricken Eleusis, so foul -to-day, so fair yesterday: Eleusis that still holds its Mysteries known -only to the gods: Eleusis where, each morning at dawn, he issued from -the muddy, sordid inn and, slipping off his white tunic, bathed in the -Ægean, singing to himself and gazing long and long into the clear -waters.</p> - -<p>Athens to him was a White Paradise, and he would have left Salonika -years since to make his home there had not his bedridden mother clung -with increasing fretfulness to the gaudy city where her forefathers had -lived ever since the great exodus of Jews from Spain, centuries ago. To -her son, Salonika was hateful, for it was ever in conflict with his -dreams, and dreams were his life. They kept his soul winging. Whereas -Athens threw him into a quiet ecstasy. The present slipped into -nothingness, and the past lived....</p> - -<p>There was a certain marble figure in the museum which seemed to him to -hold all Ancient Greece in its limbs and face.... A green lizard -clinging, sun-smitten, to a white wall seemed to belong to a remote age; -and a valley full of white butterflies—butterflies so thickly clustered -that they looked like dancing snow—wa<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span>s even now haunted by Pan. And at -night the moon on the marble of the Parthenon made him giddy with the -piercing realness of life....</p> - -<p>But this evening he was at home, standing at his shop-door at the corner -of the Place de la Liberté. He gazed with shy eagerness up Venizelos -Street, that ill-paved gutter of a street where Birmingham and Hamburg -jewelry compete with one another for Jewish gold. Here, every evening, -he was to be seen, and, when no customer was in his shop bargaining for -a cast of Venus or for some piece of ivory carved by the Dreamer’s -sensitive hands, he would stand there in the daytime also, his rather -tired eyes full of hunger. For—but it was not likely—she might come by -day, though a years-old intuition insisted that the time of her arrival -would be some evening between sunset and dark.</p> - -<p>Many people knew him and saluted him as they passed by: to these salutes -he responded gravely, and a little dignified gesture of his hands spoke -in duet with his voice: “God be with you! I pray you, do not speak to -me.” Hands so beautiful might well have made him vain, but he never -thought of himself. And though he lived so intensely, he was very rarely -conscious of his happiness except each night when, having closed the -street-door, he sought his bed with strange relief.</p> - -<p>Venizelos Street was never beautiful, or even picturesque, till the -great fire of August 1917 came like a giant and, in a few hours, twisted -it to fantastic shapes. And the Dreamer loath<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span>ed it, though he made -himself spend many hours of each day in gazing upon its squalidness, his -eyes ranging from the Place de la Liberté up to the point where the -street narrows and the Arcade and the Bazaars begin. But he had one of -the secrets of happiness: he could look at things and not see them: -better, far better, he could see things that were not there. Stein’s -steel-walled shop did not exist: Orosdi Back had never been there with -his wine and pickles: Tiring was only the faint echo of a name. -Salonika’s life-blood moved sluggishly in that main artery; but the -slowness was a predatory slowness—the cautious movement of men and -women for ever on the prowl. Sometimes his eyes would rest for a moment -on the discontented rich as they sat on their little chairs outside -Floca’s, drinking syrups and haggling over prices. They were nearly as -unreal to him as Jesus Christ is to the Christian.</p> - -<p>He rarely glanced towards the sea, for he was sure she would not come -that way. The mountains were her home. She would come drifting like a -wraith, and, leaving the mountains, place her tiny feet on the plain, -flutter past Lembet and Karaissi, enter the town, and, turning to the -left down Rue Egnatia, reach this ugly street that sloped to and ended -in the tideless sea. Surely, crocuses and anemones would bloom on the -pavement when she came, and with her would come the stirring of a -breeze. It must be so: he had pictured it so often. She had radiant -eyes, he knew. She had always been y<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span>oung, ever since the beginning of -the world. Youth was hers for ever. And her hair ... his heart leapt, -for it seemed to him that her hand was about his heart: his heart cupped -in her hand: a hand cool and, in some curious way, conscious of itself. -Her hair was in his eyes, blinding them. A great light shone about her.</p> - -<p>When she came, she would not speak to him: but, all the same, she would -know. That was what he was waiting for, living for: that she should -know.</p> - -<p>A complaining voice came from the room just above his head. Turning -swiftly, he passed through the shop where a few pieces of statuary -gleamed white against the walls and shelves painted black, and quickly -mounted the staircase.</p> - -<p>“God be with you, mamma!” he breathed, as he bent over a little -curled-up figure that lay on a bed near the window. The paralysed woman -murmured a little something he could not hear.</p> - -<p>“I am here,” he said. “Feel me.”</p> - -<p>And he placed a lean cheek against one of her hands.</p> - -<p>A devastating weakness overcame her and she cried a little, but her -weeping, suffocated by exhaustion, soon ceased. She lay still and -seemingly asleep, and the Dreamer, kneeling by her side, felt pity -rising like a fountain in his heart. Her sallow face was like his own, -aristocratic, broad-brewed, patient. The eyes were still full of Jewish -ardour. He worshipped her always as a devotee worships the Madonna. It -was sh<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span>e who had quickened his love for the Beauty that lies behind -beautiful things, who had taught him that all life was a Seeming, who -had added glamour and twilight and witchery to his entire environment.</p> - -<p>“Great little mamma!” he whispered.</p> - -<p>She smiled wanly and opened her eyes for a brief instant.</p> - -<p>“Were you watching?” she asked.</p> - -<p>At this he started guiltily, for he had told no one, not even his -mother, why he stood nightly at the street-door.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said simply.</p> - -<p>“My poor son!” she murmured, her face tense with anxiety. “What you wait -for will never come.”</p> - -<p>“No?... But if she did, and I were not there? You see how it is, mamma. -I <i>must</i> be there.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes. One must always be there, waiting.”</p> - -<p>Her face composed itself, and, after waiting a few minutes, and thinking -she slept, he tiptoed away, his heart rushing before him to welcome the -lady of his dreams.</p> - -<p>(Yet how was it that, having reached the doorway and having darted a -glance up the street, an expression of immeasurable relief lit his face -when he had satisfied himself that she was not coming down that way?)</p> - -<p>Darkness was beginning, and demireps issued from side streets to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span> -Place. Greek women, flat-footed and unbeautiful, waddled by, virtuous -and miserable in their virtue. They carried virtue with them like a -shroud. The demireps, haughty and impudent, were like flowers in the -dusk. Lights appeared in the shop windows and the street traffic ebbed. -Plashing of waves against the quay almost level with the water less than -a hundred yards away, could faintly be heard. The Dreamer, looking -towards the sea for a robbed minute, saw divine Olympus, purple and -august, glowing and dying in the glowing and dying sky. So all beauty -faded and died, to be reborn richer for its ancestry, more wonderful for -its age.</p> - -<p>He sighed, and his hungry eyes sought his lady. His brain was washed -clean of life: nothing dwelt in his mind but his dream. And -unconsciously he clenched his hands to convince himself for a moment of -his ecstasy, and to make that ecstasy more intense....</p> - -<p>Those gracious, tender figures on the Acropolis! How chastely their -garments hung! They had only life that <i>was</i> life, and perchance even -now—oh, yes, <i>now</i>, for a faint slip of moon was gliding down the -sky—they were walking, hand in hand, silently, in the Parthenon. They -mysteriously were she, his lady, his lady who must never speak to him, -but who one day, or one evening like this, would appear among this -depravity, and, looking on him, know and for ever remember....</p> - -<p>The thought of Olympus dying away in the South came to him, an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span>d he -stole another glance at the mountain’s almost dead glory. Its summit was -white. A small boat heaped up with fruit was at the quay’s edge. Golden -oranges were massed together.... Yes: she would wear golden sandals, and -on her wrists would be gold, and gold would be on her hair.... His -impressions mingled confusedly; thought lay dead.</p> - -<p>I do not think that in all Salonika, and perhaps in all the world, there -was so happy a man that night as the Dreamer in his hours of watching -and longing.</p> - -<p>He lingered in his doorway until the streets became silent. She was not -coming. Not to-night. She was not coming with her everlasting youth, -bringing with her also his own renewed youth. For many years he had -waited, but every night she had disappointed him.</p> - -<p>The night was now full-starred, for the moon had gone. A dog, shapeless -in the dark, nosed in the gutter. Two whispering old men passed close -by.</p> - -<p>At length, exhausted by his vigil, the Dreamer turned and re-entered his -shop. His happiness, his sense of relief, was too great for expression. -As he closed the door quickly behind him, it was as though he were -shutting out the Dreadful One. He stood dazed in the darkness. The -oblong room in which he stood was perfumed and sweet. The white pieces -of statuary standing against the walls made themselves just visible; -they seemed made of mist, intangible; their outlines were blurred. -Rubbing his eyes, he stared at the statuary and smiled. Then he -stre<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span>tched his arms to their utmost above his head and, bending his head -back, turned his face to the ceiling. In utmost weariness he stretched -himself and yawned.</p> - -<p>And then, uttering a cry of delight, he rushed upstairs to his mother. -He fumbled with a lamp and lit it. Then he went to his mother’s bedside.</p> - -<p>“Oh, mamma, mamma,” he said, “she has not come. It has not happened. My -dream has not come true. Oh, I am so happy, so very happy!”</p> - -<p>He kissed her cheek. Her eyes, opened wide, searched him through and -through, as they had done on so many occasions.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my son, my son!” she exclaimed, pityingly.</p> - -<p>But he smiled with serene happiness, and taking a wisp of her meagre -hair between his finger and thumb gently rubbed it.</p> - -<p>“The gods be with you,” he said, “as they are with me.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="WHEN_THE_GREEN_ROSES_CAME" id="WHEN_THE_GREEN_ROSES_CAME"></a>WHEN THE GREEN ROSES CAME</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span></p> - -<p class="toot"> -To<br /> -Trevor Johns<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HERE are only two people in this story: Zuleika, a large, indeed -massive, Jewess from Bucharest, and a rather elderly English diamond -merchant with a slight body and a white moustache.</p> - -<p>For some odd reason—largely, I think, because he was both infinitely -courteous and gaily reckless—he attracted me, and, because I had been -some considerable time in Salonika and he had only just arrived, he -requested me to “show him round.” Before proceeding to do so, I asked -him what were the three things in the world he loved most of all. He -replied at once: “Animation, colour, and women.”</p> - -<p>“Then,” said I, “my task is easy. Come with me.”</p> - -<p>So we stepped into a <i>gharry</i> (we were staying at a farm a little off -the road to Hortiach), and bumped down the Lembet Road, past the funny -old cemetery on our right, and stopped importantly in the middle of that -disastrously sordid square in which the Rue Egnatia and the road from -Lembet meet.</p> - -<p>“And that’s that,” remarked Twelves as, having stepped from the -<i>gharry</i>, we watched it waggle away.</p> - -<p>It was May 1913. The afternoon was late, and a cool breeze swept along -the sun-strewn street. My friend had (which I have not) the carriage of -a soldier, and, though I could give him at least three inches, I am -confident that, in the eyes of the women we met, he appeared to tower -above me. I think he was conscious of this, though he seemed to try to -hide it. To him, fresh from a tedious voyage from Bahia, Venize<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span>los -Street was Paradise, and when we came to the Place de la Liberté, he -stood and looked at the gay crowd outside Floca’s with a slow, beguiling -smile about his mouth.</p> - -<p>“I am beginning to sit up and take notice,” he remarked; “this, if I am -not mistaken, is indubitably IT.”</p> - -<p>If “IT” meant laughter, light, and delicate linen discreetly displayed, -he was right. People from all the countries of Europe were there. The -ladies, being large and languid, and the early afternoon having been -insufferably hot, wore as little as possible. This, Twelves pointed out -with unnecessary particularity, was precisely as it should be.</p> - -<p>But I am not going to tell you about Floca’s, for the tragedy did not -begin there; indeed, nothing really began until well on in the evening -when, as we were starting dinner at the White Tower, the sound of music -came to us from the adjoining room.</p> - -<p>“It is Debussy’s ‘Les Poissons d’or,’<span class="lftspc">”</span> said Twelves, swallowing -whitebait, “and this is just the right atmosphere for it.”</p> - -<p>Then, placing his napkin upon the table, he rose from his seat.</p> - -<p>“In a minute I shall return,” he said, excusing himself and hastening -from the room. But ten minutes passed before he rejoined me, and a -single glance at him revealed that something of importance had happened -to him in the meantime.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I’ve just seen Jezebel, or Cleopatra, or Zola’s Nana in that room,” he -said, excitedly, jerking his head in the direction from which the music -was proceeding. “She’s stunning. The restaurant people tell me they have -dancing in there after dinner—dancing and music. Shall we go?”</p> - -<p>A curious, half-insane gleam of desire was in his eyes; he looked as -though he were on the point of attaining something for which he had been -striving all his life. His hands shook a little and he moistened his dry -lips with the tip of his tongue.</p> - -<p>Now Salonika is the City of Evil Women, and not a few rapacious demireps -prowl like sleek tigers, subtle and wise, through the garish rooms and -prim gardens of the White Tower. They are wonderful to look upon; their -voices are like soft music; their hands are fluttering white moths; -their mouths are innocently crooked. Gorgeous works of art they are, -and, as works of art, entirely commendable; but to speak to them is to -be poisoned, and to embrace them is to place one’s arms around Death. I -said as much to Twelves, but he did not appear to listen, and as he was -at least fifteen years older than myself and a man of more worlds than -one, I did not venture to make my words more insistent or pointed.</p> - -<p>As we were eating ices and hot cherries, the music, which had hitherto -been played by a master, became vulgar and tawdry. It was a vapid valse -given with a lunging and immoderate accent on the first beat of every -bar.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span></p> - -<p>“That’s the sort of thing that makes cities loathsome,” remarked -Twelves, referring to the music; “let’s go and stop it.”</p> - -<p>We arose, and I looked regretfully at six fat red cherries which, -against the yellow of my ice, appeared almost purple.</p> - -<p>A minute later we had entered the great room with its stage, its smooth -floor, its half-moon of boxes. As yet only a few people were there; they -sat round small tables imbibing vicious drinks and gazing with -half-contemptuous amusement at the <i>pianiste</i>. I saw at once that she -was the woman who had so rapidly inflamed Twelves’ passion, for even her -back was voluptuous, and her neck reminded me of certain passages in the -Song of Solomon. She was sensuality incarnate—sensuality brainless, -horrific, devastating.</p> - -<p>Twelves walked up to her and, placing his hand firmly on one of her -white shoulders, said:</p> - -<p>“Stop playing! You are making yourself ridiculous. Listening to you is -worse—infinitely worse—than being in Clapham. Come over here with my -friend and me and tell us of some of the wicked things you have done.”</p> - -<p>Her eyes swooped into his. They were large and lustrous, but, as they -sank into his, they decreased until the pupils became mere points of -light. Then her lips parted and she showed her little teeth in a broad -smile. I noticed that her skin appeared as firm and healthy as that of a -plum not wholly ripe. She ceased playing and, with a sharp gesture, -banged her fist upon the <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span>treble notes of the piano, placed one hand -upon Twelves’ arm and the other on mine, and walked between us to an -unoccupied table in the far corner of the room. As she did so she turned -and smiled triumphantly at the other ladies of her profession, and her -smile said: “See how easily I secure my prey! You, poor things, will -have to scheme and ogle till midnight.”</p> - -<p>Even before she was seated she clapped her hands to summon a waiter, and -presently ordered a bottle of champagne.</p> - -<p>“I always drink champagne with Englishmen,” she observed, “Beaume with -the French, and with the Germans—beer!”</p> - -<p>She looked at Twelves for his approval, and the smile he had ready for -her was ample assurance that she had said a very witty thing.</p> - -<p>“I come from Bucharest and my name is Zuleika,” she announced, -inconsequently. Her self-satisfaction was that of a deliciously vain -child. Then, with strange disconnectedness: “Would you like to see my -coins?” she asked.</p> - -<p>We expressed the greatest interest.</p> - -<p>“From Cairo,” she said, as she patted her satchel of beads the colour of -pigeons’ blood. She took therefrom a number of bright foreign coins and -held them in the cup made by her hollowed hands.</p> - -<p>But Twelves did not even glance at them.</p> - -<p>His strong, lithe fingers were embedded in the white flesh of her arm, -like manacles, and his eyes held hers.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Well, well, well,” she laughed, “but you must be good and patient.”</p> - -<p>She released her arm and touched him lightly on the cheek with the tips -of her fingers, smiling at him all the time.</p> - -<p>And then the waiter placed a silver bucket of ice on the table; in the -middle of the ice wobbled a bottle of Moet and Chandon. Zuleika showed -her teeth in a broad smile, and turned swiftly round to examine the -faces of those who, in the meantime, had sat down at neighbouring -tables. Her eyes gave a rapid signal to a silly-looking creature -immediately behind her; he had a face of lard, a drooping moustache, and -googly eyes.</p> - -<p>“Ah, Maestro!” she exclaimed, clasping his hands with gipsy ardour.</p> - -<p>She turned round to us just as Twelves was taking a 25-drachma note from -his pocket-book. Her face immediately assumed a cunning expression, and -she stretched out a plump arm, gripped the bottle by the neck, and -poured out the wine.</p> - -<p>“Another five drachmas,” she said softly, “that is the price in this -room.” Then, without a second’s pause, and holding her glass within an -inch of her ear in order to listen to the icy hiss: “I have been in -Salonika three weeks,” she announced, “and I think it is very nice. And -you?”</p> - -<p>“We both leave to-morrow,” he said.</p> - -<p>We clicked glasses and drank. The room was rapidly filling, and an -orchestra of scarlet-coated musicians played the latest Austrian waltz. -We talked about nothing, yet we were not bored by Zuleika’s -brainlessness, for Twelves <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span>was aflame with desire, and to me she was a -new type of huntress. Full-bosomed ladies, absurdly conscious of the -number and whiteness of their teeth, have always seemed to me much too -grotesque to love.</p> - -<p>It was not long before I began to perceive that Zuleika had no intention -of succumbing either to Twelves’ masterfulness or his money. She knew I -knew this, and was particularly charming to me in consequence. She -desired neither him nor me: her mind was in Twelves’ pocket-book, -counting his money: but she sought to make me her accomplice by securing -my silence. Her design was the design of all hunters—to fasten her -teeth on her prey and not lose hold while there was blood left to suck.</p> - -<p>A watery-eyed waiter hovered near, like a bat. She plucked his sleeve.</p> - -<p>“Another bottle!” she commanded imperiously, and, magically, it was on -the table in twenty seconds, but this time the neck of the bottle -emerged from a silver bucket filled with white roses. Evidently we were -now customers worthy of special attention.</p> - -<p>“C’est a vous,” she said, nodding and smiling in my direction, and -evidently it was, for the bat, with folded wings, stood by my side.</p> - -<p>It was while I was paying him in ten-drachma notes that an acquaintance -squeezed his way past our table, stooped and murmured in my ear:</p> - -<p>“Do you know how much she gets for each bottle you pay for?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Haven’t the remotest,” said I, “about how much?”</p> - -<p>“Just a matter of ten drachmas. I hope she’ll prove worth it. But that, -I suppose, remains to be seen.”</p> - -<p>He went, and, turning round to the table, I saw much to my astonishment -that there were now four clean glasses on the tray the waiter had -brought. Zuleika was filling them all to the brim.</p> - -<p>“Maestro! Maestro!” she called, without turning her head. From the table -behind came the man with the googly eyes. He smiled familiarly yet -guardedly at us as he took the glass of champagne which Zuleika handed -him. He would have spoken to us if he had not seen the hostility in -Twelves’ and my eyes; but, without the slightest indication of -embarrassment, our uninvited guest tossed the contents of the glass into -his mouth, let them dwell there a moment, and then swallowed them with -an audible gulp.</p> - -<p>“He is my brother,” explained Zuleika, enthusiastically.</p> - -<p>“That may be so,” said Twelves, “nevertheless, he is an extremely -disagreeable person.”</p> - -<p>And his long hand darted out like a hawk and again plunged into the -flesh of her arm. He looked at her meaningly; indeed, his gaze was like -a shout saying, “I want you! I want you! I want you!” She turned away -from him impatiently.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Very well, then,” she said, “but you must wait a little. When the green -roses come. These are white, but round the fifth bottle there will be -green.” And she spread her hands over the white roses surrounding the -champagne bottle.</p> - -<p>“Oh, damn the green roses!” growled Twelves. “Here, waiter, another -bottle, quick!”</p> - -<p>She glanced at him from the tail of her eye, and then immediately became -absorbed in the performance of a tall angular girl who, with exquisite -art, was singing a rapid French song full of diablerie. She had no -looks, no voice, and no figure; but she had personality, genius. Silence -had fallen upon the drinkers, and every one listened and watched; only -the waiters, more than ever like bats, moved swiftly about, bearing -absinthe and vermouth on purple trays. The singer exhaled a charm that -diffused itself about the room; suddenly, she ceased singing, made a -faint gesture, threw a kiss to the audience, and vanished. Immediately -there was a great shouting and a stamping of feet.</p> - -<p>“It is always like that,” complained Zuleika, pouting. “The men love -her. Why? She is ugly and she is all bones and skin: Ugh! It makes me -sick to see so ugly a woman driving the men mad.”</p> - -<p>But the third bottle of champagne caught her eye, and she burst into a -laugh.</p> - -<p>“See,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span> she said, pointing to the roses, now pink, that surrounded the -bottle, “see my passion is—what do you call it?—rising—yes, rising!”</p> - -<p>In proof thereof, she threw her arm lightly round Twelves’ neck and -kissed him behind the ear. He paled with desire. As for me, I turned a -little to one side and made a pretence of studying the audience. The -next thing I was aware of, they were both leaning over the table, their -heads together, whispering. She was smiling, cunning and triumphant, -whilst his face wore an expression of irritation and baffled desire.</p> - -<p>“Come on, waiter, damn you!” he called, “another bottle and another. -Yes—two! Blood-roses round the first, and round the second green. And -that,” he added, “makes five.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, five. One, two, three, four, five,” she counted on her fingers. -“It is enough.”</p> - -<p>And in due course the two fresh bottles appeared. The bucket containing -the blood-red roses was placed in front of Zuleika: that containing the -green before Twelves. When the waiter had opened both bottles, Zuleika -ordered him to take one to the neighbouring table for “the Maestro.”</p> - -<p>“You seem to be very fond of your brother,” observed Twelves, “but it is -strange he should be willing to drink a whole bottle of wine paid for by -a complete stranger.”</p> - -<p>She looked at him darkly.</p> - -<p>“You wish to quarrel with me,” she said, “very well then, I am quite -content.”</p> - -<p>“So <i>t<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span>hat’s</i> your game, is it?” exclaimed Twelves, with unexpected -ferocity. “You drink champagne with me for a couple of hours and then -think you can do what you like. The green roses have come and you must -pay for them.”</p> - -<p>He pulled out his pocket-book in order to pay for the wine, but before -he had handed the waiter the money, she held out her hand, palm upwards, -and placed it on the table.</p> - -<p>“One hundred and twenty-five drachmæ for me,” she whispered; and, -without a moment’s hesitation, he handed her five 25-drachmæ notes.</p> - -<p>Then an amazing thing happened. Quite openly, she swung round in her -chair and handed the five notes to the man she called “the Maestro.” He -took them and placed them carefully in his pocket; but, as he did so, he -kept his eyes fixed on Twelves. Twelves returned his gaze steadily. In -the eyes of the stranger I saw a look of amusement and half-veiled -contempt. And certainly Twelves was appearing in a contemptible light. -Even physically he was contemptible, for he looked very diminutive by -Zuleika’s side, and it was only his firm jaws and clear eyes that -redeemed him from futility.</p> - -<p>“Before we go we will drink this last bottle,” she said.</p> - -<p>They sat side by side without a word, drinking their champagne. As I -was, so to speak, out of it, I turned my head and gazed at the scene of -mad revelry that met my eyes, wondering and trying to discover precisely -what it was that made the frantic abandonment of the night different -from similar evenings I had spent in Paris, Marseilles, Cairo, and -Athens. I came t<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span>o the conclusion that the difference was chiefly in the -women. They had no tenderness, no passion, no sense of adventure, no -enjoyment. They were simply rapacious. They did not walk: they prowled. -They did not sit: they couched....</p> - -<p>During the last half-hour the chairs and tables in the middle of the -room had been removed and a few couples had started a bizarre form of -tango. A woman with bared breasts and arms, a broad crimson sash wound -three times round her body her only clothing, focused the onlookers’ -attention. She was tall and graceful, and her body imitated the -movements of a snake. It was horrible, but it was fascinating, and the -beast that is in most of us leapt to the faces of the men who looked on -and made them seem inhuman. Here was another huntress, but I felt that -her potential victims were as rapacious as she, and that soon she would -be their prey.</p> - -<p>From the tail of my eye I saw Twelves and Zuleika rise and move from our -table. It was as I had guessed. She would not repulse him here, but in -the spacious hall outside, for even in the White Tower “scenes” are not -tolerated.</p> - -<p>I followed at a discreet distance, feeling a sudden nausea at the vice -around me and longing for the northern mountains of Greece where I had -spent the winter. There was a sickly smell of heliotrope, and the air -was misty with tobacco smoke.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span></p> - -<p>When they had reached the hall, Twelves and Zuleika stopped in earnest -conversation, but I moved on to the cloakroom to get our hats and -sticks. This occupied me for only a minute, but when I had returned I -found my companions in the midst of a furious, though subdued, quarrel.</p> - -<p>Twelves hardly spoke, but when he did so, he jerked out a sentence in a -whisper so passionate that it sounded more urgent than a scream. -Fragments of the conversation reached me.</p> - -<p>“But it’s impossible,” exclaimed Zuleika, “to-morrow. Not now.... My -husband is here. Yes, yes, yes! I have told you already. The Maestro is -my husband. He would kill me.... How <i>dare</i> you! But you Englishmen are -all pigs. I go back to the room. And you ... you clear out!”</p> - -<p>She stretched out her arm with a superb gesture and pointed to the door. -But Twelves stood resolute.</p> - -<p>“You red fiend!” he whispered, “but I will have you yet.”</p> - -<p>Two waiters had stopped to watch. One of them, a lascivious Greek, broke -into a giggle.</p> - -<p>“You are coming with me and you are coming now,” said Twelves, “if you -don’t, I shall have no mercy on you.”</p> - -<p>Then she laughed and threw her beaded satchel over Twelves’ head to one -of the waiter’s behind her. He caught it, and she folded her arms.</p> - -<p>“I could laugh at you,” she said, “but if I once began I should never -stop. What is it you say in England—‘No fool like an old fool,’ isn’t -it? And a fool always threatens what he can<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span>’t do. <i>You will have no -mercy on me!</i> Boo!”</p> - -<p>And, swift as lightning, she thrust out her arms and caught him by the -shoulders. For a few seconds her massive frame towered above him and she -shook him violently. The waiter renewed his high falsetto giggling. -Then, placing one foot behind her, she lunged her body forward, and her -muscular arms shot out like two piston-rods. Twelves fell backwards, his -head striking a heavy chair four paces behind him. As he did not move, I -rushed forward to his help, but, as I rushed, the waiters ran also, and -we arrived at Twelves’ prone body at the same moment.</p> - -<p>Twelves, though badly injured, was perfectly conscious.</p> - -<p>“Take me out,” he said, “I feel bloody sick.”</p> - -<p>And that is all that happened.</p> - -<p>At the beginning of this story I called it a tragedy, but perhaps you -think that “comedy” describes it better. Well, on the whole, so do I.</p> - -<p>I only hope Twelves does too.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="PAUL_OF_TARSUS" id="PAUL_OF_TARSUS"></a>PAUL OF TARSUS</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span></p> - -<p class="toot"> -To<br /> -Julius Harrison<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">P</span>AUL had finished his day’s work at the quay-side of Thessalonica -unloading a cargo of timber, and now sat watching two young men, -followers of Christ and dear friends of his own, who, naked to the -waist, were washing the day’s sweat and dirt from their arms and faces. -They were Greeks—handsome, athletic, and full of gaiety.</p> - -<p>“Art thou tired, Master?” asked the younger of the two, walking up to -the great traveller and preacher and offering him a wet cloth for his -face.</p> - -<p>“What—with this kind of work?” said Paul, smiling. “Thou thinkest I am -old and weak, I know,” he added, taking the cloth from his young friend -and pressing it gratefully against his bared throat.</p> - -<p>“No, dear Father, I don’t.... I will sit by thy side until Aristarchus -has finished cleansing himself.... Father, I want to ask thee -something.”</p> - -<p>“Well, my son: ask.”</p> - -<p>But the young man stared across the sea to Olympus and would not speak. -Paul, divining the mood that was upon him, touched his arm gently.</p> - -<p>“Ask me any time, my son.” Then he added eagerly and with some passion: -“Hast thou told Aristarchus thou wishest to marry?”</p> - -<p>“Marry?”</p> - -<p>The young man laughed nervously and self-consciously.</p> - -<p>“Father, I might have known thou wouldst guess,” he said. “No, I have -not told Aristarchus. I have told no one: not even her.”</p> - -<p>“And it is ab<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span>out her thou wishest to speak with me?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Father, it is,” answered Lycastus.</p> - -<p>But again he sat silent, not being able to speak one single word; and -presently Aristarchus came over to them, his bronzed face wet, his neck -and arms bare.</p> - -<p>“Jason will be expecting thee,” he said to Paul.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” assented Paul. “And thou, Aristarchus? Whither art <i>thou</i> going?”</p> - -<p>“I am going home to my wife and little son to talk of Jesus Christ. But -I will walk some way with thee, Master,” he said. “Come, Jason will have -his food spread for thee, and, I doubt not, some wine for thy tired -body.”</p> - -<p>“Aristarchus, thou knowest I am not tired,” said Paul, reproachfully, -“it is only here that I am weary,” he added, placing his hand against -his heart. “Come, Lycastus and Aristarchus, we will walk together.”</p> - -<p>But though Paul had protested that he was not weary, he walked half a -pace behind the young men and placed a heavy hand on the shoulder of -Aristarchus. They walked in a westerly direction, towards the marshy -mouth of the great river, and when they were clear of the city walls, -they slackened their pace. Already the air was cooler, for the evening -was coming and the sun was now sliced across by the horizon. Olympus, in -a delicate mist, burned milkily like an opal.</p> - -<p>“Aristarchus,” said Paul a little absently, “<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span>Lycastus has something to -tell thee.”</p> - -<p>But Lycastus, hanging his head, did not speak.</p> - -<p>“Lycastus, what is it?” asked Aristarchus. “But I see how it is with -thee. Thou art shy. Thou art in love and thou wishest to marry.”</p> - -<p>He laughed a little.</p> - -<p>Lycastus placed his arm for a moment on the arm of his friend.</p> - -<p>“<i>Thou</i> knowest also? Who told thee?”</p> - -<p>“Thyself. Has he not told us, Master? Thou hast been very happy these -last weeks, Lycastus, and sometimes thou hast been sunk deeply in moods -of the sweetest misery. And sometimes the blood has come quickly to thy -cheeks for no reason that I could see, and has gone as quickly as it -came. It is only a maid who does that to a man. What is her name?”</p> - -<p>“Her name is Drusilla.”</p> - -<p>“And she loves thee?” asked Aristarchus, encouragingly.</p> - -<p>“I think she does. I have prayed that she may.”</p> - -<p>They walked on in silence for a little while, Paul’s eyes bent on the -ground.</p> - -<p>“What dost thou say of it, dear Father?” asked Lycastus, timidly.</p> - -<p>“If thou hast been praying to Jesus Christ and He has helped thee, what -can I say? Those who must marry must marry. But I shall lose thee as I -have lost Aristarchus.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Master: thou knowest well thou hast not lost me!” exclaimed -Aristarchus, reproachfully. “We love and serve the same God. It was you, -Master, who gave Jesus to me and I still have Jesus.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Nevertheless, thou hast gone from me. I feel thou hast. Thy wife -has—stolen thee.”</p> - -<p>Aristarchus, angry and resentful, moved a little away from Paul so that -Paul’s hand slipped from his shoulder and his arm fell dead and limp.</p> - -<p>“It is not true, Master,” he said.</p> - -<p>“No, dear Father, it is not true,” urged Lycastus.</p> - -<p>“Only I,” said Paul, “can know who are those who dwell in my heart, and -thou, Aristarchus, are not one of them.... But here I leave thee. This -road on our left is mine and, as thou hast reminded me, Jason will be -waiting for me.”</p> - -<p>The three men stopped at the cross-roads in the dusk. It was the short -time of half-light. The sky in the east was the green of apples, and in -the west it was like the red of the pomegranate’s fruit. All three men -were disturbed and sad. Aristarchus, so loyal and patient, felt his -anger melt suddenly: the something hard in his bosom softened and went.</p> - -<p>“Come, Master,” he said, “come to my home. Come and speak with my wife. -Thou dost not know her because thou wilt not.”</p> - -<p>“But, Jason will be....” began Paul, the words dying on his lips.</p> - -<p>“Go with him, dear Father,” urged Lycastus, “I will come with thee.”</p> - -<p>So Paul turned without a word and went with his young friends, but the -dark look on his face matched the dark shadow that, from the northern -mountains, was swallowing up this land.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span></p> - -<p>It was but a short way to the house of Aristarchus, and as they entered -the little stone dwelling they found a woman awaiting them. Aristarchus -saluted his wife with a kiss, placing his hands one on each shoulder.</p> - -<p>“Master, this is my wife, and here, Philyra, is Paul of Tarsus of whom -thou hast heard me tell so many times.”</p> - -<p>“Welcome, Master,” she said, and she pressed herself against the doorway -to let him pass.</p> - -<p>Inside there was but little light. The son of Aristarchus and Philyra -was asleep in a wooden cradle on the floor near the centre of the room. -On a table near by were wine and food.</p> - -<p>“Thou wilt sit and drink, Master?” asked Philyra.</p> - -<p>But Paul waved her aside and remained standing.</p> - -<p>The child woke and, seeing his father, said some little words. He was -fair, like his tender, beautiful mother. As Aristarchus moved forward to -greet his son, Lycastus pulled his garment, but Aristarchus, paying no -heed, walked to the crude cradle he had made, and bent over his babe. He -gave the child his finger to play with, and lingered by him a moment or -two.</p> - -<p>“Didst thou finish thy work?” inquired Philyra, abashed yet very eager.</p> - -<p>“Yes. It was very hot. Our Master has come to talk with us, Philyra. -Thou wilt sit, Master?”</p> - -<p>“No,” answered Paul, “<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span>I came for but a minute. Jason awaits me. And I -would be alone. Farewell!”</p> - -<p>“Stay, Master, stay!” cried Philyra. “I have heard thee talk of -Christ—many times I have heard thee in the market.”</p> - -<p>She shrank a little after she had spoken, afraid that she had said what -should have been left to others.</p> - -<p>Paul looked at her kindly, but with no trust in his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Thy son has been baptized?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes. Indeed, yes,” she answered.</p> - -<p>“And thou and Aristarchus are already followers of Christ! Why, then, -should I linger? So many are unsaved.”</p> - -<p>“I think,” said Lycastus, “some men and some women want support in their -faith. When the light is withdrawn, there is darkness.”</p> - -<p>“Put not thy faith in man, Lycastus,” said Paul, sternly. “Light -proceeds from God, and God never withdraws Himself.”</p> - -<p>“Then if thou art not the light,” said Philyra in a whisper, “thou art -the lamp that shields the light, that keeps it burning—for us.”</p> - -<p>But Paul’s dark face remained dark, and when the child in the cradle -began again to speak little words, the great teacher turned to go. He -withdrew very silently, saying only, “Farewell!” as he reached the door. -As he disappeared, Lycastus asked Aristarchus a question with his -eyebrows, and, in reply, Aristarchus gravely lowered his head.</p> - -<p>So Lycastus followed Paul into the night which by now had come<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span>. He -could see his Master outlined against the thick stars. Paul was walking -slowly; his heavy frame was bent, and his robe trailed in the dust. -Lycastus, fearing to incur his anger, walked some paces behind his -Master, and his sandalled feet stepped warily.</p> - -<p>He loved Paul dearly, and to-night his heart ached for him and his -conscience smote him. But so full of tenderness is the heart of man, and -so sweetly selfish is man’s love for woman, that in a very short time he -had forgotten his Master and, in imagination, Drusilla walked by his -side, her slender fingers in his, her head on his heart. For Lycastus -was never alone. As soon as he was withdrawn from others, Drusilla was -with him. To-night the stars were in her hair, and the little breeze was -her breath. And he fell to thinking of the house they would share and of -the babe that would be born to them, and in his heart of hearts he knew -that what Paul had said was true. Paul had lost Aristarchus, and -Lycastus soon would be lost to him also.</p> - -<p>“It must be so! It is right it should be so!” said Lycastus to himself.</p> - -<p>Yet he felt sad when he thought of Paul, and he sought in his mind for -something he could say or do to comfort him.</p> - -<p>Presently they were at the cross-roads. Paul stopped, turned, and saw -his young friend approaching. But he would not return Lycastus’ -greeting; instead, he stood firm and rigid, his thick neck and noble -head immovable. The wild eyes had in them light that was not borrowed -from the stars.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Pass on!” he said. “Trouble me not!”</p> - -<p>So Lycastus passed on to his home and, ere he had unloosened his robe, -had forgotten Paul and was already dreaming of Drusilla and the glad -days to come.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="THE_MOON_MAN" id="THE_MOON_MAN"></a>THE MOON MAN</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span></p> - -<p class="toot"> -To<br /> -Samuel Langford<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">S</span>OUR and always a little miserable, Vuk Karadjitch worked all day in the -fields, feeling that life had brought him nothing. Life was as tasteless -as water, as unmusical as the chink of money on a counter. He could not -conceive why he had been born; existence was a casually organized series -of accidents. Every thing that happened was accidental. Death was the -only event that the gods had deliberately and elaborately planned: one -saw death coming almost from the very moment that one was born.</p> - -<p>Karadjitch had the lithe body of an aristocrat: the features also, and -the poise of head. His neck had proud muscles, and his throat was -shapely. But though he had the appearance and carriage of one highly -born, his birth was lowly, and the education he had snatched, almost -stolen, from life was not of the kind to increase his money-earning -capacity.</p> - -<p>His mind, a little marred at birth, had been almost ruined by knowledge. -His brain fastened itself on the past—on mythology—the sweet legend of -Hylas, and on the golden story of Helen of Troy. It is so easy to make -the past more real than the present: it is so pleasant to do this, so -fruitful of happiness. So Vuk Karadjitch lived in the days that were -long before his birth.</p> - -<p>And as he worked in the orchards that lie above Kirekoj—working at -night to keep robbers away—he stared continually at the moon, the moon -that was to him the oldest and most tired thing in all God’s universe. -Ever since he had been a boy this wayward planet had excited him, and -the coming of manhood had not lessened th<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span>e strange sympathy, even -longing, that he felt for the great globe of light wandering with such -self-conscious pride among the stars....</p> - -<p>His mother, a harassed, reserved woman, used years ago to put little Vuk -to bed with fear whenever the moon shone through the high, shutterless -window. She would cover his head so that he should not see the blue -light on the wall.</p> - -<p>“Go to sleep, child,” she would whisper as she bent over him; “do not -walk to-night.”</p> - -<p>But almost of a certainty he would rise in his sleep and walk to the -room in which his mother sat, his eyes open and luminous, his little -hands stretched palm upwards in front of him. Then she would tremblingly -put down her work, go to him, and just touching him with the tips of her -fingers, guide him back to bed.</p> - -<p>If, as often happened, the boy’s father was in the house when Vuk -walked, the gnarled old man would roughly seize him and shake him into -terrified wakefulness.</p> - -<p>“It’s a beating the lad wants,” the father would say; and, indeed, one -night he raised his hand and his son staggered and shrieked under the -blow he received.</p> - -<p>Vuk’s father had reason, though he knew it not, to dislike the boy. -Karadjitch was a cuckold, but so little suspicion had he of this, that -he smiled with secret pleasure when neighbours remarked how like to him -was his wife’s handsome boy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span></p> - -<p>One evening the mother arranged a curtain over the bedroom window so -that the moon could not get at her son. But even on that night Vuk -walked. And, a few evenings later, softly entering his room, his mother -saw him standing on the back of a high chair at the window, his body -precariously balanced, his dilated eyes fixed most questioningly on the -molten moon....</p> - -<p>She spoke nothing to her neighbours of all these things which, I must -tell you, happened fifteen years ago in that most lovely of -towns—Doiran so white and perfect standing by the blue, deep lake whose -name is also Doiran.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>Kirekoj has no lake like Doiran, yet Vuk, now a young man of -twenty-three, loved this place cupped so gently in the mountains. He had -only to walk up through the vineyards and orchards and drag himself to -the top of the ridge to see Langaza which, though not so beautiful as -Doiran, is perhaps more mysterious.</p> - -<p>Just as, when a boy, he had been employed to scare away birds from the -crops, so was he now paid to guard the fruit-burdened orchards from -robbers....</p> - -<p>One night in August his depression was so great that, as he sat with his -back against a young pomegranate tree, he allowed his mind to become -numb with wretchedness. There was no moon this night, and he had come to -depend so much upon this far-off friend of his that a great loneliness -oppressed him. A dog, <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span>snuffing in the undergrowth, came to him and put -his nose in Vuk’s open hand. The young man made no response, but the dog -licked and liked him and stayed with him. And every night the -affectionate wild creature would come and sit by him. Never once did Vuk -give him a caress or vouch him a word. Yet he never wished the dog to go -away.</p> - -<p>The man and woman in Kirekoj with whom Vuk lived were kind to him, -though they thought him strange and often wondered what his thoughts -were. When Vuk set out in the evening to his work, the woman would give -him a little parcel of food—bread, a handful of olives, and a bottle of -red wine, and Vuk would smile at her shyly and say some words of thanks. -The young men of the village—mostly Bulgars—had long ago accepted him; -at first, they had teased him a little, but as he always replied with a -smile of good-nature, they had soon come to see that his oddness was not -a thing to give them amusement.</p> - -<p>Sometimes Vuk would try to throw himself into their company, forcing -himself to be one of them. He was afraid of his own strangeness. But his -abnormal shyness barred his way, and the sensitive distaste he had for -life was too strong to be overcome. He envied his fellows. He envied -their capacity for comradeship, their day-long happiness, the ease with -which they laughed and talked. But he could never become like them. His -self-distrust increased with the years, and he turned more passionately -than ever to his d<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span>reams of the past and to his silent companion in the -sky.</p> - -<p>One afternoon, the man with whom he lived came in from his work in the -fields and found Vuk reading a book.</p> - -<p>“Will you drink wine with me?” the man asked.</p> - -<p>“Thank you: I will,” answered Vuk, shrinking a little.</p> - -<p>The man poured out two glasses, and, as the day was very hot, Vuk -drained his at a single draught. The man silently refilled it, and in -five minutes the glass was again empty.</p> - -<p>His host, looking at him, smiled.</p> - -<p>“Why don’t you go to the inn and drink with Stepan and the other lads?” -he asked. “To get drunk sometimes is good for a man.”</p> - -<p>Vuk, returning his gaze, smiled also.</p> - -<p>“I will drink with you, if you like,” he returned, for the wine had -excited him, and he did not feel as much afraid as usual.</p> - -<p>So his host brought another bottle and yet another and, after some time, -Vuk began to talk.</p> - -<p>“Am I in your way living here?” he asked, his eyes looking wounded and -beseeching.</p> - -<p>“No. I like you to be here. My wife likes you to be here. We are all -happy together—eh?”</p> - -<p>“I am happy with you,” said Vuk. “I often want to say things to you, but -I can’t. I am not stupid. I understand things, but—somehow—— ” His -voice trailed off to a murmur. Then, clen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span>ching his fists and tightening -all his body, he said with an effort: “I understand things, but I cannot -speak about them. It seems as though you are all so far off that you -wouldn’t grasp what I said. And I am always afraid that I might say -something that would be strange to you.”</p> - -<p>His host laughed tolerantly.</p> - -<p>“We are all strange, eh? And what would it matter if we didn’t -understand you? You must talk: it is good for every man to talk. Perhaps -you are wise, and no one understands wise men.”</p> - -<p>This comforted Vuk a little.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I am,” he said; “I do not know.” He paused for a moment. “Have -you—have you ever noticed at night how, though it may be very silent, -it is still more silent when the moon appears?”</p> - -<p>His companion considered a moment.</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t think I have,” he answered, shifting uneasily in his chair.</p> - -<p>Vuk took another mouthful of wine.</p> - -<p>“Well, you listen one night and you’ll hear. Especially when the moon is -just rising—red and swollen on the horizon. Of course, she is angry -then, and at those times I always think she is like some raging, drunken -queen rising from her couch in the middle of the night.”</p> - -<p>His companion stared at Vuk for a moment and then laughed. But by now -Vuk was too exalted and excited to notice that his host was -uncomfortable and perhaps a little conte<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span>mptuous, and, putting his arms -on the table and leaning forward, he began to talk volubly.</p> - -<p>“I wish I had money to buy jewels,” he said, “especially certain jewels -like opals. I would like to hold many opals in the hollow of my hand: I -would like to crush them together between my hands. You know that all -fire is the sun. Did you know that? Yes. I’m telling you. Take coal. -Coal is buried wood. And what is wood? Wood is trees. And it is the sun -that makes trees grow. It pulls at the ground and draws them out; it -warms them and feeds them. When you burn wood and coal, it is the sun -that leaps out at you—a little bit of the sun that has been silently -hiding for many years. A good deal of the sun is stored under the ground -and a good deal of it is alive and burning there. Well, it is the same -with the moon. Some precious stones absorb the moon. Opals do. That is -why I want to hold many opals in my hand and crush them together. And I -am sure that the moon gives herself to water, especially to large sheets -of water like Lake Langaza.” He paused a few moments, his thoughts far -away. “You can feel the moon, soft and sliding, on your limbs, if you -bathe at night when the moon is high in the sky: but when the dawn -comes, the light of the sun destroys all the moon that is in the water.”</p> - -<p>He noticed, for the first time, that his companion’s eyes were shut and -that his heavy breathing was developing into a snore.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I am explaining this to you!” exclaimed Vuk, peremptorily.</p> - -<p>But his host sank deeper into slumber, and for a little while Vuk talked -quietly to himself until he, too, slept.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>That evening at dusk Vuk, dazed with wine, made his way to the orchards -above Kirekoj. For a long time he sat brooding among the trees, until -the moon, full and splendid, went redly up the sky. He watched her so -closely that he could see her moving. To-night she did not seem to -glide: she moved with just perceptible jerks—“Like the hands of a very -large clock,” said Vuk to himself, for he had wandered far and had lived -in many big cities.</p> - -<p>He watched the trees appearing out of the blackness: they seemed to be -marching upon him, closing in upon him. So he arose and began to walk, -and presently came to the edge of the orchard and looked up at the -mountain at whose feet he stood. He began to climb, and soon, after -leaving the vineyards behind him, he came upon large, bare rocks in the -clefts of which grass and flowers grew. It was while he was climbing -both with hands and feet that his dog-friend, excited but silent, joined -him.</p> - -<p>“Tchut! tchut!” said Vuk, beneath his breath.</p> - -<p>The dog, honoured by human speech, became still more excited, and Vuk -could see him dimly as, having rushed to the top of a high rock, he -stood open-mouthed, wagging his tail.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span></p> - -<p>Now, there was no one either in Langaza or Kirekoj who was more bound by -conscience to his work than Vuk Karadjitch, and it was very strange that -on this night he should, without effort, have left his master’s orchards -to wander up the mountains. He did not know where he was going or, -indeed, why he was “going” at all. But I have no doubt that something in -his brain—one of the many selves that were Vuk—was urging him forward -to some secret purpose of its own.</p> - -<p>Stillness and the moon’s rays held the night, and though the moon -falsified distance and misled even Vuk who was used to the moon’s -deceit, he reached the top of the mountains sooner than he had expected. -There, unseen, Langaza lay beneath him. Looking in Langaza’s direction, -he suddenly became aware of his motive in coming thither. Turning to the -dog, he muttered threateningly:</p> - -<p>“Go away! Go away!”</p> - -<p>But though he threw stones at the animal, it refused to leave him. So, -muttering to himself, Vuk proceeded down the other side of the mountain, -making his way to Langaza with impatient strides.</p> - -<p>Langaza is a lake without banks, and even a careful investigator will -find it difficult to determine where dry land ends and water begins. -Rushes and grasses, tropically luxuriant, grow from dry earth, mud, and -the lake’s bed. In hot weather the air is miasmatic, and millions of -mosquitoes make with their wings high shrieks <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span>as they fly their way -through the air.</p> - -<p>When Vuk found himself on the edge of this poisoned richness, he was -covered with sweat, and the fumes of the afternoon’s wine had left his -brain. For a little time he stood looking at the moon—not at the moon -in the sky, for that was too far away, and its very distance mocked him; -but at the moon in the lake that was so near. Man cannot without wings -soar into the sky, but his own weight will carry him to the bottom of -the deepest abyss.</p> - -<p>He walked into the rushes and grasses and, in a moment, was surrounded -by them; they towered above his head, and soon his feet began to sink in -the slime and mud of the lake’s true edge. The dog, with velvet paws, -followed a pace behind him. Vuk had forgotten him, for Vuk’s mind was -now full of the moon and inflamed by it.</p> - -<p>In a very short time walking became laborious and slow, for Vuk’s feet -sank into the mud until it covered his ankles, and it was with a great -effort that he drew them out again. The sucking, explosive sound they -made, and the Moon Man’s heavy breathing startled many large water-birds -that, with flopping wings and raucous throats, announced their fear as -they rushed away.</p> - -<p>Guided by the moon, Vuk at length reached the inner edge of the rushes. -In his journey he had fallen many times, and his clothes, his hands, and -his face were thick with ooze; the spiky rushes had pierced his flesh, -and his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span> face and neck were bleeding. The water now reached his thighs. -He stood still while he undressed. His impatient hands feverishly -unwound the long cloth that circled his stomach many times. When naked, -he waded still further into the lake, and then, lifting his feet and -pressing his chest against the water, he swam towards the moon lying in -the lake. The dog, devoted and dumb, and seemingly driven by the same -fate, followed him.</p> - -<p>Vuk could swim well, but he was already exhausted before he had emerged -from the forest of rushes and grasses. It was a long, long way to the -moon in the lake, and in a little time his strokes became feeble and -there was only just enough movement in his arms to keep him afloat. -Turning himself on his back, he rested. All deep desire had gone from -his mind. Weary, he wished for oblivion. The moon was at the bottom of -the lake, waiting. He had only just to sink now where he was, and -slowly, very slowly, but oh! how safely and inevitably, he would go to -her.</p> - -<p>He began to sink and to be smothered.... After a time he reappeared, -feebly struggling. The dog snatched at and missed him. Vuk sank again. -And after that Vuk’s body, remaining, for how long I know not, midway -between the water’s surface and the lake’s bottom, was never again seen.</p> - -<p>The d<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span>og swam in ever-widening circles round the spot where the Moon Man -had disappeared until he, also, sank, perhaps joining the only friend he -had ever known.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="HOW_HIS_FRIENDS_DESTROYED_HIM" id="HOW_HIS_FRIENDS_DESTROYED_HIM"></a>HOW HIS FRIENDS DESTROYED HIM</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span></p> - -<p class="toot"> -To<br /> -Olive Warnock<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>O Harry Bruton it seemed an eternity before the little steamer, -<i>Caucase</i>, was berthed, the gangways placed in position, and the -passengers allowed to disembark on the quay at Le Pirée. For nearly half -an hour he had been standing on the quay-side shouting inanities to his -friend Dick Cassels who, clad in flannels, a straw hat, and a -lemon-coloured tie, stood grinning on the deck and failing to catch a -word that was called to him.</p> - -<p>“Had a good time?” shouted Bruton.</p> - -<p>Cassels, examining his watch and craning his neck forward, yelled back:</p> - -<p>“Just 8.40.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—damn! Can’t you hear?”</p> - -<p>“What do you say?”</p> - -<p>“Damn!—that’s all.”</p> - -<p>This sort of thing could not go on indefinitely, and Bruton, shrugging -his shoulders, began to laugh. Nevertheless, he was terribly anxious for -Cassels to come on shore. Every minute mattered. God alone knew what -might be happening at this very second in that big house on the -outskirts of Athens—that house whose garden even now, in April, was one -huge, thick cluster of flowers, crimson, blue and yellow.</p> - -<p>Bruton had been in Greece a couple of years. Leaving Oxford at the age -of twenty-three, he had gone to Athens to study and write. Cassels was -coming to him for a few days on his way to Constantinople. Friends of -many years standing, both had for some weeks been looking forward -eagerly to this meeting, and now, though they were within a stone’s -throw of each other, they could not clasp hands. At last the gangways -were pushed from the boat to the quay, a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span>nd Cassels was one of the first -to step on shore.</p> - -<p>“Let’s hurry through the Customs as quickly as possible,” said Bruton, -“I’ve got a car waiting on the road.”</p> - -<p>Five minutes later they were in the car rushing at top speed in the -direction of Athens, four miles away.</p> - -<p>“And now that those rotten Levantine Jews have ceased pawing my baggage -and me,” said Cassels, “how are you?”</p> - -<p>“Top-hole. And you?”</p> - -<p>“Never fitter in my life. Good lord, it’s fine to see you again, Harry. -Had a ripping time on board. There was a French girl who sang....”</p> - -<p>Bruton interrupted him by placing a sudden hand on his friend’s arm.</p> - -<p>“An awf’ly rotten thing’s happened, Dick. I must tell you all about it -before we arrive. I’ve got a friend here in Athens—a man called -Gascoyne. Yesterday his girl jilted him and ran off God knows where with -another fellow. She played up to him—to Gascoyne, I mean—to the very -last moment: spent the evening with him the day before she skedaddled. -Well, Gascoyne’s done—absolutely broken. All yesterday and last night I -was with him, literally keeping him from suicide. I am going to him now: -I daren’t leave him alone.”</p> - -<p>“Good Lord!” exclaimed Cas<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span>sels. “Rather a weak sort of devil, isn’t he? -And why the dickens should <i>you</i> bother about him, anyway? This is going -to knock the bottom out of our holiday.”</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid it is. But, you see, he’s all alone and I’m his closest -friend. His mother’s dead, his father’s away, and there he is with just -one man-servant, a Greek, living alone in an enormous, rambling house. I -scarcely liked to leave him even while I came to meet you.”</p> - -<p>Cassels cursed under his breath and lit a cigarette.</p> - -<p>“I’m beastly sorry,” said Bruton, “but what can I do? If anything should -happen to him I should blame myself for ever.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you’re doing quite the right thing, old son,” Cassels assured him, -“but what a damned ass the man is! It makes me sick the way young fools -carry on about women.”</p> - -<p>“But he’s not a fool. As self-contained and manly a chap as you could -wish to meet. Now, listen. What I propose to do is this. We’ll go and -seek him now, have breakfast together, and persuade him to come back -with us to my place. I can easily put him up. Wherever we go we’ll take -him with us. He wants pulling out of himself, and in a day or two he’ll -probably be all right. But just at present he’s dangerous—dangerous to -himself, I mean, though I may tell you I’ve got his revolver all right. -But here we are.”</p> - -<p>The car slowed down and stopped in front of a big white house with green -shutters, standing well back from the road. A great wooden gate barred -their way. In response to their r<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span>ing, an oldish man came hurrying from -the house.</p> - -<p>“Everything all right?” asked Bruton.</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir. Mister Cyril’s digging in the garden.”</p> - -<p>And at the back of the house they found Gascoyne, a fair handsome fellow -with blue eyes and freckles; he wore no coat, and his open white shirt -revealed a magnificent chest.</p> - -<p>Shaking hands with Dick Cassels, he invited them indoors.</p> - -<p>“Coffee and things are waiting for you,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Good!” exclaimed Cassels; “for I’m dreadfully hungry. On the boat we’ve -been breakfasting at 10.30. Such a rummy breakfast! Wine and rolls and -<i>hors d'œuvres</i> and cheese.”</p> - -<p>They stepped into the house and entered a large cool room with -whitewashed walls; the pine-wood floor was bare except for an occasional -Persian rug whose smooth colours held and gratified the eye.</p> - -<p>“Do help yourselves,” said Gascoyne. “No, don’t. Sit in these easy -chairs and I’ll wait on you.”</p> - -<p>His fresh face was a little haggard and his eyes glittered. He busied -himself with cups, plates, and food, and when his friends had begun -eating, he eagerly and tremblingly seized a decanter of whisky, filled a -champagne-glass to the brim, and drank it off neat in two gulps.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I say,” ex<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span>claimed Cassels, “I didn’t know you had any whisky -there. Do give me some.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly. I’ll get you some soda.”</p> - -<p>When Gascoyne had left the room, Bruton turned to his friend.</p> - -<p>“What on earth are you drinking whisky for at this time of the morning?”</p> - -<p>“Well, the great thing is not to let your friend think he is doing -anything unusual. He knows we are watching him carefully, and a watched -man always poses. He is suffering, and perhaps he is a little -unhinged—all the more reason why we should not only make no comment on -what he does, but should behave ourselves as nearly as possible in the -same way that he does.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder,” said Bruton.</p> - -<p>Gascoyne entered with three or four bottles of soda-water.</p> - -<p>“Oh, really, you shouldn’t have troubled,” protested Cassels, “for I’d -much rather have it neat. I’m sick of red wine, and they hadn’t even a -drop of whisky on board.”</p> - -<p>And he helped himself to a glassful.</p> - -<p>“How shall we spend the morning, Cyril?” asked Bruton. “Shall we drive -to the Acropolis and sleep for an hour in the shade of the Parthenon?”</p> - -<p>Gascoyne looked at him curiously for a moment, and then laughed.</p> - -<p>“What a funny old thing you are!” he said. “No. Been to Athens b<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span>efore?” -he asked Cassels.</p> - -<p>“No—this is my first visit.”</p> - -<p>“Very well, then. We’ll go to the Acropolis to-night. There’s a full -moon, and one’s first sight of the Acropolis should always be by -moonlight. This morning we’ll take the car to Eleusis. There are -Mysteries there,” he added, darkly, “undiscoverable Mysteries. The -Temple of Demeter is now a confusion of broken stones. We can bathe -there. The sea is blue.”</p> - -<p>He drank more whisky and still more, and while his friends ate their -breakfast he had continual recourse to the decanter. But he exhibited -none of the more obvious signs of intoxication: his voice and gait were -steady; only his eyes were wild, and his face strained.</p> - -<p>After pacing the room for a short while, he sat down in a deck-chair -facing his friends.</p> - -<p>“Finished?” he asked. “Do have some more. Those oranges were plucked -only this morning. No? Well, then, come upstairs with me: I’ve got -something rather magnificent I want to show you.”</p> - -<p>He rose and led the way from the room. The house was full of greenish -light reflected from the half-open shutters. The staircase leading to -the upper story was made of white marble flushed gently with pink. -Gascoyne, opening a door, said:</p> - -<p>“This is my bedroom.”</p> - -<p>They entered and he pointed to a plaster cast of a woman’s head nailed -upon the wall opposite the window. Walking to the window, they -half-seated themselves upon the dressing-tabl<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span>e there and looked at the -cast. Instinctively, Cassels knew it was Gascoyne’s love.</p> - -<p>“It is very beautiful,” said he softly.</p> - -<p>The face had the inscrutable smile of La Gioconda; there was mystery in -the mouth, imagination in the eyes, and holiness dwelt on her brows.</p> - -<p>“Who did it?” asked Bruton.</p> - -<p>“Some artist chap,” answered Gascoyne; “as a matter of fact,” he -continued, carelessly, “the man she’s run away with. He’s very clever, -don’t you think?”</p> - -<p>He walked up to it, as though scrutinizing it for the first time; then, -returning, he put his face close to the face of Bruton and said:</p> - -<p>“Damned little devil, isn’t she?”</p> - -<p>But it was Cassels who answered him.</p> - -<p>“She has the most wonderful face I have ever seen,” he said; “the -kindest face. But, then, nearly all faces are masks. That, I suppose, is -what they’re for—to deceive, I mean.”</p> - -<p>“Outside,” said Gascoyne, “I have the most gorgeous view.”</p> - -<p>They turned and looked. The windows were wide open. Beneath them was a -thick, undulating carpet of pear-blossom as thick as a heavy fall of -snow, and as brilliant as snow in the sun. The orchard was several acres -in extent. In the distance were blue mountains; the sky above them had a -faint tinge of purple.</p> - -<p>“Good Lord! How wonder<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span>ful!” exclaimed Cassels. “And is this Greece or -Paradise?”</p> - -<p>“It was both—till yesterday,” said Gascoyne. “Now it’s hell. By the -way, Cassels, are you a good shot with a revolver?”</p> - -<p>“Pretty fair. At least, I used to be, but I’ve had no practice for -years.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder if you can shoot as well as this.”</p> - -<p>And on the instant he turned round and, at arm’s length, held out a -Webley, pointing it straight at the cast on the opposite wall. In rapid -succession he fired six rounds, smashing the cast into a hundred pieces. -His friends, standing one on either side of him, looked on without a -word or movement.</p> - -<p>“Rather good shooting,” said Cassels, at length, as though it were the -most ordinary thing in the world to pour lead into bedroom walls after -breakfast.</p> - -<p>Bruton, pale and trembling, exclaimed:</p> - -<p>“But I thought I’d taken your revolver!”</p> - -<p>“Have you taken my other revolver?” asked Gascoyne, his face working -with anger. “What the devil for? Where is it? Give it me now. Get it, I -tell you! Who in God’s name are you to come here stealing the things I -may want at any minute?”</p> - -<p>Bruton put his hand on Gascoyne’s arm.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be angry with me, Cyril,” he said, penitently. “I was a fool to -do it, I know. But I was so upset last night—I scarcely knew what I was -doing.”</p> - -<p>“But why did you take it?”</p> - -<p>But again it was Cassels <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span>who answered him.</p> - -<p>“He told me on the way here why he had taken it. He was afraid you would -find the—the other man and kill him.”</p> - -<p>Gascoyne’s face cleared a little.</p> - -<p>“In any case, it was a damned silly thing to do,” he said.</p> - -<p>“I know it was,” said Bruton, “but you’ve forgiven me, haven’t you? It’s -up at my place—I’ll get it you this afternoon or some time to-morrow. -Look here, Cyril. Why not come and stay with me? I’ve plenty of room. -It’ll be a change for you.”</p> - -<p>“Thanks. But I don’t want a change. As a matter of fact, I’m damned -tired. I think I’ll go to sleep.”</p> - -<p>He was still holding his revolver, but now he put it down on the -dressing-table with a gesture of disgust.</p> - -<p>“I’ll not go with you to Eleusis,” he added. “Use my car, won’t you? -You’ll find it round at the hotel garage, and Eurinikos will drive you -if you want him. I’ll call for you to-night after dinner, and we’ll all -go together to the Acropolis.”</p> - -<p>“Right,” said Cassels.</p> - -<p>“But are you sure you’ll be able to sleep?” asked Bruton, involuntarily -glancing at the revolver.</p> - -<p>“Of course I shall be able to sleep,” answered Gascoyne, irritably; “why -the hell shouldn’t I?” He hesitated a moment. “Well, good-bye for the -present,” he added, in a matter-of-fact voice.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span></p> - -<p>“See you to-night, then,” said Cassels, smiling frankly.</p> - -<p>The two friends left Gascoyne, Bruton closing the door in careful -silence. Out in the street, he asked:</p> - -<p>“What do you think of him?”</p> - -<p>“Look here, Harry,” said Cassels, “let’s not talk about it at all. If -you think you ought to stay with him we’ll wait downstairs until he -wakes up. But if you think he can be safely left, let’s go out for the -day together and forget all about him. With a chap like that you don’t -know how much is sincere and how much is acting. Probably the poor devil -doesn’t know himself.”</p> - -<p>“But he’s got his revolver with him!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, he has. What then?”</p> - -<p>“He may use it.”</p> - -<p>“Precisely. For Heaven’s sake, Harry, do make up your mind what you are -going to do. But let me tell you this—your presence irritates him, and -it is much better for him to be left alone.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, we’ll leave him. We go this way for the garage.”</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>Dinner that night at the Minerva Hotel was rather a dull affair, for -Bruton even at the third course began to fidget about Gascoyne and to -wonder if his friend were lying dead in his bedroom.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Let’s have some wine, Harry,” said Cassels. “What’s that golden booze -the people at the next table are drinking?”</p> - -<p>“Some native stuff—Olympus they call it, I think.”</p> - -<p>“Well, we’ll have a bottle—two bottles.”</p> - -<p>But the more Bruton drank the more despondent he became, and over coffee -and liqueurs he said:</p> - -<p>“It’s quite time he was here. Half-past nine.”</p> - -<p>“For heaven’s sake, do keep calm. We can do nothing but wait.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know. But I feel we ought not to have left him alone all day. -How rotten he would feel when he woke up! And, in his present condition, -he may be annoyed that we’ve come here to dine. I do hope my servant has -given him my note telling him where to find us.”</p> - -<p>He moved restlessly, and then rose to his feet. An idea had struck him. -It was possible Gascoyne had left a note or a message for him at his -flat across the way.</p> - -<p>“Excuse me a minute, won’t you? I’ve left something at my flat that I -want.”</p> - -<p>He hurried away. In five minutes he was back again, holding a note in -his hand.</p> - -<p>“He left this at my flat this afternoon,” said Bruton, agitatedly; “what -does it mean?”</p> - -<p>Cassels read the following.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span></p> -<div class="blockquot"><p><i>I’m not coming to-night. I’m staying at home. All the loveliness -of the world has become cruel. Sympathy is an intrusion and -kindness bruises. Yet if you and your friend would like to come and -get drunk with me to-night, you will be welcome.</i></p></div> - -<p>“I understand his mood well enough,” said Cassels. “We’d better be -getting along, hadn’t we? The best thing we can do is to let him drink -himself to sleep. To-morrow we’ll put the screw on.”</p> - -<p>They hurried down the road and in a quarter of an hour had reached the -big white house with the green shutters. In the moonlight it looked -insubstantial, ethereal, like some enormous ghostly bird preparing for -flight. The door of the main entrance showed there was a light in the -hall, and through the half-closed shutters of one of the rooms on the -ground-floor more light revealed itself.</p> - -<p>They rang, but there was no response. Nor did their knocking evoke any -movement they could hear. Ringing and knocking alternately, they stood -for five minutes or so, speaking little, but into the hearts of both of -them fear had begun to creep.</p> - -<p>“Damned funny!” said Bruton, at length. “Look here, Dick, will you stay -where you are while I go and investigate? He may be in the garden -somewhere, or he might have dropped off to sleep in one of the -outhouses.”</p> - -<p>Cassels, s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span>itting down on the top step, lit his pipe. Summing up the -situation and attempting to calculate the chances of Gascoyne’s having -committed suicide, he muttered: “More than likely—more than likely. A -chap like that might do it just for the sake of making an effect—just -to give the whole affair its proper dramatic close.”</p> - -<p>Bruton was a long time away. At last he returned, running.</p> - -<p>“Are you there, Dick? No: I’ve found nothing. He’s not there. I’ve tried -all the windows I can get at, but they’re all locked. His servant sleeps -out, and I don’t know where to get hold of him. We must break one of the -windows.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I suppose we must, if it’s only to ease our own minds. This damned -business is getting on my nerves.”</p> - -<p>They selected the smallest window, broke it open, and entered the house.</p> - -<p>“You’d better let me go first,” said Cassels, “my nerves are a bit -steadier than yours.”</p> - -<p>They entered the lit-up room—the room in which they had breakfasted. It -was untenanted. The decanter which, earlier in the day, had been half -full was now empty; by its side was a bottle of brandy holding a third -of its original contents. Without a word, acting on the same impulse, -they left the room, ascended the stairs and entered Gascoyne’s bedroom. -This also was untenanted. Near the door the floor was covered with the -debris of the shattered cast. Bruton walked to and almost pounced upon -the dressing-table, opening one drawer after another.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span></p> - -<p>“His revolver’s gone,” he said, as if the final word had been spoken.</p> - -<p>“Is there a piano in the house?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—why?”</p> - -<p>“Let’s go and play it. It’ll pull us together a bit. After all, what is -there more likely than that he’s gone for a long tramp? Or he might have -changed his mind and gone to your place after all. In any case we can do -nothing now but wait.”</p> - -<p>A little comforted, Bruton led the way to the music-room.</p> - -<p>“Play something, Dick: I’m too shaky,” he said.</p> - -<p>So Cassels played some of the humane if rather turgid music of Schumann -in which one may always find balm for the poisoned mind. The brooding -sound brought them both consolation for a time, but at length Bruton’s -mind wandered away from the music, and he began to tease and lacerate -his spirit with horrible thoughts.</p> - -<p>“Supposing he is lying dead in a cupboard somewhere,” something -whispered to him, “or in a bath. He might have cut a vein and even at -this moment be bleeding to death. Or he might have gone on to the roof.” -Then, rising from his chair, he said, hurriedly:</p> - -<p>“Dick—we must go and look for him—we must go and find him!”</p> - -<p>At the first word Cassels’ fingers dropped lifeless on the k<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span>eys.</p> - -<p>“I was thinking the same thing myself,” he said. “We’ll do the -ground-floor first.”</p> - -<p>Slowly and in silence they went from one room to another, switching on -the electric lights and looking in every place—likely and -unlikely—which a man might have chosen to hide his own dead body in. -The rooms, for the most part, were large and sparsely furnished, and a -mere glance was in many cases sufficient to assure them that there, at -least, no tragedy had been enacted. But in a narrow, long passage -leading to the back premises, and in the back premises themselves, were -many cupboards. These they opened one by one and, striking matches, -peered inside.</p> - -<p>“Damn the whole business!” exclaimed Bruton; “my legs feel like jelly. -Each time I look I expect to see—something.”</p> - -<p>And Cassels found that the hand with which he held the matches on high -trembled. His body was cold and he felt sick.</p> - -<p>Nothing on the ground-floor. In the room upstairs there was much more -furniture, and they feverishly opened the lids of boxes and ottomans, -looked under beds, pulled open the doors of wardrobes, and searched -behind curtains. Coming out of the third bedroom they had searched, they -both suddenly stood still with a sensation of terrible and grotesque -fear: Gascoyne was standing at the doorway, leaning drunkenly against -the jamb and watching them.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Looking for me?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Cassels, who was the first to collect himself; “we thought -you had fallen asleep in one of the bedrooms. We’ve come to drink with -you.”</p> - -<p>“Drunk enough,” said Gascoyne. “Been drinking all day. However, you -fellows help yourselves: plenty of drink downstairs. Staying the night? -Good. I’m going to bed. Choose your own rooms. S’long.”</p> - -<p>He groped his way to his bedroom. Bruton followed him. Cassels, standing -in the passage, heard the following conversation.</p> - -<p>“Are you sure you’re all right, Cyril?”</p> - -<p>“Course I’m all right. Why the hell shouldn’t I be all right? What’s the -matter with me, eh? That’s what I want to know—what’s the matter with -me?”</p> - -<p>“Oh—nothing. Of course there’s nothing. Good night, then.”</p> - -<p>Bruton emerged from the room pale and excited. When they had reached the -foot of the stairs, he whispered:</p> - -<p>“I’ve got it. I’ve got his revolver. I took it out of his coat-pocket. -Look! All six chambers are loaded.”</p> - -<p>After a drink the two friends, choosing separate rooms, went to bed.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>It must have been about three o’clock next morning that Cyril Gascoyne -awoke with an intolerable thirst. For a little while he lay wondering -where he was and trying to remember the events of the previous day. Like -a nightmare they came to him, and with them came a feeling <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span>of -self-disgust.</p> - -<p>Sitting up in bed he groped about for his coat and, taking a box of -matches from one of his pockets, struck a light. Some blind instinct -made him feel in the right-hand side-pocket to discover if his revolver -was still there. The pocket was empty.</p> - -<p>In a flash he jumped out of bed and turned on the light.</p> - -<p>“Damn him!” he muttered; “he’s got them both now!”</p> - -<p>And then his brain, overwrought and dizzied with the fumes of alcohol, -began to breed the thoughts and desires of madness.</p> - -<p>“So Bruton thought I was going to commit suicide, did he? And he’s tried -to outwit me! The damned fool! Why, blast it, if I’d wanted to shoot -myself I would have shot myself. Why not? But I’ll show him. He can’t -get the better of me—I’m damned if he can.”</p> - -<p>He chuckled with insane laughter, and his eyes became deep with cunning. -Having turned out the electric light, he lit a candle, noiselessly -opened the door, and listened. Not a sound. Yes: breathing—the sound of -someone breathing deeply in his sleep. He crept along the passage, -stopped and listened again. The sound came from the room on his right, -the door of which was open. For a brief second he looked inside: it was -Bruton, fast asleep.</p> - -<p>Gascoyne had no doub<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span>t at all that his revolver lay under the pillow -beneath Bruton’s head. He was as confident it was there as if he had -seen it. He extinguished the candle, put it on the floor, and crept into -the bedroom on his hands and knees, making no sound, and breathing -through both mouth and nostrils. His fingers slid along the mattress -until they reached the pillows. Then for a minute he paused. Gently, -gently his open hand felt its way inch by inch, pressing itself hard -upon the mattress. Again he paused. The sleeper did not move. Then, once -more, his hand began its stealthy work, exploring, sensitive, -apprehensive....</p> - -<p>In ten minutes he was sitting on the floor holding the revolver, sweat -on his forehead, a dreadful dryness in his throat. And now he rose to -his feet and walked quickly and agitatedly but very silently to his own -room, locking the door behind him.</p> - -<p>“I’ll show him!” he muttered. “I’ll teach him to meddle.”</p> - -<p>Taking a thick eiderdown quilt from a cupboard, he spread it carefully -on the bed. Then, with the revolver still in his hand, he crept -head-first beneath the clothes, dragging them closely around him....</p> - -<p>No one heard the shot that was fired....</p> - -<p>Not until the marvellous April dawn of Greece came that morning did -Bruton wake up and, jumping out of bed, try oh! so quietly to open -Gascoyne’s door. For, if Gascoyne slept, he did not wish to wake him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="THE_VICTIM" id="THE_VICTIM"></a>THE VICTIM</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span></p> - -<p class="toot"> -To<br /> -Marcel Xystobam<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> SUPPOSE there are few civilian prisons in the Near East more humanely -conducted and governed than the cosmopolitan Citadel of Salonika. Yet -the Citadel is most inhuman. Men rot there: their brains rot, and their -bodies become flabby, sickly and inert.</p> - -<p>If, as a casual and inquiring visitor, you enter through the archway, -you will be told to go to the right and then make a sudden turn to the -left into a kind of cage which leads you to a staircase; mounting the -stairs, you reach a platform placed high in the true centre of a circle. -The circle below you is divided into four roofless segments: in one -segment are Greeks; in another, Bulgars; in the third, Turks; in the -fourth, Armenians, Montenegrins, Spanish Jews, and men of many other -nationalities. The prisoners are separated by high walls; for if they -mingled with each other they would fight, and perhaps kill; but -well-behaved victims of law, if they choose, may leave for a short time -one segment for another.</p> - -<p>The Citadel is inhuman because the men living there are not compelled to -work. Any work is better than none. Even a treadmill is a boon compared -with everlasting indolence. I have been there many times and, -fascinated, have watched young men sitting with their backs to the -walls, staring with unfocussed eyes at—nothing. Always staring at -nothing and, no doubt, thinking of nothing, and hoping nothing and -regretting nothing.</p> - -<p>For this reason the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span>y decay.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>Euripitos Cavalcini—half Greek, half Italian—had not yet recovered -from the shock of his arrest, trial and sentence. Three months ago he -was one of the proudest men in Salonika—nay, one of the most -overbearing, one of the most insolent. He owned much land, two -breweries, and four streets of houses in the slums; he kept a flaunting -large-bosomed courtesan; he was a patron of the arts, and the walls of -two of his large rooms sported many of Rops’ indecencies. He commanded -respect, admiration. As soon as he entered a bank, lo! the manager was -by his side. And before he had time to sit down at a restaurant table, -the head waiter was reporting to him the latest additions to his -wine-cellar.</p> - -<p>But successful and magnificent though Euripitos Cavalcini was, he had -his limitations. Life intoxicated him, and his grandiose vanity was an -incessant drug. In Salonika there were cleverer men than he, and when he -floated the India Bazaar Company with a capital of half-a-million, he -felt strong enough to own half the world as enemies. But he was found -out. The colossal swindle ruined many families, and even before he was -pronounced guilty great crowds of men and women would gather round the -court to cast insult upon him as he was taken in and escorted out.</p> - -<p>The sentence of two years’ imprisonment broke him. His magnificenc<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span>e -fell from him in a single hour, and the insolent, hot spirit of him -became abased and cringing.</p> - -<p>That is why, when in the Citadel, he was so humble. The lord of life had -become life’s slave. He was afraid of the meanest and most wretched of -his fellow-prisoners. Life had turned upon him once and brought him to -the dust, and some dark fear warned him that even yet life had not had -its full revenge.</p> - -<p>So he humbled himself and served others. The courtesan whom he had loved -used, twice a week, to bring him food—cooked meats, fruit and sometimes -a bottle of wine. These he would press into the hands of -others—especially those who eyed him with contempt or who were harsh to -him. Particularly did he cultivate the friendship of the big and strong, -partly because he feared them, and partly because he hoped that in time -of need—physical need—they would come to his defence.</p> - -<p>Soon he became the victim of a great bearded man with small eyes of -cunning, a man who, towering contemptuously above others, strode up and -down the prison half his waking hours, his thick bare arms folded on his -chest, his head set defiantly upon a bullock-like neck. This man was -named Aristides, and it was said he was there because he had half-killed -a demirep who had not kept faith with him.</p> - -<p>“Take this, Aristides,” said Cavalcini, one afternoon, pulling a bottle -of wine from beneath his cloak and furtively handing it to the bearded -giant who was striding hither and thither.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span></p> - -<p>Aristides, taking the bottle by the neck, held it up above his head -against the sky’s brilliant blue.</p> - -<p>“It is full?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes, it is full. And I have some grapes also.”</p> - -<p>A big bunch of grapes changed hands. Aristides, having torn off a -mouthful with his teeth, chewed them meditatively, spat out the skins on -Cavalcini’s feet, and then stared down on his victim.</p> - -<p>“Anything else?” he asked, loudly.</p> - -<p>“No,” faltered Cavalcini.</p> - -<p>With a snarling smile of amused contempt, Aristides resumed his walk.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>There were terrible hours when Cavalcini gave way to morbid -introspection. There was nothing in him that he kept sacred from -himself; there was nothing so vile that he did not wish to understand -it. Yet this habit of introspection dragged him deeper and deeper into -dejection.</p> - -<p>One morning he threw himself on the ground near the wall and covered his -face with his cloak.</p> - -<p>“Why am I so afraid?” he asked himself. “What harm can come to me here? -Aristides will not hurt me. Aristides is my friend.”</p> - -<p>Presently, he slept. It was a burning July day, and here, in this -roofless prison, the air burned one’s skin. There was a faint, foul -odour. The hard, enamelled sky and the sun beating on the walls mocked -the prisoners. The sentr<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span>y on the little raised platform in their midst -looked pale and ill. A boy-prisoner—he had stabbed his mother—moaned -occasionally in his sleep. There was little sound in any of the prison’s -four compartments, for everyone was lying down exhausted—some asleep, -some merely stupefied. Everyone except Aristides. The giant, saturnine -and insolent, promenaded like an emperor who has covered himself with -degradation. His eyes, examining the sweating men around him, picked out -Cavalcini. Walking up to him, he kicked his victim on the buttocks. -Cavalcini lifted his head and, seeing Aristides, staggered to his feet.</p> - -<p>“Walk with me!” commanded Aristides.</p> - -<p>For a full hour they strode up and down, no word passing between them, -Cavalcini apprehensive and trembling, Aristides bearing himself as -though ten thousand eyes were upon him.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>A slow month crawled from the future into the past. There were -hours—especially at night time when all the prisoners lay herded -together in the big room upstairs—in which Cavalcini took the edge off -his suffering by thoughts and half-formulated plans of escape. In his -heart he knew he would never escape, that he would never attempt it, but -it gave him pleasure to devise schemes for eluding the sentry, for -scaling the walls, for leaving Salonika for the freer world of -Marseilles or Port Said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span></p> - -<p>One day he thought he would curry favour with Aristides by talking to -him of his plans. So, very humbly and with his eyes on the ground, he -walked over to where the big bearded man was standing.</p> - -<p>“I’ve had something on my mind for a long time past,” he began; -“something in which you might be willing to help me.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Aristides, “what is it?”</p> - -<p>“Escape—escape from this den—this den of animals.”</p> - -<p>His companion laughed.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t that what most of us have been thinking of ever since we came -here? Try again: think of something new.”</p> - -<p>“But it could be done. I’m sure of it.”</p> - -<p>“Can you scale the wall?” asked Aristides, nodding towards the outer -wall that seemed to tower in the sky.</p> - -<p>“No. But I might walk through gates that are locked and barred.”</p> - -<p>“How? Speak out. Don’t play with <i>me</i>.”</p> - -<p>“I mean bribery. I have money—plenty of money. That is to say, I can -get plenty.”</p> - -<p>“How much?”</p> - -<p>“A thousand drachmæ. Ten thousand drachmæ.”</p> - -<p>“Ho-ho?”</p> - -<p>Aristides spat.</p> - -<p>“You want my help?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“I thought we might get away <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span>together,” said Cavalcini, afraid of what -he had already spoken, and horrified at the things he yet might utter. -“Two can sometimes contrive a thing that is impossible for one,” he -added.</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Aristides, “ten thousand drachmæ would not be enough. Can -you get twenty thousand?”</p> - -<p>“I might. I will try. My friend is coming this afternoon with my food. I -will ask her what she can do.”</p> - -<p>And as Aristides stood silently contemptuous, Cavalcini turned miserably -away, feeling that he had committed himself to some frightful scheme he -could not possibly carry out, and that he had done so to no purpose, for -it was obvious Aristides was no better disposed towards him now than he -had been before.</p> - -<p>“I must not talk to anyone again,” he said to himself; “my nerve is -gone, and I say things I do not mean.”</p> - -<p>It was true he could get the sum of money he had named, but it was not -true that he wished to attempt to escape. Only heroes and very desperate -men escaped from that prison, and he was too deeply involved in misery -to be desperate. But when his mistress came and he spoke to her for a -few moments, as the prison rules permitted, he told her how to get the -money.</p> - -<p>“Bring it next time you come—bring it in hundred-drachmæ notes. Wrap -them into a little parcel and when you are talking to me, slip it into -this pocket of my tunic. I will stand as I am standing now. But be very -careful you are not observed.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span></p> - -<p>“But where shall you go when you escape?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” he said, miserably.</p> - -<p>She looked at him with eyes of compassion, took him in her arms and -kissed him.</p> - -<p>A few days later she called again, and passed the money into his pocket, -unobserved.</p> - -<p>“Don’t get yourself into worse trouble than you are in now, <i>mon -p’tit</i>,” she said, her eyes full of tears.</p> - -<p>He took the notes to Aristides, retaining five hundred drachmæ for -himself, of which he told Aristides nothing.</p> - -<p>“I have brought you the money,” he said.</p> - -<p>Aristides’ small eyes almost disappeared into his head with greed and -cunning.</p> - -<p>“Do not give me it now,” he said; “many eyes are upon us. That swine of -a sentry is looking. Wait until we go to bed.”</p> - -<p>And he turned on his heel and began walking disdainfully to and fro.</p> - -<p>Now, at the time of which I am writing, the sentry on duty over the -prisoners in the Citadel was relieved every two hours. By day there was -only one sentry; by night there were two—one in the “compound,” one on -the gallery above. Against one of these men Aristides nursed a fanatical -hatred. They had known each other for a long time; indeed, they were -both from the same mountain village; but they had not met for many -years. Critias had married the girl Aristides loved, and though she was -now dead and Critias had come down in the world, neverthe<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span>less -Aristides’ hatred had flamed anew at sight of his old enemy. Nor had -Critias wished for a reconciliation; on the contrary, he had sought -every opportunity to revile and taunt Aristides in his state of bondage. -Aristides had sworn to have revenge on the sentry before he left the -prison, and so near was his hatred and so dear was the thought of -vengeance, that he could not persuade himself to attempt to escape until -he had done his worst against his old enemy.</p> - -<p>As he walked hither and thither, his thick hairy arms folded on his -chest, his chin on his bosom, he matured the half-formed plans that had -come to his mind on the first occasion on which Cavalcini had spoken to -him of escape. His term of imprisonment had only three more months to -run: he would gladly serve those months if he could compass the death of -his enemy, throw the guilt upon another, and secure at least a -substantial portion of the money Cavalcini possessed.</p> - -<p>The whole thing was so simple that he smiled contemptuously at Cavalcini -as he passed him.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>That night as they were preparing for bed, Cavalcini once more offered -the money to Aristides.</p> - -<p>“Give me half,” said the giant, “and keep the other half for yourself. I -will tell you my plans to-morrow.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span></p> - -<p>“But where shall I hide it?” asked Cavalcini.</p> - -<p>“Where I hide mine—in the pocket of your robe. Nobody would think of -looking there for valuables.”</p> - -<p>And he ostentatiously put the notes Cavalcini had given him in the -inside pocket of his robe.</p> - -<p>But before an hour had gone Aristides had secretly removed them to the -middle of the straw in his mattress.</p> - -<p>Cavalcini could not sleep. His head was hot and light with anxiety. He -would, he knew, have to attempt to escape with Aristides, yet the -prospect of this attempt terrified him. But Aristides, it was evident, -was depending upon him, and he did not dare to disappoint him.</p> - -<p>Because of his apprehensiveness, Cavalcini’s senses became abnormally -keen, and it was with a feeling of nausea that he felt the sour odour of -his fellow-prisoners as they turned in their beds. He could hear a low -voice in distress at the far end of the room, and he told himself that -it must be the wretched boy-prisoner talking in his sleep.</p> - -<p>And then he became aware of someone moving: there was no sound, and the -sense of movement was not conveyed to his brain by his eyes. It was as -though stealthy and impending disaster were in the air, impinging on his -brain through some unknown sense-channel.</p> - -<p>He raised his head an inch and saw the bulky form of Aristides -approaching. Cavalcini shook with fear. The giant was undressed, and his -form, without his long, flowing robe, seemed much larger and stronger -than when fully cla<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span>d. Nearer and nearer he crept until he reached -Cavalcini’s bed, where he stopped. The little man simulated sleep, but -under his lids his eyes watched what might befall. Aristides took -Cavalcini’s robe from the end of his bed and donned it; it fitted -grotesquely. Then, in silence, he passed the foot of the bed and made -his way to the treacherous, winding stone stairway leading to the four -compartments below.</p> - -<p>Terrified, hypnotized, Cavalcini sat up in bed, crawled to its foot, and -watched this wanderer in the night. He saw Aristides—for there was a -moon—descend the steps and crawl by the side of the wall as cruelly and -as sinuously as a tiger. The sentry, twenty yards from Aristides, -appeared to be facing him, but it seemed certain he saw nothing, for he -made no movement and called out no challenge. Aristides stopped, -advanced a little, and stopped again, crouching. His body was so tightly -squeezed against the wall that to Cavalcini it seemed to have become -part of it. For a long time he did not move. But when the sentry turned -his back on the would-be murderer and with slow regular paces began to -walk away from him, Aristides rushed forward with a bound. Cavalcini -could not see what happened next, but he caught the glint of a knife -raised on high, and a few seconds later he saw the sentry lying -motionless on the ground and the giant running back to the stone -stairway. It had all taken in place in absolute silence. For a few -moments Cavalcini did not realize what had happened. When, at last, he -under<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span>stood, his brain seemed to freeze with horror. Trembling, he sank -back on his pillow and shut his eyes. He dared not move: it was -dangerous even to breathe. He felt, rather than saw Aristides return and -pass his bed, and he knew that his robe had been replaced.</p> - -<p>Silence, save for the rapid, distressed muttering of a boy-prisoner at -the far end of the room. After what had happened, it seemed an outrage -that the night should continue. Cavalcini, feeling himself to be the -victim of evil powers it was useless to resist, lay shivering with cold -in the warm night, saying to himself over and over again.</p> - -<p>“He has killed the wrong man! Why didn’t he kill me? He has killed the -wrong man! Why didn’t he kill me?”</p> - -<p>Suddenly, down in the “compound” below, a voice, sharp and clear, rang -out. The guard was being summoned. The body had been found. Armed -soldiers entered. Torches and candles were brought. Orders were given -and countermanded. Swords were drawn and bayonets fixed. In two or three -minutes the soldiers began to climb the stairway and take up positions -along the gallery, fifteen paces apart, by the prisoners’ beds. A shrill -whistle was blown many times until all the prisoners were awake.</p> - -<p>“Every man will sit up in bed!” called out the officer in charge of the -guard, speaking alternately in several languages. “If anyone attempts to -get out of bed, he will be shot.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span></p> - -<p>And then began a systematic search. Cavalcini only dimly realized what -was happening, but when the officer and a sergeant reached his bed he -became a ghastly victim of terror. His very looks condemned him. The -officer eyed him with searching suspicion.</p> - -<p>“Get out of bed and stand up!” he ordered.</p> - -<p>Cavalcini put his feet on the floor and attempted to stand, but he -collapsed on the bed, a miserable heap of quaking fear.</p> - -<p>“Blood!” exclaimed the sergeant. “Look! There’s blood on his gown!”</p> - -<p>“Stand up!” commanded the officer.</p> - -<p>Cavalcini slipped to the floor and crawled forward on his hands and -knees, gibbering.</p> - -<p>Then the officer, searching the pockets of Cavalcini’s gown, pulled out -a handful of hundred-drachma notes.</p> - -<p>“Arrest him!” he said, calmly.</p> - -<p>Cavalcini was pulled on to his feet and half-dragged, half-carried to -the dark little hole, less than four feet high, that is to be found in -the stone wall at the top of the stairway.</p> - -<p>There he lay in a muddled heap, bereft of sense, every nerve quivering.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>Three months later, Aristides, with his woman, was dining at one of the -flashy restaurants on the quay-side.</p> - -<p>“Tell me!” she said, pressing her foot upon his and rubbing his calf -against her knee; “tell me! Where did you get all your money?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Well,” said he, smiling at her cunningly, “it was given me by a great -friend of mine in prison. He used to give me half of everything he had. -Poor devil! He’s dead. They shot him. He didn’t behave himself very -well. He murdered one of the sentries.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="TRENCH_MADNESS" id="TRENCH_MADNESS"></a>TRENCH MADNESS</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span></p> - -<p class="toot"> -To<br /> -Ellary Warden<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">L</span>E Grand Couronné was the last of the mountain peaks to disappear in the -darkness that so quickly follows twilight in Greece. To Valentine -Latimer, excited by malaria, it seemed to curtesy as it went. He raised -himself on to the fire-step, took off the gauze mask that protected his -face from mosquitoes, and handed it to his orderly.</p> - -<p>“Won’t you keep it on, sir?” asked his orderly; “the mosquitoes are out -in their millions to-night.”</p> - -<p>“It’ll make no difference,” said Latimer, “and I can’t breathe with that -damned thing smothering me.... How heavy the air is!”</p> - -<p>His servant stood behind him leaning with his back against the rock -trench-wall, his head—so tall was he—almost touching the parados.</p> - -<p>“We’d better visit the sentry-groups, Morgan,” said Latimer.</p> - -<p>The man had slung his rifle, but Latimer did not move. He was listening -to the fitful rustle of the trees immediately overhead. The sound -reminded him of his father’s garden at home—the garden in which he had -spent the happiest hours of his life. The little breeze went its way, -and almost immediately a sour smell stole up from the trench. Into his -fevered brain came the word “decay ... decay,” and stayed there like a -drop of poison.</p> - -<p>“Everything is strangely quiet,” he observed.</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir,” said Morgan.</p> - -<p>And, indeed, the silence was as heavy as the heavy air. Latimer had the -curious feeling that he and his orderly were the only people in that -country-side, and when a cough broke upon the stillness, he started.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span></p> - -<p>“That’s number two group,” said he, mechanically; “Corporal Davies is in -charge there, eh, Morgan?”</p> - -<p>Some sickly lines of Edgar Allen Poe started up in his brain and began -to race along it, repeating themselves again and again. Though he was a -little worried by their repetition, they gave him a sense of romance, of -power.</p> - -<p>“We’ll start from the ravine and work upwards,” he said, stepping onto -the duck-boards.</p> - -<p>Though both officer and servant were well acquainted with those steep -and winding trenches, they had to feel their way along, so black was the -night, so ineffective the light of the glinting and eager stars. They -came upon a group of men in a fire-bay; two of them, stretched on the -fire-step, were asleep. The sentry on duty stood looking over the top of -the trench; by his side was the N.C.O. in charge of the group.</p> - -<p>“Everything all right, Corporal?” asked Latimer, in a low voice.</p> - -<p>“Everything, sir,” whispered the corporal.</p> - -<p>A few yards further on, Latimer stopped. He wanted to cry out. He longed -to scream wildly and break this conspiracy of silence. Suddenly, it -seemed to him as though the entire country-side were for a brief second -illuminated by a magnificent burst of light: Le Grand Couronné was -revealed from top to toe; in the slits crinkling the breasts and flanks -of the mountain he saw dark, bearded Bulgars, bullet-headed and -yellow-toothed. They were all gazing at him with cruel, malignant -eyes.... The hallu<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span>cination passed.</p> - -<p>“I feel ill, Morgan,” he said.</p> - -<p>Morgan, a man twice Latimer’s age—for Latimer was still in his -teens—took from his pocket a bottle of tabloids.</p> - -<p>“You ought to have gone sick this morning, sir,” said Morgan; “or, -better still, let me take you to the telephone dug-out.... Have a drink -from my water-bottle, sir.... Ask Captain Mitchell to send another -officer out to relieve you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no; I’ll stick it out. But let me have a drink.”</p> - -<p>But the water had none of the virtue of water: it was tepid and sickly, -and it tasted slightly of grease....</p> - -<p>The sound of a single rifle-shot from the enemy’s lines ripped the -silence. It meant nothing: it <i>was</i> nothing. Yet Latimer cursed beneath -his breath.</p> - -<p>“Let’s get on,” he said, and proceeded to feel his way towards the -ravine.</p> - -<p>In a few minutes they reached it. Here was another sentry-group. -Assuring himself that all was in order, he began to retrace his steps. -He was conscious of nothing except the procession of fantasies and -memories within his brain: verses he had written last year beneath the -young flowering laburnum in his father’s garden; a girl’s hand in which -his heart seemed to be inevitably cupped; a flannelled figure, with a -rapid, crushing serve, on the other side of the tennis-net; barbaric -music from “Boris Godounov,” which he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span> heard in that wonderful -summer of 1914; a great day on the river with his friend. At first these -memories came singly; then they clustered together horribly and seemed -to menace him.</p> - -<p>“Fever: just fever,” he assured himself.</p> - -<p>“Yes—just fever,” echoed his orderly.</p> - -<p>Latimer turned upon him with his arms outstretched.</p> - -<p>“Did I talk aloud?” he asked, in dread.</p> - -<p>“Why, yes, sir. Weren’t you speaking to me?”</p> - -<p>Soon their way became very steep, for the system of trenches took the -side of a hill: here and there they were compelled to climb with hands -as well as feet. When near the top of the hill, Latimer took off his -heavy metal helmet and wiped his wet forehead with the back of his hand.</p> - -<p>“Only one more sentry post, thank God!” he said.</p> - -<p>Then, suddenly, an enemy battery opened fire on that sector of which -Latimer had temporary charge. Most of the shells dropped in the Little -Wood down below. A machine-gun from La Tortue, on their right flank, -chattered incessantly, and two trench-mortars from the same place shook -the air and shattered it.</p> - -<p>Latimer hurried down the hill with his orderly behind him. In five -minutes they were in the Little Wood. All the shells were dropping -short. This sort of thing was likely to continue at intervals all night: -it was the enemy’s usual procedure.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span></p> - -<p>In the Little Wood, which smelt so stalely, Latimer sat down and -suddenly began to vomit. His orderly stood by regarding him -compassionately; he took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to -his master. In a few minutes Latimer, trembling and cold, rose and -started to creep down the trench to the ravine....</p> - -<p>A few hours later dawn began to paint the sky yellow, and the mountains -moved out of the dark and assumed their daily places. In half-an-hour -Latimer would be relieved.</p> - -<p>“Report yourself to Sergeant Black, Morgan: I shan’t want you any more.”</p> - -<p>He turned for a second to give his orderly a ghost of a smile, and then, -placing his arms on the parapet, watched what was happening to the -mountains and the sky. His large eyes glistened.</p> - -<p>“Oh, how beautiful! How very beautiful!” he exclaimed aloud, as he gazed -at the violet mist at the feet of the Belashitza Mountains. “I do wish -father was here.... I do wish father....”</p> - -<p>“Hello, Latimer! How goes it?”</p> - -<p>The boy turned round: his company commander was standing behind him, -looking at him curiously.</p> - -<p>“You see how it is, sir,” said Latimer, gravely, “When night goes....”</p> - -<p>His eyes quickly became dilated, and he swayed a little.</p> - -<p>“You’re ill, laddie. Come back to Headquarters with me.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Fever—just fever. People have been playing tennis in my head all -night. And Morgan’s killed. I wish I was dead myself.”</p> - -<p>His lips trembled and a dry sob shook his shoulders.</p> - -<p>“I do wish father was here,” he said.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="LOOT" id="LOOT"></a>LOOT</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span></p> - -<p class="toot"> -To<br /> -Frank Harris<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span>N their little flat between Rue Egnatia and the northern end of Rue -Venizelos, Marie and Alys Cruchot deemed themselves safe from the great -fire which, no one quite knew how, broke out in Salonika that oppressive -Sunday in August, 1917. Their habit of holding themselves aloof from -their neighbours, of disdaining even to recognize their neighbours’ -existence, had isolated them from all local news, and in the hours of -excitement that filled Sunday evening they held themselves more proudly -than ever. The fire was a very long way off, and even if it should -spread in their direction, it must be days before it could reach them.</p> - -<p>Marie, the elder sister, was golden-haired and slim and tall: her skin -was golden, and gold-brown were her eyes. She was twenty-three. Alys had -her sister’s straightness and slimness; but her hair was dark, her skin -was very white, and her eyes were almost lilac-blue. Alys was nineteen.</p> - -<p>Their father had been chaplain to the French colony in Salonika, and -immediately after his death in 1914 the two girls had been compelled to -rely upon their own efforts for the means of support. Refusing all -offers of help from their friends, they quickly acquired a working -knowledge of shorthand, and were now employed as typists in the great -store in Rue Venizelos from ten till six.</p> - -<p>None guarded their virtue so carefully as they guarded theirs: no lives -were more secluded or better ordered. To those whom circumstances -compelled them to know, they were very gentle; but to strangers they -presented a reserved and haughty front that protected them from a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span>ll -whom their beauty attracted and fascinated.</p> - -<p>“Shall we go to bed?” asked Marie, late in the evening.</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Alys, rather gravely, “to tell you the truth, I feel too -excited to sleep.”</p> - -<p>She was standing at the window looking at a livid sky.</p> - -<p>Marie rose from her work at the table and joined her sister.</p> - -<p>“Look!” said Alys; “isn’t it wonderful? I think it’s going to be one of -the big fires of history. Some day children will learn about this in -school-books.”</p> - -<p>Marie put her arm round her sister’s neck and patted her cheek.</p> - -<p>“Yes, little princess, it <i>is</i> wonderful. Look at that smoke, how it -rolls and writhes!—just as though it felt angry.”</p> - -<p>Alys nodded and nestled closer to her sister.</p> - -<p>“Are you afraid?” asked Marie.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no: not afraid: it is too beautiful to make me afraid. Perhaps I am -what is called awe-struck.”</p> - -<p>In the street below men and women were rushing to and fro distractedly, -carrying armfuls of their household goods—blankets, mattresses, pots -and pans, bird-cages, babies, carpets, cradles, chairs, etc. They dumped -them in the street, the womenfolk sitting on them whilst their men went -far afield seeking means of transport. Across the street, on the second -storey, a wine-merchant, at his wits’ end, was hurling casks of wine -onto the pavement below; each burst op<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span>en with a crash, the wine rushing -out and making a thick stream in the gutter. No one stopped to laugh at -him.</p> - -<p>“What cowards these natives are!” exclaimed Marie, with disgust; “they -always begin to squeal before they’re hurt.”</p> - -<p>“I should like to go out and wander about and see what everybody is -doing,” said Alys.</p> - -<p>“Better not,” counselled Marie. “There’ll be a lot of looting, I expect, -and half the natives will be drunk. Look how frightfully excited they -all are! But we must not get too excited or we shall never sleep. We -have to work to-morrow, you know.”</p> - -<p>Still, they stood for a long time at the window, fascinated yet -contemptuous. The scene below grew wilder minute by minute. The vast -white furnace half a mile away lit up the street. Confusion was -everywhere. Occasionally, a woman’s shriek came up to them like a stupid -bit of theatricality. Now and again a band of young men brandishing -sticks marched down the street, singing and laughing.</p> - -<p>At last, Marie drew her sister within the room.</p> - -<p>“Thank God we are not as other people,” she said, smiling. “Let us go to -bed.”</p> - -<p>They shared the same room. Alys was afraid, but she did not dare confess -her fear to her sister. Marie had always taught her that they were -better than other people. No doubt they were better. Nevertheless, she -trembled a little as she knelt down to pray. Her fear increased when she -discovered that she was mumbling words witho<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span>ut any thought or hope -behind them.</p> - -<p>Suddenly, she started and rose to her feet.</p> - -<p>“What is that?” she asked, panting.</p> - -<p>They heard the noise of heavy furniture being moved in the flat above.</p> - -<p>“I was wondering how long they would dare to stay,” said Marie, -contemptuously. “This is a city of cowards.”</p> - -<p>Alys slipped into bed, and Marie, who slept at the other side of the -room, came over and kissed her.</p> - -<p>“Are you quite sure?” asked Alys.</p> - -<p>“What do you mean, little dear?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing. But we really are safe, aren’t we?”</p> - -<p>“Of course we are. Even if they don’t put the fire out, it can’t reach -us for days and days. Good-night, princess. Sleep well!”</p> - -<p>She put her arm round her sister’s neck and, for a little minute, -lingered in love, blessing her. Then she rose, walked over to her own -bed and, having drawn the thick curtains over the windows, blew out the -solitary candle.</p> - -<p>But Alys could not sleep. She only half-slept. Her tired little body -seemed to sleep, but her mind buried itself in fancies—the sort of -fancies that come to us in fever. This is what her imagination said to -her:</p> - -<p>“<i>If</i> the fire should come up the stair, walking, running. Then Marie -and I would have to jump from the window.... You can buy fire. They put -fire on the end of little match-stalks and sell him. They imprison him -in tiny bits of phosphor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span>us.... Oh, yes: just rub a match between your -moist palms in the dark and your hands seem to be on fire. But it isn’t -fire, really—just a strange kind of light.... Imprison! But no one -likes being caged up. Fire doesn’t. Sometimes he leaps out of his -cage—like to-night—and just shows you.... If we were in the street, we -should be trampled on. Marie has not thought of these things.... Tiny -bits of phosphorus. Just matches....”</p> - -<p>Most wildly did these fancies crowd upon her. Real sleep came at last.</p> - -<p>Marie and Alys were the only two who slept that night in that quarter of -the town.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>Adolph’s face was thin and intellectual. He had beautiful hands, and his -wrists and ankles were as thin as an athlete’s. He sat in his gaudy -brothel, drinking.</p> - -<p>“A real God-send,” he said to his partner, and as he spoke he tapped his -fingers on the little table holding their drinks. “A real slap-up -present from the Almighty. Delivered free of charge.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, oh yes: God is good. But what are we to <i>do</i>?” asked his -partner, the man whom they called Tansy.</p> - -<p>“Well, it’s simply a matter of choice. We’ve plenty to select from. All -our customers are sick of these Barcelona girls: they haven’t a bite -left in them. They start in Paris. Their bloom off, they go to London. -When London’s suc<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span>ked them dry, they go to Marseilles and from -Marseilles to Port Said and from Port Said they come here and from here -they go to ... well, I suppose they go to Hell. Not a single one comes -from Barcelona. Now, we could do with half-a-dozen virgins.”</p> - -<p>“Virgins?” asked Tansy, leering filthily. “And what strange fowl may -they be?”</p> - -<p>“Well, the Cruchot girls are virgins. Marie and Alys. I’ve had them at -the top of my list for three years. They’re worth six thousand drachmæ -apiece. From Pedro’s report here, the fire should reach their house at a -quarter to one.”</p> - -<p>“They’ll have skedaddled by now,” said Tansy, “it’s just on midnight.”</p> - -<p>“They were at home an hour ago!” exclaimed Adolph.</p> - -<p>“Well, what do you say to getting these two to-night and leaving the -second-rate stuff till to-morrow?”</p> - -<p>Adolph nodded.</p> - -<p>“We’d better take Mrs. Knumf along with us.”</p> - -<p>He rang a bell. Presently a male servant entered.</p> - -<p>“Tell Mrs. Knumf I want her. She must put on her outdoor things,” said -Adolph.</p> - -<p>He dismissed the man with a motion of his flawless hand.</p> - -<p>“Another drink,” suggested Tansy.</p> - -<p>“I’ve had enough.”</p> - -<p>“Share a bottle o<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span>f champagne with me; this is a night of nights. -Besides, we want priming. Those Cruchot girls will require a hell of a -lot of managing. You see! If the elder one suspects anything, she’ll -fight like a demon.”</p> - -<p>He opened a bottle of champagne and filled two glasses. They drank. -Tansy sat leering and perspiring. Soon the door opened and in walked a -woman of incredible and revolting respectability. She was dressed in -black.</p> - -<p>“Ah! Mrs. Knumf,” said Adolph. “Sit down. Have some wine. Now, you know -the Cruchot girls, don’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes. At least, by sight,” said Mrs. Knumf, sipping her wine -genteelly, and simpering.</p> - -<p>“Well, Tansy and I are after them. They’re still in their flat. In -half-an-hour or so the fire will be upon them. We must let them nearly -get caught, and then we’ll rescue them. It should be simple enough. We -will take the carriage. They will come back here with you. This is your -private house: it is the headquarters of the Sisters of Mercy of the -Orient: it is a branch of the Sacred Heart League: it is anything you -like to call it. You understand? Well, then, come along.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Knumf eagerly swallowed the remainder of her champagne and rose. -She composed her face and began to fiddle with a pair of black gloves. -She coughed behind a delicate hand.</p> - -<p>They passed into the street and entered a carriage. Even here, near the -quay, they could hear the explosive noises that the hundred-acre furnace -made. A vast belt of smoke blotted out half the stars. Millions of -sparks were jerked into, and quenched by, the smoke, like wat<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span>er -frantically forced through a hose-pipe.</p> - -<p>They had but seven or eight hundred yards to go; the streets were -crowded and they could proceed only at a snail’s pace. So intense was -the light and so black the shadows that the streets and buildings looked -grotesquely unreal. Almost everybody was shouting wildly. Many carried -open bottles: their eyes were wide and glittering. An old man sat in the -gutter laughing horribly and shouting indecencies to people as they -passed. Some of the smaller shops had been broken open, and looting -proceeded apace.</p> - -<p>The fire strode about the city like a giant. It littered young pythons -of fire that glided subterraneously hither and thither and set a red -doom on old wooden warehouses and shops. It stretched quivering tongues -of flame across the streets and knit up one quarter of the town with -another. It triumphed scarletly in the night and, pushing violently -against lofty walls of brick and stone, sent them rattling to the -ground.</p> - -<p>“It is a good night for everyone except the insurance companies,” said -Mrs. Knumf, complacently.</p> - -<p>But when they stepped from the carriage on to the road, a gust of hot -air carried to them the brain-sickening smell of burnt flesh.</p> - -<p>“A good many people will be missing to-morrow,” remarked Tansy.</p> - -<p>“I suppose Hell’s a bit like this,” was all that Adolph found t<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span>o say.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>Half-an-hour later the two girls were escorted by Mrs. Knumf to the -discreet, private entrance to the brothel. They had been rescued with -the utmost difficulty, and both of them were now shaken and a little -distraught.</p> - -<p>“You would like to rest, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Knumf, leading the way to -a double-bedded room.</p> - -<p>“You are very kind,” said Marie, looking at her a little distrustfully. -Then she turned to her sister who was seated on the edge of one of the -beds, trembling a little.</p> - -<p>“Undress yourself, dear,” she said, “we will stay here until the -morning.”</p> - -<p>“You will have some refreshment first?” asked Mrs. Knumf.</p> - -<p>But Marie refused, and the woman, walking quickly to the door, vanished. -Almost immediately, through a second door on the opposite side of the -room, Adolph and Tansy entered.</p> - -<p>“Well, ladies,” said Adolph, looking keenly at Marie, “it was a narrow -escape, wasn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” answered Marie, impulsively; “we owe you our lives. We thank you -from the bottom of our hearts.”</p> - -<p>She moved over towards Alys as though to protect her.</p> - -<p>Adolph suddenly lurched forward.</p> - -<p>“Well, you’re pretty well beat, <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span>I should think,” he said; “what about a -bottle of wine?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no! Indeed, no!” protested Marie, standing by Alys’ side, and -placing a hand upon her shoulder. “We only want to be left in peace.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! but you must!” said Adolph. “Mustn’t they, Tansy?”</p> - -<p>“Of course they musht,” said Tansy, eagerly. “Ring for wine. Champagne’s -the stuff: we’ve plenty of it.”</p> - -<p>Marie suddenly made up her mind.</p> - -<p>“My sister is ill—can’t you see she is? I beg you to leave us. You have -been very good to us: we are both grateful to you: do not spoil -everything by thrusting upon us further kindness that ... that is not to -be endured.”</p> - -<p>“She’s right,” said Tansy, with drunken conviction, “absholutely right. -What did I say? ‘Leave ’em a bit': thash what <i>I</i> said. Leave ’em to -simmer down. Now isn’t that just what <i>I</i> said?”</p> - -<p>“Very well,” said Adolph. “If you want anything, just ring. Mrs. Knumf -will attend to you.”</p> - -<p>They left the room by the door through which they had entered, and Marie -heard the key turn in the lock.</p> - -<p>She turned to Alys bravely.</p> - -<p>“Get into bed, little one,” she said, “I will sleep with you.”</p> - -<p>Two gilt candelabra, each holding half a dozen lighted candles, -illuminated the room. Marie examined the room with apprehensive eyes. -There were no windows: only bare walls faced her on every side. Near the -ceiling, on one side of the ro<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span>om, were three ventilators. She crept to -the door through which Mrs. Knumf had left the room and softly turned -the handle: it was locked.</p> - -<p>Without a word and with a faint smile she approached Alys.</p> - -<p>“Do not take your clothes off,” she said; “let us sleep as we are.”</p> - -<p>Leaving the candles still burning, she lay down by her sister. Folded in -each other’s arms, they lay for a long time without sleeping. Vague -noises, whether in the house or not they could not tell, disturbed them -from time to time.</p> - -<p>“The fire’s coming nearer,” whispered Alys at length. “I <i>know</i> it is: I -<i>feel</i> it is. Marie, let us go away from here: we shall be caught.”</p> - -<p>She sat up in bed and looked wildly round the room.</p> - -<p>“Lie down, little one,” said her sister, soothingly, as, rising on to -her knees, she placed her arm round Alys’ waist. “We can do nothing till -the morning. Lie down in my arms. You are quite safe.”</p> - -<p>But Alys’ instinct was right. The fire was spreading with incredible -rapidity, and even now was within a few yards of the brothel. The vague -noises grew louder and more sinister.</p> - -<p>Both the girls were in that condition which is neither sleep nor -wakefulness when one of the doors quietly opened and Adolph and Tansy -entered. The former, after rapidly glancing at both the beds, locked the -door, pocketed the key, went to the nearest candelabrum and extinguished -all the candles it contained.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span></p> - -<p>Marie, holding her sister’s hand, slipped out of bed.</p> - -<p>“Leave those other candles alone,” she commanded.</p> - -<p>“We have come for our reward,” said Adolph, thickly.</p> - -<p>Tansy seated himself on the table and made himself steady by placing his -hands on the table on either side of him; even with this support he -swayed a little. Alys had also risen from the bed; she now stood by her -sister’s side.</p> - -<p>“What do you want?” asked Marie.</p> - -<p>“Well, aren’t you going to rest?” asked Adolph. “Let me help you to -undress.”</p> - -<p>But instead of approaching Marie, he lurched towards the younger sister -and placed a cruel, beautiful hand upon her arm. Alys winced as though -her head had been struck with a whip. For a moment, Marie hesitated: -then her fist shot out and caught Adolph between the eyes. He staggered -and fell, but on the instant rose to his feet.</p> - -<p>“Come on, Tansy,” he called, mad with drink and lust; “it’s going to be -a fight—it’s <i>got</i> to be one.”</p> - -<p>Tansy, abandoning the support of the table, rushed blindly on to the two -girls, his bestial face alive with cruelty. Alys, sick and faint with -horror, fell to the floor.</p> - -<p>“She’s mine!” shouted Adol<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span>ph, dropping on his knees by her side and -bending over her.</p> - -<p>“Let her alone! Let her alone!” shouted Marie, ceasing to struggle with -Tansy in whose ape-like arms she was imprisoned. “Take me—both of you. -Do what you like with me—only leave her untouched.”</p> - -<p>But Adolph answered her with an insane, triumphant laugh.</p> - -<p>“You belong to Tansy,” he said, and raising Alys from the floor, he -carried her to one of the beds.</p> - -<p>A great accession of strength seemed to flow through Marie’s body and -limbs from her brain; her excitement and terror were inexhaustible -sources of energy. With a superhuman effort, she released herself from -Tansy’s grasp, and rushed like a flame across the room to the bed on -which Alys, only half-conscious, was now stretched. Throwing herself -upon Adolph from behind, she put her long fingers about his throat, and -it appeared to her as though her will to destroy pumped wave after wave -of power along her shoulders, down her arms, and into her fingers, and -made them stronger than steel. The man, half turning, struck her several -blows upon her face; but she felt nothing. Tansy, in attempting to -pursue her, had stumbled over a chair, crushing his head against a -corner of the table. He now lay on the floor, moaning.</p> - -<p>It was while Marie’s fingers were still about Adolph’s throat that she -became conscious of dull explosive sounds immediately outside one of the -doors. At the same moment some one began to attempt to force an entrance -through the oth<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span>er door. A voice shouted excitedly, warningly. But Marie -still clung to her victim until all the strength left his limbs and he -fell to the floor. A key rolled out of one of his pockets. She tried to -pick it up, but a sudden faintness overcame her, and she sat on the edge -of the bed unable to move, her head light and empty, her legs trembling -with the utmost violence.</p> - -<p>As one who dreams, she heard a great blow upon the door from beyond -which the strange explosive noises had been coming, and with unbelieving -eyes she saw the door fall inwards, torn from its hinges by a great beam -that had fallen against it. An inexhaustible cloud of black smoke rushed -into the room, almost suffocating her; with the smoke came a wave of -heat and the noisy crackle of burning wood. The excited warning voice at -the second door had ceased to shout.</p> - -<p>All Marie’s senses were incredulous of her approaching doom. She gazed -on her surroundings with the detachment of an onlooker who was not -directly affected by those surroundings. She said to herself: “If Alys -and I don’t escape soon—now—we shall be burned alive.” But still she -did not move. She could not. She tried to lift her arm, but it remained -inert on the bed. She attempted to speak to her sister, but no sound -came from her lips....</p> - -<p>The fire came roaring down the passage and entered the room. It was so -hot that Marie felt her skin was being scorched. The horror of dying in -flames seemed to her much less dreadful th<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span>an the horror from which she -had just escaped. Yet it would now be a comparatively easy matter to get -away if only she could move. Her heart was beating violently, and her -breath came and went most stormily. With a supreme effort she gathered -all the forces of her mind together and concentrated them, willing -herself to move; in response to this effort, her body rose from the bed -and began to obey her wishes. Her hand picked up the key from the floor, -her arms folded themselves about her sister and half-dragged, -half-carried her to the second door. She fitted the key into the lock -and turned it. In a second the door was open, and she and her sister -were in the passage.</p> - -<p>The door banged to after them, imprisoning the two half-conscious evil -men.</p> - -<p>With many intervals for rest, Marie carried her sister to the end of the -passage and out into the open air. The brothel was almost surrounded by -fire: another five minutes, and she would have been too late. As she -emerged into the street and looked around her, she saw it was deserted. -No one in Salonika was interested in the burning of a brothel when great -hotels, huge warehouses, and fine palaces were being destroyed. And -degraded women are but poor loot when compared with jewels and drink.</p> - -<p>As for Adolph and Tansy....</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span> </p> - -<h2><a name="HOW_IT_GREW" id="HOW_IT_GREW"></a>HOW IT GREW</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span></p> - -<p class="toot"> -To<br /> -T. Michael Pope<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> SUPPOSE that, after all, I am at heart a good deal of a snob, for I -remember taking enormous pleasure in being seen in Captain Porritt’s -company as we sauntered by British Headquarters, and passed along by the -side of the quay until we reached the Café Roma. For Porritt was most -decidedly a notability in Salonika. He would have attracted attention -anywhere. He was dark and sudden, like a Spaniard. He had an air of -distinction, even of disdain, and though his face was peculiarly -animated, it never revealed anything. He looked what he was; an eager -young aristocrat, absorbed in and hugely entertained by his -surroundings. Every part of him had intuition: his hands <i>knew</i>.</p> - -<p>Now, I must explain that Porritt had been in some little trouble. A -lady, I think; certainly not drink. She was somebody else’s wife, and -Somebody Else happened to be a millionaire merchant. So for three weeks -Salonika had been closed to Porritt, and to-day was the first day of the -ban’s lifting.</p> - -<p>“I’d better go slow the first day, Old Thing,” he said; “we’ll go to the -Roma instead of the White Tower, and after lunch, if that little room’s -empty, you shall play Brahms to me—especially the Little Valse.”</p> - -<p>We mounted the stone stairway that takes you so unexpectedly to the -restaurant. As soon as the manager saw Porritt he came fussing towards -us.</p> - -<p>“Ah<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span>, monsieur!” he exclaimed, delightedly; “you once more! Are you -well? Yes?”</p> - -<p>“Excessively. But how crowded you are!”</p> - -<p>The manager gazed around at his cosmopolitan clients, and smiled -reassuringly.</p> - -<p>“There, in the corner—a table for two. True, it is engaged for somebody -else, but you shall have it.”</p> - -<p>He tangled fatly through the room, and, when at the table, turned about -and smiled.</p> - -<p>We sat down, and our guide handed a wine list to Porritt.</p> - -<p>“It is some weeks since you were in Salonika?” he suggested, rather than -asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes; three. Very busy up-country. Very busy ... ve ... ry ... bu ... sy -...” Porritt’s eyes were among the champagnes.</p> - -<p>“Ah: Indeed! Something important then?” (He had not heard of Somebody -Else’s wife.)</p> - -<p>Porritt looked up and winked knowingly. “Rather! You wait and see.” He -lowered his voice, adding, confidentially: “There’s a move on.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! The Big Push!”</p> - -<p>His eyebrows shaped themselves into a question.</p> - -<p>Porritt nodded gravely and impressively.</p> - -<p>“The Big Push! The Big Push!” breathed the manager once more.</p> - -<p>He murmured the words reverently and softly, and at once increased in -stature a couple of inches, thus falsifying the spirit, if not the -letter, of the Scriptural axiom. He was one of the Few who Knew. He was -a personality.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span></p> - -<p>He tangoed away for a bottle of Veuve Cliquot. Porritt grinned.</p> - -<p>“You watch!” he said. “It’ll spread as quickly as a scandal in a -cathedral city.”</p> - -<p>And, really, the effect of this purely imaginary piece of news, -deposited in the bosom of the manager, was electrical. He passed from -table to table, and dropped a bomb on each. In five minutes the -restaurant was seething with excitement.</p> - -<p>“The Great Push at last!... In France as well, no doubt.... Every -front.... Yes, the Great Push. I always said it would begin in May.”</p> - -<p>At one table the manager lingered for some little time. He was talking -with some animation to three journalists, correspondents of French -newspapers. Two of them were busy writing in note-books. It appeared -that the manager had no lack of news to impart: he spread out his plump -hands, lifted his shoulders, and wrinkled his brows. And then he looked -furtively towards us, and whispered something behind his hand. The -journalists also looked, half rose, thought a second time, and sat down -again.</p> - -<p>“Damned funny, isn’t it?” said Porritt.</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid you’re rather in for it,” I remarked.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’ll soon dispose of <i>them</i>.”</p> - -<p>Only one table went on smoothly and systematically with its eating. -Seated at it were two Fleet Street men, who had just come to Salonika to -conduct <i>The Balkan News</i>. They had l<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span>istened to the manager, but had -remained unmoved. But, presently, one of them took a slip of paper from -his pocket, wrote a few words, and sent it across to us by a waiter.</p> - -<p>Porritt unrolled the slip. On it was written: “Is there anything in it?” -He hesitated a moment, then wrote underneath: “Damfino.” “Which,” said -he to me, “being interpreted, means: ‘I’m damned if I know.’<span class="lftspc">”</span> And that -is all the English journalists got; as a matter of fact, it was all they -wanted, and they sat back in their chairs, and watched the rumour grow.</p> - -<p>Extraordinary our human love of the sensational! Extraordinary our -inability to pass on a piece of news without adding to it! Extraordinary -the credulity we give to impossible stories we desire to be true!</p> - -<p>“Let’s have our coffee and liqueurs down at Floca’s,” suggested Porritt. -“It’ll be rather jolly to see to what fantastic shapes my Yarn has grown -down there.”</p> - -<p>Floca’s, of course, is just underneath the Roma, but though only a floor -and a ceiling divide them, they are as different in mental atmosphere as -the gilt-mirrored lounge of the Café Royal, and the dining-room at -Morley’s Hotel.</p> - -<p>The word “seethes” is banal; nevertheless, Floca’s seethed. For the Yarn -had grown. It now had many twisted forms, each fashioned according to -the desires and fears of the individual gossiper. Porritt, the only -begetter of this disturbance, leaned back with a gratified smile on his -lips.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span></p> - -<p>“One must amuse oneself,” said he.</p> - -<p>“Ah! Porritt! Porritt! Little do you know the mischief you have done! At -this moment the news is on its way to Athens, thence to London, Berlin, -Vienna—everywhere. At about seven o’clock this evening, just when the -night editors are beginning to think of dinner, it will reach Fleet -Street, perhaps by way of Zurich or Amsterdam. Even now, as I speak, the -world is beginning to wake up to this great new event. Thousands of -pounds will be spent on cables. Reputations will be lost. Perhaps -Roumania will be induced to come in at last. Greece will stir uneasily, -the Kaiser will wire to Hindenburg, the Stock Exchange....”</p> - -<p>“Would it were all true!” interrupted Porritt. “Do you know, Cumberland, -I have never felt so important in all my life? Look over there!”</p> - -<p>He pointed to a neighbouring table. At it were seated two men, both of -whom I knew well by sight. One a fat, hairy Greek Jew with a pendulous -jaw, and great bags under his eyes, was a fabulously wealthy financier; -the other his confidential clerk. They had been taken unawares by the -news, and forgot that a dozen eyes were upon them. The financier was -white and trembling, and time after time he tried to rise from his -chair, only to sink back repeatedly in a condition of distressing -exhaustion. Fear, a devastating fear, dwelt in his eyes.</p> - -<p>“What is he afraid of?” I whispered to Porritt.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Only his clerk knows. But evidently he thinks he is ruined.”</p> - -<p>“Tell him!” I urged; “tell him it’s not true—that it’s only your -invention.”</p> - -<p>“Why should I? If people will speculate in human lives, let them take -the consequences.... And now,” added he, “I must go to the canteen to -get those six cases of whiskey. I’ve a limber waiting for me just off -Piccadilly Circus.”</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>It reached Fleet Street precisely at nine.</p> - -<p>“I think we might have a leader on it—in any case, a short one,” said -Hartley, Editor of the <i>Trumpet</i>, that powerful organ of democracy, to -the night editor. “Tell Bisham to come along.”</p> - -<p>Like a lizard, Bisham darted in, an unlit stump of a cigar between his -thin, intelligent lips.</p> - -<p>“Well, Bish, the Big Push is on at last. All fronts. Just through on the -wire. Waiting for censor’s permish. No details. Let’s have a couple of -sticks, in case. The news about Salonika; the wire itself—it comes from -Zurich—will go in under any circs. And, you, Beale,” he added, turning -to the night news editor, “wire Amsterdam, and do the necessary with -Paris. Now, trot along both of you. I’m busy.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="KATYAS_WOOING" id="KATYAS_WOOING"></a>KATYA’S WOOING</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span></p> - -<p class="toot"> -To<br /> -Jack Kahane<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span>T was in May, 1912, that Katya Kontorompa met cosmopolitan Guy Fallon, -and decided to make him fall in love with her. She was staying at the -Olympos Hotel, in Salonika, with her mother, and Fallon had a suite of -rooms on the ground floor. He was tall, dark, and vivid; moreover, he -was young; best of all, he was fabulously wealthy.</p> - -<p>“A week next Thursday,” said Katya one afternoon to her mother, as they -sat on the shaded balcony on the first floor, “Guy Fallon will propose -to me. It will take place in the evening in one of those boats.”</p> - -<p>She nodded towards a flotilla of little rowing-boats that stirred lazily -to the rhythm of the lazy waves.</p> - -<p>“Yes?” inquired her mother, who sat in a low chair looking benevolently -at the world that God had made specially for her.</p> - -<p>“And though I shall be a little timid at first,” continued Katya, “I -shall say yes as soon as he has kissed me passionately on the mouth. But -not until. I think he would kiss rather well, don’t you?”</p> - -<p>“I think he would be thorough, dear.... But we musn’t talk like this. I -never used even to <i>think</i> like it till you came home from Brussels.”</p> - -<p>“Would you like Guy for a son-in-law, mamma?”</p> - -<p>As a matter of fact, Mrs. Kontorompa was fascinated by Fallon almost as -much as her daughter was, and it was with a wholly sensuous feeling that -she closed her lids and said:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Yes, dear, I should—very much.”</p> - -<p>“But the kind of kisses he would bestow upon you, mamma, would be very -different from those I should get,” said Katya, mischievously.</p> - -<p>But though Fallon saw a good deal of the two ladies during the next few -days, there was something in his manner that made Mrs. Kontorompa -suspect he had no intention of marrying her daughter. He was in love -with her—yes; but it was not quite the kind of love that leads to -marriage. Rather was it the kind of hot, uneasy passion that persecutes -a man until he has gained his desire, when it shrinks and dies like an -orchid in a night of frost. But Katya, of course, was extraordinarily -clever: ignobly so. She was directing the affair with elaborate -carefulness, confident that in the end she would trap this bright tiger -of a man in her net of conspiracies.</p> - -<p>Though living in the same hotel, Fallon wrote to her twice every day. -Sitting up in bed in his yellow pyjamas each night, he wrote just before -he slept, and the note was delivered by his valet to Katya’s maid at -eight o’clock every morning. And just before dinner in the evening he -also wrote, and this letter he himself handed to Katya as they said good -night. Fallon knew how to write. He had a habit of intoxicating himself -with words, and though each letter said: “I love you! I want you!” he -rescued himself from monotony and her from boredom, by saying the same -thing in a hundred different ways. But he was never tender, and Mrs. -Kontorompa, who eagerly read the letters Katya passed on to her, was -driven on one occasion to remark:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span></p> - -<p>“It is not marriage-love. Your father has never loved me like that!”</p> - -<p>“Poor mamma!” murmured Katya; “poor mamma! But don’t you wish he had?”</p> - -<p>Fallon was with the Kontorompas almost every hour of every day. In the -afternoons, when Mrs. Kontorompa slept, the two lovers played pianoforte -duets in the big, deserted lounge. Fallon was a masterful pianist, and -he played in a manner that suggested intense hunger of the soul. In -these hours he had no courtesy, and when she bungled a passage he would -scowl at her and call her a little fool. And at this she would laugh and -play carelessly in order to taste his anger once again....</p> - -<p>“To-day is Thursday,” announced Katya, one morning, as she and her -mother breakfasted alone in their room.</p> - -<p>“So it is,” agreed her mother, without conviction.</p> - -<p>“But I mean it’s <i>the</i> Thursday. This evening Guy will ask me to marry -him. After dinner he and I will walk to the White Tower. There we shall -get a boat. Guy will row. There will be a moon.”</p> - -<p>She spoke as though she had arranged for the moon to be there.</p> - -<p>“Do take care of yourself, dear. Mr. Fallon is so dark and so ... so -impulsive. You know what I mean.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know what you mean, mamm<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span>a; but those little rowing-boats are -quite safe in more senses than one.”</p> - -<p>And because she was so anxious for the evening to come, Katya found the -bright hours of the day tepid and slow. She was very quiet and subdued -in the afternoon, when Fallon found her in the empty lounge.</p> - -<p>“Come and play!” he commanded.</p> - -<p>“I feel languid and lazy, like a cat in the sun,” she said; “besides, -I’m reading.”</p> - -<p>“Very well—we’ll play the <i>Petite Suite</i> of Debussy’s and some other -tame stuff. Let’s sentimentalize together.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but you’d find out too much about me. We should get too close to -each other in that soft, melting music.”</p> - -<p>“Is it possible for us to get too close to each other?” he asked, with a -laugh that seemed to be half a sneer.</p> - -<p>She rose, and together they walked to the piano.</p> - -<p>Only those who have played in concerted music know how easy it is for -two souls to mingle in sound. They enjoy an intimacy which no passionate -avowals, no tender pleadings, and, indeed, no physical contact can -provide. Debussy is never entirely innocent: even his gold-fishes swim -wantonly in their pool: and the very tender miniatures of the <i>Petite -Suite</i> are decadent with faint exhalations of patchouli.</p> - -<p>Fallon detested the casual promiscuities of secret lovers—the pressure -of hands, the stolen kisses, the entire vocabulary of illicitness. He -had the fastidiousness of the gourmet, and as yet his body had tasted -nothing of Katya’s d<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span>elights, save the sharp thrill that eyes can -communicate, and the peculiar, ghostly, but sensuous intimacy supplied -by music.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>Katya’s moon was in its appointed place as the two lovers silently -descended the quay at the White Tower and embarked in their little boat. -Guy rowed out into the bay. There was no breathing in the air, no ripple -on the sea. The stars made magic in the sky, and conspired with the moon -to create a feeling of far-off voluptuousness.</p> - -<p>Fallon rowed lazily until they were a mile or so from the town, which -was visible as a vast congeries of lights—chains of lights, terraces of -lights, huge constellations poised in the air, lonely points of flame -burning in solitary places.</p> - -<p>“Like a huge window full of jewels,” said Katya.</p> - -<p>The tens of thousands of lights were reflected in the sea as clearly as -a face is reflected in a mirror.</p> - -<p>“Which is the more real?” asked Fallon; “the city’s illumination or the -sea’s version of it?”</p> - -<p>“The water is quite warm,” said Katya, laying a white hand on the -surface of the indigo sea.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Fallon. “You could, if you wished, more easily plunge your -hand into my heart than into that water.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I know,” she said; “perhaps some day I will.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps some day it will be too late. I cannot go on loving you like -this—desperately—for ever. Love can be broken by its own strength.”</p> - -<p>“You must not threaten me,” she said. “Your attraction for me is your -strength: strong people do not threaten. They do not even warn.”</p> - -<p>“Then you do love me?”</p> - -<p>“Of course. That is, if you call it love.”</p> - -<p>“If I lean forward I can kiss your ankle.”</p> - -<p>She laughed.</p> - -<p>“Humour must be preserved even if propriety isn’t,” she said; -“nevertheless, you may kiss it.”</p> - -<p>She felt the long warmth of his lips through her puce-coloured silk -stockings. A hot wind suddenly came from the south, stirring the sea to -life.</p> - -<p>“And now,” she said, “you’d better row back.”</p> - -<p>“We were fools to come here,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Yes?... Why? Tell me.”</p> - -<p>But he sat moodily for a minute without speaking. Then he lit a -cigarette, and by the light of his match Katya saw the passion in his -eyes.</p> - -<p>“You’re a bit of a tiger,” she said.</p> - -<p>“And you’re much of an iceberg,” he retorted.</p> - -<p>“Passionless, cold, serene,” she quoted. “I wonder if I am. I’ve never -yet had the chance of finding out.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span></p> - -<p>But he made no reply. His silence, his lack of directness, the lazy -contemptuous manner in which he smoked his cigarette, whipped her to -anger.</p> - -<p>“Let’s go back,” she said, abruptly.</p> - -<p>“No,” he replied, with grimness. “I’ve got you here.”</p> - -<p>“Very well,” she said; “then give me a cigarette.”</p> - -<p>He threw her a case and a box of matches.</p> - -<p>Then, suddenly, words came from him in a torrent.</p> - -<p>“You confess you love me. Well, if you do—passion’s what I want. -Affection’s nothing to me. You’ve ‘never yet had a chance of finding -out.’ Do you expect me to believe that? You were made to tempt men ... -and to satisfy them. Listen, Katya: I love every bit of you. You’re not -cold. You could kiss, I know. Let me row you back.”</p> - -<p>His cigarette gave a little hiss as it hit the water. He threw his arms -forward, desperately.</p> - -<p>“Yes, let me row you back,” he repeated.</p> - -<p>“I love you,” she answered, “but I can never be your mistress. I’m not -angry with you....”</p> - -<p>“Do you think I should care if you were?” he interrupted, violently. “Do -you think I care a damn for your anger?—or your love? You would like to -be cruel to me: <i>I</i> know: I know your sort. But I can wash you from my -mind as easily as the sea has put out my cigarette.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no!” she said; “you can’t do that. You know yo<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span>u can’t. Something -of me will be with you always.”</p> - -<p>He took the oars and began to row. The little indigo waves passed by -them; the feathered oars slid along their crests. At each pull the boat -leapt; something of his strength was imparted to her body; she quivered -in response.</p> - -<p>At the quay of the White Tower he was rough and insolent.</p> - -<p>“Get out, quick!” he commanded; “let’s finish this ridiculous business -as speedily as possible.”</p> - -<p>She turned upon him with an amused smile.</p> - -<p>“You have the most dreadful manners of any man I have ever met,” she -said, with a little laugh. “When you are in a temper, you are about -twelve years old.”</p> - -<p>He called a <i>gharry</i>, waited until she had stepped into it, and then -strode away.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>Mrs. Kontorompa was sitting up in bed, reading, when Katya opened her -mother’s bedroom door. She looked at her daughter with a contented -smile.</p> - -<p>“Nothing happened,” announced Katya. “He does not want to marry me.”</p> - -<p>“My poor child! Never mind: there were weeks and weeks when I used to -think the same about your father. Men never know their own minds.”</p> - -<p>“But Fallon shall know his,” said Katya; “I’m as clever as any man I’ve -come across yet.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Do be careful, dear. You were careful to-night?”</p> - -<p>“Very. He only kissed my ankle.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Your ankle!</i>” exclaimed her mother, in amazement; “whatever for? Why -should he want to kiss your ankle?”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Katya, laughing, “I’ve got rather a nice ankle, you know.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kontorompa, who had no ankles at all, but merely calves terminating -in feet, sighed anxiously.</p> - -<p>“Your father never kissed <i>my</i> ankles,” she said, disapprovingly.</p> - -<p>“Ask him to!” urged Katya, mischievously; “it’s a delightful feeling.”</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>A week later Fallon, dressed in white duck, knocked early one morning at -Mrs. Kontorompa’s drawing-room door. Katya and Katya’s mother were to go -with him to Langaza to picnic. But at the very last moment Mrs. -Kontorompa, as had been arranged between her daughter and herself, felt -indisposed.</p> - -<p>“You will come by yourself,” said Fallon.</p> - -<p>“Of course,” answered Katya.</p> - -<p>The chauffeur was discreet and unobservant: he was paid a very large -salary for not seeing things.</p> - -<p>Their car was fitted with a lace awning, but the air was so hot and dry, -that before they were well over the deserted Lembet plain they were -inordinately thirsty. So Fallon stopped the car and opened a half-bottle -of champagne.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I didn’t bring champagne just because it’s expensive,” he explained, -“but because I know you like it. Look!—the ice is half melted already.”</p> - -<p>“It will be cooler by the lake,” said Katya; “there may even be a little -breeze. I never drink champagne on a hot day,” she added, “without -longing to have a bath in it. It would tingle so deliciously, like -electricity.”</p> - -<p>“Sensualist! I’ve often noticed you love the sensations you’ve never -experienced.”</p> - -<p>“The worst of it is, there are so few of them left.”</p> - -<p>But Fallon was not interested, and he threw the empty bottle on the -roadside with a gesture of boredom.</p> - -<p>“Drive on!” he ordered the chauffeur.</p> - -<p>When a mile from Langaza Lake, the car was drawn up by the side of the -deserted road, and their chauffeur spread out their lunch under the -shade of a little grove of poplars.</p> - -<p>In silence they ate and drank. The sun-baked plain sent waves of visible -heat into the sky. No birds sang. The bronze sound of a sheep-bell came -from afar.</p> - -<p>“Life passes,” said Katya, at length, “and we grow older.”</p> - -<p>“True,” answered he, mockingly. “It is only the grass that never -withers. It was here ten thousand years ago, and it is here to-day.”</p> - -<p>“But you and I!—how quickly age will come to us!” she said.</p> - -<p>“How foolish, then, to waste our youth!” he urged. “Sometime<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span>s I feel -angry at those days which slip by empty of ecstasy. Waste! It’s all -waste! Waste of days, of months, of years! Just because we refuse to -take what life offers us. We do not live for ever, and the things that -taste sweet to-day will in a few years be but bitterness and ashes.”</p> - -<p>He allowed his wine-glass to slip from his lax fingers on to the grass.</p> - -<p>“Let us walk,” he said; “I’m restless.”</p> - -<p>So they rose and walked slowly towards the lake.</p> - -<p>“What is that parcel you are carrying?” he asked, when they were near -the lake’s border.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I thought perhaps I’d do some sketching when we got to the lake. We -can sit down, and you may smoke while I work. No, thanks: I can easily -carry it myself.”</p> - -<p>They walked on in silence. Then:</p> - -<p>“You were talking about waste,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Was I? Yes. But it’s a dreary subject. I was lecturing you, really, you -know; for you’re wasting my life as well as your own. You’re destroying -these days. It’s just a week since you told me you loved me.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but I said ‘if you call it love.’ To you love is one thing; to me, -another.”</p> - -<p>“Why? What do you imagine <i>is</i> my idea of love?”</p> - -<p>“Just appetite—the satisfaction of an appetite.”</p> - -<p>“And your idea?”</p> - -<p>“Service.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span></p> - -<p>He laughed on a high note of contempt.</p> - -<p>“You deceive yourself,” he said. “Do you think I don’t know you? Do you -think I live with my eyes shut? If you were to confess that your idea of -love is a means of obtaining security against life, I’d believe you. In -other words—you like me in my brutal moods, don’t you?—if I asked you -to marry me, you would serve me for what I would give you in return. Is -that what you mean by service?”</p> - -<p>“You believe, then, I would accept your invitation if you asked me to -marry you?”</p> - -<p>“Most assuredly. Let’s finish this subtle, month-old fight of ours, and -speak in plain words.”</p> - -<p>“But we understand each other so well without plain words!” she -protested.</p> - -<p>“Do we? I wonder. Tell me, then: why don’t I ask you to marry me?”</p> - -<p>“Because you don’t love me. Your body merely aches for mine. You suffer, -I know.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I do,” he acknowledged; “but I can endure pain. Most men can’t: -that is why they are willing to incur the discomfort and long penance of -marriage—anything rather than continue to suffer.”</p> - -<p>“Then why don’t you go away? Why don’t you leave me altogether?”</p> - -<p>But he did not answer.</p> - -<p>“Is it,” she asked, “because you still hope to win me without marriage?”</p> - -<p>He turned upon her savagely.</p> - -<p>“Temptress and taunter!” he <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span>exclaimed. “I know your sort. You love to -feel your hideous power. You suck delight from my misery.”</p> - -<p>He drew nearer to her and seized one of her wrists.</p> - -<p>“I love you,” he whispered; “isn’t that enough?”</p> - -<p>They were in a little pathway among the rushes by the lake’s side. -Suddenly, she wrested herself away from him and, raising her right arm, -threw the parcel she carried into the lake. It floated on the surface, -and the gentle south wind moved it slowly across the water in the -direction of Langaza village, a couple of miles away.</p> - -<p>She looked at him with a mocking smile.</p> - -<p>“Let us go back,” she said, “for this is merely the waste of another -day.”</p> - -<p>“Why have you thrown your sketching things away?” he asked, stupidly.</p> - -<p>“I haven’t. The things I have thrown away were once yours. Then they -became mine. They will belong to the person who finds them.”</p> - -<p>The words came hysterically, and she trembled a little.</p> - -<p>“What are they?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Your letters to me. I have finished with you. This is the end.”</p> - -<p>He began to laugh, but his laughter quickly died in his throat.</p> - -<p>“You fool!” he exclaimed; “you spiteful little devil! My name is on each -of those letters.”</p> - -<p>He quivered with <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span>anger, and raised his fist as though to strike.</p> - -<p>“I know,” she said. “That is one of the reasons why I threw them away. -It is time your folly was known to others besides me.”</p> - -<p>She looked upon him with malice, delighting in his anger. Then she -laughed softly, taunting him.</p> - -<p>“Can’t you swim?” she asked. “See, it isn’t very far off.”</p> - -<p>But he strode away in the direction of the motor-car. She called after -him, gently, lovingly.</p> - -<p>“Guy! Guy!”</p> - -<p>He stopped and turned, his face and attitude contemptuous. Running up to -him, she threw her arms about his neck and, half-sobbing, half-laughing, -stammered:</p> - -<p>“Guy! Dear Guy! I was only fooling you. They were not your letters—not -one of them. Your dearest letters I carry in my breast, next to my -heart.”</p> - -<p>He pressed his face hard against her neck.</p> - -<p>“You little devil, you! Why do we torture each other like this?”</p> - -<p>She clung to him desperately.</p> - -<p>“Marry me! Marry me!” she implored.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I will: I’m damned if I won’t. But, I warn you—look out! We shall -both have a hell of a time.”</p> - -<p>“But there’ll be a month or two of heaven first,” she said, and, opening -his shirt at the neck, she kissed him low down on his breast.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="THE_STORM" id="THE_STORM"></a>THE STORM</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span></p> - -<p class="toot"> -To<br /> -Mary Harrison<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">X</span>AVIER PETROVSKI was English in spite of his name, appearance, and his -temperament.</p> - -<p>“As for his appearance,” said Judith Lesueur to her sister, Marian, -“well, it’s too ravishing for words. Eyes that melt, my dear—melt with -their own fire.”</p> - -<p>Marian laughed.</p> - -<p>“I never like your little gods, your little tin gods; your little gods -of flesh and blood. And I particularly hate the melting variety. Just -like the butter you get in the Café Roma in August.”</p> - -<p>His temperament was melancholy, for he was cursed with a hot, uneasy -ambition that goaded him on to work till his body grew tired, his brain -stale, and his spirit dejected. He believed himself to be a musical -composer.</p> - -<p>“I have genius: I <i>know</i> I have genius,” he said, over and over again in -spring nights when he lay in his lodging overlooking the sea.</p> - -<p>And then he would sleep and dream, his brain ravished by sumptuous -harmonies, his very flesh soothed by sound.</p> - -<p>For a living he played the violin in the Orient Café, for he was a -member of the Ostrovsky Quartet. From three o’clock in the afternoon -till midnight he played, whilst the loose men and women of Salonika -danced and drank and ate. In the mornings he composed music and counted -up the money he had saved. For Xavier was nothing if not practical. He -was not going to miss the reward of his genius by foolish conduct or -faulty management of his affairs. Already he had saved £800. Not a penny -was spent that could by any contriving be added to his hoard. In a -little while he would take his money to Lond<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span>on, and then! Oh, then he -would show them! The finest orchestra in the world should play his music -and the critics should praise it; it should be printed and sold; his -name should be on the lips of every man. Fame: money: the companionship -of the great: the smiles of women: the intoxication of life lived to the -full. All should be his. In a little while. He was sure of it.</p> - -<p>At least, sometimes he was sure. In his happy moments, his moods of -exaltation. But there were black moods.</p> - -<p>“Is it possible that I have written these inanities?” he would sometimes -ask himself. “I am a fool, sick with vanity, eaten up with egomania.”</p> - -<p>In one of these unendurable moods he met Judith Lesueur, the most -beautiful and most cultured demirep in all Salonika.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Lesueur,” he exclaimed, “do help me.”</p> - -<p>“What is it?” she asked, smiling. “Has someone been horrid to you?” (She -always treated him as though he were a child.)</p> - -<p>“No: but I’m terribly depressed: my music won’t come right. I looked at -my String Serenade this morning, and it is inconceivable that I should -have written such ridiculous stuff. And when I was writing it I thought -it was so splendid.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span></p> - -<p>“It probably <i>is</i> splendid,” she said, sympathetically; “everyone has -moods. Come to the Café and drink with me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no!” he protested. “This rotten feeling—I must walk it off. Drink -would only make me worse.”</p> - -<p>But, instead of going a long tramp as he had intended, he returned to -his lodgings, and sat brooding at his open window. His thoughts turned -to his dead father: he also had been a composer of music, and he had -been one of life’s failures. He had worked hard and very patiently, but -no one had ever played anything he had written.</p> - -<p>Xavier rose from his chair and walked across the room to a big chest -full of MSS., all in his father’s neat writing. He turned over page -after page—symphonies, overtures, songs, string quartets. How like his -father this music was!—mystical, tender, exquisite. “Like the poems of -Rossetti,” Xavier murmured to himself. Soon he became so absorbed in his -father’s work, that he nearly lost consciousness of himself. The music -he was reading murmured and sang in his ears. His father’s very spirit -seemed to suspire from the pages. Almost could his voice be heard. It -was as though the soul of the dead man was brooding over his living -son....</p> - -<p>Some of the music had been written only ten years ago: it was very much -in advance of its period, and perhaps it was for this reason that both -publishers and conductors had disdained it. Xavier’s father had lived in -London where, it is true, good music cannot for long go unrecognized; -but he had been proud and almost vainly sensitive, and the rejection of -a composition used <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span>to throw him into a condition of despair so great, -that months would pass before he could persuade himself to give the work -another chance. His sensitive pride had been his ruin....</p> - -<p>Xavier, wrapped up in his own work, had not for some years examined his -father’s music, and had never divined its true quality; but now he -recognized its extraordinary distinction, its peculiar originality, its -brooding power and barbed eloquence. Oblivious of time, he read on until -his landlady entered with his lunch.</p> - -<p>“We are going to have a thunderstorm,” she said, looking at the copper -sky.</p> - -<p>“Very likely,” he said, his eyes still on the music.</p> - -<p>And while he ate his frugal meal, he continued reading his father’s -music; he absorbed it until it was time to go to the Orient Café. As he -walked slowly thither, he felt that during the last few hours his -personality had undergone a strange metamorphosis. He was not himself: -something had been added to him: some luxury, a kind of mental -wantonness—had entered his spirit unawares. His mind was larger, his -imagination more rapid and higher in its flights.</p> - -<p>There was something ghostly in this, something, perhaps, even -threatening. But no doubt the minatory feeling came from the sulphur sky -that hung so low, a sky heavy with electricity and sulky with spleen....</p> - -<p>The dances<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span> he and his comrades played that afternoon and evening meant -less than nothing to him, for he did not even hear them. One performs -mechanically the acts one performs frequently. The music that was in the -air about him was the music he had read that morning.</p> - -<p>At midnight, the day’s work over, he left the Café and sought his -lodging. There were no stars. Thunder had begun to mutter, but as yet no -rain had fallen. Faint fires trembled in the sky. Xavier felt the -excitement of something important about to happen. His brain teemed with -ideas. As soon as he got home, he would begin to compose.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>The Storm!’<span class="lftspc">”</span> he said, suddenly, speaking aloud. “The storm that never -breaks—that’s an idea, and a damned good one, too. The storm that is -always threatening and never begins. Something brooding, something -gathering itself together, something couching, something licking its -chops. And nothing ever happening.”</p> - -<p>He knitted his brows in deep thought, and by the time he had reached his -room, musical ideas for his composition were already filling his mind.</p> - -<p>He sat down and wrote. Muted horns cried mysteriously on the paper -before him in discords that were continually on the point of being, but -never were, resolved.... At the end of an hour he read what he had -written; from the very first bar it was good. It was with difficulty -that he kept his excitement under control. He worked without effort, -without thought, but with deep and disturbed feeling. His pen moved -mechanically, and he could but wonder at its strange activity.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span></p> - -<p>Just before dawn, he lay down and fell asleep. At the end of the third -hour of his slumber, he awoke suddenly, all his senses fresh and alert. -The sun was in his room. Anxiously he bounded out of bed, and sat down -at his little table near the window, scanning his MS. with eager eyes. -The muted horns made magic music. Yes—it was fine! Every note of it was -fine! How mysteriously yet significantly the strings stirred! How -broodingly the wood-wind kept suggesting the principal theme that was -never fully stated!</p> - -<p>It was with a trembling fear that he took his pen in hand. Had his -inspiration failed? Had that mood gone? No: without effort he began at -the point at which he had left off. Though it was happy day outside, the -storm was still brewing on his paper. Little flickers of flame danced on -his sky’s edge: a black turbulence was at his zenith....</p> - -<p>Three days later, his Symphonic Poem was finished, and he sought out -Judith Lesueur that she might share his joy.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Lesueur,” he said, bursting into her flat, “do sympathize with -me!”</p> - -<p>“What is it?” she asked. “Has someone been horrid to you?”</p> - -<p>“No: I’m so happy I can’t remain alone. I’ve written a wonderful work: I -can’t believe it is I who have written it. And really—don’t laugh at -me!—it just seemed to me all the time that somebody else was writing it -for me.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Oh, I’m <i>so</i> glad. If you weren’t so terribly virtuous, I would kiss -you.”</p> - -<p>Involuntarily, he moved a pace or two away from her. She held out her -hand.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be afraid, dear friend!” She smiled on him. “If you are happy, I -am also. And now, I suppose, you’ll be going to London and I shall see -you no more. Poor Judith!”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he answered, “I shall be going soon. It describes a storm—the -gathering of a storm: clouds coming out of the vacant blue and massing -together: yellow, treacherous vapours emerging from God knows where: -enmity in the air. But the storm never breaks. All the thick, heavy -passions of nature mingle until they become clogged. And then the music -stops, choked by its own congestion.”</p> - -<p>Judith did not understand him: he was just a little mad, she thought.</p> - -<p>“I do hope it will be a success,” she said. “I’m sure it will. But I -wish I was coming to London with you to hear it.”</p> - -<p>He glanced at her rather shyly.</p> - -<p>“Do you?” he asked. “Do you, really?”</p> - -<p>“Why, of course I do. I want to <i>see</i> your success: I want to be with -you in the midst of it.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps, some day ...” he said, vaguely, blushing a little. “Well, -good-bye,” he added, “I must be off to the Café now.”</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>Lond<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span>on was much kinder than Xavier Petrovski had anticipated, for he -had not reflected that all cities, all people, are kind to men who have -money to spend. He came with letters of introduction, and was soon on -friendly terms with many musicians, critics, and people of social -influence. A German firm of publishers had already accepted a volume of -his songs, and the wealthy amateur, Countess Idionowsky, had arranged -for an evening of his music to be given at her house in Portman Square. -His timid manner, his air of distinction, and the “melting” eyes, which -Judith had tried to describe to her sister, made him very popular with -women, and he received more invitations than he could accept.</p> - -<p>More satisfactory than anything else, he had been able to secure Queen’s -Hall for an evening in the first week in June, and Marcel Xystobam was -to conduct for him, and the great soprano, Alice Gardner, was to sing a -group of his songs and a scene from his opera <i>Dido</i>.</p> - -<p>On this concert, and in advertising it, he had spent a large portion of -his hoard. All his hopes for the future were centered on this event. If -it failed, his life would be broken, his ambition killed. But the -thought of failure rarely entered his mind, so full were his days of -happiness, so continuous was the flow of praise he received from his new -friends.</p> - -<p>In the afternoon of the day before his orchestral concert, a stranger -called to see Xavier at his hotel. He was a tall ascetic-looking man, -fashionably dressed, courteous, even a little deferential.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span></p> - -<p>“My name is Shaw—Geoffrey Shaw,” he said, “and I have called to see you -because I knew your father well: indeed, he was a dear friend of mine.”</p> - -<p>Xavier, who had been writing at a desk when the stranger entered, rose -excitedly to his feet.</p> - -<p>“You knew my father?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes. I was with him when he died. In those days I was not so ... so -well-circumstanced as I am now, or perhaps he would not have died when -he did. I was one of those who had faith in him—in his genius.”</p> - -<p>“Tell me about him. You know, I was only fifteen when he died, and -during the last two years of his life I never saw him at all.”</p> - -<p>So the stranger told Xavier of his father’s last years—of his patient -courage, his extraordinary capacity for work, his sensitiveness.</p> - -<p>“He really had very great powers,” Shaw continued, “but the weakness in -him was that he had not sufficient faith in himself. His faith came and -went. A single hostile word was sufficient to make him suspect his own -genius.”</p> - -<p>He stayed for half-an-hour and then rose to go.</p> - -<p>“I am going to your concert to-morrow, of course,” he said; “perhaps you -will come and sup at my flat when it is over. My place is in Oxford -Street, less than five minutes’ walk from Queen’s Hall.”</p> - -<p>“I shall be delighted.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span></p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>There are few experiences so salutary, and yet at the same time so -galling, as that undergone by an inexperienced composer when he listens -to the first performance of his orchestral works. His music may look -extraordinarily lucid on paper, but in actual performance all kinds of -elaborately calculated effects fail to “come off”: they are destroyed by -lack of balance between the different sections of the orchestra. The -ideas are there, but they are not heard.</p> - -<p>At the long rehearsal of his music, Xavier suffered deeply. It seemed to -him that his compositions were like exquisite paintings at which -handfuls of mud had been thrown: the tender sound would suddenly become -meaningless noise: muddy patches here and there stopped and choked the -logical continuity of his work.</p> - -<p>When he first noticed this, his instinct was to throw the blame on his -conductor, Marcel Xystobam, but two or three minutes’ reflection -disclosed to him that the fault was in the writing itself, and not in -the manner of its interpretation. Only one work, “The Storm,” came out -in sound precisely as he had heard it in his inner ear; his other -compositions were palpably the work of an untried, though gifted, -amateur.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>Xavier Petrovski sat writhing at his own music.</p> - -<p>The large audience was obviously bored; even Al<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span>ice Gardner’s appearance -did not lift them out of their apathy. During the interval many left the -hall. The applause bestowed on each composition could only just be -heard. All the critics were already congregated round the refreshment -bar. Nothing but a miracle could prevent the concert from being the most -conspicuous failure of the season.</p> - -<p>There was nothing from which Xavier could derive consolation. The fault -was his own. His music was the music of a man who had not learned the -technique of his art; the sounds that reached him from the orchestra -were not the sounds that had come to him in the silence of his room in -Salonika; through lack of skill—through want of experience—he had -failed to record what he had heard.</p> - -<p>After what to the composer seemed hours of misery, the last work was -reached. He knew well that if the audience were in a mood to listen, -“The Storm” could not fail of its effect. In rehearsal, it had been -peculiarly impressive. Not a single note was miscalculated: it was the -work of a mature mind: it had all the attributes of genius.</p> - -<p>And to-night, the very first bars gripped the tired and disappointed -listeners. They forgot their disappointment in listening to this strange -disturbing sound. Brooding yet passionate, the music filled the hall: it -flickered like flame; it rolled, like heavy waters; it menaced, like -distant, just-heard thunder. It made its listeners believe that -something terrible was about to happen. And when all the black beauty of -it had passed away without its threatened terrible<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span> culmination, the -listeners felt an exquisite relief that expressed itself in thunderous -applause.</p> - -<p>Not until the conductor had signified with an expressive gesture that -the composer was not present and could not therefore bow his -acknowledgments from the platform, did the audience begin to -disperse....</p> - -<p>At the entrance of the hall Xavier Petrovski found his new friend, -Geoffrey Shaw, waiting for him. The meeting of the two men was -constrained; it seemed almost as though they were enemies compelled to -meet on a matter of business. They began to walk towards Oxford Street.</p> - -<p>“I wish to God I had stayed in Salonika,” said Petrovski, at length, -“for it’s all been waste.”</p> - -<p>His companion tried to comfort him.</p> - -<p>“You have not yet had the experience that every composer needs before he -can become successful—the kind of experience that you can’t get out -there in Greece. You must stay in London—live here. You would learn -quickly all that is required.”</p> - -<p>“But my ‘Storm’ succeeded, didn’t it?”</p> - -<p>For a moment Shaw made no reply. Then:</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said; “that work was a great success.”</p> - -<p>“But they tell me the critics did not stop to hear it. They all left the -hall long before the concert was finished. I do not blame them, but it’s -a pity they did not hear my best work.... I feel like a beginner, Mr. -Shaw—I have everything yet to learn. And for some years I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span> been -flattering myself that I was a master of my art.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be too despondent, my dear fellow. You’ve got the stuff in you -all right: it only wants bringing out and putting into proper shape.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; but the curious thing is that my work, ‘The Storm,’ is absolutely -free from all faults of inexperience. It might almost have been written -by another man.”</p> - -<p>They had now reached Shaw’s flat. His host unlocked the door and led him -to his dining-room where supper was laid.</p> - -<p>Shaw’s sympathetic kindness and, no doubt, the wine also soon put -Petrovski into a more hopeful frame of mind. When they had finished -supper, Shaw invited his guest into his library. The room contained -nothing but books, a desk, and a couple of easy chairs.</p> - -<p>“I have something here I want to show you,” he said, very gravely. “It -is a MS. of your father’s—he gave it to me a few weeks before his -death. I happen to know it is the only copy in existence; and I was -present when he destroyed the preliminary sketch on which this -composition is founded.”</p> - -<p>Taking a thin volume from a cabinet, he opened it at the first page and -placed it before his guest.</p> - -<p>At the very first glance Petrovski uttered an exclamation of surprise. -Then, bending over it, he examined it hurriedly and with the utmost -agitation. His hands trembled so violently th<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span>at he could scarcely turn -over the pages.</p> - -<p>“Good God!” he exclaimed at length; “it’s ‘The Storm'—note for note—my -own work!”</p> - -<p>He transferred his gaze from the MS. to his host.</p> - -<p>“What does it mean?” he asked; “in God’s name, what does it mean?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="THE_MAN_WHO_GAVE_HIS_SOUL" id="THE_MAN_WHO_GAVE_HIS_SOUL"></a>THE MAN WHO GAVE HIS SOUL</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span></p> - -<p class="toot"> -To<br /> -Walter H. Mudie<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">D</span>MITRI passed his life in doing good. In that lay all his happiness. In -the whole of Salonika there was no man or woman so vile, so incorrigibly -steeped in iniquity, as to fail to stir his compassion. All men were his -brothers: all men, he sometimes thought, were himself.</p> - -<p>He preached in the streets and in the markets, and this is the gospel -the young man brought to his hearers.</p> - -<p>“All forms of consciousness are God. If the trees are conscious, then -they are part of God. If lions are conscious, they also are God. The -more alive a man is—the more conscious he is of himself and his -environment—the more of God’s spirit does he possess. For God is a -vast, infinite, potential Intelligence that is conscious of itself only -through us—and, perhaps, through forms of life that are not human, and, -maybe, through certain minerals and gases that appear to have some of -the attributes of consciousness. Of these last things I do not speak -with certainty. But sure it is that each man and woman has within him -and her something of the Holy Spirit. God sees through our eyes and -hears with our ears. Therefore, we are all God: we are all the same. -Between the ‘wicked’ man and the ‘good’ man there is no shadow of -difference. If one hates another, he is hating himself.”</p> - -<p>His pleasant, eager smile, his vehement eyes, and his tall, athletic -frame made many women desire him, but he went to bed with none, for all -the grosser appetites of his body seemed to have been sublimated into an -ecstatic spiritual passion that spent itself in a thousand deeds of -compassionate love.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span></p> - -<p>They thought him mad, but they never reviled or taunted him, for he was -known throughout the entire breadth of that city as a man of noble deeds -and imperishable kindness.</p> - -<p>“Poor boy!” said Susannah, the Jewish woman who sold vegetables, “<span class="lftspc">’</span>tis a -pity so fine a fellow should be wasted. Those lips of his were made for -kissing.”</p> - -<p>“You say what is right,” agreed Zacyntha, a lewd Greek woman. “A night -of love with him would but whet one’s appetite.”</p> - -<p>Strange it was that none of those women of the half-world ever attempted -to tamper with him, but vileness must always recognize and fear what is -pure. They gazed at him often with eyes of longing, it is true, but the -gaze he gave in return was always the very negation of sex.</p> - -<p>“A fool! A Parsifal!” commented the respectable ladies, for most of them -would most gladly have lost their respectability had Dmitri been willing -to snatch it from them.</p> - -<p>Now, in a dark street of that city it was that Dmitri dwelt, inhabiting -two rooms in the house of Jacques Laborde, a young Frenchman who taught -many languages. Jacques and his wife, Madelein, loved him for his -goodness, but a time came when they were afraid on his account.</p> - -<p>“You have noticed something, eh?” asked Madelein one night, as she and -her husband sat alone.</p> - -<p>“About <i>him</i>?... <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span>Yes, yes. How can one express it? It is just as though -he had begun to lose himself, as though he had spent so much of himself -that there was little left to spend—less every day.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—that’s it. Yet his appetite is good, he is as strong as ever, and -he has never been more cheerful.”</p> - -<p>“Do you ever feel,” asked Jacques, after a pause, “do you ever feel when -he is talking to you, that he is giving you something of -himself—merging his personality into yours?”</p> - -<p>“That <i>is</i> the feeling. I don’t like it. Just as though his soul was -escaping from his body into mine.... Sometimes, Jacques, I’ve felt as -though something of his personality—something ghostly, ghastly, -too—had floated from him to me. It’s made a change in me. It’s coloured -me faintly, like a few drops of red wine in a glass of water. Is such a -thing possible?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” answered her husband, uneasily. “Tell me: has the change -in you been for evil or for good?”</p> - -<p>She pondered a minute.</p> - -<p>“Neither one nor the other, I think,” she answered. “The change has made -me more vivid: it has sharpened me—put an edge on my feelings. Perhaps, -really, it has made me more myself.”</p> - -<p>“Why have you not spoken of this before?”</p> - -<p>She laughed, nervously.</p> - -<p>“Because it was uncanny, and I was uncertain. I’m not certain even now. -One gets fanciful in my condition. Mamma has warned me to expect strange -thoughts.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span></p> - -<p>Jacques clenched and unclenched his fists.</p> - -<p>“It’s only fancy—of course it’s only fancy.”</p> - -<p>“Yet there <i>is</i> a change in Dmitri!” urged Madelein.</p> - -<p>“Yes. But if Dmitri changes, we don’t.”</p> - -<p>He put an end to the conversation by going into the kitchen to draw -beer.</p> - -<p>But when, later that evening, Dmitri entered the house and looked into -their room for a chat before going to bed, they were immediately -startled by his appearance and manner.</p> - -<p>“Is all well with you?” asked the young Greek, standing in the doorway.</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed,” answered Jacques. “And you?”</p> - -<p>“I am so happy,” answered Dmitri, “that I could almost shout with it. I -am getting to the heart of the Great Secret at last. I am beginning to -prove from my own experience that what I have always preached is true.”</p> - -<p>His large, magnetic eyes dropped their gaze first upon Jacques and then -upon Madelein: upon her eyes his gaze floated, and then sank into them. -He was not looking at her eyes, nor yet beyond them: he was penetrating -within them. The woman did not flinch, but greedily drank his gaze.</p> - -<p>“What are you doing?” she asked, in a whisper.</p> - -<p>“Do you not feel,” he asked, slowly, “that you are not now what you were -a minute ago?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Dmitri! Dmitri!” exclaimed Jacques; “you must not do that.”</p> - -<p>But the Greek did not move his gaze from the woman’s face.</p> - -<p>“We are all one,” he said; “there is no real separation between any of -us: it is merely these houses of flesh that keep us divided. When our -bodies die, all our souls will merge into one Soul.”</p> - -<p>Jacques rose timidly, and put his hand on Dmitri’s arm.</p> - -<p>“You must not do that!” he said, gently.</p> - -<p>And because Dmitri still gazed into Madelein’s eyes and she into his, -Jacques placed himself between them and broke the spell.</p> - -<p>“Sit down, Dmitri,” said Jacques.</p> - -<p>Dmitri’s face had the look of a man whose soul is being disintegrated. -He had lost his personality. His eyes were dull, his face was lifeless. -His body, his movements, his attitude still suggested abundant strength: -simply, his spirit had suffered eclipse.</p> - -<p>“I want to give myself to my fellows,” he muttered, “but no one will -take me. I am the rejected of all men. My soul is sent back to its home -each time it tries to escape.”</p> - -<p>He sat down heavily, and brooded.</p> - -<p>There, a little later, they left him, for his mood of gladness had been -transformed into one of gloom, and though next morning, as he dressed, -Dmitri sang out of a deep heart filled to the brim with joy, Jacques -looked significantly and sorrowfully at his wife. She, in turn, -questioned him with her eyes. But neither spoke.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span></p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>A week passed.</p> - -<p>There came a day when Dmitri, feeling that almost any time now his soul -might leave his body never to return, decided to stay indoors and give a -final revision to the little book he had written.</p> - -<p>His bedroom window looked upon a narrow street. Across the way was a -wine-shop, and even at this early hour a few men were sitting drinking -at the little tables placed on the pavement. For a few minutes Dmitri -stood gazing lovingly and compassionately at the passers-by; then, -abruptly, and with a sudden sigh, he turned away, and sat down at a -small table upon which he had placed the MS. of his book.</p> - -<p>He read steadily from the beginning. Half-way through he came upon this -passage.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p><i>The soul clings to its body; the spirit yearns for its -companion-flesh. Is it true that only death can separate them?</i></p> - -<p><i>It is impossible for us to love others more than we love -ourselves, if our souls cling to us in this despairing way. Loving -is giving: loving is surrender of one’s self: one’s self is one’s -soul.... But my soul refuses to be surrendered. It will not leave -me. Even when, because of my love for others, I try to banish it -from my body, it will not go, or, if it does go, it soon returns. -Is it refused, I wonder, by those to whom I give it?</i></p> - -<p><i>Often I feel people wanting me; often I feel them ask<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span>ing for me. -The magnetic ones draw me.</i></p></div> - -<p>He sat and pondered. He recalled how, throughout the whole of his life, -he had with joy spent himself upon others. A passion for giving had -always been his. As a boy, he frequently had felt an aching desire to -give himself to the sea—to swim out into the depths and, spreading out -his arms, swoon away into nothingness, making himself a part of that -water. Sometimes, even, he had wanted to give himself to fire, to walk -naked into a white, inviting furnace. And, always, when on the edge of a -cliff, he felt the great pull of space—a quick eagerness to disappear, -to dissipate himself into nothingness.... To give himself—no matter to -what, if only it were greater than he—was the passion that haunted him -continually. Not to cease his existence; not to cast the universe from -him; not to repudiate the life that had been given him. But to live more -fiercely in flame, more largely and grandly as a part of a great giant -ocean, more freely as an atom in illimitable space.</p> - -<p>Best of all, to give himself to humanity: not to live in one body, but -in a million bodies....</p> - -<p>As he sat, a thought came to him—a thought that thrust into and pierced -him, as a sword thrusts and pierces, that shook him to the very -foundations of his being.</p> - -<p>“If one man cannot draw from me my soul, a great crowd of men may—nay, -must,” he told himself; “I know that even one man or woman can take from -me and absorb for a brief period something of my spirit; surely, when a -thousand men and women are pulling at me like a tho<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span>usand magnets, my -spirit will go entirely out of me and live in them for ever.”</p> - -<p>The argument seemed so logical and so obvious, that he wondered at -himself for not thinking of it before.</p> - -<p>He abandoned the reading of his MS., and began to pace the room. His -excitement almost frenzied him, and his thoughts ran wildly.</p> - -<p>“I must dress for the occasion. A purple robe. And a message. I shall -give it out that I have a message. At the north of the Citadel it shall -be, and as I talk to them I shall face the east.”</p> - -<p>He visualized the waiting crowd so vividly that his body acted as though -the occasion had already arrived. He stopped walking and threw out his -arms. His eyes became dilated. His lips moved. And then from his moving -lips a torrent of speaking poured. He held his hearers. Even the little -children in his brain were awed: he saw them huddling against their -mothers.... With a shudder he came to himself.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>There were many newspaper offices to visit. One of them, in return for a -column advertisement, agreed to publish an “interview” with him. He -advertised his meeting outside the Citadel in every newspaper, however -obscure, for he felt he had no further use for his savings. “When my -soul leaves me altogether,” he whispered, to himself, “my body will -die.” He bought a scarlet robe in the Bazaar.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span></p> - -<p>Jacques and Madelein watched him anxiously during the following days. -Several times he spoke to them of his “ending,” and told them it was -near at hand. He put his small affairs carefully in order, and handed -what remained of his savings to Jacques.</p> - -<p>“I will keep it for you,” said Jacques.</p> - -<p>“No: it is yours. In a day or two I shall have no further use for money. -Only the husk of me will remain.”</p> - -<p>Jacques looked at him very sternly.</p> - -<p>“Have I been a good friend to you, Dmitri?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Why, yes. Always. You and Madelein have always been my best friends.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, tell me what you are going to do. Why do you hand me your -money? Why do you speak of only the husk of you remaining? What is the -meaning of your advertisements in the newspapers?”</p> - -<p>Dmitri smiled.</p> - -<p>“Do not be anxious about me, Jacques,” he entreated; “no harm will come -to me—only a great good. The most wonderful thing that can happen to -anybody is about to happen to me.”</p> - -<p>And Jacques’ further persuasion had no power to make Dmitri speak.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>As Dmitri, clad in his purple robe, walked through the streets of -Salonika on the evening appointed for his meeting outside the Citadel, -he was followed by a large crowd of friendly people; indeed, he walked -in the midst of the cro<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span>wd, talking as he went. He bore himself regally, -and his face shone with joy.</p> - -<p>He had only a mere handful of disciples, but there were very many, both -rich and poor, who liked him, and there were still more who were driven -by curiosity to that high ground outside the city walls, which looks -towards the jagged mountains above Hortiach.</p> - -<p>Having arrived at the place he had selected for the delivery of his -Message, his disciples went among the assembled people, directing them -where to sit. Men and women, to the number of nearly a thousand, seated -themselves in a semicircle on the higher slopes of the hill; on the -hill’s summit stood Dmitri, looking down upon the faces lit by the sun -in its setting.</p> - -<p>Bareheaded, he stood and raised both arms for silence. The eager speech -of his beholders died suddenly. Dmitri stood for a long minute without a -word: then, just when the silence was becoming uncomfortable, he spoke -in his golden voice.</p> - -<p>“Many of you have come here from curiosity; a few have come because of -their love. But I have the same message for everyone. All the great -teachers of the world have loved their fellows: no man can teach or be -taught without love. Because I desire to teach you something now, I ask -any of you who hate me, or secretly jeer at me, or despise me, to kill -that hate and that mockery and that contempt. Indeed, no man among you -can hate me without also hating himself. For we are all one. We are not -a thousand di<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span>fferent souls, but one soul. There is only one soul in all -the wide world, but each of your bodies contains a part of that soul: -the great, brooding spirit of the Universe is split up into millions of -parts. Of those millions of parts I possess but one. It is the dearest -thing I have: it is the <i>only</i> thing I have. My body is nothing—just -dust. It is the same with you all: your bodies are merely the prisons of -your souls.</p> - -<p>“Many of you will not understand me now, but I ask you, when I am gone -from among you, to consider my words. You will all, however, understand -this: no man gives unless he loves. If I want to give you something, it -is because I love you. I <i>do</i> want to give you something. I want to give -you myself: my soul. It is yours. Take it.”</p> - -<p>He paused. The blank faces of the men and women hurt him. They thought -him mad. He could see that many of the people were whispering to each -other. Some were even smiling.</p> - -<p>“Listen!” he shouted, passionately. “I want to give you myself so that I -may prove to you that we are all one—that our souls are one soul. If my -soul can depart from my body into your bodies, then you will know that -we are, in truth, all one, and that to hate or hurt your neighbour is to -hurt and hate yourselves, and that to injure yourselves by wickedness is -to injure all the souls in all the world.</p> - -<p>“I ask all who love me, and who have unde<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span>rstood the words I have -spoken, to make themselves ready to receive me.”</p> - -<p>With excitement and passion, he attempted to confuse his mind and reduce -it to chaos by inviting a multitude of varied thoughts. He stiffened his -muscles and opened his eyes to their widest. He willed his soul to -depart. Madness painted his face a ghastly white, his features became -convulsed, the veins in his forehead stood out horribly....</p> - -<p>And now the onlookers stared in fascination. A few murmured with fear -and disgust.</p> - -<p>For a minute and more Dmitri stood in silence, goading himself on to -unrestrainable madness. His mind broke. He began to paw the air with his -hands. And then, smiling stupidly, he sat down and played with his -fingers.</p> - -<p>His disciples rushed upon him.</p> - -<p>“The miracle has come to pass!” exclaimed one.</p> - -<p>“Poor Dmitri!” said a man who was not a disciple; “he gets worse and -worse! His madness is incurable.”</p> - -<p>Hundreds of men and woman crowded round him, but Jacques was one of the -first to reach his side. With the help of others, he led Dmitri from the -crowd and took him home.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>A month passed.</p> - -<p>Dmitri came downstairs to the room in which Jacques and Madelein were -sitting. His face had no meaning. His eyes were empty.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span></p> - -<p>He sat down at the table, and tears began to run down his cheeks.</p> - -<p>Jacques stared at him for some little time in profound distress.</p> - -<p>“We must get rid of him,” he said, aloud, to Madelein, “if only for your -sake.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” answered his wife, sorrowfully; “I can bear him no longer. He -must go.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span> </p> - -<h2><a name="THE_STRANGER" id="THE_STRANGER"></a>THE STRANGER</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span></p> - -<p class="toot"> -To<br /> -Adrian L. Burns<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span>HEN my friend Trevor Hempel disappeared from among all his friends, he -left me the following letter:</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>I am off to Australia to-morrow, and I’m going without saying farewell -to any one. It is a choice between my committing murder and leaving -Europe for ever. Nature has played me false—has tricked me. Between my -wife and me she has placed something monstrous: a “sport” so hideous -that to live any longer as a husband would mean a swift corrosion of -anything good that is left of me.</p> - -<p>I felt, my dear old friend, that I must speak out my mind to some one. -It is a selfish feeling. I want to rid myself of the obsession of this -wickedness. I want you to share its knowledge with me. The thing is of -such a kind that it ought not to have happened. Nature ought not to lie -in wait for us and spring out like a baboon from behind a tree. We know -Nature is cruel, but not until lately did I know she could be malignant, -damnably malignant, looking years ahead, calculating craftily all the -time....</p> - -<p>It is nine years since I met the woman who afterwards became my wife. I -was in Salonika on one of my quarterly business visits. At the house of -Madame Leconte de Stran it was that I met Judith for the first time. Her -husband was with her: a dark evil man, short, with a great head and -depth of chest and long, deformed arms. She was as spiritual as he was -gross: very quiet, but full of character, and with a mind both strong -and active.</p> - -<p>I remember <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span>going up to Madame de Stran.</p> - -<p>“Who is that woman standing against the piano?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Sterling. Don’t you know her?”</p> - -<p>At the word “Mrs.” I felt that quick annoyance that sometimes comes to -one when one hears for the first time that a woman one admires is -married.</p> - -<p>“No. Is her husband here?”</p> - -<p>She indicated the shambling figure I have described to you.</p> - -<p>“That!” I exclaimed. “That evil-looking beast her husband? Impossible!”</p> - -<p>Madame de Stran gave me a quick, inquisitive look.</p> - -<p>“Professor Sterling,” she said, “is perhaps the most distinguished man -of science in Salonika. Why do you call him a beast?”</p> - -<p>“Did I? I’m sorry. Tell me more about him.”</p> - -<p>“Well, he describes himself as an experimental psychologist. He -experiments in hypnotism, vivisects brains, and.... Last year he -published in Rome a book that is talked about rather secretly.”</p> - -<p>She stopped for a moment, and then laughed.</p> - -<p>“All this sounds rather horrible,” she added, “but I suppose it isn’t -really. At all events, he is greatly respected here by all men of -learning.”</p> - -<p>“If an opportunity arises,” I said, “will you introduce me to her? What -I mean is, I don’t want the introduction to be conspicuous.”</p> - -<p>She nodded and smiled.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span></p> - -<p>“You’ll find her very charming,” she said, as I walked away.</p> - -<p>And later on Madame presented me to Judith.</p> - -<p>From the very first moment we talked without restraint. But then, as I -learned afterwards, she was never restrained with anybody. She was -utterly frank and natural; interesting, too; full of curiosity about -life.</p> - -<p>What appealed to me most in her, I think, was her careful choice of -words when discussing any subject that really mattered. Her speech was -free from all exaggeration; she never invented opinions on the spur of -the moment as so many people do in casual conversation. This pleased and -attracted me. But there was something in her that repelled—that kept me -at a distance. All the time we talked, I felt that the best part of -her—the most exquisite part—was on the other side of the room with her -husband. She was not really with me: she was with him. I resented this. -I had no right to resent it; but I did. For, already, I was in love with -her.</p> - -<p>Lovers move craftily. So I sought out her husband and was presented to -him. He looked me over carefully.</p> - -<p>“You have been talking to my wife,” he observed.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said I. “We have been talking to each other.”</p> - -<p>His rather large mouth smiled insincerely.</p> - -<p>I felt he had guessed my secret. Certainly, his personality emanated a -faint hostility. He turned to Luigi Papash, ... the man who has since -become famous as a poet, and began to talk <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span>to him. I was dismissed....</p> - -<p>You would be bored if I were to describe to you my feverish lover’s -restlessness during the next three weeks. I did many foolish -things—neglected my business, wandered about alone, and sought every -opportunity to be within sight and sound of Judith. I had only to shut -my eyes to see <i>her</i> eyes, calm and grey, her pale oval face, her dark -hair. She seemed pitiful. My jealousy burned me. It was impossible for -me to see her and her husband together without a horrid excitement.... -But you know these things: all men feel the same about them.</p> - -<p>I learned very little more about her. The previous year, I was told, she -had had a child, a baby-boy, who had died when eight months old. She had -been married three years. Her husband kept his work hidden from her. He -never discussed it, never referred to it. But of their mutual idolatry -there was no shadow of doubt. No two people were more essential each to -the other; yet (or do I mean because?) they were entirely different.</p> - -<p>At the end of three weeks I went back to Athens.</p> - -<p>Madame de Stran knew my secret; oh, I suppose every one knew it. Every -one except Judith who, absorbed in her husband, never exercised her -intuitions with regard to myself. Madame wrote to me occasionally; she -was very kind. Just news of Salonika people. And somewhere in each -letter would be a sentence: “The Sterlings are still here”; or, -“Profess<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span>or Sterling has just published a pamphlet on ‘The Nature and -Origin of Cancer': I am sending you a copy”; or, “When I told Mrs. -Sterling I was writing to you, she wished me to send you her -remembrances.”</p> - -<p>Then, one morning, opening a letter of Madame de Stran’s before I -touched any of my other correspondence, I read: “Professor Sterling is -seriously ill. They say he has brain fever.”</p> - -<p>He would die: I <i>knew</i> it. I prayed that he should. I willed it. I -thought of nothing else all day. That detestable, dark man must die. -Judith must be released....</p> - -<p>“Released”? What arrogant vanity distorts the vision of all lovers! -Released? Why, she was happy. Her husband’s brain was not for her a -prison: it was the wide world. His enfolding arms were freedom....</p> - -<p>That same evening I took the steamer from Le Pirée to Salonika....</p> - -<p>I want to describe that night to you, because it was the happiest in my -life. You must remember that for a long time I had been suffering under -a strain so cruel that my nerves and brain were bruised and quivering. -The sea—the stars—space! They brought me solace.</p> - -<p>I remember leaning over the rail and looking down at the sea; it was -saturated with stars and moonlight. It seemed to me that I became part -of what I looked at. Does that convey anything to you? I was released -from myself. I had got rid of myself. I had become renewed.... It is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span> -impossible, my dear friend, for me to describe what change took place in -me for that one night. It was a sudden cessation of pain, a freeing of -the soul, an accession of power. Illusion, no doubt—I mean the -consciousness of power. If I had been Zeus himself——!</p> - -<p>At all events, no sleep came to me that night: I wanted neither sleep -nor rest. I was not going to Judith, for Judith already was with me. She -was with me more closely that night than she ever was, though I married -her. My mind was full of poets’ phrases: “His silver skin laced with his -golden blood”: lines from “Annabel Lee”: the “magic casements” of Keats: -some stupendous things from Whitman. These did not tease or worry me: -they were like the potent delicate fumes of a drug. All life was poetry: -there was no possible interpretation of life except the romantic -interpretation. Happiness lay not in gathering and garnering beauty, but -in surrendering oneself to beauty. And, in a burst, Wagner’s “Tristan” -rushed flood-like upon me; I was drowned in its pleasure-pain——</p> - -<p>Well, he died. He was dead when I arrived at Salonika. The news gave me -no pleasure, for what had happened I had known would happen.</p> - -<p>Madame de Stran received me.</p> - -<p>“You look ill,” she said; “or perhaps you are tired?”</p> - -<p>I made her sit down and tell me all she knew about J<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span>udith.</p> - -<p>“I wish to God she had never borne him a child!” I said, when she told -me she had seen a photograph of the baby taken just before the illness -from which it died.</p> - -<p>“He was very like his father: dark, misshapen, vulpine,” said Madame.</p> - -<p>“Don’t speak of him. The father and the child are dead: only she -remains. Has she any close friends in Salonika?”</p> - -<p>“No—not one that is very close, though many people like her. She did -not make intimacies. You see, her husband absorbed her.”</p> - -<p>“And now what will happen?”</p> - -<p>Madame told me that she had already written to Judith offering her help: -probably a reply to her letter would come in the morning. She promised -to summon me if I could be of the slightest use, and with this small -comfort I returned to my hotel to brood. Inaction lay so heavily upon me -that it was scarcely to be endured. I wanted to help—to <i>be</i> something -to her.</p> - -<p>That night I lay awake in dark dejection. In those days I was not used -to suffering, to anxiety. At length I slept....</p> - -<p>Day after day I stayed on, hoping to be summoned, Madame de Stran giving -me all the comfort she could. He was buried. Judith shut herself up in -her house! At night I would walk from my hotel towards Kalamaria and, in -the complete darkness, wander in the garden surrounding her home. I -remember that I used to touch the flowers with my fingers. I used to put -my foot on the pathway and say to myself: “<i>H<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span>er</i> foot has been there!” -The garden was magical with remembrances of her. Yet she was absent, and -the ache in me grew and grew. My eyes used to become hot with unshed -tears. Though it was torture to linger there, yet I could never draw -myself away until very late, and one night, sitting down on a bank, I -fell asleep. As I woke, the scent of dew-laden roses weakened me -unmercifully; and I sobbed without tears....</p> - -<p>I must tell you all this: it matters: it is the heart of the tragedy -that has happened to me: that, and the remembrance of her brute-husband -who so wickedly, so monstrously, still lives in my son....</p> - -<p>One night, while in her garden, I saw her. I was standing in a little -grove of pepper-trees. She came slowly towards me. I stepped back to -conceal myself. Her little feet on the grass made no sound. What were -her thoughts? Oh, of him—him whom she had loved and was still loving. -It was he who for her haunted this garden, not I. If my body had been -multiplied a hundred-fold and all my hundred bodies were hiding there in -the trees, she would have felt nothing. She passed and repassed, and -then disappeared into the gloom of the house.</p> - -<p>At length, under the implacable pressure of my own self-torture, I wrote -to her. I told her I knew of her grief, that.... In short, I asked to be -allowed to come and see her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span></p> - -<p>Months later, she told me that my letter had terrified her. Some phrases -in it had called up many dead memories and, pondering, she had seen in a -flash that I loved her. Her spirit was too sore even for sympathy, and -offering her love was like offering her an unsheathed sword. My letter -brought no answer, and two days later Madame de Stran told me mournfully -that Judith had left Salonika for Constantinople....</p> - -<p>Four months passed; to me, working in Athens, they were four years. I -did not deceive myself by telling myself I would try to forget her: no -man ever tries to forget the woman he loves. Madame de Stran wrote -occasionally, promising, and repeating her promise in each letter, that -she would tell me as soon as she received news of Judith’s return. My -business prospered: you know, I have always been successful. I threw -myself into my work, and exhausted my false, feverish energy by violent -exercise. I rode my horse an hour each day: I swam: I walked: and, -occasionally, I sought the baleful comfort of drink.</p> - -<p>September came and went. Then in October I was visited by a mood of such -unremitting desperateness that I suddenly stopped my work and my violent -exercise. I felt incapable of any action, for I had exhausted all my -energy. I had used up my capacity for suffering; I could feel neither -pain nor pleasure. For days I sat stupidly in my office, staring at -nothing. I closed my door to all visitors; I transacted no business; I -answered no letters.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span></p> - -<p>Then, one morning, as I was moodily pacing up and down my private room, -a clerk entered with a telegram. Idly I tore open the envelope and read -its contents. It was from Madame—just one word, “Come.” But that word -meant everything: it changed the whole world for me....</p> - -<p>Two days later I was in Salonika. I did not wait even to call on Madame -de Stran, but went straight to Judith’s house.</p> - -<p>It was early afternoon. I was admitted. The room into which I was shown -was empty. Already greatly agitated, I felt my excitement increasing -almost beyond bounds whilst I waited. What should I say when she -entered? Would she still be thrall to her dead husband? Would his -personality still envelop hers and obscure it?</p> - -<p>She entered so silently that, though my eyes were fixed on the door, I -scarcely realized she was there. A swift searching of her face told me -she was well.</p> - -<p>She was courteous, she was kind; but she was timid. She spoke of her -friends in Constantinople.</p> - -<p>“I have been very busy with my work,” she said, smiling.</p> - -<p>As she looked at me it seemed to me that she was doing everything -possible to be gentle with me; it was as though she knew she had the -power to hurt me, and was afraid that some chance word might wound.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Work?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes. My husband left his last book half finished—a great mass of -notes, and a rough synopsis of each chapter. I wrote the book as he -wished it to be written. He helped me all the time.”</p> - -<p>“He <i>helped</i> you!” I exclaimed, shocked.</p> - -<p>“Yes. You do not believe in communication with the dead? He did not -speak to me, it is true, but he guided me.”</p> - -<p>I felt suddenly sick and cold.</p> - -<p>“You must not believe it!” I exclaimed. “It is impossible! Such things -do not happen! You may think it happened, but it didn’t!”</p> - -<p>She smiled gently, as she said:</p> - -<p>“Ah! But I <i>know</i>!”</p> - -<p>“But, dear Mrs. Sterling ... why, such a thing has never come to pass in -the whole history of the world. Why, then, should it happen to you?”</p> - -<p>She shook her head.</p> - -<p>“Do not let us discuss it,” she said. “Besides, the book is finished.”</p> - -<p>“And does he still communicate with you—<i>guide</i> you?”</p> - -<p>“No,” she answered sadly; “all that is finished—he has gone from -me—gone, I am convinced, for ever.”</p> - -<p>“I also have been working,” I said, “working hard.”</p> - -<p>“You look tired. Have you been in Salonika long?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span></p> - -<p>Our talk drifted to commonplace things, and soon I rose to leave.</p> - -<p>Next day I sought her again. She was in the garden, for, though it was -now late October, the weather was very warm and sunny. She seemed -disturbed, but not surprised, when she saw me. We wandered slowly under -the trees; their leaves left the branches as we came and fell upon our -way. I did not feel that she was unhappy. I asked if I might come to see -her every afternoon.</p> - -<p>“Why, yes,” she said, “if it pleases you.”</p> - -<p>So every afternoon I spent an hour with her, and, when the cold weather -came with the Varda winds, we sat indoors.</p> - -<p>By Christmas she had promised to marry me....</p> - -<p>Now, my dear friend, you must understand that even before our marriage I -realized that she was not, nor ever could be, wholly mine. In some -inexplicable way, she still belonged to <i>him</i>. Many women are like that: -the best women are. Sterling’s name was never mentioned; after our -engagement he was not referred to even remotely. Yet she was his. Then -why, you ask, did she marry me? Out of pity; I am sure of it. Yet, in a -way, she loved me and loves me still. No one could have been more -tender, more generous, more self-sacrificing: it weakens and unmans me -to think of these things....</p> - -<p>I took her away with me to Athens. I was very happy. I had never -believed such unalloyed bliss as mine was possible. It never faded. And -Judith, in her fashion, was happy also.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span></p> - -<p>Sometimes, it is true, Sterling passed ghost-like between us. There were -occasions when ... but let me give you an instance.</p> - -<p>One day, in the April after our marriage, we went to Eleusis by rail and -wandered over the ruins of that once-wonderful place. Tired, we sat down -to rest on a broken column. We were silent and alone. There came upon me -one of those moods of gentle ecstasy in which the soul seems to nestle -softly in one’s body, satisfied and glad to be there. Judith’s hand was -in mine: I felt she was really <i>with</i> me, in body, in mind, in soul. My -ecstasy increased. Lifting my eyes to her face, I saw that she also was -a-thrill with bliss. Her eyes were softened with unshed tears. Her -throat trembled visibly. Her breath came quickly.... But, Christ! not -for me! Not for this moment, nor this place! But for <i>him</i>! For some day -of long ago—for some never-forgotten hour of love with him....</p> - -<p>Gently, very gently, though I suffered as never before, I withdrew my -hand from hers. She trembled violently, turned her face to mine and, -with a little cry, flung her arms about me.</p> - -<p>“Oh, little one!” she cried; “forgive me! Forgive me!”</p> - -<p>And the tears that had gathered for him were shed for me....</p> - -<p>And now I have to tell you of the slow horror that began to creep upon -me—upon us both. For a long time, I thrust it away with my hands, I -closed my eyes to it, my mind refused to admit it. Only to-day, indeed, -for the first tim<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span>e, do I really accept and believe it, though for years -it has hung about my neck most loathsomely.</p> - -<p>A year after our marriage Judith bore me a male child—a healthy baby -who came into the world without unnecessary fuss and who continued to -thrive from the moment of his birth. Though, of course, I was very fond -of the little chap, I did not see much of him. Indeed, as you know, I am -not the kind of parent who gloats over his offspring.</p> - -<p>We employed a nurse, and both baby and nurse lived in the rooms set -apart for them. When I returned home from my work each evening, our baby -was generally asleep, and I rarely saw him on these occasions. If I did -go to his cot, Judith always accompanied me; indeed, I used to tease her -on account of her appearing never to wish me to be alone with our child.</p> - -<p>Two months after his birth I went alone to London on business, expecting -to be away a month or so. But I was detained in England much longer than -I had expected, and when at length I returned to Athens I had been away -four months....</p> - -<p>When, my dear fellow, I began this letter, I meant to tell you all my -tragedy in detail, but now, when I reach the very heart of it, I feel I -must hurry its telling.</p> - -<p>I saw my son—a little black creature—and it seemed to me he looked at -me with eyes of hate. He was not mine: I could not feel that he was -mine. His nurse, looking from him to me, said kindly:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span></p> - -<p>“He is very like you, sir—he has your forehead.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” breathed Judith, who stood by my side; “we have often said that, -haven’t we, nurse?”</p> - -<p>I turned to look at her, but she fluttered away to the other end of the -room, and I could not see her face. So, with an effort, I bent low over -the cot in which my son lay and scrutinized each feature of his face in -turn. But I could see none of my blood in him. Nothing of mine was -his.... The dead past had come to life. Sterling still survived....</p> - -<p>I am sure that my manner of living at this time puzzled and distressed -my friends—you, in particular. If you will carry your mind back to two -years ago, you will recollect how I plunged myself into wild dissipation -for a time, and how in a fit of most reticent yet hot anger I left wife -and home for Persia, then India, then China. All the time I was -away—until, indeed, yesterday when I returned home after my long -absence—I was trying to forget. To forget my son, I mean. For a time I -hated Judith. It was through her that Nature had dealt me this blow. If -she had not so dearly loved Sterling, I thought, this thing could not -have happened to me. But as the months went by I softened to my wife; my -hatred of her broadened into a hatred of life itself.</p> - -<p>In the letters she wrote me she never made even passi<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span>ng mention of our -son.</p> - -<p>Then, yesterday, I returned. Judith was expecting me. Her manner, -generally so calm, was disturbed, agitated. She has grown very thin, -very old.</p> - -<p>“Where is he?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Upstairs—in the nursery. But do not go to see him now,” she urged. -“Stay with me a little while.”</p> - -<p>And she put her arms about my neck and kissed me fondly. My flesh -responded to hers. But whilst we stood locked in each other’s arms, my -memory, hating me, threw up before my eyes a vivid picture of the dark -little creature I left behind two years ago. I shuddered. My braced arms -slackened. I turned away.</p> - -<p>“I must see him now,” I said; “is he well?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she answered—regretfully, I thought.</p> - -<p>We went to the nursery. He was sitting on the floor, playing with his -toys. She stood between him and me, as though shielding him. It was -Sterling—Sterling as he must have looked at the age of two and a -half—an eager, intelligent face, long, deformed arms, a great breadth -of chest, a vulpine look in his eyes....</p> - -<p>As his eyes caught mine, his whole body stiffened. He put up a little -hand against his face and made a sound of rage.</p> - -<p>I do not know what movement I made, but Judith, suddenly stooping, -caught her child up from the floor and folded him in her arms.</p> - -<p>“You must not touch him!” she said, pale and distraught.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span></p> - -<p>And she placed a hungry kiss upon his lips....</p> - -<p>And so, my dear friend, farewell.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{235}</a></span> </p> - -<h2><a name="A_LITTLE_CORRESPONDENCE" id="A_LITTLE_CORRESPONDENCE"></a>A LITTLE CORRESPONDENCE</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span></p> - -<p class="toot"> -To<br /> -Bertram Pace<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span>ARRIAGE seemed to Katya a much jollier game than she had anticipated. -She liked her house, her garden, her servants; as for Guy, he was too -utterly adorable for words. Most of all, she liked patronizing those of -her friends and acquaintances who were less fortunate than herself: she -enjoyed giving them little dinners during which she would speak a few -barbed, malicious words that made her listeners wince.</p> - -<p>One afternoon, sitting among her roses in the silent garden, she began -to think of Captain Pierre Lacroix, her Brussels lover, in whose arms -she had nestled so often the previous year. He had really been quite -perfect, and since she had returned home to Greece she had frequently, -when lying awake at night, reproached herself for not having yielded to -his wild solicitations. Never in the years that remained to her was she -likely to meet so fine an animal, so fierce a lover, so fascinating a -personality.</p> - -<p>Her husband, Guy Fallon, was adorable, but he was not Pierre Lacroix. -God had made only one Pierre. And he was thousands of miles away in -Brussels. Still, she could write to him; if she could not throw herself -into love’s furnace, she could at least play with love’s fire....</p> - -<p>So she left her roses and went into her cool house with its tiled -floors, it great entrance-hall where a white fountain so cleverly made a -mist of water, its great walls on to which hung, like butterflies, so -many Segantinis, and its wide passages that somehow made her feel like a -princess of Ancient Rome.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span></p> - -<p>Her boudoir, however, was rather small. Its furniture was of inlaid -rosewood. There were many full-length mirrors sunk deeply into frames of -unusual shape, and the stove was made of porcelain, painted green. -Sitting down near the open window, she began to write.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“<span class="smcap">My dear Pierre</span>,—Do not be grieved. I always promised you I would -never marry any one but you, but I have been unable to keep my -word. What fool was it who years ago said the flesh is weak? My -flesh is not like that. It is too strong. It has overwhelmed me. I -am married. Yes: it is the end. One is finished when marriage -comes. There is nothing left but to sit down and wait until the -children arrive.</p> - -<p>“When we meet, we must not kiss each other as we used to. You may -kiss me like a brother; I, in return will, like a sister, kiss you. -That will be all, but even that will be nice. Do you think you will -ever be able to come to Salonika to be my brother? No?</p> - -<p>“It is strange that, though I have been married so short a time, I -should still be thinking of the boulevards, the Avenue Louise and -the Bois de la Cambre—that I should still be thinking of you, and -you, and still you. This is naughty of me, I know, but sometimes I -wish that in those days I had not been quite so ... what is the -word?... timid?—proud?—cruel?</p> - -<p>“Never mind: do not be angry th<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span>at I was married six weeks ago. You -will soon recover from your disappointment, your love-hunger.</p> - -<p>“As for me, I am happy. My husband is rich: he adores me. I have -many friends. I play the piano better than any one in the whole -city of Salonika. And, dear Pierre, I have you to dream of in my -idle hours.... Take my advice and marry a nice simple girl and -settle down; but she must not be so clever as I am, nor so -beautiful, nor so mysterious. And you must not love her as much as -you once loved (and perhaps now love?) me.</p> - -<p>“Do not forget: when we meet we must kiss as sister and brother.</p> - -<p class="r"> -“From your <span class="smcap">Katya</span>.”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>She read her letter over and liked it.</p> - -<p>“If he can leave, he will surely come!” she told herself.</p> - -<p>And, rising from her chair, she walked to a large oval mirror and gazed -at herself smilingly. Then a thought struck her: she was tired: she -would go to bed and rest.</p> - -<p>Her bedroom was very long and rather narrow; at each end was a large -window. In this room also were many full-length mirrors. Several of them -were on movable stands furnished with castors. Three of these she so -arranged that they formed a kind of triangle, the mirrors facing -inwards. Stripping herself nude, she stepped within the triangle, and -placed herself in such a position that she could see the reflection of -every part of her body. For a little while she gazed at herself -critically, anxiously, a small frown crinkling her forehead; but the -frown gradually disappeared, and in a minute or two criticism had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span> -changed to whole-hearted admiration.</p> - -<p>“Why, I do believe I am more beautiful than ever,” she said as she -slipped her warm body between the cool sheets.</p> - -<p>Placing under the pillow the letter she had written to Pierre Lacroix, -she was soon slumbering.</p> - -<p class="asts">* * * * *</p> - -<p>A fortnight later there came for her a letter with the Brussels -postmark. She pushed it under her plate, for she and her husband were at -breakfast, but as soon as the meal was over she sought her rose-garden, -tore open the envelope and read what follows.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“<span class="smcap">Madame</span>,—What is it you mean by writing to my husband of kisses? -It is shameful, incredible! For three days he was strange to me. I -knew not why. But now I do know, for this morning I found your -letter in a secret pocket of his coat. I do not know you; I do not -want to know you. If you write to him again, your letter will be -returned to your husband. I have been married to Pierre a year: -already I have a baby and another is on the way. Kisses, indeed!</p> - -<p class="r"> -“<span class="smcap">Jeanne Lacroix.</span>”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>Katya was both angry and amused.</p> - -<p>It amused her to know that her letter had lain close to Pierre’s body -for three days, but she was very angry that he had married. Why, he must -have sought a bride within a few weeks of her leaving Brussels for -Salonika. It was evident he had married a fool, a breeder of children, a -jealous woman who could not write a clever let<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span>ter. It was good that he -should have married a fool. But it was an evil thing that he should so -soon have forgotten her for whom he had vowed he would remain single for -ever....</p> - -<p>Her thoughts wandered from her to her husband, and she felt a sudden -passionate desire. Having torn Mrs. Lacroix’s letter into tiny pieces, -she made a hole in the flower-bed with a broken stick, thrust in the -bits of paper, and covered up the hole with the heel of her shoe.</p> - -<p>Then she called to her husband who, at her summons, came from the house -to meet her.</p> - -<p>“Hello!” he said.</p> - -<p>She put an arm round his neck and drew his face down to hers.</p> - -<p>He smiled and began to tease her.</p> - -<p>“Is our honeymoon going to last for ever?” he asked, holding his head -back so that his lips did not quite touch hers.</p> - -<p>“Very well, then,” she said; “I <i>don’t</i> want to kiss you.”</p> - -<p>He looked up the garden to the field where the thick weeds grew -profusely many feet high.</p> - -<p>“Shall we hide ourselves in the grass?” he asked.</p> - -<p>She pretended to draw away from him. So he put his arm about her waist -and compelled her to walk by his side. They passed through the flowers -and reached the edge of the field. When they stepped into the luxuriant -weeds, the grasses almost touched their shoulders. At the field’s centre -they stopped.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I love you much better than Pierre,” she whispered.</p> - -<p>“Who is Pierre?” he asked indifferently, taking his lips from her neck -in order to speak.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” she answered, “I have forgotten.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_DEAF-MUTE_OF_KILINDIR" id="THE_DEAF-MUTE_OF_KILINDIR"></a>THE DEAF-MUTE OF KILINDIR</h2> - -<p class="toot"> -To<br /> -Christina Walshe<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span><br /> -</p> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span>T Kilindir two men loved the same woman. Marania was tall and dark and -ge<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span>ntle; he had the devotion of a dog; his instinct for self-sacrifice -was as great as that of a good woman for the husband she loves. Sobraji, -on the other hand, was small and fair and cunning; as a boy he tortured -animals, and as a man he tortured his mother and sisters.</p> - -<p>The name of the woman was Pabasca. She was very dainty and pretty, and -her cheeks were like red poppies seen in the half-light. But she was -also very evil.</p> - -<p>It was Sobraji whom Pabasca loved, but Sobraji was poor; Marania, on the -other hand, owned land and cattle.</p> - -<p>“If I am careful,” said Pabasca to herself one evening, as she sat -outside her mother’s cottage, “if I am careful, I can have both -Sobraji’s love and Marania’s money. It has been done before—I have seen -it.”</p> - -<p>This thought had lain broodingly in her mind for weeks, but she had -spoken of it to no one—not even to Sobraji. And yet if she were to -carry her plan into effect, Sobraji was the one man in all the world who -must be told.</p> - -<p>It was time something was done, for the ardent love of the two men was -wearing her down. Only this morning she had received another of -Marania’s strange letters. She could remember some of its phrases.</p> - -<p>“Last night I lay awake listening to a nightingale; your voice was in -that bird’s throat.... The rushes bending in the wind this afternoon -were like your supple body.... I sometimes think your soul is in my -hands.”</p> - -<p>It was impossible not <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span>to be pleased by these phrases that her mean -little soul could only half understand, but her pleasure was tinged with -contempt.</p> - -<p>Sobraji did not make love in that way. He wrote no letters. When he met -her at night he whispered amorous indecencies in her ear which made her -laugh and laugh.</p> - -<p>Nearly every sentence began with: “How I would like to ...!” and there -was no end to the ingenious ways of love his cunning mind devised.</p> - -<p>But she had kept her body untouched by both men. Though love was heady -and intoxicating, she was too calculating, too distrustful, to give her -body: when the time came, her body should be sold. But Sobraji had begun -to demand, and Marania to pray for, an answer to the question each had -put so many times. It was tiresome, she thought, to be driven to speech -when she was not ready for speech. If Sobraji came to-night, she would -have to tell him her plan.</p> - -<p>He did come. It was dark. He crept among the bushes, and she heard him. -Then, stealthily, he emerged from the plantation and touched her on the -shoulder. His hand slid down her arm to her hip and lingered there. She -bent over to him, and he seized her roughly, brutally, as a faun might -seize a virgin, and pulled her body to his.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” he half whispered, half groaned, “how I would like to....”</p> - -<p>Almost she swooned with ecstasy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Come into the plantation!” he urged.</p> - -<p>She obeyed, and when they were among the trees, he seized her so -savagely that she turned upon him with fear and anger.</p> - -<p>“What are you doing?” she asked, placing her hands on his shoulders and -pushing him violently away.</p> - -<p>“Well, you won’t marry me!” he protested. “What is a man to do if the -girl he loves won’t marry him? It isn’t as though you don’t love me—you -do: you know you do.”</p> - -<p>“If I married you, I should starve,” she said; “or, at all events, I -should have to work so hard that I should have no joy in you. Listen -while I tell you something.”</p> - -<p>And then in a very low voice she revealed her plan to him.</p> - -<p>“I will be Marania’s wife, but you shall be my lover. We will meet in -secret. And some of the money he gives me I will hand over to you.”</p> - -<p>She spoke for a long time, her voice excited but very low, urging upon -him the advantages of this scheme. She explained how he had everything -to gain and nothing to lose, whilst she stood to lose everything.</p> - -<p>“But if he found out!” interrupted Sobraji, “he would kill me! Surely he -would kill me!”</p> - -<p>Pabasca stirred angrily in his arms.</p> - -<p>“You must risk that!” she said disgustedly, though she knew very well -that Marania was too gentle, too long-suffering, and too profound a -believer in Fate, to wish to kill any one.</p> - -<p>“When will you marry him?” he asked.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Soon. Now. In a fortnight.”</p> - -<p>“Very well,” said he; “then let me love you now.”</p> - -<p>But she drew away from him, pushing him back with her white arms.</p> - -<p>“Your beautiful teeth—how white they are!” he said; “and I can almost -see your white breasts through your....”</p> - -<p>“Hush!” she warned, as she heard footsteps on the pathway leading to the -cottage. “It is Marania. I will go to him and tell him I love him and -will marry him.”</p> - -<p>Sobraji lingered a minute after she had gone, his body a-tremble with -desire. Then, in the dark, he parted the bushes with his hands and went -his own way.</p> - -<p>Marania met Pabasca with a smile that could be seen even in the -darkness. He took her hand in his for a moment and patted it gently.</p> - -<p>“Though I cannot see you,” he said, “I know you are as beautiful as the -night itself.”</p> - -<p>He led her down the pathway on to the ill-made road. Embarrassed, she -remained silent.</p> - -<p>“Listen!” he said; “that’s the nightingale I heard last night—I’m sure -it is—the one I wrote to you about.... Did you like my letter?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes: of course I did. But what did you mean when you said my voice -was in its throat?”</p> - -<p>“Well, as I lay in bed, it was so easy to imagine that it was you -singing.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span></p> - -<p>“But I never sing.”</p> - -<p>“No? But if you did, you would sing like that. Listen!”</p> - -<p>They stopped walking, and he placed his hand upon her shoulder.</p> - -<p>“When I think of you, that’s how my heart feels,” he said. “All people -must be happy when they think of you.”</p> - -<p>“Marania, you think too well of me,” she said craftily.</p> - -<p>“My heart is empty because you do not love me, and my house is as empty -as my heart. Think of it!—that big house with no one in it save myself -and my deaf and dumb servant, Cesiphos. It is not a home: it is only a -house. No house can be a home without children.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, children,” she said softly, deceiving him. “And a woman is not -really a woman until she has borne a child.”</p> - -<p>She had read that in a book and had wondered at it; she was very glad -that she had remembered it now.</p> - -<p>“Won’t you marry me, Pabasca?” he asked hopelessly, for he had asked -this question many times, and had always been blankly refused.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” she replied.</p> - -<p>His heart leapt and he drew nearer to her, placing his arm about her -waist. They were still standing, and the nightingale was pouring out his -heart. He held her firmly and, stretching out his arm to its utmost -limit, his hand closed gently on her breast.</p> - -<p>“You are changing?” he asked; “you are growing to like me better—to -love me?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span></p> - -<p>Her body yielded to his embrace and she turned to face him.</p> - -<p>“Kiss me, Marania,” she said, panting a little, and pouting her lips.</p> - -<p>But he kissed her brow instead of her mouth. A wave of irritation passed -over her.</p> - -<p>“You do not love me!” she said.</p> - -<p>“Not love you, little dear?”</p> - -<p>He held her away from him for a few moments, looking inquiringly into -her face; but she closed her eyes and set her mouth. “How stupid he is!” -she thought. He could just see the dusky red of her cheeks. The -nightingale’s song ceased suddenly.</p> - -<p>“Not love you?” he repeated. “Why, you are everything to me—the moon -and the stars, my food and drink, my dreams and my work. You are a part -of everything that is good.”</p> - -<p>He again drew her to his breast. Her thoughts fastened on Sobraji, her -imagination transforming Marania’s body into that of the man she loved. -She threw her arms about him wildly.</p> - -<p>“Kiss me!” she murmured; “kiss me on the mouth!”</p> - -<p>Incredulous, he hesitated a moment; then, with a smothered cry, he -placed his lips on hers, and he stood in that deep silence lost in the -sweet bitterness of unaccomplished love.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>Cesiphos, the deaf and dumb servant of Marania, had no interest in life -save to please his master. His happiness was greatest when Marania, with -a sm<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span>ile and a sign, thanked him for some work he had done. On these -occasions, Cesiphos would return to his quarters with a glad heart and -singing eyes. His master was pleased with him: that was all that -mattered.</p> - -<p>But when Marania brought home his wife, Pabasca, Cesiphos felt cold and -angry. No longer would he be first in his master’s eyes. The work in -which he took so much delight would be done not for Marania alone, but -for Marania’s wife also; moreover, Pabasca herself would superintend the -working of the household, and he, Cesiphos, would be relegated to the -position simply of a paid servant.</p> - -<p>But matters did not turn out quite as Cesiphos had anticipated. It is -true that he had to work for Pabasca as well as for his master, but he -was mistaken in thinking she would superintend the household. Pabasca -did nothing at all. She conducted herself like a Salonika lady. All day -long she was idle and peevish, and whilst Marania was sweating in the -fields she was either lying in bed or wandering aimlessly about the -house.</p> - -<p>One day when Cesiphos was working with the other men in the orchard, he -looked down from the ladder on which he was standing and saw Pabasca -staring at him in a most curious manner. He flushed hotly and went on -with his work, and though he could feel that his master’s wife was still -gazing upon him, he did not look down again. His figure stretched to its -full extent was that of a giant, and his long arms, busy among the -branches, were brown and muscular.</p> - -<p>Like many people of bright intellect who are<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span> deprived of one or more -senses, Cesiphos appeared to possess a sixth sense, and there was little -that transpired in Marania’s household of which he was not conscious. He -soon discovered that Pabasca had no love for her husband; so he watched -her—always watched, suspicious, contemptuous, angry.</p> - -<p>There came a day when Marania announced that he was going to Salonika -for four days on business. When he signalled this news to Cesiphos and -told him that he was leaving his wife in his servant’s charge, Cesiphos, -proud and grave, inclined his head, and then turned his gaze swiftly -upon Pabasca who, in return, gave him the curious look she had bestowed -upon him in the orchard. It was a look of invitation, of lust. Cesiphos’ -stern face did not betray that he had understood, or even noticed, the -look she had given him.</p> - -<p>At midday Marania departed, and immediately he had gone Pabasca’s -spirits rose. She took from a cupboard her three dresses and, leaving -her bedroom door open, tried on each in turn. Then she went into the -room which Cesiphos used as a kitchen and prepared herself a meal. -Towards dusk she left the house, but returned soon and went to bed.</p> - -<p>Cesiphos sat up smoking his pipe. After a time, he rose, climbed rather -noisily upstairs, went to his room and closed the door. For a little -while he stood motionless as though listening; then, having taken off -his boots, he opened his bedroom door with elaborate carefulness, -stepped on to the little landing, closed the door silently, and crept -soundlessly downstairs<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{253}</a></span>.</p> - -<p>Some instinct told him that Pabasca would not sleep alone that night, -and he knew very well that her visitor would be Sobraji, for many times -before her marriage, Cesiphos had seen her and Sobraji together at night -in lonely places. In all probability, Pabasca had given him the key of -the front entrance; indeed, when Cesiphos examined the door and found it -unbolted, he was sure of this. So he took up his place in the entrance -and waited.</p> - -<p>After Cesiphos had waited a long time, the door opened slowly and -Sobraji entered. In the darkness he did not see Marania’s servant -crouching there, and without hurry he closed the door behind him and -locked it.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly Cesiphos sprang upon him, his large hands encircling -Sobraji’s throat; squeezing his victim hard, he banged his head against -the wall, until the little man hung heavy and limp in Cesiphos’ hands. -Then the servant unlocked the door and opened it; gathering Sobraji in -his arms, he threw him out into the night and locked the door upon him.</p> - -<p>During his struggle with Sobraji, Cesiphos had been too excited to pay -any attention to Pabasca, who, almost as soon as the struggle had begun, -had come downstairs with a lamp. She had stood quietly by watching -eagerly. It was too late for her to interrupt; indeed, after her first -shock of surprise and dismay, she had no wish to do so. She was thrilled -by Cesiphos’ strength, by his skill, by his machine-like calmness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{254}</a></span></p> - -<p>Cesiphos, having locked the door, turned round and saw Pabasca. The -light of the lamp fell full on her face, and she smiled at him. In -return, he frowned, looked away from her, and quickly made his way -upstairs. He entered his room and closed his door. Almost immediately -Pabasca followed him, and placed the lamp upon the floor.</p> - -<p>Approaching Cesiphos, she took his hand, gazed lingeringly into his eyes -for a moment. He shook himself free from her, and his eyes blazed. Again -she approached him, her arms outstretched; but his anger became so -fierce and his face worked so terribly, that she shrank from him, and, -leaving the lamp on the floor, hurriedly went to her own room.</p> - -<p>During the days that passed before Marania’s return, Cesiphos went about -his work with a grave face. Whenever he was in Pabasca’s presence, he -averted his eyes. Each night when he went to rest, she could hear him -dragging his bed across the floor and fixing it against the door.</p> - -<p>His simple nature was badly bruised by what had happened. He had always -known that life was not all good, but evil had never come so close to -him as now. All through the day and during a portion of each night he -tortured himself by asking how much, or how little, he must tell his -master when he returned. Clearly it was his duty to disclose to Marania -the conduct of Sobraji, but it seemed to him unwise to tell the story in -such a way that Pabasca would be implicated. Besides, he had no proof -that Pabasca had expected Sobraji to visit her, though in his heart he -knew that an assignation had been made and <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{255}</a></span>nearly kept.</p> - -<p>Upon one thing he was resolved: he would say nothing about Pabasca’s -overtures to himself, for that might lead to unimaginable misery for all -of them. Nevertheless, it tortured him to keep any of these things -secret, but he knew not a soul to whom he could unburden his mind.</p> - -<p>On the evening of the fourth day Cesiphos slipped unseen from the house -and went to the station to meet his master. It was a cool evening with a -feeling of largeness in the air, but Cesiphos was weighed down with -anxiety and nervousness. How much should he tell? In what manner should -he tell it? Should he break straight into the subject, or should he -introduce it in a roundabout fashion?</p> - -<p>These questions which he had been asking himself for four days were -still unanswered when he saw Marania, carrying two very large parcels, -step from the train. Cesiphos hurried up to him, and Marania placed both -parcels on the ground whilst he shook hands with his servant. He was in -good spirits and glad to be home again. Cesiphos, having picked up one -of the parcels, led the way from the station, his chin upon his breast, -his heart heavy within him.</p> - -<p>They had covered but a short distance when Cesiphos plucked his master’s -sleeve and indicated that he wished to speak with him. With a sigh of -impatience, Marania put his package on the ground and sat upon it. -Cesiphos followed his example, and began to talk on his fingers by the -light of the moon.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{256}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Master, I have something I would tell you.”</p> - -<p>Marania bowed his head.</p> - -<p>“Very late in the night following the day you left, Sobraji entered your -house. He had a key, the door was unbolted.”</p> - -<p>He stopped, hoping his master would say something; but Marania only -stared at him wonderingly and again bowed his head.</p> - -<p>“I was waiting for him....”</p> - -<p>Marania interrupted his servant by placing a hand upon his arm.</p> - -<p>“Why were you waiting for him?”</p> - -<p>Cesiphos fumbled with his fingers, but spelled out not a single word. -Marania struck him lightly on the arm and again asked:</p> - -<p>“Why?”</p> - -<p>“Because ... because, somehow, I thought he was coming. The door was -unbolted.”</p> - -<p>His master shook him angrily.</p> - -<p>“Why were you waiting for him?” he asked a third time. “How did you know -he was coming?”</p> - -<p>Cesiphos began to tremble. He did not know why he had believed Sobraji -would come that night. Something in his mind had whispered it to -him—instinct, suspicion, hatred. But he could not explain this to -Marania. So he sat fumbling with his fingers. At length his master -signed to him:</p> - -<p>“Go on with your story.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">{257}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I was waiting for him behind the door. He entered and closed it after -him. I sprang upon him and nearly choked him. I banged his head against -the wall. Then I opened the door and threw him outside.”</p> - -<p>“Does your mistress know of this?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. She came down with a lamp in her hand and watched us.”</p> - -<p>His hands stopped working. Very deliberately Marania rose, lifted his -parcel and proceeded on his way home, Cesiphos followed him in deep -dejection. The servant knew that his master had not accepted his story: -yet it was true—every word of it.</p> - -<p>They soon reached Marania’s farm. Pabasca was waiting outside to receive -her husband. She ran to him with a cry of delight and threw her arms -about his neck. He embraced her, at first tenderly, then with passion.</p> - -<p>In the meantime, Cesiphos had carried his package into the house and had -begun to prepare food for his master. It was with a great effort that he -moved his body about, so sick he felt, so dismayed, so full of -apprehension. Through the open door he saw his master and mistress go to -their living-room. He could feel them talking together. For a long time -they talked until, suddenly, with blazing eyes, Marania entered, rushed -up to his servant and dealt him a heavy blow between the eyes. Cesiphos -staggered and fell. He rose, whimpering.</p> - -<p>Marania then went to the entrance-door and opened it wide. Pointing with -one hand to the door, he seized his servant wit<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">{258}</a></span>h the other and -violently dragged him into the passage. Still whimpering Cesiphos -stumbled into the night. The master whom he had loved and served now -hated him.</p> - -<p>Marania locked and bolted the door, and returned to his wife.</p> - -<p>But though she was weeping he would not comfort her, and that night and -for ever afterwards he slept in the room that Cesiphos had occupied.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">{259}</a></span></p> - -<h2> -<a name="LA_BELLE_DAME_SANS_MERCI" id="LA_BELLE_DAME_SANS_MERCI"></a>LA BELLE<br /> -DAME SANS MERCI<br /> -<br /></h2> - -<p class="toot"> -To<br /> -G. A. E. Marshall<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">{260}</a></span></p> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span>T has always seemed to me a most extraordinary thing that Victor -Lo<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">{261}</a></span>velace should have been able to speak five languages. He was English, -and Englishmen are notoriously stupid in this respect. But Lovelace -spoke his languages perfectly, and as he was extremely obliging and full -of information he was far and away the most popular waiter at the -Jupiter Hotel in Athens.</p> - -<p>I have never believed Lovelace was his real name; but that concerns -neither you nor me. Lovelace has a romantic sound, and this young man of -twenty-three looked romantic. Tall he was and slim: he carried himself -well: unlike all the other waiters in the whole world, he looked you in -the eyes when he spoke to you, and the eyes that looked into yours were -large, brilliant, and unquestionably full of passion.</p> - -<p>In April 1914, I stayed at the Jupiter Hotel, and at dinner on the day -of my arrival I sat down at a table occupied solely by an Englishwoman -who appeared to be travelling alone. Lovelace waited on us. Before we -were half-way through our dinner I was convinced that the -Englishwoman—her name was Dorothy Langdon—was in love with him. -Whenever he brought her food, she looked quickly up into his eyes, and -once I observed her touch his hand lingeringly as she assisted him in -supporting the dish from which she was helping herself to vegetables.</p> - -<p>I confess I was interested: people always do interest me. And I said to -myself: “Is this love? Or is it passion—a very frenzy of the senses?”</p> - -<p>Lovelace, for his part, showed neither desire nor distress. Perhaps he -was a little more assiduous in his waiting on the lady than he was in -attending to my wants; but this might mean simply that she was a woma<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">{262}</a></span>n -and I was merely a man.</p> - -<p>During dinner Miss Langdon and I talked.</p> - -<p>“You arrived to-day?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I came from Marseilles by the <i>Ispahan</i>. Do you know the -Messageries Maritimes boats?”</p> - -<p>“Jolly little things, aren’t they?” she said, smiling. “I like the -cosmopolitan passengers they carry, and I love curry for breakfast.”</p> - -<p>She was very fair. Her neck, wrists and ankles were exquisite, as -thoroughbred as the human animal can ever hope to be.</p> - -<p>“What I liked most of all,” said I, “was the rummy little music room on -the deck with the piano that made such tender, melting sounds. I used to -feel tremendously sentimental in the evenings. There was an Italian girl -who sang Neapolitan songs as though she really meant them.”</p> - -<p>“I know,” she said eagerly; “wouldn’t it be fine if all life were like -that? But I suppose it wouldn’t, really. Sweetness so soon cloys.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I agreed, “we all require bitter days in between: they add zest -to our appetite when the good days come along.”</p> - -<p>We talked obvious things of this kind all through the meal.</p> - -<p>“Will Madame have coffee here or in the lounge?” asked Lovelace when we -had finished our fruit.</p> - -<p>She looked up at him and smiled divinely, and in return he smiled a -pleasant English smile that meant nothing of what she wished it to mean.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">{263}</a></span></p> - -<p>“It all depends on Monsieur,” she said, turning to me. “Shall we have -coffee here?”</p> - -<p>“As you please,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Very well, then, here.”</p> - -<p>She took the cigarette case that was lying on the table at her side and -offered me a smoke.</p> - -<p>“This hotel is very pleasant,” she remarked; “have you ever stayed here -before?”</p> - -<p>“No, this is my first visit to Athens. And you?”</p> - -<p>“I also have never been here before.”</p> - -<p>Our little table was in a corner of the room farthest away from the -door. All the diners except ourselves had left. Lovelace stood some -little way off, waiting I suppose, to minister to our possible wants. -Suddenly, he put down the table-napkin he was holding, and began to move -towards the door. Though my companion was not facing him, she saw—or -felt—his withdrawal.</p> - -<p>“Lovelace!” she called softly.</p> - -<p>He turned and approached our table.</p> - -<p>“Where are you going?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“To wait on the ladies and gentlemen in the lounge,” he answered.</p> - -<p>“Must you go?”</p> - -<p>“Not if Madame desires me to stay.”</p> - -<p>“You may please yourself, of course. But if you went I should miss you.”</p> - -<p>Without embarrassment he bowed, walked a few paces away, and stationed -himself out of reach of our talk.</p> - -<p>I do not think my attempt to look unconcerned was entirely successful, -and I betrayed myself, I am sure, by ask<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">{264}</a></span>ing:</p> - -<p>“Have you been here very long?”</p> - -<p>(What I meant, of course, was: “Do you know Lovelace well?”).</p> - -<p>“Just five days,” she said, as though I had asked the most ordinary -question in the world. Then, after a pause, she asked: “I surprise you?”</p> - -<p>“No, why?”</p> - -<p>She smiled.</p> - -<p>“You lie so well,” she said, “that I feel I can trust you.”</p> - -<p>I feebly protested my sincerity.</p> - -<p>“I knew him last year in Oxford,” she explained; “but he refuses to know -me now. He is afraid of me.”</p> - -<p>“Surely not!” I exclaimed. “Why should he be afraid?”</p> - -<p>She did not answer me, but went on to speak of other things.</p> - -<p>“Will you promise me something?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“Of course I will. What is it?”</p> - -<p>“I want you to promise always to sit at this table for your meals. They -never lay more than two places here. If you speak to the head waiter, he -will reserve that place for you.”</p> - -<p>“You are very kind,” I said; “I shall be delighted. Thanks awfully for -asking me.”</p> - -<p>And, this time, I meant every word I said.</p> - -<p>In a few m<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">{265}</a></span>inutes we rose from the table and prepared to leave the room. -She preceded me, and, in passing Lovelace, gazed at him with a look so -despairing and beseeching that I could but wonder he maintained so -undisturbed a countenance.</p> - -<p>Having reached the door, she turned.</p> - -<p>“Good night, Lovelace,” she said.</p> - -<p>And behind me I heard his voice, low and grave:</p> - -<p>“Good night, Madame.”</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>If she was beautiful that night, she was still more beautiful next -morning at breakfast. Poets have described the kind of woman she was: I -cannot. I can but give you a few clumsy hints. She was as delicate as -porcelain. Her hair had the colour and the sheen of polished brass, and -her face, when composed, was all innocence and trust. Her innocence was -a lure. One felt her sex. In the corner of her lips there lurked a -mysterious suggestion of cruelty—or was it of hunger?</p> - -<p>Though she chattered a good deal whilst we ate, I felt that she was -preoccupied. Whenever Lovelace approached her, she seemed to expand and -open like a flower in the sun; whenever he withdrew, she closed in upon -herself again. She rarely spoke to him without addressing him by name.</p> - -<p>Of the two it was he who interested me most, and after breakfast I -sought an opportunity of talking to him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">{266}</a></span></p> - -<p>I asked him about—the best means of getting there, its distance from -Athens, and so on.</p> - -<p>He answered my questions with politeness, but without deference; his -manner was easy, even polished. It was quite evident he was a gentleman, -and a gentleman of culture and experience.</p> - -<p>I told him that I had recently attended a course of lectures at Oxford -on the social life of ancient Athens, and at the word Oxford he started -a little and flushed. A minute later I noticed he was trembling and that -his cheeks were pale.</p> - -<p>“She is getting on his nerves,” I said to myself.</p> - -<p>I had little compunction in trying to solve this mystery, for I had, so -to speak, been dragged in to sit and watch its development. And after my -ten minutes’ conversation with Lovelace I formed the theory that he was -as deeply in love with Miss Langdon as she was with him; but whereas her -love was mingled with triumph and cruelty, his was strained with fear. -His love urged him to remain, but his fear, I thought, was continually -warning him to escape.</p> - -<p>Though I had business elsewhere, I returned to the Hotel Jupiter for -lunch, thinking I might witness the “curtain” of the first act of this -almost silent drama; but she did not appear. Lovelace was pale and, I -thought, anxious; but he kept himself so well under control, and he -smiled so pleasantly when I made a joke about King Constantine, whom I -had that morning seen outside the Palace, that I felt his seeming -anxiety must be only the product of my imagination. His attitude towards -me was both aloof and friendly: he was determined to keep his “place,” -yet I was sure he liked me. I had copies of t<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">{267}</a></span>hat month’s <i>Fortnightly -Review</i> and <i>Nineteenth Century</i> in my bedroom, also three or four -recent numbers of <i>Punch</i>; these I brought downstairs and gave to him, -though I remember that, as I did so, the thought flashed into my mind -that I might appear to him to be trying to purchase his confidence. But -if he had such a suspicion, he did not show it.</p> - -<p>I spent that afternoon in the Museum, visiting the Temple of Jupiter -before returning to the hotel. The enervating climate of Athens in the -early spring had tired me, and I felt a little depressed as I walked -across the Palace Square. On entering the hotel I heard a woman’s voice -singing in the drawing-room. Opening the door, I discovered Miss -Langdon, the only occupant of the room, sitting at the piano, -accompanying herself. Seeing me, she rose.</p> - -<p>“May I come in and listen?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Do. I love having an audience. Do you play?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. Rather well. At least, I accompany well. You were singing Reynaldo -Hahn, weren’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—I’ve only just got to know him. Rather like overripe fruit, don’t -you think? Only, of course, the very best fruit.”</p> - -<p>She laughed.</p> - -<p>“Come and play for me,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Thanks awfu<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">{268}</a></span>lly. I was hoping you would ask me to.”</p> - -<p>Quite the most exciting occupation in the world is to read new -pianoforte music for a good singer. Reynaldo Hahn is the most -atmospheric of composers, the most delicate, the most decadent: not a -great man, of course, but an interesting man. Like my companion’s voice, -his music has no colour: it consists of whites, blacks, and innumerable -shades of grey.</p> - -<p>“You play almost as well as I sing,” she remarked, after we had gone -through an entire volume of songs.</p> - -<p>“You make me play well,” I said; “you are sympathetic. That’s a silly -word—but you know what I mean.”</p> - -<p>“But it’s really very heartless music,” said she; “it’s so sentimental, -so insincere. It suits me. I can’t do the real things—not even the -modern people—Hugo Wolfe, for example. The great men lacerate me so, -and I don’t like being lacerated.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said I mischievously, “you’d rather lacerate other people. Your -friend from Oxford for example.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! Lovelace, you mean. I thought you would be curious about him.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I confess it: I <i>am</i> curious.”</p> - -<p>She laughed teasingly.</p> - -<p>“If you wait long enough, you will find out everything. But there goes -the first dinner-gong, and you’re not dressed.”</p> - -<p>I hurried away to change. Though I dressed as speedily as possible, the -dinner had begun when I entered the dining-room. As I noticed that -Lovelace was bending low over the table at whi<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">{269}</a></span>ch Miss Langdon sat, and -that she was speaking to him with some vehemence, I approached them very -slowly and deliberately; even so, their conversation was not finished -when I had sat down at my place.</p> - -<p>“ ...And what happened to Walter had nothing to do with me,” she -protested, though she knew I was present; “and if it had—what then? Am -I to love all the men who love me? Are men children that they require -nurses?”</p> - -<p>“No, Madame,” he said. “Will Madame take thick or clear soup?”</p> - -<p>“I will take no soup at all. Write down your answer on a piece of paper -and bring it with the entrée.”</p> - -<p>He departed, white and trembling, and for a minute my sympathy was -entirely with him.</p> - -<p>“What surprises me,” I said to her, “is that you asked me always to sit -at your table.”</p> - -<p>Though a minute previously she had been speaking passionately, almost -angrily, to Lovelace, she now turned to me a face at once gentle and -beseeching.</p> - -<p>“Do you mind?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“Well—no. To be perfectly frank, you <i>do</i> make me feel a little -uncomfortable. Lovelace is a gentleman. Even if he weren’t, I shouldn’t -like to interrupt your private conversations with him.”</p> - -<p>“But you don’t,” she protested.</p> - -<p>“Well, then, I don’t like overhearing them.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">{270}</a></span></p> - -<p>“That,” said she, “is unavoidable. Believe me, you are doing me a -kindness by sharing my table. If you didn’t sit there somebody else -would—and I trust you. Really, you are doing me a great kindness.”</p> - -<p>“Very well, then. If that is the case, I don’t mind—or, at all events, -I shall try to mind as little as possible.”</p> - -<p>Presently, Lovelace brought our entrées.</p> - -<p>“Where is my answer?” she asked.</p> - -<p>Without a moment’s pause, he replied:</p> - -<p>“The answer, Madame, is ‘No.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“But,” said she firmly, as though stating an incontrovertible fact, “but -you <i>will</i> change your mind.”</p> - -<p>When he had left our table, she turned to me with a smile.</p> - -<p>“Have you ever been in love?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“Well, I have often thought I was in love. But it soon passed. It always -passes.”</p> - -<p>She shook her head and smiled.</p> - -<p>Immediately after dinner she disappeared.</p> - -<p>The night was ghostly with a swollen moon. Looking from my bedroom -window at about ten o’clock I saw white buildings with ink-black -shadows. The streets were almost deserted. Somebody out there was -singing a restless song, and the restlessness of the music awakened in -me an almost insufferable pain—an ache—a dark turbulence of the -spirit. I felt my heart beating wildly, and in my soul there was a deep -desire to scatter myself on the night. What was the matter? Was I in -love once more? And if so, with what?—with whom?... When one asks -questions of this kind, one already knows the answers; nevertheless, one -does not stop asking those questions. I was in love with <i>her</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">{271}</a></span></p> - -<p>I left my room and sought her vainly in the lounge and in the -drawing-room. Then I went to the deserted entrance-hall and thence to -the open door. On the top step Lovelace was standing irresolutely, his -hat on. I stepped up to him.</p> - -<p>“Don’t go!” I said in a low voice.</p> - -<p>It was a random shot, but it hit the mark.</p> - -<p>“I don’t wish to,” he said, “but she draws and pulls.”</p> - -<p>He was trembling violently.</p> - -<p>“I thought of visiting the Acropolis,” I said, though indeed I had no -such thought.</p> - -<p>“After dusk one requires a ticket to pass through the gates,” he said. -“<i>She</i> is there. She will be standing like one of the Caryatides, the -moon on her face, hatless. And perhaps her feet will be bare.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but this is madness!” I exclaimed. “What is she to you or you to -her?”</p> - -<p>“I wonder,” he answered helplessly. Then, obeying an impulse he seemed -unable to control, he held out a ticket.</p> - -<p>“Take this!” he said. “It will admit you through the gates. She will be -waiting.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said I. “It is you she wants.”</p> - -<p>“But I can’t go. I may not. I daren’t. I told her I wouldn’t.”</p> - -<p>And, with a deep sigh, he turned and walked into the hotel.</p> - -<p>All that night I lay midway between reality and dreams. My se<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">{272}</a></span>nses -mingled, and I knew not what was reality and what was phantasy. Was it -possible I should see her at breakfast next morning? Was there really -such a woman or had I imagined her? Had I been dreaming these last -thirty-six hours?</p> - -<p>The spirit of her was in my brain and in my veins like a drug. At length -I must have slept, for I heard whisperings and a voice of menace, and -again a loud voice threatening mankind and me, and then voluptuous -sighings and secret whisperings; mænads rushed to and fro in ghostly -meadows, and on them the moon poured golden blood; and then again the -voice reached me and each word it uttered was like a heavy weight -falling upon my bleeding heart.</p> - -<p>I awoke and sat up in bed and:</p> - -<p>“Lovelace! Lovelace!” I heard, or seemed to hear, breathed through the -corridor.</p> - -<p>“The huntress!” I exclaimed. “The authentic vampire! The incarnation of -hungry sex!”</p> - -<p>Shuddering I rose, raised the blind and leant through the open window. -The world outside was unreal: it brought me no solace. The houses were -insubstantial; the solidity of my own body was incommunicable to my -senses; all the world was an illusion; nothing existed save the brain -that had placed things there....</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>A cold bath early next morning did little to restore my nerves to -health. My soul was sick: it was covered with indestructible dust from -the <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">{273}</a></span>vampire’s wings.</p> - -<p>I arrived at our table before she did. Lovelace brought me food. Though -his manner was calm, his face was deathly pale. Had he, like myself, -been agonized through the night? I spoke to him, and he looked into my -eyes distrustfully.</p> - -<p>“I am going to Eleusis to-day,” I said. “Can you get a few sandwiches -made up for me? And some fruit and a bottle of wine?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, certainly. I will tell the head waiter. But be careful. Don’t go -into any of the cottages, for fever is raging there.”</p> - -<p>“Thanks, I won’t.... I say, Lovelace.” I spoke low, and he bent down to -catch my words. “Lovelace, I say. Tell me: what is the meaning of all -this—of everything? Do you not believe I am your friend?”</p> - -<p>“But you love her!”</p> - -<p>“Or hate her!” I exclaimed. “Which is it?”</p> - -<p>“They are both the same,” he said.</p> - -<p>And then, most quietly and with a wild mænad-look in her eyes and about -her lips, she sat down and:</p> - -<p>“Good morning, Lovelace,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Good morning, Madame.”</p> - -<p>I could see that he was putting forth a great effort in order to master -himself.</p> - -<p>She turned to me and began to talk of the weather. With difficulty I met -her gaze. Yes, there was a wild look in her eyes; it was as though she -had learned some secret in the night. Though she sat quite calmly, she -seemed to be shedding vitality all around her. Her presence quickened -me. And the sound of her voice was both a lure and an excitement.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">{274}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I am going to Eleusis to-day,” I told her, “but I shall be back for -dinner.”</p> - -<p>“And what do you expect to find there?”</p> - -<p>“Not very much, I’m afraid. Just a heap of broken marble.”</p> - -<p>“But underneath the marble are the Mysteries—the Eleusinian Mysteries. -Do you know what they were?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said I; “does any one?”</p> - -<p>“Yes: I do. They were sex mysteries. The Ancient Greeks worshipped woman -in the form of a goddess. They sacrificed to her. In those days they -feared women, and they were continually trying to propitiate them. But -since then they have tamed my sex. Only a few of us remain.”</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Us'?” I queried.</p> - -<p>“Yes—the devastators—the women who have no use for a man once they -have known him. You have heard of the marriage in the sky?”</p> - -<p>I shook my head.</p> - -<p>“The queen bee marries the best male of the hive high in the blue of -heaven, out of sight. The ecstasy over, the male drops down to earth, -dead. You will find it all in Fabre.”</p> - -<p>“Yes? And then?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing—that’s the end of it.”</p> - -<p>“Was that the end of Walter?” I asked, goaded on by I know not what. -And, as she did not reply, I added: “Is that to be the end of Lovelace? -Is that why he is afraid of you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">{275}</a></span>? Do you carry about with you some evil -spell?—some enchantment of death?”</p> - -<p>She drew away from me a little and sat back in her chair.</p> - -<p>“You are afraid of me,” she said.</p> - -<p>“I think not,” I answered, “but you disturb my dreams. Most horribly you -disturb them.”</p> - -<p>“So already it has begun to work on you,” she said with mild interest.</p> - -<p>“Have you cast a spell upon me?” I asked. “Am I in a state of -semi-hypnosis?”</p> - -<p>“I have done nothing. It is not you whom I want. It is Lovelace.”</p> - -<p>I made but a scanty meal, and as I walked to the station I was resolved -that Miss Langdon should not enter my thoughts all day. She had spoken -the truth: I was afraid of her. I feared her as the drunkard fears -alcohol, as the morphinomaniac fears his drug.</p> - -<p>But who can command his thoughts when those thoughts have for their -breeding-place senses that have been whipped to excitement by the -invitation of sex? I was unhappy all day.</p> - -<p>From Eleusis I walked along a narrow track to the sea. I bathed, and -then sat naked in the sun. Again I bathed among the rocks, and once more -sat gazing upon the blue islands and the purple islands and the green -land near. No human being was in sight, no dwelling-place, no sign of -life. Even the sky was empty of birds.</p> - -<p>It was not difficult for me to imagine it was two thousand years ago. -Then everything—sky, sea, and land—would appear exactly as <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">{276}</a></span>it did -now. Perhaps in those times men were wiser than they are to-day. True, -mankind had collected and co-ordinated a few million facts unknown to -the men and women who worshipped and sacrificed in the Temple of -Demeter, but, after all, what are facts? Are they not the very masks of -truth, as a man’s face is the mask of his soul?...</p> - -<p>Almost could I see her in the divine Temple, worshipped and feared.... -Woman enthroned; man on his knees, craving a boon. Woman in league with -Nature: man Nature’s victim. Woman accepting; man giving....</p> - -<p>I dressed, and ate the food I had brought with me. The wine enervated -me, and soon I slept.</p> - -<p>Again she sent her thoughts to me, and my dreams were soaked through and -through with her rapacious personality. I was being nailed down under a -rich carpet in Samarcand. In another room of the Palace were proud music -and rejoicings....</p> - -<p>Haunted myself by those dreams, I will not stain this page by recording -them....</p> - -<p>I awoke.</p> - -<p>“If sleep means this,” I exclaimed aloud, “I’ll sleep no more.”</p> - -<p>On my way back to Athens I told myself that on the following day I would -set out for Corinth. I would escape. But I must see the Parthenon first. -I would borrow Lovelace’s ticket and go to-night. There would be a -moon....</p> - -<p>There were no bounds<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277">{277}</a></span> to my relief when Lovelace, bringing me my soup at -dinner-time told me, in answer to my inquiry, that Miss Langdon was -resting.</p> - -<p>“Madame has a headache,” he said, “and will dine in her own room.”</p> - -<p>Immeasurable relief—yes! But profound disappointment and anxiety also!</p> - -<p>What an unaccountable hunger mine was! Love-hunger! The wish to love -what one fears and perhaps hates!</p> - -<p>“You look ill, Lovelace,” I said.</p> - -<p>“I am feeling ill,” he confessed.</p> - -<p>“And so am I. Not sick in body, but sick in soul.”</p> - -<p>“I also,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Come nearer, Lovelace. Bend down. Now—” I lowered my voice almost to a -whisper—“won’t you tell me? <i>Please</i> tell me.”</p> - -<p>“It’s happened before in the world,” he said, “many times. Keats wrote -about it in his ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“But this is different,” I urged.</p> - -<p>“No, I think not. It is much the same.”</p> - -<p>“But that was poetry and this is madness.”</p> - -<p>“All things are very much the same. Even fire and water are not so much -opposed as we sometimes believe, and I remember being taught at school -that diamonds and charcoal are first cousins.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—but about Walter. Who was Walter? What did she do to him?”</p> - -<p>“She killed him,” said Lovelace; “he shot him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278">{278}</a></span>self. He was my brother.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, do forgive me for asking you. I had no idea—I say, Lovelace, I’m -leaving to-morrow. I can’t stand it any longer.”</p> - -<p>“You are very wise. I am going also.”</p> - -<p>He moved away—this man who was a stranger to me, but whom I seemed to -know so well.</p> - -<p>I could eat very little, so I left the dining-room for the lounge, where -I ordered a large brandy-and-soda. I stayed there smoking and drinking -for some time, but she did not come, and, at length, I rose and sought -Lovelace. He was wandering about aimlessly in the hall.</p> - -<p>“I’m going to the Acropolis,” I said; “would you be so kind as to lend -me your ticket—that is, if you are not going to use it yourself.”</p> - -<p>He gave me a strange, inquiring look.</p> - -<p>“Certainly. I have it with me—here it is.”</p> - -<p>I went alone, half hoping, wholly fearing, that Miss Langdon might be -there.</p> - -<p>Passing the Temple of Jupiter, I walked up the steep road that winds -along the side of the Acropolis. Nothing stirred. The moon seemed to be -fixed in the sky by its own cold passion. The thick dust on the road -looked like powdered silver. A few crickets chirped. Up above, within -the Parthenon itself no doubt, a man was singing one of the -<i>Dichterliebe</i>. It was a night of intolerable heartache. My soul seemed -to melt and diffuse itself through every part of my body....</p> - -<p>I arrived at the gates and, refusing the proffered services of a guide, -was admitted. Above me the columns of the Parthenon gleamed coldly in -the light of the moon. I mounted the marble steps, reached t<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279">{279}</a></span>he nearest -column, and touched it. For a moment I felt soothed. Sitting down, I -pondered on that turn of Fate which had brought me to Athens, had -directed me to that hotel, had guided me to that table. Even here where -I sat her spirit was about me. Oh, if only she were there by my side! If -only my lips were on hers and her hand on my heart!</p> - -<p>Almost suffocated with longing, I arose and wandered to and fro, looking -at everything, but seeing nothing.</p> - -<p>Then, near the Caryatides, I stumbled upon her. She was lying -full-length on the ground.</p> - -<p>“So you have come, Victor,” she said.</p> - -<p>For a moment I paused, breathless and afraid.</p> - -<p>“No: it is I.”</p> - -<p>“You?”</p> - -<p>“Lovelace lent me his ticket.”</p> - -<p>“Thinking he himself would escape?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what he thought. I am not in Lovelace’s confidence.”</p> - -<p>“Sit down by my side!” she commanded.</p> - -<p>I dropped to the ground and lay down; my lips closed on hers; she rested -in my arms. Neither of us spoke; nor did we move. For some minutes we -had remained thus, when I began to experience a sensation of vague -discomfort which rapidly changed to one of fear. Something inimical and -powerful emanated from her body to mine. I withdrew my lips and she -sought them with hers. I slackened my arms and hers tightened about me.</p> - -<p>“Let me go!” I exclaimed. “What are you? For God’s sake, let me go!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280">{280}</a></span></p> - -<p>Brutally I tore her arms away and flung her from me as a man would fling -away a snake that had coiled round him in his sleep. She sighed deeply -and moaned.</p> - -<p>“Pray do not leave me. I am ill.”</p> - -<p>But I walked rapidly away, unheeding. In an instant she was with me, -soft-footed, eager-eyed. She watched me as a panther watches its prey. -Her mouth smiled with mysterious knowledge, and her intuitive elflike -hands were spread out before her. In my terror I imagined I could feel -evil oozing from her pores.</p> - -<p>“Stay with me! Love me!” she said in a voice of most treacherous music.</p> - -<p>I turned upon her with arms upraised and fists clenched, threatening -her, but she sank all shuddering upon my breast.</p> - -<p>It was then that I was overcome by panic fear. Tearing her from me, I -ran to the entrance-gate, rushed down the pathway and on to the road, -and escaped to the hotel. Then I sought Lovelace.</p> - -<p>“Here is your pass,” I said.</p> - -<p>“Ah, you have escaped! She was there?”</p> - -<p>“It was an ‘escape’ then?” I asked. “She really <i>is</i> evil?”</p> - -<p>“She is very much to be feared,” he said.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>That night I slept not at all. I did not wish to sleep: I was afraid to -surrender myself to the Unknown. I kept my light burning and, to pass -the <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281">{281}</a></span>time, ruled many sheets of paper with the bass and treble clefs, -and began to write down Beethoven’s “Sonate Pathétique” from memory. -Strange how this noble music seemed to decay as it passed through my -mind! Strange how the familiar melodies were tinged with wickedness!...</p> - -<p>Night passed and dawn came early. At seven o’clock I rang my bell and -when the chambermaid appeared I ordered my breakfast.</p> - -<p>“Will Monsieur have it in his room?”</p> - -<p>“No” said I. “I will have it downstairs in half an hour. Please have my -bill made out ready for me.”</p> - -<p>The dining-room was deserted as I sat down. A waiter came.</p> - -<p>“Where is Lovelace?” I asked.</p> - -<p>The man hesitated a moment.</p> - -<p>“Where is Lovelace?” I asked again; “I wish to see him before I leave.”</p> - -<p>“Lovelace, sir? Monsieur will not betray my confidence?”</p> - -<p>“No, no. What is it? What has happened?”</p> - -<p>“We have orders not to speak of it. But Lovelace was found dead in his -bedroom an hour ago. He has shot himself.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282">{282}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283">{283}</a></span> </p> - -<h2><a name="INTO_DUST" id="INTO_DUST"></a>INTO DUST</h2> - -<p class="toot"> -To<br /> -Vernon W.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284">{284}</a></span> S. Ply<br /> -</p> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">J</span>ASON and Artemis had been married only two years when they learned, -be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285">{285}</a></span>yond a shadow of a doubt, that the sickness from which Jason had for -some time been suffering was consumption. They were both young and very -brave; nevertheless, they bowed their heads in resignation. Jason was -doomed. Three brothers and sister had already died of the disease; -consumption had killed his mother and his paternal grandfather. Decay -had been poured into his blood-vessels by both father and mother, and -there was no course open to him but to submit to Fate.</p> - -<p>For ten hours a day they stitched carpets at the big factory near the -Cathedral, earning enough money to keep them in tolerable comfort in -their two-roomed lodging in Rue Egnatia. But the time soon came when -Jason was unfit for work, and the twenty-five drachma note that Artemis -carried home each week had to provide for the needs of both. Artemis -made a great show of eating big meals, but she denied herself even the -necessaries of life in order that Jason might have the costly foods that -nourished him.</p> - -<p>If she had loved him in health, she now worshipped him in sickness, for -Jason was not only husband—he was like a son as well. And, indeed, he -soon became as helpless as a little child. Her grief was bearable -because she was so constantly employed that she had no time in which to -brood upon it; the circumstances that poisoned her mind was that she -could not tend him in the daytime, for she was compelled by her work to -leave him in the care of their landlady.</p> - -<p>Very soon their savings came to an end. Medicines and rich foods -exhausted her weekly wage two<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286">{286}</a></span> days after she received it, and it became -imperative to earn a much larger sum.</p> - -<p>“Dear Artemis,” said Jason one evening, as he lay in bed watching her -mending a stocking, “it’s wonderful how far you make the money go. But I -think I can guess how you manage it. You don’t eat enough yourself. You -are pale and thin, and your beautiful hair is losing its lustre.”</p> - -<p>With her needle poised in the air, she turned to him with a smile.</p> - -<p>“I don’t eat enough? Why, I sometimes think I eat too much. I know I’m -pale and perhaps a little thin, but just think of the weather we’re -having! It’s the hottest August we’ve had for years and years. Besides, -I never was one to have much colour.”</p> - -<p>She continued looking at him, for she loved his handsome dark face, now -grown weirdly beautiful with the ravages of disease.</p> - -<p>“I wish the end would come more quickly,” he said. “Sometimes I think it -is wrong for me to take medicines and eat costly food. No one can save -me—what’s the use of it? Why prolong my wretched life?”</p> - -<p>“Because, living, you make me happy. In all the world I have only you, -Jason. Do not leave me an hour before you must.... But we must not talk -like this; we must not grow sad when the evening comes. I’ll light the -lamp; it will be a companion for us. And then, if you like, I will sing -you a new song I learned to-day from one of the girls at the factory.”</p> - -<p>But though she spoke so cheerfully, her heart was as heavy as lead. She -had come to t<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287">{287}</a></span>he end of her money, and Jason’s food for the morrow had -yet to be bought.</p> - -<p>As she crossed the room to light the lamp, the half-conscious thought -that had lain buried in her mind for weeks stirred uneasily and leapt -up, alive and clamant. Instantly she acquiesced in its demands. If that -was the only way out, that way must be taken.</p> - -<p>The little lamp on the wall burned well.</p> - -<p>“Which do you think is more companionable—a clock that ticks and makes -a noise, or a lamp that burns and makes a light?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“Oh—a lamp. I love light, and silence doesn’t trouble me a bit. But I -would like to hear you sing. Sing softly—just for you and me to hear.”</p> - -<p>It was a Neapolitan song she had learned, a barcarolle that swayed -easily with the movement of a swung hammock or of a little boat on -gentle, regular waves. It told of a love that was constant, of a love -that would hold through all the sorrows of life, that would survive old -age, and cleave its way through the darkness of death.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>And if, when I am dead, my heart</i><br /></span> -<span class="i2"><i>Turns into dust, to dust my face,</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0"><i>I’ll ride upon the swiftest wind</i><br /></span> -<span class="i2"><i>And find your burial place.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>“Again,” he said, when she had finished.</p> - -<p>So sh<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288">{288}</a></span>e sang it through a second time, her sweet, low voice vibrating -with passion.</p> - -<p>“Love <i>must</i> last—it <i>will</i>,” he said; “it is the only thing that can -never die.”</p> - -<p>He turned over on his side and closed his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Do you feel ready for your sleep?” she asked, for Jason nearly always -slept uninterruptedly from nine till midnight.</p> - -<p>“Yes: I think I do.”</p> - -<p>So she went over to him, smoothed his pillow, drew the sheet above his -shoulders, and kissed him.</p> - -<p>“Good-night, husband,” she said, and kissed him again. “Good-night, -little boy,” she added, kissing him a third time.</p> - -<p>She resumed her work; but after a time, when she was sure he was safely -asleep, she rose, put on her hat, turned out the lamp, and crept softly -to the door.</p> - -<p>Out in the street, she began her mission, doing with a brave heart but -with shrinking flesh what tens of thousands of women have done for the -husbands they have loved.</p> - -<p>Turning down Rue Venizelos, she reached the quay and entered a café -where loose women plied their wares. She did not dare to sit down, for -she had no money with which to purchase a drink; so she walked slowly -through the café as though seeking some one.</p> - -<p>Now, Artemis was not beautiful, but she possessed something more -powerful, more subtly attractive than beauty. She had -innocence—innocence dwelt on her face, and the spirit of innocence -surrounded her like a halo. She was afraid of what she was about to do, -but she did not hesitate. She remembered that it h<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289">{289}</a></span>ad been said that -there was no greater love than the love which constrains a man to lay -down his life for his friend. But honour was dearer than life.</p> - -<p>She loitered in the noisy café for a minute, and as she was about to -turn and leave, a man’s insistent gaze caught her eyes and held them. -She smiled. He beckoned her. Walking towards him, she sat down at the -table by his side.</p> - -<p>“You are new to this game, aren’t you?” he said frankly, but not -unkindly. “What can I order you?”</p> - -<p>A waiter brought her coffee. Her companion examined her closely, -admiring her dainty hands, her clear eyes, her wealth of golden hair.</p> - -<p>“Do you know me?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“No: I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.”</p> - -<p>“Well, you must call me Onias. And I would like to call you by a pretty -French name I know—Lucette. Do you like your name, Lucette?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I think I do. But do you think it suits me?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. It is dainty and so are you. And it is pretty and innocent, and I -think you are pretty and innocent also.”</p> - -<p>“But, <i>Onias</i>!” she objected. “That doesn’t suit you at all. Onias ought -to be fat and shapeless, with marks of grease on his waistcoat.”</p> - -<p>He laughed, pleased that she could talk as well as look pretty.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290">{290}</a></span></p> - -<p>“But,” he said, “Onias is my real name. Still, I’m glad I don’t live up -to it.”</p> - -<p>“You’re nicer than Onias,” she said, and as she spoke, she suddenly felt -afraid of her glibness. She had forced herself to forget her husband for -these hours, but without warning their little bedroom was before her -eyes. She shivered.</p> - -<p>“Are you cold?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“No, no. Quite, quite warm, thanks.”</p> - -<p>“This place is very noisy,” he said, “shall we go?”</p> - -<p>He preceded her, and at the counter bought her a box of chocolates.</p> - -<p>“Don’t do that!” she said piteously. “Don’t buy me anything!”</p> - -<p>“But, Lucette—”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want you to be kind to me,” she murmured; “I only wish....”</p> - -<p>But he took the box that was handed to him across the counter, and -carried it under his arm.</p> - -<p>The quay was thronged, and Onias offered Artemis his arm. After a little -hesitation, she took it. Though she herself was tall, he was very much -taller. He had the bright distinction of a man accustomed to issue -orders that were instantly obeyed.</p> - -<p>“You will come to my house?” he whispered, a little shyly. “I am a -bachelor and live alone with two servants. But perhaps you would like -some supper first?”</p> - -<p>“No—no thanks. I am not a bit hungry. And—I am so sorry—I can only -stay with you a little while.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291">{291}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Why?” he asked; “stay all night with me—do!” he urged.</p> - -<p>“I am so very sorry,” she replied, “but it’s impossible. I must be home -by midnight.”</p> - -<p>“Very well,” said he, patting the little hand that rested on his arm, -“it shall be as you wish. But I’m terribly disappointed. Perhaps some -other night?”</p> - -<p>“No—indeed,” she said, “I must always be home at midnight, and later on -it may be that I shall not be able to come out at all in the -evenings.... Do not be angry with me!”</p> - -<p>“I am not angry: I am only sorry. Do not distress yourself, my dear. You -are very good and honest not to try to deceive me. Here we are: this is -my house.”</p> - -<p>He opened a massive iron gate that gave on to a garden of trees. A broad -pathway led to a detached house some distance from the road. He could -feel that she was trembling a little.</p> - -<p>“Do not be afraid,” he said, “I shall treat you kindly.”</p> - -<p>He took her hand in his and pressed it gently.</p> - -<p>“I am not afraid of you,” she said; “I am just a bit afraid of what I am -doing.”</p> - -<p>He unlocked the front door, and they entered a large hall. An elderly -woman came in response to his ring.</p> - -<p>“Serve supper for two in an hour’s time,” he ordered. Then, turning to -Artemis, he asked: “Do you like wine, Lucette?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, no. Do not order me any supper,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292">{292}</a></span> I beg. I shall not be able to -eat to-night.”</p> - -<p>Puzzled and a little disturbed, he said:</p> - -<p>“Very well, dear. It shall be as you wish.”</p> - -<p>He dismissed his servant and turned to Artemis.</p> - -<p>“Do not be afraid. No harm shall come to you.”</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>An hour later they were again in the hall.</p> - -<p>“You can find your way home? You will be quite safe?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes: I shall be quite safe.”</p> - -<p>“You will come to see me again?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, no!... But perhaps I must. But I cannot think of that now. -Good-night, Onias.”</p> - -<p>“You are satisfied? You have enough money for what you need?”</p> - -<p>“You have given me more than I expected,” she said innocently.</p> - -<p>“And you do like me a bit?”</p> - -<p>“How can I say I like you? Indeed, I ought to hate you, but that would -be unreasonable. But, Onias.... Let me go.”</p> - -<p>“You are free to come and go as you please. If you wish to see me again -in the evening of any day, come to the café. If I am not there, I shall -be here and shall be very, very happy to receive you.”</p> - -<p>He opened the door and offered her the box of chocolates. Gently shaking -her head, she refused his pres<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293">{293}</a></span>ent.</p> - -<p>“Au revoir, Lucette,” he called softly when she was half-way down the -pathway.</p> - -<p>But though he listened very carefully, he did not hear her voice. -Indeed, by this time he was no longer in her thoughts. The three -twenty-five drachma notes he had given her were crushed into a ball in -one of her cold and trembling hands.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>When Artemis reached her lodgings, her husband was still asleep; but he -had evidently been very restless, for she could see by the light shed by -the lamp in the street that the sheet that had covered him was flung to -one side. He was lying on his back, with his arms stretched out on -either side of him.</p> - -<p>Cold and trembling, she stood looking down upon him in the -half-darkness. Soon her face was wet with tears, though she made no -sound; with a gesture of annoyance, she stopped weeping and conquered -her mood of self-pity.</p> - -<p>Having undressed, she crept into her little bed at the other side of the -room, and lay still, waiting for Jason to waken. The clocks outside -struck midnight. But Jason slept on in silence, and soon Artemis began -to wander in that land which lies midway between sleeping and waking.</p> - -<p>It was nearly two o’clock when her husband’s voice wakened her.</p> - -<p>“Yes, dear, I am here,” she said, slipping out of bed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294">{294}</a></span></p> - -<p>She lit the lamp, went into their other room, poured a glassful of milk -into a pan, and brought it to their bedroom where she heated it over the -lamp.</p> - -<p>“It’s nearly two o’clock,” she said; “you haven’t had such a good sleep -for a long time. Are you feeling better?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I think I am.”</p> - -<p>She held the cup while he drank its contents. Then she smoothed his -pillow and, taking a thin blanket from a cupboard, spread it over him.</p> - -<p>Without a word he closed his eyes and in a few minutes he slept.</p> - -<p>But there was no more sleep for Artemis. Though she had not a single -regret, yet she felt unspeakably miserable. Her reason approved of what -she had done, but her spirit revolted against it. She lived over and -over again the hours she had spent between nine and midnight, torturing -herself by remembering every detail.</p> - -<p>Soon after dawn she rose, dressed, put on her hat, and went forth to buy -food for Jason.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>What must be, must be, and it is only the hypocritical sentimentalist -who feels remorse for an act which he intends to commit again when the -occasion arises. Artemis neither suffered from remorse nor indulged in -it. Nor did she rail against the fate that compelled her to sell her -body in order that Jason might live. In certain moods she gloried in the -desecration of her body as a martyr glories in the flames that consume -him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295">{295}</a></span></p> - -<p>At the end of a fortnight, the seventy-five drachmas she had earned from -Onias was all but spent. Her spirits were very low. She felt weak and -ill, and as she stared at her reflection in the mirror she realized for -the first time that less money would come to her if she allowed herself -to look jaded and ill-nourished.</p> - -<p>Early one Sunday evening she left her lodgings, telling her husband that -she was going to visit her mother who lived two miles away on the -Kalamaria Road.</p> - -<p>When she entered the café it was nearly empty, for the evening was yet -young; so she sat down, ordered coffee, and waited, examining the -half-dozen demireps who had already arrived. They talked at each other -in hard, loud voices. Three, sitting together, sparkled with the vulgar -arrogance of diamonds; they behaved as though they had just been -injected with cocaine. After a glance at Artemis as she entered, they -paid no further attention to her.</p> - -<p>Customers began to drop in in couples, and by half-past eight the place -was nearly full. Artemis, shrinking in a corner, glanced eagerly at each -fresh face. She was looking for Onias. Perhaps she might have attracted -the attention of some other man if she had tried, but Onias had wished -to see her again, and he had at least treated her kindly. Besides, this -evening she was full of lassitude, and too timid to seek a new customer. -She would wait a little longer; if he did not come, she would go to his -house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296">{296}</a></span></p> - -<p>But presently he arrived with a woman—a frail creature who looked and -moved like a sulphur-coloured butterfly. Neither saw Artemis as they -passed, and her heart sank. He had forgotten her. He had asked her to -come again, not because he wanted her, but because he pitied her. She -must nerve herself to the point of engaging the interest of a stranger. -So she called for a glass of wine.</p> - -<p>In the meantime, Onias had passed up the café with his companion; -finding no vacant chairs at the far end, they retraced their steps and -sat down at a table only a few yards from Artemis.</p> - -<p>A waiter brought her wine and, as she glanced up at him, she saw that -Onias’ eyes were upon her. She heard his voice.</p> - -<p>“Ah, there’s Lucette!” he exclaimed.</p> - -<p>And, leaving his companion, who appeared to be quite indifferent to his -movements, he came across to Artemis, sat by her side, and smiled gaily -upon her.</p> - -<p>“Where have you been all this time, my dear?” he asked. Without waiting -for an answer, he continued: “But you are looking pale and tired, -Lucette. You have not been taking care of yourself; why have you not -been to see me?”</p> - -<p>She did her best to meet him in his mood.</p> - -<p>“I have seen no one,” she answered, “and the reason why I came here -to-night was because I hoped to meet you.”</p> - -<p>“That is very kind of you. Do you know<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297">{297}</a></span> Maisie, the English girl?”</p> - -<p>He indicated the sulphur-coloured butterfly.</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t know any one.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, well! It does not matter. You will come with me to-night?”</p> - -<p>Her grave, innocent face showed a moment’s confusion.</p> - -<p>“Thank you, yes. But I must be home early.”</p> - -<p>He laughed deprecatingly.</p> - -<p>“But Lucette, <i>you</i> mustn’t thank <i>me</i>. I am only too glad to have you. -Some time, perhaps, you will stay all night with me?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no: I don’t think I shall ever be able to do that. You promised you -would not be angry with me?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t like you to say things like that, Lucette; of course I am not -angry with you, and I never shall be while you are so honest and -truthful. But you, in your turn, must not be angry with me if I make you -eat something. I’m going to have some supper: I can’t eat alone: you -must join me.”</p> - -<p>“Very well,” she said, “I will.”</p> - -<p>She almost liked him, so indulgently did he treat her.</p> - -<p>“Excuse me a minute, please, while I explain to Maisie.”</p> - -<p>He went over to the beautiful girl, bent over her, and spoke a few -words. In reply, she shrugged her shoulders and turned away.</p> - -<p>“Ought you not to ask your friend to sup with you as well?” asked -Artemis when he had returned.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298">{298}</a></span></p> - -<p>He smiled.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Maisie and I are old friends; we understand each other.”</p> - -<p>He ordered wine and food.</p> - -<p>“But,” he said, turning to Artemis, “perhaps you would like us to have -supper in a private room?”</p> - -<p>“I should—very much,” she half-whispered, “for I feel strange here -among all these people.”</p> - -<p>“And so would I,” he agreed.</p> - -<p>“The summer-house, Monsieur, is not being used, if you would like that,” -said the waiter.</p> - -<p>Onias questioned Artemis with his eyebrows, and she nodded in reply.</p> - -<p>The large summer-house was cool and cushioned; concealed from the rest -of the garden by a high hedge, they were alone and unobserved. Onias -took his Lucette in his arms and kissed her gently.</p> - -<p>“I feel so sad about you,” he said; “won’t you tell me what is the -matter?”</p> - -<p>“Please don’t ask me about myself,” she said softly; “you must just -think of me as—as someone who pleases you for an hour.”</p> - -<p>“But perhaps I can help you?”</p> - -<p>“You <i>have</i> helped me. You must let me keep my sorrows to myself.”</p> - -<p>With their supper the waiter brought a little lamp with a shade the -colour of the evening sky. It was now almost dark in this garden. Two -large white moths dashed themselves impetuously against the lamp, their -eyes shining with excitement. Excited, too, was the owl that called and -called somewhere in the grove of pepper-trees<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299">{299}</a></span> behind them....</p> - -<p>As Artemis was about to leave Onias’ house that night, he placed five -twenty-five-drachma notes in her hand.</p> - -<p>“It is too much,” she said involuntarily.</p> - -<p>“Oh no: I like to give it to you.”</p> - -<p>“If it were for myself, I should not take it all; but it is for some one -who is dying.”</p> - -<p>“Poor Lucette! Some one you love?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. He has nothing but what I give him.”</p> - -<p>“I did not know that,” he said gravely. “Has life always been hard to -you?”</p> - -<p>“Oh no! It has been beautiful—beautiful. If only Jason were well, it -would be beautiful still. You know, Monsieur, he is like a little -child.”</p> - -<p>“Hush! hush! You must not call me Monsieur. To you I am Onias; to me you -are Lucette.... A little child?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. So helpless, so dependent upon me. And he does not want to die.”</p> - -<p>Sadly she turned away and walked towards the door.</p> - -<p>“You will see me again?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes—I will see you again.”</p> - -<p>He pondered a minute.</p> - -<p>“Now,” he said; “may I ask?—is Jason your husband?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, oh yes.”</p> - -<p>“You love him?”</p> - -<p>“He is all I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300">{300}</a></span>—all I need.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, you must come here no more. I will send you money.... But -while you love your husband, you must not do this. You have been -<i>driven</i> to my arms: it is wrong. Yes, I will send you money. Or, if you -would like it better, I will leave it each Saturday at the café. I will -write on the envelope ‘For Lucette.’ I will tell the waiter who served -us to-night. If you ask him each time you call, he will give you the -money.”</p> - -<p>“But, Onias, I can’t take it. I shall not have earned it.”</p> - -<p>He turned on her angrily.</p> - -<p>“Don’t talk nonsense! I have plenty of money. I don’t want it. If it -pleases me to give it to you, I shall give it to you.... Come, Lucette, -be sensible. We shall meet again, some day, and then we can kiss each -other without—without this guilt.”</p> - -<p>She took his hand impulsively in hers and kissed it.</p> - -<p>“Good-bye, Onias,” she said softly.</p> - -<p>“And you will call at the café each Saturday?”</p> - -<p>“I will.”</p> - -<p>“You promise?”</p> - -<p>“I promise.”</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>During these last September days Jason rallied. His appetite improved, -he grew stronger, and every day he was well enough to get out of bed, -dress, and sit in an easy-chair for two or three hours. He ceased to -lose flesh, and his eyes no longer had their unnatural brightness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301">{301}</a></span></p> - -<p>The old Greek doctor studied him attentively from day to day, and one -Saturday morning when Artemis was away at her work, he took Jason by the -hand and said:</p> - -<p>“You are not going to die, my son. You become healthier every day. A -miracle has happened.”</p> - -<p>“A miracle?” asked Jason.</p> - -<p>The doctor smiled.</p> - -<p>“Well, when we medical people come across something we don’t understand, -we call it a miracle. But you must continue to take the greatest care of -yourself, especially when the cold weather comes. If you could go to -Egypt for the winter....”</p> - -<p>Jason laughed.</p> - -<p>“Flying to the moon is not more unlikely than my going to Egypt....”</p> - -<p>When Artemis returned from her work early in the afternoon, tired, but -not unhappy—for the improvement in her husband’s health had filled her -with hope—Jason was up and dressed.</p> - -<p>“A miracle has happened!” he announced, laughing. And then, hurriedly -and impetuously, he told her of the doctor’s visit.</p> - -<p>“Oh, is it true?” she asked. “It is too wonderful! I <i>daren’t</i> believe -it, Jason.”</p> - -<p>Placing the parcels she was carrying on a chair, she flung her arms -about his neck and kissed him.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my boy, my boy!” she cried.</p> - -<p>Worn out with the week’s work in the daytime and the nursing by night, -she could not keep back her tears; her sobs, deep and convul<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302">{302}</a></span>sive, -revealed to him the extent of the suffering she had so bravely endured -through the past few months....</p> - -<p>At teatime he returned to bed, and she prepared to go out.</p> - -<p>“Sleep, if you can, Jason dear,” she said. “I am going to do the -shopping for the weekend.”</p> - -<p>She hurried off to the café with a light heart. The envelope with her -weekly seventy-five drachmas was waiting for her. As she was leaving, -she met Onias at the entrance.</p> - -<p>“Hello, Lucette!” he said, smiling and shaking hands; “how are you?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Onias—Jason is getting better! The doctor came this morning and -said he wouldn’t die. If great care is taken of him, he will live. I am -so happy that I can hardly contain myself—and if it had not been for -your money....”</p> - -<p>Her eyes were now bright with tears.</p> - -<p>“Are you in a hurry to get home?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“No, not if you want me.”</p> - -<p>“I should like to take you for an hour’s row. You look so tired and -pale, and it will do you good. Will you come?”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes: I should like it.”</p> - -<p>Artemis’ experience of the world was very narrow. Until recently she had -always believed that men and women were either definitely good or -unmistakably evil. Onias, she supposed, was “bad,” and yet it was hard -to believe that this gentle, kind-hearted fellow was even tainted by -evil. She was quite sure now that she really liked him—not because of -his handsome looks<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303">{303}</a></span> and his fine, strong body, but because....</p> - -<p>It was very pleasant to be with him here on the cool sea....</p> - -<p>At nine o’clock she returned home, her arms full of parcels.</p> - -<p>Jason, a little feverish, was tossing on his bed. He was frowning, and -he looked angry.</p> - -<p>“You have left me alone for a long time,” he said; “where have you -been?”</p> - -<p>Startled, and having no answer ready, she said:</p> - -<p>“I went to see mother. Have you been wanting me, dear?”</p> - -<p>“No. Had your mother any news?”</p> - -<p>Artemis suddenly felt sick: she had told one lie, and now she would be -compelled to tell many more.</p> - -<p>“Nothing much. But I felt I <i>had</i> to tell her about you. She was simply -overwhelmed with joy, as you can well imagine, and she sent all sorts of -nice messages to you.”</p> - -<p>Jason sat up in bed, his face wet with perspiration. His eyes were -brilliant with the brilliant hardness of polished glass. He looked at -Artemis imploringly.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what has happened to me—to us,” he said. “Why do you tell -me such lies?” The sound of that last word seemed to whip him to anger. -“And where have you been getting all your money from?”</p> - -<p>She shrank away from him and went to the table near the window.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304">{304}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I’ve told you where the money comes from. My brother in London sends -it. He has sent it regularly ever since I told him you were ill.”</p> - -<p>But she knew that the very tone of her voice betrayed her.</p> - -<p>“You only tell lies to me because I am helpless; you wouldn’t dare to do -it if I were well and strong. You have not seen your mother to-day. She -came here just after you left, and went home only half an hour ago.”</p> - -<p>He lay down on his pillow, exhausted and breathing heavily.</p> - -<p>With feverish anxiety Artemis searched her mind for another lie that -would reconcile her own statement with the real facts. But she could -find none.</p> - -<p>“I have deceived you, Jason,” she said.</p> - -<p>“I know, I know,” he said sorrowfully.</p> - -<p>He did not ask her why, but turned his face to the wall. After a few -moments’ silence, he said:</p> - -<p>“You will find a letter on the mantelpiece: it is from your brother in -London. When you told me that he was sending you money, I wrote to thank -him. But he now asks what I mean. He says he has never sent you a penny, -and cannot do so as his wife is seriously ill.”</p> - -<p>Artemis sat down heavily.</p> - -<p>“Don’t say anything unless you can tell me the truth,” went on Jason; “I -will try to believe you had a good reason for what you have done.”</p> - -<p>Artemis, feeling that her small world had suddenly fallen into a black -abyss, sat still and silent for a long time; then, with an effort, she -stirre<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305">{305}</a></span>d herself and went about her work.</p> - -<p>She dared not speak, for perhaps a single word would betray her. Her -secret would lie between her and her husband for ever, separating them -wider as the years passed, until, perhaps, they became strangers, even -enemies.</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>Ten days later Jason died in bed whilst Artemis was away at her work. In -a prolonged fit of coughing he broke a blood-vessel, and passed away -with his mind full of dark suspicions regarding his wife.</p> - -<p>Artemis, worn out with anxiety, her mind poisoned, her spirit broken, -felt no shock at his death. She was already numb with suffering: she -could feel no more.</p> - -<p>She buried him without tears, and a few days later left her lodgings and -took a single room in one of those ill-famed streets that lead down to -the quay. To her mother’s invitation to make a home with her she replied -that for the present she preferred to be alone with her grief.</p> - -<p>Throwing herself into her work with a feverish anxiety to forget, she -passed a few days, successfully keeping at bay the suspicion—now almost -a certainty—that she was even now only in the midst of her calamities. -Even if she could forget, her sorrows were not yet over.</p> - -<p>One restless night, when sleep was impossible, her spirit threw off its -numbness, and for the first time for many weeks she looked facts in the -face, and, speaking aloud, said:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306">{306}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I am with child, and the father of the child is Onias.”</p> - -<p class="asts"></p> - -<p>At the end of November the Varda winds came. Artemis never ventured out -of doors except to go to and from her work and to buy the simple -necessaries of life. Since her husband’s death she had not visited the -café. She had, however, written to Onias, thanking him for his -generosity, and telling him of the death of Jason. At the same time she -asked him not to send her any more money, as she no longer needed it.</p> - -<p>During these months her mind had been full of evasions and duplicities. -To think was to suffer; to look into the future was to be filled with -anxiety. If, as so often happened, thoughts of Jason came to her, she -thrust them from her.</p> - -<p>Day by day Onias meant more to her. Each Sunday, as she sat sewing -little garments for his and her baby, she tried to recall every word he -had spoken to her. There were hours when she thought of him with -tenderness, almost with love. He was the father of her child. Jason had -never been that.</p> - -<p>She began to make discreet inquiries about Onias, but without much -result. As she sat in her little room during the winter evenings, she -dreamed impossible dreams. She pictured herself married to Onias, -protected and loved by him. There was no more anxiety about money, no -more fear of the future. Her child would....</p> - -<p>In the middle of one of these dreams, she was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307">{307}</a></span> thrown back into the -realities of life by the flame of her lamp burning low and expiring. She -had neither oil nor money. She must sit in darkness.</p> - -<p>But why should she endure small privations day after day when Onias was -ready and anxious to receive her? After all, he wanted her and, in her -heart of hearts, she wanted him. She must conquer her timidity. If she -told Onias what had happened to her through him.... Well, why shouldn’t -she? She would claim nothing from him; she would ask for nothing. She -would go to see him as an old acquaintance, an old friend.</p> - -<p>She sat in the dark screwing her courage to the sticking-point. She -longed yet dreaded to go. At last—</p> - -<p>“I will go to the café—he may be there,” she said. “I will meet him as -though by accident.”</p> - -<p>Having hurriedly donned her hat and cloak, she went out into the bitter, -stormy night....</p> - -<p>The warmth of the café welcomed her. The place was crowded, and for a -few moments she could not distinguish one person from another in the -smoke-laden atmosphere.</p> - -<p>When half-way down the long room she felt a gentle pressure on her arm -and, turning, saw Onias.</p> - -<p>“Well, Lucette!” he exclaimed, holding out his hand.</p> - -<p>She smiled up at him, her face radiant with joy. His very voice seemed -to caress her. He took her hand and held it for a few moments.</p> - -<p>“Are you alone?” he asked.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308">{308}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Yes,” she answered; “may I sit with you?”</p> - -<p>“Will you? Come along—I’ll find you a chair.”</p> - -<p>He had been sitting with a group of men and women friends, but he left -them and, taking Artemis’ arm, led her to the farthest end of the café -where, in a little alcove, he found a vacant table with two chairs.</p> - -<p>“Now tell me all the news. What has happened to you since your husband -died?—good things or bad?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing—nothing,” she said. “I felt very lonely to-night, so I came -here.”</p> - -<p>“Poor little Lucette! And are you happy?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—now, I am happy with you.”</p> - -<p>“And to-night?” he asked in a low voice. “You will come to my house -to-night? You will stay till to-morrow?”</p> - -<p>“I should like to, but, Onias....”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Lucette? Don’t be afraid. What is it you want to tell me?”</p> - -<p>“You will not mind?”</p> - -<p>His face suddenly changed its expression.</p> - -<p>“No, I shall not mind,” he said.</p> - -<p>A waiter came to their table for orders.</p> - -<p>“You will have wine, won’t you, Lucette?”</p> - -<p>“Please. Some Mavrodaphne, I think.”</p> - -<p>When the waiter had gone, Lucette still remained silent.</p> - -<p>“Now,” said Onias, “tell me.”</p> - -<p>“I am going to have a baby,” she said haltingly.</p> - -<p>“Oh! A baby? You are going to ha<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309">{309}</a></span>ve a baby?”</p> - -<p>All the pleasantness had gone from his face.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she answered; “and the baby is....” She hesitated in confusion. -Then: “Yes, I am going to have a little baby,” she added.</p> - -<p>There was a long silence during which Onias drew away from her.</p> - -<p>“Are you glad?” he asked at length.</p> - -<p>Her hands were clasped very tightly, and she pulled savagely at the -wedding-ring she was wearing.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” she answered.</p> - -<p>The waiter returned to their table with their drinks. Onias gulped his -down hastily.</p> - -<p>“I am going to Marseilles to-morrow,” he said casually.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” exclaimed Artemis, in sudden pain. “Marseilles is a long way off, -isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, a very long way. I shall be there for a year.”</p> - -<p>His voice was cold, his manner distant. He took a cigar from his pocket -and began to smoke it.</p> - -<p>“Won’t you drink your wine?” he asked.</p> - -<p>She sipped it for a moment, and then put the glass down.</p> - -<p>“I don’t want it,” she said. “I—I think I’d like to go home.”</p> - -<p>“Shall I order you a cab?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, no! I will walk.”</p> - -<p>They rose simultaneously.</p> - -<p>“Please stay where you are,” <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310">{310}</a></span>she said; “I would much rather go by -myself. Good-night.”</p> - -<p>“Good-night,” he said, striving to hide the relief he felt.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311">{311}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_GRANDCHILD" id="THE_GRANDCHILD"></a>THE GRANDCHILD</h2> - -<p class="toot"> -To<br /> -X<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312">{312}</a></span> </p> - -<h3><span class="smcap">Scene I</span><br /> - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313">{313}</a></span> - -<i>In Guy Fallon’s Garden</i></h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> What you have never understood, dear, is that mamma is terribly -indelicate. Proper people nearly always are.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mariana.</span> Yes, but.... How <i>can</i> she?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> I don’t know. But she’s doing it now, this very minute. Imagine -Guy’s blushes.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mariana.</span> Poor Guy! But, really, if it’s any one’s duty to ask him, -surely it’s yours?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> But I <i>have</i> asked him! He always says no. He detests -children—or, at least, he says he does. It’s a disease with mamma. “How -I should like to hold a grandchild on my knee ... the patter of its -little feet ... its first childish attempts to talk ... its soft smooth -cheeks.” That’s how she goes on. Really, she embarrasses even me.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mariana.</span> Well, I s’pose it’s only natural. But what does your papa say?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> Oh, it hasn’t got as far as that; I hope it never will. You see, -mamma will only amuse Guy; papa would make him angry. After all, dear, -it’s very soon. And you must remember that even mamma only had <i>one</i>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mariana.</span> ’M yes. She needn’t talk, need she?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> But she does. She has asked me all sorts of questions about Guy.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mariana.</span> Yes? What sort of questions?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> <i>Mariana!</i> As if I’d tell you!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mariana.</span> Do—<i>please</i>!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> Can’t you guess?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314">{314}</a></span></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mariana.</span> I’ve tried—hard. But, you see, I know so little about these -things. In fact, I know nothing at all.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> These things?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mariana.</span> Well, you know what I mean.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> Oh! you might mean anything.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mariana.</span> I do.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> If you were married, now, I <i>might</i>.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mariana.</span> I should love to be there, listening.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> It’s a grandson she wants. She’ll <i>order</i> it from Guy. And he -will look so awfully solemn and feel so frightfully tickled.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mariana.</span> Oh, I <i>do</i> wish I was married. It must be so -tremendously—well, exciting. So unexpected, you know—the things that -happen, I mean.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> Well, it <i>is</i> rather wonderful at first. I have a friend in -Brussels—Elise Deschamps. The other day she wrote me such a funny -letter. She wanted to know whether she ought to behave just naturally or -pretend to be shy.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mariana.</span> And what did you say?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> What <i>could</i> I say?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mariana.</span> Really, Katya, you’re frightfully exasperating. You always seem -to be on the point of telling me things, but you never do.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> Well, there’s nothing to tell—nothing, that is, that you don’t -know already.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mariana.</span> Oh, how dreadfully disappointing! Isn’t there really more in it -than that?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> Than what?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mariana.</span> Than what I know already.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> But what <i>do</i> you know?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315">{315}</a></span></p> - -<p class="asts">* * *</p> - -<h3><span class="smcap">Scene II</span><br /> -<i>In Guy Fallon’s Library</i></h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Kontorompa.</span> I was just saying the same thing as I came upstairs. -“What an <i>ex</i>quisite day!” That’s what I was saying.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> But a trifle too hot.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> Ye—es. [<i>A long pause.</i>] Oh yes, quite.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> Seen Katya?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> I waved my hand to her in the garden as I came up the drive.... -How <i>is</i> Katya, Guy?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> Tophole.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> [<i>Significantly.</i>] Have you anything to tell me about—well, -about Katya?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> Let me see, now.... N-no; I think not. She bought three new hats -yesterday, but I haven’t seen them yet.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> What I meant was.... Well, it’s no use beating about the -bush—<i>how is she</i>?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> But I’ve already told you, mamma. She has the appetite of a horse.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> Nothing at all? well—quite?... no sign that?... <i>you</i> know!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> I wish I did. What is it you want me to tell you?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> Just the truth—the honest, simple truth.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> [<i>Wilfully misunderstanding her.</i>] Oh, your <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316">{316}</a></span>new toque! How stupid -I am! I think it’s simply splendid. But you always do look nice in pink.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> [<i>Beaming.</i>] How sweet of you, Guy! But that wasn’t it.... Have -you ever considered, Guy, that I should like to be a grandmother?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> No. Would you really? Really and truly?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> Yes, Guy. The patter of little feet, the ... the soft, smooth -cheeks....</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> But I detest children.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> Ah! You’ll never make me believe that. No good man hates -children.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> No, I s’pose not. But then, mamma, I’m not good. I remember that -when I was a boy....</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> But poor Katya! Consider her. Consider me.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> In what way?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> You—you know perfectly well what I mean. If I could only be the -grandmother of <i>one</i> child—well, that would be something, wouldn’t it?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> It would be a great deal.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> For my part, I had four brothers and three sisters. My -grandmother had seventy-three grandchildren.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> Yes, people were very thorough half a century ago. Quite like the -Old Testament.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> But you will promise, won’t you?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317">{317}</a></span>Do you know, mamma, you have the manner of being most direct and -open, but as a matter of fact you are speaking in riddles. Now, tell -me—what is it you want me to promise you?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> I don’t quite know.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> I thought you didn’t.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> You see, Katya is so reticent in these matters. But you’ll do -your best, I’m sure. To win over Katya, I mean. That is, if it <i>is</i> -Katya.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> Who is to blame, you mean?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> Oh, I shouldn’t say “blame.” Although if it goes on much longer, -I may. But you’ll think it over, eh? That is the most I can expect at -our first interview on this subject.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> There are to be others?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> If necessary.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> But, mamma, you don’t know how much at sea I feel. As a matter of -fact, I’m not absolutely certain that we’re both talking about the same -thing. Will you tell me what <i>you</i> have been talking about?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> N-no. You tell me first.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> I daren’t.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> That’s it! We <i>are</i> talking about the same thing. I felt sure we -were.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> Well, so long as you’re satisfied, mamma....</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> I shall look forward to it with the greatest pleasure. You see, -you’ve got such a big house. I should have this room, if I were you. -Bars across the windows, and so on.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> But the stairs!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> A little wicket ga<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318">{318}</a></span>te on the landing. They begin to prowl about -quite early. I remember Katya eighteen years ago—<i>always</i> on her hands -and knees!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> She’s in the garden with Mariana.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> Yes, I saw her.... Well, then, <i>that’s</i> settled.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> One can only do what one can.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> Yes, win her over, Guy: win her over.</p> - -<p class="asts">* * *</p> - -<h3><span class="smcap">Scene III</span><br /> -<i>In Guy Fallon’s Garden</i></h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Kontorompa.</span> What an <i>ex</i>quisite day! How do you do?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mariana.</span> How do you do? Yes, isn’t it?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> We’ve been talking, Katya.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> Yes?... I think the fuchsias are better than ever this year, -don’t you, mamma?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> Yes, darling. Oh, Katya, I <i>am</i> so pleased.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> How nice, mamma! I like you to be happy. But what has happened?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> Oh—er—nothing. Nothing that I know of. But Guy has promised -to....</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mariana.</span> I’m afraid I must be really going now, Katya, dear.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> Oh, don’t run away just because I’ve come.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mariana.</span> Oh, Mrs. Kontorompa, it wasn’t that. But, you see..<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319">{319}</a></span>..</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> Mariana feels embarrassed.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mariana.</span> Oh—no, dear: why should I?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> You felt that mamma was going to say something.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> Yes—that’s quite right. You’ve reminded me. Katya, I was going -to say that Guy has promised to....</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> To do my best to....</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> Win you over.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> Me? Win <i>me</i> over? To what?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> Bars on the window—a wicket-gate on the landing.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> But I <i>am</i> won over. I always have been.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> Then it <i>is</i> your fault, Guy.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> If I’d only known! You see, you never told me.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mariana.</span> How mysterious all this sounds.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> Well, Mariana, this is how it stands. You see, Guy and Katya -have been married three years and....</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mariana.</span> Oh yes: quite. <i>I</i> understand. <i>Good</i>-bye, Mrs. Kontorompa. -Good-bye, Katya. Goo....</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> <i>Really</i>, mamma.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> <i>Really</i>, mamma.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> Oh, dear, dear! What <i>have</i> I said?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> Ah, here’s tea coming!</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> Oh, I can’t stop. I must hurry home and tell papa the good news. -So <i>very</i> satisfactory! These modern times—the things people <i>do</i>. -Don’t they, dear?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mariana.</span> And don’t do, too.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320">{320}</a></span></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. K.</span> Yes. Well, Guy, I keep you to your word. I shall expect to hear -some news shortly. Good-bye, dear Katya. <i>So</i> satisfactory. Take care of -yourself, dear.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Guy.</span> Why, what has happened, Katya?</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Katya.</span> Nothing. Mother merely anticipates.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321">{321}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="NERVES" id="NERVES"></a>NERVES</h2> - -<p class="toot"> -To<br /> -Sievek<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322">{322}</a></span>ing Pollard<br /> -</p> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span>HEN Dr. Julian Sylvester arrived at Doiran, he took a room at the house -of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323">{323}</a></span> Draco’s mother, and his mule was put to grass in the fields behind -the town. Draco, rather shy, but hot with curiosity, carried his baggage -upstairs—a large trunk, six wooden boxes clamped with iron, and a small -sack of provisions. Placing these on the floor against the wall, he -turned to leave, but stopped when Sylvester called him.</p> - -<p>“You speak Greek, eh?” asked the doctor.</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir, and Bulgarian as well.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I’m going to stay here a week—see? And I want you to get me a -young and strong guide—a man who knows the country—every yard of it. -I’m collecting butterflies and taking photographs.”</p> - -<p>Draco’s face lit up and shone.</p> - -<p>“See here—this is the kind of thing,” said Sylvester, going down on his -knees and opening one of the wooden boxes with a key he took from his -pocket. “By the way, what is your name?”</p> - -<p>“Draco.”</p> - -<p>“Draco—right. Well, mine is Sylvester.”</p> - -<p>“Xilvesta?”</p> - -<p>“That’s near enough. Now, Draco, look at these bottles. Butterflies—all -butterflies, see? And here are some photographs I took outside Salonika. -I want more butterflies, more photographs. Ten drachmæ a day for the man -who’ll come with me and show me where to find what I want.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll come, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Will you? Yes, I think you’ll do. You look strong enough.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324">{324}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Draco was dark and bronzed and tall. He had quick, restless eyes, and a -smile that said: “How fine it is to be alive!”</p> - -<p>“Well, that’s a bargain, see?” said Sylvester. “We’ll start to-morrow at -six.”</p> - -<p>If ever there was a man made for the open air, that man was Draco. He -accepted his mother’s cottage as one of the unavoidable evils of life. -And he was a born hunter. His eyes swallowed everything, and his quick -elastic step was as graceful as the walk of a thoroughbred. His mind was -stored with facts. To look at his eager face with its large, vehement -eyes and sensitive mouth—all so desperately alive—was to receive the -impression that here was a man who, even in his sleep, could never be -entirely at rest. The sun, one felt, was in his blood. He was as -unstable and fluid as quicksilver.</p> - -<p>Sylvester took to him at once, and in their day-long walks over the -lonely, uninhabited mountains he learned many curious things from the -man who, engaged as a servant, at once became a friend.</p> - -<p>It was during one of these walks that, peering over a precipitous cliff, -they saw a golden eagle standing on a ledge below them. They lay -watching it for a long time, the almost vertical sun smiting their prone -bodies.</p> - -<p>“Its nest is sure to be somewhere near, Draco. I would give a hundred -drachmæ to get a photograph of the female sitting on her eggs.”</p> - -<p>“That <i>is</i> the female,” said Draco, who was examining the bird through -Sylvester’s field-glasses.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325">{325}</a></span></p> - -<p>Presently, the great bird rose, flapped its heavy, bright wings, and -flew upwards until it had reached a ledge thirty feet below the two -watchers. There, just visible, was its nest.</p> - -<p>“Ah!” breathed Sylvester, drawing himself away, and sitting down well -out of sight of the eagle. “Can it be done, Draco? Can we get down to -her?”</p> - -<p>Draco was still looking down at the bird, his face alive with -excitement. He stayed there a long time. When, at length, he joined -Sylvester, his face and bared chest and arms were covered with sweat. He -pressed his hands to his forehead.</p> - -<p>“Yes, it can be done. But we shall want ropes. I could climb down with -the camera, fix it up a yard or two from the nest, return here and pull -up the rope. After that, it’s simply a matter of waiting for her to -settle again. The only thing is—have you got enough tubing? I reckon -you’ll want about thirty-five feet.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes: I’ve plenty of tubing. It’s a great find this, Draco. If only -we can pull it off, see? Now, what do you say?—shall we leave it till -to-morrow, or go back home now, get our ropes and tubing, and come back -this evening an hour or so before sunset?”</p> - -<p>“Just as you like. But this evening would be a splendid time; for we -shall then have the sun shining straight on the nest.”</p> - -<p>As he spoke, he again pressed his hands against his forehead. He licked -his lips with the tip of his tongue.</p> - -<p>“You look a bit overwrought, Draco. Are you feeling all right?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326">{326}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Well, it’s my eyes. The sun has got into them. My head aches a bit—but -it’s nothing.”</p> - -<p>They made their way down the hot, broken rocks until they saw Doiran, -white and gleaming, at their feet. Beyond was the wonderful blue lake, -and beyond the lake rose the Belashitza Mountains cutting the sky with -their fanged crests.</p> - -<p>“How wonderful it is!” exclaimed Sylvester.</p> - -<p>Draco gazed on the scene with his swollen pupils.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he agreed. “I never, never get tired of it. I was born down -there.”</p> - -<p>It was now midday and the sun was at its hottest. The atmosphere danced -before them liquidly. No birds sang, for it was Pan’s hour. The sun had -smitten that world to silence.</p> - -<p>Five hours later they were again climbing the mountains. Draco’s head -was one intolerable ache, but he made no complaint. He had been like -this before; it would soon pass.</p> - -<p>But when they had nearly reached their destination, he was compelled to -stop and lie down in the shade of a rock.</p> - -<p>“You are feverish, Draco, see?” said Sylvester. “You really ought not to -have come out a second time. You’ve got a touch of the sun. Look here: -we’ll go back and come again to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Draco, “no.”</p> - -<p>And he tried to rise; but, his legs crumpling up beneath the weight of -his body, he fell down and lay full-length on the bare rock.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327">{327}</a></span></p> - -<p>Sylvester sat down by his side, took off his coat, folded it into a -pillow, and placed it beneath Draco’s head.</p> - -<p>For half an hour they remained in silence; then:</p> - -<p>“I feel better now,” said Draco.</p> - -<p>“Good. But you mustn’t go any farther. Do you feel fit to walk back?”</p> - -<p>“You go alone—to the nest, I mean. Can you climb down the rope and up -again?”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes: I’ve done that sort of thing many a time.”</p> - -<p>“Well, you go alone. I’ll wait here until you return. As soon as it gets -cool I shall feel much better. You are bound to come this way on your -way back.”</p> - -<p>“Very well, I’ll do that. Sure you’re well enough to be left alone?”</p> - -<p>Draco, his eyes large and bloodshot, glanced at his companion and -laughed.</p> - -<p>“Of course. This is not the first time I’ve been left alone in the -mountains.”</p> - -<p>Sylvester disappeared round the corner, and Draco, closing his eyes, -soon fell asleep. He breathed heavily, and for two hours he did not -move. The air grew cooler, and the sun was lurching fantastically behind -the mountain-tops when he awoke. The pain had gone, but he awoke with an -acute feeling of apprehension. For a moment or two, he could not -remember where he was or how he came to be there. Then, remembering -Sylvester,</p> - -<p>“It’s time he was back,” he said to himself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328">{328}</a></span></p> - -<p>He looked at the sun: in an hour it would be dark.</p> - -<p>Scrambling to his feet, he hastened up the mountain, his heart beating -rapidly with a fear that he had never felt for himself. He blamed -himself for allowing Sylvester to go alone, for, after all, it was a job -for two men. Increasing his pace every minute, he reached the place, -breathless and alarmed.</p> - -<p>The rope was there. One end of it was securely fastened round a boulder. -Lying down at the edge of the cliff, Draco peered over and saw the other -end of the rope resting on the ledge; by its side was the camera. But -there was no sign of Sylvester.</p> - -<p>Seized by panic, Draco shouted into the chasm below.</p> - -<p>“Dr. Sylvester! Dr. Sylvester!”</p> - -<p>But the great spaces swallowed up the sound of his voice. A vulture swam -past him and disappeared. Again he called and, straining, listened. No -answer. No sound. Almost mad with a fear that crawled into his very -vitals, he shouted again and again without pause.</p> - -<p>Dark blue shadows crept out of the rocks; the purple sky darkened. He -could no longer see the ledge below him.</p> - -<p>It was then that his nerves conquered him and he became their victim.</p> - -<p>He rose and, running, retraced his steps. Anxiety made havoc of his -reason. If only he knew the worst! Almost blindly he ran, but instinct -and knowledge guided him.</p> - -<p>Half-way down the mountains he pulled him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329">{329}</a></span>self up suddenly. He had -thought himself incapable of further suffering, but now he felt a pain -like a fretted blade sawing at his brain. Why, they would say that he -had murdered Sylvester! Who would believe his story? Would even his -mother believe it? It was as clear as the sun. He had taken Sylvester up -into the mountains, had robbed him, and then thrown him over the cliff! -His body would never be found in those inaccessible heights!</p> - -<p>He stood, chilled and trembling. Oh, God! if he only <i>knew</i>!</p> - -<p>Then reason left him. He scrambled hither and thither on the rocks on -hands and knees, calling “Sylvester! Sylvester!” as he went. His hands -and knees were bleeding, and something like blood seemed to be washing -about within his brain. Occasionally, he stopped with exhaustion, but on -each occasion before he had got back his breath he started again, saying -aloud: “I must waste no time. Where is he? Where is he?”</p> - -<p>The inhumanly human cry of jackals desolated the night. He paused and -imitated them. Then, having scrambled faster and faster in the dark, he -lay full-length, his airless lungs seeming to be about to burst open his -great, hairy chest.</p> - -<p>The pale-green dawn came up the sky and washed the rocks with its -colour. Looking around him he saw close at hand the rope by which -Sylvester had climbed down the face of the cliff. The place seemed -friendly: here he could find release.</p> - -<p>He stepped to the edge of the cliff and looked down. A fain<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330">{330}</a></span>t mist -clouded the hollow below where his companion was lying. For a moment he -swayed, and then, with a start, drew back. He tried to totter over the -brink, but could not. Something held him back—fear!</p> - -<p>With an effort he fixed his mind on death and on the desire for death. -And again he tried to let his body go. But it hung stupidly back: he had -a coward’s body.</p> - -<p>He would try another way. Having walked fifty paces away from the -cliff’s edge, he turned about and began to run, his crimson hands and -knees dropping blood as he went. As he neared the edge, his body -instinctively tried to stop. But it was too late, the momentum he had -gathered was too great. Mind had conquered matter, and he ran and -vanished into space.</p> - -<p>At that moment, Dr. Sylvester, tired and weary-eyed, entered the cottage -of Draco’s mother. He had been walking all night.</p> - -<p class="fint">THE END</p> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Tales of a Cruel Country, by Gerald Cumberland - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF A CRUEL COUNTRY *** - -***** This file should be named 60272-h.htm or 60272-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/2/7/60272/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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