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diff --git a/old/67322-0.txt b/old/67322-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 26fa61f..0000000 --- a/old/67322-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6885 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of In a Canadian Canoe, by Barry Pain - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: In a Canadian Canoe - The Nine Muses Minus One and Other Stories - -Author: Barry Pain - -Release Date: February 4, 2022 [eBook #67322] - -Language: English - -Produced by: David E. Brown and The Online Distributed Proofreading Team - at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - generously made available by The Internet Archive/American - Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN A CANADIAN CANOE *** - - - - - -IN A CANADIAN CANOE - - - - - IN A CANADIAN - CANOE - - THE NINE MUSES MINUS ONE - _AND OTHER STORIES_ - - BY - BARRY PAIN - - [Illustration] - - London and New York - HARPER AND BROTHERS - 45, ALBEMARLE STREET, W. - 1898 - - - - - TO - A. N. L. - - - - -PREFACE. - - -My thanks are due to the Editor of “The Granta” for permission to -reprint “In a Canadian Canoe,” “The Nine Muses Minus One,” and “The -Celestial Grocery.” They have been carefully revised, and considerable -additions have been made. The rest of the volume has not appeared -before, so far as I know. - -Although this book appears in a “Library of Wit and Humour,” I have not -tried to make it _all_ witty and humorous: I wanted there to be some -background. I am not sure that I have not made it _all_ background. - - B. P. - - CLEMENT’S INN, - _July 1891_. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - - IN A CANADIAN CANOE-- - - I. On Art and Sardines,--but more especially Sardines 1 - - II. On Exaltation: together with an Anecdote from the - “Entertainments” of Kapnides 8 - - III. On Self-Deception: together with the Dream of the - Dean’s Preparations 15 - - IV. On Reflection: to which is added the Story of the Tin - Heart 22 - - V. A Storm on the Backs; and a Story of Three 29 - - VI. On Loafing: together with a Second Anecdote from the - “Entertainments” of Kapnides 37 - - VII. On Causes: with an Excursus on Luck 44 - - VIII. On Solitude: with a Third Anecdote from the - “Entertainments” of Kapnides 51 - - IX. On Associations: together with a Last Anecdote from the - “Entertainments” of Kapnides 58 - - - THE NINE MUSES MINUS ONE-- - - I. Clio’s Story: Charles Marius 66 - - II. Euterpe’s Story: The Girl and the Minstrel 75 - - III. Terpsichore’s Story: The Under-Study 83 - - IV. Melpomene’s Story: The Cursed Pig 90 - - V. Polymnia’s Story: An Hour of Death 97 - - VI. Calliope’s Story: The Last Straw 105 - - VII. Thalia’s Story: The Camel who never got started 113 - - VIII. Urania’s Story: Number One hundred and Three 121 - - - THE CELESTIAL GROCERY: A FANTASIA 129 - - - “BILL” 150 - - - THE GIRL AND THE BEETLE: A STORY OF HERE AND HEREAFTER 164 - - - - -IN A CANADIAN CANOE. - - - - -I. - -ON ART AND SARDINES--BUT MORE ESPECIALLY SARDINES. - - -There is no pleasanter, sweeter, healthier spot than the Backs of the -Colleges. - -Get into your canoe at Silver Street. Put into that canoe:-- - -(1) The cushions of three other boats. - -(2) Two pipes, in order that one may be always cool, and tobacco. - -(3) One dozen boxes of matches, in order that one box may be always -handy. - -(4) The spiritual part of your nature, which will not take up much -room, but is useful to talk to. - -But do not take another man with you. I may frankly say, my reader, -that you are absolutely the only man I know who has the keen -appreciativeness, the capacity for quiet meditation, the dreaminess, -the listlessness, the abominable laziness, that a Canadian canoe -requires. - -The man who would attempt to get pace on in a Canadian canoe probably -would analyse the want of harmony in the death-song which a swan never -sings--or worse than that. - -The man who would try to make a Canadian canoe go where he wanted would -be angry, because the inspiration of a poet does not always disappoint -the expectations of a commonplace nature. You must go where the boat -wants to go; and that depends upon wind and current, and on the number -of other boats that run into you, and the way they do it, and the -language of their occupants. - - * * * * * - -What a beautiful thing it is to lie at full length on the cushions, and -see the sky through the trees--only the angels see the trees through -the sky. My boat has taken me round to the back of Queen’s, and stopped -just short of that little bridge. It is all old and familiar. The fowls -coo as they cooed yesterday. The same two men in the same tub have the -same little joke with one another in getting under the low bridge. -Farther up, there is precisely the same number of flies on the same -dead and putrescent animal. My boat went up to look at it, but could -not stay. The recoil sent it back here; and here, apparently, it means -to stop. You may take my word for it that a Canadian canoe knows a -thing or two. - -I wish I could paint the song of the birds and set the beauty of -the trees to music. But there is a prejudice against it. Music is -masculine, Art is feminine, and Poetry is their child. The baby Poetry -will play with any one; but its parents observe the division of sexes. -That is why Nature is so decent and pleasant. I would treat her to -some poetry if I did but know the names of things. For instance, I -have no idea what that bird is, and asparagus is the only tree which I -recognise at sight. - -I suppose you know that Art and Music are separated now. They sometimes -meet, but they never speak. In the vacation I met them both one night -by the edge of the sea; but they did not notice me. Art was busy in -catching the effect of the moonlight and the lights on the pier. She -did it well, and made it more beautiful than the reality seemed. Music -listened to the wash of the waves, the thin sound of the little pebbles -drawn back into the sea, and the constant noise of a low wind. He -sat at a big organ, which was hidden from my sight by dark curtains -of cloud; and as he played the music of all things came out into a -song which was better than all things: for Art and Music are not only -imitative, but creative. At present they are allowed to create only -shadows, by the rules of the game. But I have been told that the -old quarrel between them--I have no conception what the quarrel was -about--will be made up one day, and they will love one another again. -Their younger child, who will then be born, will take unto himself the -strength and beauty of Art and Music and Poetry. He will be different -from all three, and his name is not fixed yet. - -Oh, confound the boat! I wish I’d tied it up. It’s just taken the -painter between its teeth, and whipped sharp round and bolted. Woa, my -lass, steady! It’s a little fresh, you see, not having been out before -this week. I _beg_ your pardon, sir--_entirely_ my fault. - -I don’t think he need have been so offensively rude about it. It’s not -as if I’d upset him. - -A fish jumped. - -I know not the names of fishes, but it was not salmon steak or filleted -soles, of that I’m sure. My boat goes waggling its silly old bows as if -it knew but would not tell me. Can it have been a sardine? - -No; the sardine is a foreign fish. It comes from Sardinia, where the -Great Napoleon was exiled, as likely as not. It cannot swim in fresh -water, but is brought to us in tins, which are packed in crates on -trucks. It comes _en huiles_, in fact. Hence the inscription. - -I cannot help thinking of the sad story of those two historical -sardines--a buck-sardine and a doe-sardine--that lived on opposite -sides of an island, which happened to be in the Ægean Sea. - -They loved one another dearly; but they never, never told their love. -He had no self-confidence, and she had too much self-respect. They met -but once before their last day. It was at a place of worship in the -neighbourhood of the Goodwin Sands. She caught his eye, and the umpire -gave it out, and he had to go out. “Am I a hymn?” he said, just a -little bitterly, “that I should be given out?” He was not a hymn, but -he was a he, and had a tender heart. - -All day long he sat on a stone, tail uppermost, and felt his position -acutely. “Ah, if she only knew!” he sighed to himself. - -And she was the life and soul of a select party in the roaring -Adriatic. She quipped, and quirked; she became so brilliant that the -surface of the sea grew phosphorescent. And no one guessed that beneath -that calm exterior the worm was gnawing at the heart of the poor -doe-sardine. No one would have been so foolish. For is it not well -known that when a worm and a fish meet it’s mostly the fish that does -the gnawing? Still, the doe-sardine did feel a trifle weary. Why might -she not tell her love? Why must she suffer? - -“Il faut souffrir pour être belle,” as the gong said when the butler -hit it. - -About this time a young man, who was dancing attendance on Queen -Cleopatra, happened to be passing on a P.N.O. steamer. This was -in the republican era, when Duilius introduced the P.N.O. line. -The Carthaginian merchants, with a keen eye for business, always -used P.T.O. steamers, which were insured far beyond their value by -unsuspecting offices in the less tutored parts of Spain. These wild -tribes did not know what P.T.O. signified, but the steamers did; so did -the crews of low Teutonic slaves, who were thus saved all the worry and -expense of burial. - -But let us return to our sardines. The young man on the P.N.O. steamer -was reading a novel of Ouida’s; and, misliking the book, he flung it -into the ocean. The attendants of the doe-sardine brought it to their -mistress, and she read it with avidity, and after that she became very -elegant, and very French. - -She sat in the rose-tinted boudoir, with a sad smile on her gills, -dreaming of her love. “Ah!” she murmured faintly, “Si vous saviez.” - -She could not sleep! No sooner had she closed her eyes than she was -haunted by an awful vision of a man soldering up tins of fish. The -doctors prescribed narcotics. When she had taken the morphia of the -doctors she had no more fear of the dream. But she took too much of it. -She took all there was of it. Then the doctors prescribed coral, and -she took any amount of coral. She would have taken in a reef; but the -auctioneer was away for his Easter holidays, and consequently there -were no sales. So she took in washing instead. Then, and not till then, -she knew that she must die. - -A fishing-net was passing, and a conductor stood on the step. “’Ere -yer are, lyedy!” he called out. “Hall the way--one penny! Benk, Benk, -Gritty Benk!” He used to say this so quickly that he was called the -lightning conductor. She entered the net, and as she did so she saw the -buck-sardine seated there. She staggered, and nearly fell! - -“Moind the step, lyedy,” cried the conductor. - -And so they were brought to the gritty bank of the Mediterranean, and -received temporary accommodation without sureties or publicity--on -note-of-hand simply. As they came in with the tide, they were naturally -paid into the current account. - -They were preserved in the same tin, and served on the same piece of -buttered toast. - -As the man consumed the bodies of the buck-sardine and the doe-sardine, -the two spiritualities of the two fishes walked down the empyrean, and -cast two shadows. - -When he had gulped down the last mouthful, the two shadows melted into -one. - -So they found peace at last; and I do not refer to buttered toast. But -the queerest part of it is that they were both sprats. - - * * * * * - -It has turned chilly. No one but myself is left on the river, and the -solitary end of the afternoon is good to look at. The thing that you -and I want most is a power of expression. When I say you, I mean the -sympathetic reader who can enter into the true spirit of loafing: the -loafing of the body in the wayward Canadian canoe that does what it -likes, and the loafing of the mind that does not take the nauseous -trouble to think straight. I want the younger child who is to be born -when Art and Music are reconciled again, who will never take aim and -yet never miss the mark, who will be quite careless but quite true. -That child will know all about the sympathy which exists between one -man and one scene in which he finds himself, and may perhaps reveal it -to us. - -But I am sorry for poor Art. She is a woman, and, though her beauty -will not leave her, she desires reconciliation and love. - -I am taken with a sudden verse or two. Kindly excuse them:-- - - O Art, that lives not in the studio, - That has no special love for northern light! - Unto no studies from the nude I owe - Sense of my weakness, knowledge of thy might. - And to no stippling from the good antique, - My shame and joy before the joyous Greek. - - For I have walked in galleries oftentimes, - And shaded with one hand a longing eye; - And found no touch of love to soften times - As hard as nails, as dead to ecstasy; - And nothing in the gallery was fair, - But the worn face of the commissionaire. - - So in despair I wax a trifle coarse, - And eat a hearty steak, and drink my beer; - And twenty thousand million rifle-corps - Of evil spirits enter in and jeer. - “She’s dead and rotten!” cries my angry heart, - And sleeps--and sees the living face of Art. - - - - -II. - -ON EXALTATION: TOGETHER WITH AN ANECDOTE FROM THE ENTERTAINMENTS OF -KAPNIDES. - - -On quiet days, when no wind blows, my canoe is particularly restful. -It has perfect sympathy with the weather. It creeps down slowly to -King’s, leans itself against the bank, and thinks. Then, later in the -afternoon, it bears the organ humming in the chapel--a faint, sweet -sound which produces religious exaltation; and it becomes necessary to -wrestle with the canoe, because it desires to fly away and be at rest. -It is owing to this rhythmic alternation of laziness and spirituality -in the boat that I have given it the name which is blazoned on its -bows--_Zeitgeist_. - -I have said the boat has sympathy with the weather. It also has -sympathy with me, or I have sympathy with it, which is the same thing. -There was a time when I suffered only from rhythmic alternations of -two kinds of laziness. Now exaltation is beginning to enter in as -well, and I do not know the reason, unless I have caught it from the -boat. Materialistic friends have told me that too much pudding will -cause exaltation. I have not so much as looked upon pudding this -day. An unknown poet comes swiftly past me. I hail him, and ask him -for information. He tells me that he had been that way himself, and -that with him it is generally caused by the scent of gardenias, or -hyacinths, or narcissus. - -I am glad he has gone away. I think if he had stayed a moment longer I -should have been a little rude. - -Anyway, I have got it. When one suffers from it, memory-vignettes come -up quickly before the mental eye, and the mental eye has a rose-tinted -glass stuck in it. - - O passi graviora, dabit deus his quoque finem. - -That is a memory-vignette. I am back again at school in a low form, and -I am asked to parse “passi,” and I parse it humorously, and there is -awful silence; and then one sharp click, because the master in nervous -irritation snaps in two the cedar pencil in his hand. I hate him, and -he hates me. For the meaning of the words I care nothing. Now I think -over them again, and I see that Virgil is very intimate with me, and -that he knows the way I feel. - -Up comes another quotation, this time from a more modern author:-- - - The sun was gone now; the curled moon - Was like a little feather - Fluttering far down the gulf; and now - She spoke through the still weather: - Her voice was like the voice the stars - Had when they sang together. - -Yes, and if he had said that the curled moon was like a bitten biscuit -thrown out of window in a high wind, it would not have been much -less true. But there is no poetry in a biscuit, and precious little -sustenance. The gentle fall of a feather is full of poetry:-- - - The day is done, and the darkness - Falls from the wings of night, - As a feather is wafted downward - From an eagle in his flight. - -Edgar Allan Poe quoted those lines in his lecture on The Poetic -Principle, and remarked on their insouciance. Well, he’s dead. - -There are no more memory-vignettes. I have no more exaltation left. -For a certain young woman crossed the bridge, and she had a baby with -her, and a young man behind her. And she had the impertinence to call -the baby’s attention to my canoe. Then she spoke winged words to the -infant, and these are the exact winged words she used:-- - -“Chickey-chickey-chickey, boatey-boatey-boatey, o-o-m! Do you love -auntey?” - -And she called to the young man, saying, “’Enry, cummere. ’Ere’s a -boat.” - -Then they staggered slowly away, and took my exaltation with them. Just -as I was getting a little better, the wind set in the wrong direction, -and I heard her say some of it over again. - -There is magic in the words. They set a man thinking of his past, his -bills, and things which he has done and wishes he had left undone. -All at once it seems as if it were going to rain. The wind turns -colder. The cushions of the canoe change to brickbats. Somebody nearly -runs into me, and I drop my pipe, and remember I never posted that -letter after all. I look at my watch, and, of course, it’s stopped. -Mainspring broken, probably. The way that woman talked was enough to -destroy the works of a steam-engine. And I have a twinge in my side -which I am quite sure is heart disease. I had not hoped for Westminster -Abbey quite so soon. “Deeply lamented. No flowers, by request.” - -And all this is due to the fearful words which that woman spoke, or -it may be merely reaction. If one gets too high, or too low, one pays -for it afterwards; and the commonplace praises of _aurea mediocritas_ -are properly founded. The quietist never pays, because he incurs no -debts. All the rest pay, and there is no dun like a Natural Law. It may -agree to renew for a short time, on the consideration of that small -glass of brandy, perhaps, or a week’s rest; but one has to pay for the -accommodation, and the debt must be discharged in the end. - -Do you remember that quaint old story told by Kapnides in his third -book of Entertainments? Well, Kapnides is not enough read at Oxford or -Cambridge. I doubt if he is read at all. He is a little artificial, -perhaps, but he has his points. It is the story of a Greek boy. - -No; it is not the story of the Spartan boy who lied about a fox, and -subsequently died of the lies which were told about himself. - -It is the story of an Athenian boy, who in the month of June sat quite -alone in a thin tent by night. And the tent was pitched under the -shadow of the long wall, and the night was hot and stifling. - -He sat alone, for dead men are no company. His father and his eldest -brother were in the tent with him; but he was alone. He had not been -afraid to tend them in their sickness, for he had himself recovered -from the pestilence; but it had taken away from him his beauty and his -memory. He had been very beautiful, and his mind had been very full of -fair memories. All were gone now. He kept only the few bare facts which -his dying father had told him, that his mother had died long before; -that they had lived in the country and had been ordered into the city; -that Pericles had made a remarkably fine speech in the preceding year; -and that his only surviving relation was his twin-brother, who had gone -away into Eubœa with the sheep. On these few poor facts, and on the two -dead manly bodies before him, he pondered as he sat. And the night grew -late, and yet he could hear outside the tent people passing busily, and -quarrels, and long horrible cries. - -And suddenly the poor Greek boy, with the ghost of an old beauty -haunting his dull eyes and scarred cheeks, looked up, because he was -conscious of the presence of a deity; and there before him sat an old -gentleman in a silk hat, a frock-coat worn shiny under the fore arm, -pepper-and-salt trousers, with a pen stuck at the back of his ear. - -“I perceive a divine fragrance,” the boy said. The fragrance was -gin-and-water, but he knew it not. “And about thy neck there is -a circle of brightness.” In this he was correct, because the old -gentleman was wearing an indiarubber dickey covered with luminous -paint, which saves washing and makes it possible to put in a stud in -the dark. “And thy dress is not like unto mine. It cannot be but that -thou art some god. And at the right time art thou come; for my heart -is heavy, and none but a god can comfort me. And due worship have I -ever rendered to the gods, but they love me not, and they have taken -all things from me; and only my twin-brother is left, and he keeps the -sheep in Eubœa. And what name dost thou most willingly hear?” - -“Allow me,” said the old gentleman, and produced a card from his -pocket, handing it to the boy. On it was printed:-- - - -THE PROLEPTICAL CASHIER. - -(_Agent for Zeus & Co., Specialists in Punishments._) - - “The tongue is barbarian,” said the boy, “and thy spoken words - are barbarian, and yet I understand them; and now I know that the - gods are kinder to me, because already I have greater wisdom than - my fathers, and, perhaps, somewhat greater remains. Give to me, O - cashier, the power to stay this pestilence.” - - “For a young ’un,” said the cashier, “that’s pretty calm, seeing - that I _made_ that pestilence. I just want to go into your little - account. Your great-grandpapa, my boy, incurred a little debt, and - Zeus & Co. want the thing settled before they dissolve partnership. - They’ve just taken those two lives.” He touched the body of the boy’s - father lightly with his foot. “They’ve taken your beauty and your - memory. How sweet the girls used to be on you, my lad! but you can’t - recollect it, and you won’t experience it again. You _are_ a bad - sight. Now we shall just kill your brother, and give the sheep the - rot, and then the thing will be square. Now then, it’s a hot night, - and you’d better burn these two. I’ll show you how to do it on the - cheap, without paying for it. As long as Zeus & Co. are paid I don’t - care about the rest.” - - The boy sat dazed, and did not speak. - - “There’s a rich man built a first-class pyre twenty yards from your - tent. They’ve gone to fetch his dead daughter to burn on it. We’ll - collar it before they get back. I’ll take the old man, because he’s - the lightest. You carry your brother. He was a hoplite, wasn’t he, - one of them gentlemen that do parasangs? Oh, I know all about it.” - - Still the boy did not speak. They took up the two bodies, passed out - of the tent, and laid their burden on the pyre. - - “You look as if something had hurt you,” said the old gentleman. “I - like these shavings miles better than newspaper.” He pulled a box - of matches from his pocket, and set light to the pyre. It flared up - brightly. - - Then the boy touched him on the shoulder, and pointed first in the - direction of Eubœa, and then at himself. A word came into him from a - future civilisation. - - “Swop?” he said gently. - - “All right,” grumbled the cashier. “I don’t mind. It gives a lot - of trouble--altering the books. But I don’t mind, I’m sure. It’s a - thirsty night.” - - For a moment the boy stood motionless; then, with a little cry, leapt - into the flames. And his life went to join his beauty and his memory - in a land of which we know too little. - - * * * * * - -It’s begun to rain. I think I’ll be off. I do hate anachronisms. - - - - -III. - -ON SELF-DECEPTION: TOGETHER WITH THE DREAM OF THE DEAN’S PREPARATIONS. - - -This morning, because the air was fresh, and the sun was bright, and -I had eaten too much breakfast, it seemed to be an excellent thing to -cut all lectures and to loaf in the Backs. Few boats are there in the -morning, and I have found, when my canoe takes me out, that the fewer -the boats the less the unpleasantness. I can run into a bridge, but -a bridge cannot run into me; and a bridge always takes my apologies -in a nice spirit. The afternoon loafers on the river are not yet -sufficiently educated to understand that a Canadian canoe must go its -own way, and that any attempt to control it is a baseness. - -The other afternoon my canoe got a little humorous. It saw a man on in -front of us working hard in one of those vessels that went a thousand -miles down the Jordan--or something to that effect. I knew what my -canoe would do. It broke into a canter, caught the absolute stranger -in the back of the neck, and knocked him into the water. You would -have expected the absolute stranger to have come up, breathing the -Englishman’s Shortest Prayer. He did not. He apologised for having been -in my way, said that it was entirely his own fault, and hoped that he -had not inconvenienced me. I shrugged my shoulders and forgave him, -with considerable hauteur. - -But my boat got Remorse badly. It did not want to live any more, and -tried to knock its brains out against Clare Bridge. I soothed it, and -tied it up. Canadian canoes are such sensitive things. - -This sort of incident cannot happen when one cuts lectures to go on the -river in the morning. And one does more work. You take your Plato’s -“Phædo,” and you really enjoy it. If there’s any word you don’t know, -you leave it; if there’s any sentence you can’t understand, you don’t -worry about it; and if there’s any word you _can_ understand, it goes -home to you more. That’s the right spirit. That’s the way the ancient -Greeks took their language. What did they know about dictionaries and -grammars and cribs? And then, after a couple of minutes, one pitches -the “Phædo” into the bows of the boat, and a great Peace falls on one’s -soul. - -My Better Self does not agree with me on these points; but I had words -with my Better Self this morning, and since then we have not been -on speaking terms. I find it impossible to convince my Better Self -of great truths; I could deceive my Better Self, which is a common -practice, but I will not do it. I have seen men do it; and I have been -very, very sorry for them. I have known a man, who had previously been -honest, commence to keep an average of the amount of work he did _per -diem_. The way he faked that average would have brought a blush to the -cheek of the chartered libertine, and made the chartered accountant -moan for humanity. The first week gave a daily average of 2 hours -20·5 minutes. In the second week we were asked to believe that he -had done rather more than ten hours a day. That man drives a cab now: -self-deception never pays. Another man, who was quite a friend of -mine, liked pork chops. He pretended that he didn’t, and made himself -believe that he didn’t. Why? Simply and solely because he once wrote a -poem--and published it--which began: - - Darling, thy hot kiss lingers on my lips. - -Before he wrote that poem, he used to feed almost entirely on pork -chops. After it was published, he pretended that a little ripe -fruit was all he needed. What’s become of him? What do you suppose? -Trichinosis, of course. It’s much better to be perfectly honest. The -worst case of all was last May. A man made himself believe that he -loved Bradelby’s sister, and he never got any better. He just pined -away and married her. Perhaps you don’t realise what that means, but -you never met Bradelby’s sister. - -I met her. She sat down at the piano, and stroked it as if it were a -lap-dog. She was quite tender in her movements, and she sang: - - Once in the deeeeer dead dyes beyond recall. - -Shortly afterwards she said that she wanted to live a useful life. That -sort of thing stamps a woman. - - * * * * * - -I suppose I must have been going to sleep when I thought that last -sentence. For I suddenly found myself in the centre of Epping Forest, -and before me was a college dean in full academicals. He was a leathery -old dean to look at, and yet he had some nervousness of manner. Of -course he was not a real dean, but only a dream dean. The real deans--I -cannot say it too emphatically--are _not_ leathery, and are _not_ -nervous. - -When he saw me, he began to rub his hands gently and to smile, until I -thought my heart would break. - -“This is a little unusual,” he said; “a little irregular, is it not? -Have you permission, may I ask, from the University authorities, to -drive a Canadian canoe tandem through Epping Forest?” - -“No, sir,” I said politely; “but I was not aware that permission was -required.” - -“Epps’s Forest,” he retorted inanely, “contains absolutely no fatty -matter. Applicants are therefore assured, if they cannot borrow here, -it would be futile to apply elsewhere. Personal visit invited.” - -“But, sir,” I urged, “this is a personal----” - -“Stop!” he interrupted me, tapping the palm of one hand with the -forefinger of the other. “That’s not the point, and you know it’s not -the point. I have come here to practise my part--Titania--in _Midsummer -Night’s Dream_, with real fairies. I do not do it because I like it. I -do it because I wish to entertain and interest some young ladies who -will be staying with me during the June festivities. You interrupt my -preparations, you frighten the fairies, you annoy me exceedingly, and -your attendance in college chapel is not what it should be. You’ve been -smoking, and you smell. Where no allotment is made the deposit will be -returned in full.” - -I could not quite make it out, because the dean did not seem as if he -would make up into a good Titania. But that was the only thing that -surprised me. I promised to sit quite still, and not to frighten the -fairies, and entreated him to go on with the rehearsal. - -“Very well,” he said, seating himself on a camp-stool. “You will not -see the fairies; but you will hear them. We are now commencing Act II., -Scene iii. I give them their cue:-- - - Sing me now asleep; - Then to your offices, and let me rest. - -Now, then they sing-- - - You spotted snakes with double tongue. - -You know it?” - -I knew it very well; but what the fairies really sang was this:-- - -FIRST FAIRY. - - You potted slates, disguised as tongue, - Cornèd oxen be not seen; - Such things never put him wrong, - Never hurt the college dean. - -CHORUS. - - Fill him up with mayonnaise, - Made in several different ways; - (Salmon, chicken mayonnaise; also lobster mayonnaise); - Never fear, - ’Twill keep him queer, - Shocking queer for several days; - He _can’t_ work on mayonnaise. - -SECOND FAIRY. - - Curried rabbits, come not nigh; - Hence, tomato-tinners, hence! - He can eat what you or I - Wouldn’t for a hundred pence. - - (_Chorus as before._) - -“There,” exclaimed the dean, turning to me, “that goes pretty well, I -think. Shakespeare would be pleased. I shall play _Midsummer Night’s -Dream_ on the first night of the visit of my lady friends. On the -second night I am going to sing them some songs. On the third night I -shall give a conjuring entertainment.” He suddenly stopped, and burst -into tears. “And on the fourth night,” he sobbed, “their funeral will -take place, and they are so young and fair!” - -“Couldn’t you fix their funeral for the first night?” I asked. “They’d -suffer less so.” - -“No,” said the dean firmly, “they must be amused first--amused and -interested and entertained. And I must amuse them, and I never amused -any one in my life before. I can’t take them to the races, because -there are undergraduates about. I can’t take them to dances for similar -reasons. I’m going to do it all myself.” He burst out sobbing again. -“And I know it will kill them. The fairies won’t play out of Epping -Cocoa, so I shall have to undertake every character in the piece. Now I -must go back, and practise my songs. I am _so_ anxious to be amusing. -It quite weighs on my mind. You don’t know anything that would do -for the conjuring entertainment, do you? Card-tricks, you know, or -think-of-any-number-you-like, or something of that sort?” - -As he said these words he got into my boat, which started down a river -that flowed into a drawing-room. We got out. Then the boat changed into -a piano, and the dean sat down to it, and began to play the symphony. - -“It’s one of those simple, touching songs, and it’s called ‘Papa.’” - -Then he sang: - - Take my head on your shoulders, papa, - Let’s have it back when you’ve done; - I only unscrewed it in jest, papa-- - Only unscrewed it in fun. - And it’s pleasant to lie and to think, papa, - You can give it me back all right; - My head, though it’s screwed, is loose, papa, - And you, when you’re screwed, are tight. - -“You can’t possibly sing that to the ladies,” I said. - -“No,” he answered; “I’ve kept the words a little too long, and the -weather’s been hot. I’ll try another--a fervent and passionate one.” - -“No, you won’t,” I said firmly, and jumped into the piano, which -changed into the canoe again, and started away down the river. - -“That’s the wrong ’bus!” the dean shrieked after me. He shrieked so -loudly that he woke me. At least, he half woke me. I was so full of the -idea that I was in the wrong ’bus that I got out. The canoe was in the -middle of the river at the time. You will find an excellent edition of -Plato’s “Phædo,” a copy of last week’s _Review_, and my nicest pipe at -the bottom of the river in King’s. At any rate, you may go and dive for -them if you like. - - - - -IV. - -ON REFLECTION; TO WHICH IS ADDED THE STORY OF THE TIN HEART. - - -I like to watch those trees reflected in the water. They are so -suggestive, by reason of their being reflected wrong way up. All -objective, outside facts are as trees, and the mind of man is as a -river, and he consequently reflects everything in an inverted way. -That is the reason why, if I try to guess a coin and say heads, it is -always tails. That is the reason why, if I go to get a spoon out of my -plate-basket in the dark, I always take out thirteen successive forks -before I find one. It explains nearly everything. Probably the correct -way to dine is really to begin with the fruit and end with the oysters. -Itinerant musicians should begin by making a collection and leave out -the other part. Anything that _can_ be done backwards is better done -backwards. When I leave for a moment the presence of royalty I am -always required to walk backwards. That shows that royalty, together -with Her Privy Council, which is the collected wisdom of the nation, -thinks that it is best to walk backwards. And so it is. It is not only -happier and holier, but it is also more piquant. You can never tell -until you’ve kicked it whether you have backed into a policeman or a -lamp-post. New possibilities are open to you. Anything may happen, and -generally does. So, too, in skating. A good skater told me that the -only enjoyable method of progression is the outside edge backwards. -“It makes you feel like a bird,” he said; “and I don’t believe you can -get that sensation of flight any other way.” He simply seemed to float -on the ice. You see, he was a good skater. At last he galumphed into a -snow-heap, flew just like a bird for a few yards, then came down hard -and hurt a lady. Look at these railway collisions, too. We all know -what an awful thing a railway collision is: and how does it always -happen? It happens from two trains wanting to go to the same spot and -arriving there simultaneously. If both trains had respectively reversed -their directions, no collision could have happened. A train should -never be allowed to go anywhere, but only to _back_ to the place whence -it came. But, as I should like these pages to be of solid, material use -to any young men who are really trying to lead the philosophical life, -and are quite earnest in their desire to avoid the Scylla of action -without falling into the Charybdis of thought, I will put my facts and -deductions clearly and briefly. The facts are two:-- - -(1) That a tree is reflected in the water wrong way up. - -(2) That the reflection of such a reflection would be right way up. - -From No. 2 we deduce that the best literary method is to crib some -other man’s ideas or reflections; and this is what I always do when I -write an article. - -From No. 1 we deduce that as all reflection is the reverse of the thing -reflected, it is best to act altogether without reflection; and this is -what the editor always does when he prints my articles; and what you -yourselves do when you pay two-and-sixpence for this volume in spite -of it. - -In the meanwhile, my dear old sympathetic canoe has been going slowly -backwards on its own account, and must be stopped. - - * * * * * - -It was only the other night that I took my canoe out in the moonlight, -when the river is solitary and quiet. I shall not take it by night any -more, because it is too sympathetic. A man came and leaned over one of -the bridges and watched the reflection of the spangled skies in the -ripple. He sighed, and said, “Pree lil starsh!” Then he swore hard at -them. Then he sighed again, and his cap tumbled off into the water. -“Ish all over now,” he said solemnly, and walked wearily away. My boat -simply shuddered. I could feel it shudder. - -After that it got absurdly sentimental. Now I hate and I despise -sentiment. I suppose it was the effect of the moonlight. It made some -verses. At least I suppose the boat made them. I found them in my -blazer pocket afterwards, and I’m sure I recognised the handwriting. So -I will give them in full. (You will do nothing of the kind.--ED.) - -I’m not going to discuss the merit of those verses. There may be -something in them which the world will one day learn to cherish, or -there may not be; but I deprecate the weakness and sentimentality -which cause verse. We want to be strong, really strong. We want more -of the spirit of that Gallic chieftain who wanted a tin heart made -for himself. The story is well enough known, and you will find it in -Livy: it is in one of the lost books; but I give it for the benefit -of readers who are not classical. I do not scorn such readers. I can -remember the time when I had not the finished scholarship, the critical -insight, the almost insolent familiarity with the more recondite parts -of history, which--with all modesty be it spoken--I know that I now -possess. - -I have forgotten some of the names, all the dates, and a few of the -facts. But these are not the essentials. Such things are but the dry -bones of history. We want the flesh and blood and sinews--the words, -the large, beautiful, vague words that smudge over a difficulty until -you can’t see it. - -To understand why the Gallic Chieftain wanted a tin heart, we must -first of all appreciate the man’s character. - -When the Gallic tribe, to which he belonged, formed one of their sudden -plans (_Gallorum subita sunt consilia_), he was always in the front of -the battle; but when he was at home he used to smoke his pipe in the -back yard, because his wife and her mother would not allow it in the -house. He had plenty of fighting courage, but no domestic courage. And -there were other points in which he saw that he was weak. Sometimes, -for instance, he found some aged veteran in the streets, in a state -of destitution, with a card on his breast to say that he had lost his -wife in a colliery explosion, selling _sulfura_, or playing on the -_tuba telescopica_, an instrument resembling the trombone, but more -deleterious. Whenever this happened, he would buy the matches, or give -the man money. It was weak of him, but he couldn’t help it. - -The tribe to which he belonged was transcendental, heterodox, -habitually untruthful, and characterised by a belief that the -affections resided in the heart. So, when this poor chieftain found -that he was getting too good and kind (ah, how many of us have felt -like that!--I often have), he concluded that something must be wrong -with his heart, and went to a medicine man or _fakir_. And he said: “O -fakir, would you fake me up a tin heart? For the heart which I have is -too unpleasantly soft, and I want a metal one.” The fakir agreed to -make the change for twelve ducats. But just at this time an accident -happened to the budget of this tribe, and a tax of ten ducats per pound -was put on _plumbum album_--no, my boy, not white lead: it means tin. -So it was quite clear to the fakir that he could not afford to give the -man a tin heart, and yet he had signed the document. Besides, he wanted -those twelve ducats. - -So he gave the man chloroform, removed his heart, and then proceeded to -do his best with a cheap substitute. But the cheap substitute refused -to be faked, and the fakir was still hard at work trying to make -something which should do quite as well as a tin heart and last longer, -when he noticed signs of reviving consciousness in the chieftain. -He had no more chloroform to give him, and no time to lose. So he -hurriedly sewed up the incision, and left the man with no heart at all, -neither of flesh, nor of tin, nor of cheap substitute. - -Then the chieftain started off home, and he looked very cheerful -indeed. He tripped up two blind men, and threw their _sulfura_ down -a grating. Then he went into a public-house, and spent his week’s -_stipendium_. Finally, he reeled home, kicked his wife, smoked two -cigars in the drawing-room, broke his mother-in-law’s head, forgot to -wipe his boots, said he wanted some tea, and went to sleep with his -feet on the crimson plush mantelpiece. - -Now, next day another Gaul was going down the street when he saw two -goats being harnessed to a milk-cart. It at once occurred to him -that it would be as well to throw off the Roman yoke. So another -insurrection was started, and the Gallic chieftain who had no heart was -put in the forefront of the battle. - -Just as the trumpets sounded for a charge, this Gallic chieftain -remembered that he had left his handkerchief in the tent, and went -to look for it in a hurry, and got himself disliked. But as the rest -of the tribe were mostly killed in the charge, he did not mind that -much. The survivors said: “Our noble chief has begun to be a coward.” -But he was not afraid of his wife, and used bad language in her -presence during mealtimes. One of the survivors went so far as to run -a lance through the place where the chieftain’s heart ought to have -been. The chieftain smiled, and said sarcastically that he was not an -umbrella-stand. - -Death is connected with the stoppage of the heart’s action; -consequently this chieftain never died, and it is argued that during -the Syro-Phœnician attempt to---- - - * * * * * - -Here there is a hiatus in the manuscript. A scribe has added a note in -the margin _pallido atramento_, “The chieftain is still alive. I have -seen him. I have written his name at the foot of the manuscript.” I -have looked there, and simply found the words “_Venditus iterum_.” - -But the other day I bought a cigar which was all case and no inwards. -The tobacconist who sold it me said it was a Regalia Gallica; and he -looked as if he had been in this world a long time, and had seen the -wickedness of it. I simply mention this as a coincidence. There may be -nothing in it, like the cigar. But it is a curious case, if nothing -else--also like the cigar. - - - - -V. - -A STORM ON THE BACKS; AND A STORY OF THREE. - - -I have often considered it as one of my misfortunes that I simply do -not know what fear is. As a boy I was so brave and bright that every -one loved me; in my manhood my courage appals me. I feel that one day -it will carry me too far. - -As I climbed hand-over-hand up the side of the _Zeitgeist_ at the -Silver Street Docks, an old, old sailor stepped up to me. “Young -stranger,” he said, “you will not attempt to make King’s Bridge on such -a day as this? It would be madness. The boldest of us dare not.” - -“Avaunt!” I cried; “where honour calls I follow. England expects. _Per -ardua ad astra._” - -He turned away to hide his emotion. I gave him my hand, which he wrung -and knocked twice. There was no answer. - -With one wild, exultant leap the vessel burst from its moorings, -churning the iron-bound waves to sheer desperation, foaming at the -mouth, and sobbing piteously. Through the driving rain, the blinding -fog, the dazzling lightning, the impenetrable mist, and the other -atmospheric phenomena which Mr. Clark Russell had lent for the -occasion, loomed a hideous dark object. I consulted the chart, the -compass, the telescope, the ship’s biscuits, everything I could lay my -hands on; but it was too late. Nearer and nearer it loomed. I could see -that it was Silver Street Bridge, _and that it was coming my way_. Oh, -the horror of it! - -I shrieked to it to save itself and go away. But my voice was drowned -in the fury of the elements. It loomed nearer--it never stopped looming -once--and I knew that I should be unable to avoid it, that I should -destroy it. - -Bump! From the top of the bridge there came the voice of a small boy, -asking if I was insured. He seemed hysterical, and fear had probably -sapped his reason. I was swept on by the fury of the elements. No, I’ve -just had that--swept on by the elemental fury--well, that’s much the -same. - -At any rate, I was swept on. The wind whistled in the rigging, until -it got sick of being conventional. Then it went and whistled in the -taffrail. At last it got so nastily original that it sang “Since first -I saw your Face” in the binnacle. A hasty glance backward showed me -that Silver Street Bridge was yet standing. My resolution was also -unshaken. - -The fierce old Berserker spirit fired my blood. Chanting aloud the -grand old Latin hymn of the Crusaders-- - - A, ab, absque, coram, de, - Palam, clam, cum, ex and e-- - -I dashed forward. My speed may be guessed from the fact that by this -time I was under Queen’s Bridge. Before me, or close behind me, or at -any rate on one side or the other, lowered in thick banks of cloud an -angry sun, red as the blood of an orange that the thunder had pealed! -The waves were mountain high. - -The light of the unbroken Viking was in my eyes. I could not see them, -but I knew that it must be so. The waves were mounting higher now. - -Suddenly the wind shifted. It became semicircular, with a pendulum -action. It swung my boat round to the left, then swung it round to the -right. It kept on doing this. A horrible thought flashed across me that -I should never make King’s Bridge at this rate. I said “Excelsior” to -the boat to encourage it, but it only went on wagging. I smote it on -the bows with the flat of my paddle, and that had no effect. Lastly, I -raised myself about four inches, and sat down again with the energy and -directness of the wild Norsemen. The jerk started it on again. We went -so fast that a sparrow seemed to be literally flying past me. I believe -that was what it actually _was_ doing. By this time the waves were -quite extraordinary. - -We were now but a few yards from home. There was another change in the -weather. The sun was like a crystal chalice brimming with crimson wine, -borne by an unseen Ganymede to his lord across the sapphire pavement -of cloud. (Poetry is cheap to-day.) Had his white feet slipped on the -wondrous far-off way? For of a sudden the crimson flood suffused the -sapphire floor, and the gasp of the dying wind was as of one who cried, -“Come away in my ’and, sir, and it was cracked before, and you didn’t -ought to have left it there, and I never touched it, and ’ow was I -to know yer didn’t want it broke?” Then the wind sank. My boat was -motionless. I was becalmed within sight of my goal. - -So I waited in the middle of the river. The storm was passed, and the -waves were perfectly calm and collected, like a bad halfpenny in an -offertory bag. There was not a breath of wind, and consequently the -first two matches which I lit were blown out at once. The third match -did what was expected of it, and then I attempted to blow _it_ out. -Finding this impossible, I threw it in the water. It floated on the -top, and burnt with a clear steady flame for ten consecutive minutes. -While I was watching it I let my pipe out, and had to strike a fourth -match. The head came off it, and nestled lovingly in the palm of my -hand. Then it walked away, and burned two holes in my blazer. How such -little incidents as this make one wish that the nature of things was -otherwise! - -I may own that I never did make King’s Bridge that afternoon. My canoe -did not seem to care about going there of its own accord, and I did -not like to paddle it there because I hate unnecessary fuss; so I just -stopped where I was and read a little. - -What was I reading? - -Well, I had his book, you know, after his death. Some of it interests -me; but this is chiefly because I knew the man. He wrote it as a -remedy, and he died as a remedy; but I have a notion that he is not -quite cured yet. I take the book here to read sometimes. You may see a -page or two of it. I am not pretending that it has any literary value -But try to think you knew the man who wrote it. - - * * * * * - -She shivered a little as she sat there in her nightdress. In the small -hours of the morning in early summer it is always cold. She would have -been much warmer in bed; she really ought to have been in bed; but the -bed had not been slept in. It stood there in one corner of the room, -looking white and restful. It seemed to be calling her, “Come to me; -sleep and forget it--sleep and forget it.” On the little table at the -foot of the bed was the pile of books and newspapers that had slowly -accumulated. She had always been interested in the world and in the -things others did and thought. - -A little impulse that came to her from nowhere made her pick up the -newspaper that lay on the top of the pile. It would do to fill her mind -and to keep her thoughts steady until the morning came. Her eyes ached, -and the candles flickered on the dressing-table. Her brain seemed to -her as a pool into which some thoughtless child that did what he liked -had flung a stone, starting circle after circle, circles that grew and -grew, spreading to the farther edge, and sobbing away into nothing -because they could go no farther. Yet she read, and knew nothing of -what she read, till one sentence seemed to shine brighter than the rest. - -“The body had probably been in the water for several days.” - -She stood up quickly, with a little gasp, and let the newspaper fall to -the ground. For her brain, burning with torture and want of sleep, had -suddenly flashed out a merciless, truthful, coloured illustration to -that sentence. She steadied herself in a moment. Then she held up her -hands and looked at them. “Will they turn like that?” she was asking -herself. She shivered, and the muscles of her face contracted a little. - -She was bending now over the mantelpiece. Her arms and her burning -forehead rested upon it, and her thoughts went stealing away through -the passages and rooms of the quiet old house. In the room next to hers -slept stolid respectability. She loved him and her, as the accident of -parentage makes love. But she must leave them. How she hated to hurt -those two, those kind, misunderstanding parents, with their old ideas, -and their love for her ever fresh! No, she could not leave them, she -could not leave them. “You will leave them at dawn,” said the thing -that was stronger than herself. - -And her thoughts stood mutely listening outside the door of the room -where Claud lay. “Are you asleep?” she whispered. Or was he lying awake -and thinking, as she thought, of the night before? It all came back -to her so easily,--the wistful refrain that lingered softly on the -strings, the brilliant lights and the brilliant crowd, and suddenly the -dim garden outside the ball-room. She could see him standing there; she -could hear him speaking. No, she could never, never leave him. “You -will leave him at dawn,” said the thing that was stronger than herself. - -And the dawn had come now. - -She drew up the blind, and opened the window softly. The sky was one -dull grey but for the beauty in the east. A fresh, cool wind had -awakened; and she could hear the chirrup, chirrup of waking birds. And -she looked down the valley and saw the hurrying, winding river, with -the grey mists hovering upon it. “River,” she said in a whisper, “take -me to the sea. Take me to a sea that has no shores, that will flow for -ever, bearing me farther and farther away from this.” - -She crept down the stairs, bare-footed, and into the drawing-room. She -drew back the heavy curtains from the windows that opened down to the -ground. Outside was the terraced garden that sloped down to the edge of -the river. Her hand was on the bolt of the window. - -Suddenly she heard quick footsteps coming down the passage. In a -moment she had hidden herself behind the screen that stood against the -door. She knew those footsteps. Involuntarily her hands linked tightly -together, and her breath came quickly. - -He was not so careful as she had been; he came boldly into the room, -opened the window noisily, and went out into the garden. As he went out -she caught one glimpse of his face, and she knew what he would do. She -sprang from behind the screen. “Claud, Claud!” she called. He stopped -with a sudden start, and came towards her. “What are you doing here?” -he asked, in a voice that was not like his voice. - -“I,” she panted--“I came to save you, Claud. Oh, go back again!” - -He would have taken her hands, but she shrank away from him. They only -stayed there for a few minutes. She talked to him and pleaded with him. -There was little need for such pleading, for he had yielded to her from -the first. He gave her the only promise that she would let him make, -and then he went back to his room. - -She quietly closed the windows, and drew the curtains again. She seemed -to herself both sad and happy now, and very tired. - -And Fate had an approving smile upon her bitter face. “They are two -obedient children,” she said. “They were going to take matters into -their own hands, and they resisted the temptation. Very well, they -shall be rewarded.” - -So Fate sent the girl a present of a beautiful brain-fever with -pictures in it. And when it was over she fell asleep, and dreamed that -she was floating on a sea that had no shores and flowed for ever, -bearing her farther and farther away from this. And she woke no more. - -And Fate thought that she should then do something for Claud. So she -killed another woman, and killed her with thirty other people in a -railway accident, thereby escaping any charge of impartial justice. -They both had loved him, and they were both dead, and he got much -happier. In the unprepared passages of this life a glimpse at the -context would be useful. - - * * * * * - -Poor stuff--isn’t it? - - - - -VI. - -ON LOAFING; TOGETHER WITH A SECOND ANECDOTE FROM THE ENTERTAINMENTS OF -KAPNIDES. - - -I took my canoe the other day up that part of the river where only -Masters of Arts are allowed to drown themselves without a certificate. -None of them were doing it on the day I was there, and it was rather -dull, and the boat went to sleep with its cold nose resting on the soft -grass that edged the river. - -So I just stopped there and lazed, and watched other boats go past. -There is a prevalent notion apparently that nothing which is said in -one boat can possibly be heard in another. As each boat went past, -its occupants made humorous and uncomplimentary remarks upon me. The -waiters in some of the inferior London restaurants have a similar -notion that nobody understands French. Without these little delusions -we should not be as happy as we are. In my case there seemed to be an -idea that I had got stuck in the bank and couldn’t get out again. The -impression was wrong. My boat was a little tired, and went to sleep. It -had come a long way, and I was not brute enough to wake it up again. - -I watched the other boats go past. There were very fine and noble -people in some of them, but I did not see one proper loafer, and -hardly any one who had elementary notions of the right way to loaf. -There is no subject which is less understood. The spirit of asceticism, -the spirit of extravagance for its own sake, and the spirit of -utilitarianism are fast spoiling us. - -The popular idea that loafing is in some way connected with laziness -should be removed. Loafing is the science of living without trouble. -There may be a time when it is easier to work than to laze. A man, -when suffering badly from Tripos, may find it less trouble to read -Thucydides than to stifle his conscience. The condition of mind is -unhealthy and morbid; but, where it exists, it would certainly be -better loafing to work than to laze. And no one objects more than the -well-trained loafer to enforced laziness. When he is in London he will -have his hat ironed at the barber’s rather than at the maker’s. In the -first case he will have to pay for it, but he will be shaved while it -is being done; in the second case no charge is made, but more than -sixpennyworth of vitality is consumed in the irritation of having to -wait. It is not the waiting which the loafer minds: it is the _having_ -to wait. - -There are many who would loaf, but fail from want of a little thought. -They do not take enough trouble to avoid trouble. They arrive at some -result, and half a loaf is better than no bread; but nevertheless they -do not get the perfect life. - -Here is a problem in loafing. - -There were four men--A, B, C, D--who rose one morning, and all found -they wanted shaving. - -A was too lazy, left his chin as it was, was miserable all that day, -and simply _had_ to shave next day. - -B half-way through the morning got shaved at a barber’s. - -C conquered his inclinations and shaved himself at once. - -D, knowing that it was impossible to grow a beard at Cambridge, and -being too lazy to shave or be shaved, had his things packed up, and -“went down.” - -The vanity of the man, the strength of the beard, and the distance from -a barber are the same in each case; and it is supposed that the price -of a shave is so small that it may be disregarded: which was the best -loafer of the four? - -There was not a perfect loafer among them, but the best was undoubtedly -C, and the next best was D. This will seem strange to any one who has -not studied the effect of anticipation on happiness and the reverse. -Nothing is real to us except our imagination of it. What would the -perfect loafer have done? I know; and you, my sympathetic reader, know. -But I do not think any of the others do. And it would be of no use to -tell them, because they would not believe it. The answer is too long -and elaborate to be given in any case. - -It should be remembered that loafing is not the science of living for -pleasure, which is foolishness, but the science of living without -trouble. We may believe, as it is said in “The New Republic,” that -one of the two most lasting pleasures is the pleasure of saying -a neat thing neatly; yet the perfect loafer will never become a -conversationalist. - -But it is of little use to preach. After all I have said about the -quantity of cushions necessary for comfort in a Canadian canoe, I -constantly see men going out with far too few. I am always hearing -complaints that we are not taught engineering or some other horribly -useful thing. But why are we not taught the art of perfect living, -which is loafing? - - * * * * * - -Only a few out of my many books do I ever bring on the water. Some of -the best would seem quite out of place. To-day I’ve got that curious -old translation of the “Entertainments of Kapnides” with me. I was -reminded of it by seeing those children going along in the meadow, -picking flowers. Of course you know the story well enough, but I cannot -be bothered to be original in every chapter. It is the story of the -Child Siren. - -Ligeia never cared about the child from the first. It interfered with -business. It absolutely refused to play her accompaniments, and said -it could not bear to see the sailors tempted to their death. On this -particular day it had interrupted Ligeia just as she reached the most -tender, pathetic, touching part of her song. The sob of the child broke -into the sloppy waltz refrain, and spoiled the spell. And the helmsman -had turned the ship’s prow out again from the coast, and there was -another crew gone. - -“You sinful little beast,” said Ligeia. “Get out of my sight.” - -The child was not sorry to go. She climbed up the cliff, and then -wandered on away from the sea, where the long grass came up to her -waist. And as she wandered, the sun shone brightly, and the cool wind -blew into her hair, and the birds sang above her, and only a little -distance away sounded the drowsy murmurs of the waves. - -And then for the first time in her life the passion for song came into -her. She felt that she _must_ sing. Always before she had shuddered at -the thought of song, for the song of Ligeia and others had ever brought -death with it. But now she felt that she _must_ sing, and she knew not -why; for a study of hereditary tendencies was not included in the Board -School education of that period. She had reached an open space now. The -ground was sandy, with here and there a stunted clump of grass, and in -one place a beautiful golden poppy. - -“No one will hear me,” she thought, “and if I do not sing my heart will -break.” So she sang, standing there white and naked, with the sunlight -upon her, holding a lyre in her little hands. - -And the music came out of her soul, but she knew not whence the words -came. - -She sang that it was not sweet for the golden poppy to bloom there -alone, though the sun made it warm, and the wind was fragrant about it. -It was sweeter that she should pluck it in her little hands, which were -warm with a better life than the life of the sun, and more fragrant -than the west wind with its burden of the breath of the flowers. She -paused, and her fingers rested lightly on the lyre. Her eyes were -strained in looking up to the east, and she did not see that the poppy -had bowed its golden head and withered away. - -“And it is not sweet,” she sang again, “for you, white bird, to fly on -and on, and never to rest. It is better to lie here, and let me touch -you, and fondle you, and love you.” - -And out from the eastern sky flew the white bird, and it nestled for -one moment at the child’s breast, and then fell dead on the sand. - -And the child saw what she had done, and she flung herself down beside -the dead bird and the withered flower, and sobbed in the foolishest way. - -So the afternoon wore on, and the sea still murmured, and she still lay -there. And when it was evening a new wind sprang up from the south, and -it whispered to her,-- - -“A girl’s voice for a bird’s life.” - -She stood up, erect, with eyes that flashed brightly, though the tears -still stood in them. She held the white bird in her little hands. “I’ll -give you my voice,” she said, as she kissed it. And the bird flew far -away from her, and the girl was dumb. - -For a little while she stood there, and the old passion of song came -back to her, and tore at her heart; but she could not sing, for she was -dumb. - -“And I have nothing else left,” she thought, “with which I may give -back the life to the golden poppy.” - -“Crimson for golden,” the south wind called softly in her ear. - -So she lay down once more, and put her pretty mouth to the dead -bloom of the poppy, and she could not speak, but she thought the -words--“Drink my blood! Drink my life, and live!” - -And the dead flower drained out her life, and she grew white and -whiter, and when the moonlight fell upon her, not a tint of colour was -in her cheeks. - -Out of the forest the south wind crept, and he seemed a little excited -as he saw the dead girl lying there. - -“I’ll never do it again,” he swore; “if they want such things done, -they must do them themselves. Curse them!” Then he howled, for his -masters had overheard him and chastised him. - -He went back to the forest, and brooded all day over what had happened. -And that night he went mad, and came forth to do one or two things on -his own account. There was the tall poppy growing by the head of the -dead girl, and it had become crimson. - -The south wind gave one puff, and blew it out of the ground into the -sea. - -And over the child’s body it blew the finest white sand that it could -find, until a heavy drift lay over it. - -And it went away to a lonely place where a solitary tree was standing, -and in the tree sat the white bird in her nest. And he blew down the -tree, and broke the nest, and chased the bird for days and days over -the water, till at last the bird sank. - -And still the wind was not satisfied. He had a faint idea that he had -not been doing much good. He ought, by rights, to have killed his -masters. He knew that, but his masters could not be killed. How they -smiled as they sat up in cloudland, and watched their angry servant -snarling over a child, a bird, and a flower! “He’s not satisfied,” -said the first. “Very few people are,” grunted a second. “You’re right -there,” snorted a third. Their conversation rarely rose above the -intellectual level of a market ordinary; but they had the power, and -could afford to be a little dull at times. - - - - -VII. - -ON CAUSES; WITH AN EXCURSION ON LUCK. - - -I have just been lunching with a man. He is either a Socialist or a -Vegetarian--I forget which. On second thoughts, he cannot have been a -Vegetarian, because he ate cutlets. He may have been a Philatelist; -but I doubt it, and I do not fancy that it really matters. He was -something--one of those things that make a man want to lead a higher -life, and collar most of the conversation. He told me a good deal about -it, and I know that at the time I thought it was a fine thing and an -interesting thing; and I wondered why more of us did not do it; and yet -I’ve forgotten what it was. The main point, however, is not what he -was, but the fact that he was something. He had a Cause, an Enthusiasm; -something that lifted him above the common ruck, something he could -brag about, something that made it necessary for him to fill up papers, -and sign declarations, and feel as if the nation had purchased him at -his own price. - -The jilted are bitter on the subject of women; the fox was malicious -about the grapes that he could not reach; Tantalus was often heard to -remark that undiluted water was not worth drinking. If a man sneer at -Causes, it is because he himself has not any Cause; and the sneer is -idle, because he might have many Causes if he liked. A man may be so -poor that he has no effects; but he may still have a Cause. Some of -them require a subscription of one shilling; but with more it suffices -that a man shall bother half a crown out of his friend. So, as the -sneer is not required for the consolation of the sneerer, it must -therefore be quite pointless and unprejudiced. - -Personally, I must own that I have no Cause at present. I loaf. I am -utterly selfish. But I am going to select one soon, because I feel -sure that it will elevate me. Besides, I do not see why I should be -bored to death by those of my friends who happen to be cracked--quite -cracked--about some glorious ideal, and never be able to return their -unkindness. Reciprocity is the rule of life. You brag to me about your -picture gallery for the starving poor, and I feel at once that I must -lie to you about thought-transference. It is partly because I am just -about to ruin a Cause by my support that I feel so angry with those -selfish, flippant, trivial people who sneer at Causes. The worst point -in the sneer is its impartiality. We do not want cold, hard, uncoloured -criticism with its shameful want of bias. We want warm, tender, -muddle-headed enthusiasm, that does not quibble about merit or demerit, -that tinges the mere critical faculty with good feeling or bad feeling -as the case may be, that is full of humanity which is pigheadedness. -But no amount of sneers will prevent me from selecting a Cause to -which I may devote my life. The only thing which is likely to prevent -me is the difficulty of selection. There are so many Causes, and they -are all so good. Shall I be a Philanthropist? Help the poor, and you -help yourself. The Philanthropist is the mainstay of the nation. Or -shall I be a Dipsomaniac? Help yourself, and pass the bottle. The -Dipsomaniac is the mainstay of the Budget. It would be difficult to -choose even between these two. The Dipsomaniac sacrifices more than -the Philanthropist, and he is less self-conscious; but, on the other -hand, the Philanthropist is more popular and less truthful. If it be a -fine thing to help the poor, is it not an equally fine thing to help -the dear Budget? Perhaps the main distinction between the two is that -the Dipsomaniac accounts for most of the rum, and the Philanthropist is -mostly rum in his accounts. But who can possibly decide the difference -in their merits? And these are but two: there are thousands of others. - -There once was a cuckoo-clock bird; and after the manner of cuckoos it -did not lay wind-eggs in its own nest. It deposited them in a mare’s -nest, and a stuffed phœnix hatched them dead on the Greek Kalends of -April. It was thought at the time that the mechanical, the impossible, -and the futile had never been so beautifully combined. Yet I have seen -a man repeat the lessons that the last pamphlet had wound him up to -say, deposit a handsome donation of his father’s money in the society -that published it, crow to all his friends and expect to see the world -regenerated. The combination was quite as beautiful, and yet people -sneer at Causes! What great general ever lived who had not this, or a -similar faculty for combination? And though the things combined may be -utterly bad in themselves, we should never forget how very much of them -we get for our money--or our father’s money, as the case may be. - -But it is of little use to speak. There are few men in the world who -have a Cause. We are not serious enough. We give our minds to all -manner of trifles. With the exception of yourself, perhaps, I believe -that I am the only man left who really wants a Cause and is unable to -find one. With the rest it is sheer selfishness. - -See me hit that fly on my boat’s nose. Flop. Missed it. All right, you -wait till it comes back again. - -It seems to have aggravated that fly. It has left the boat’s nose and -gone for mine. I wonder if it knows that I do not like to hit my own -nose hard: instinct is a marvellous thing in insects. Or it may simply -be luck: luck is quite as marvellous. - -I knew a man once who wanted to do serious good until luck spoilt him. -He was fond of whist, and he played a good--University-good--rubber; -but he felt that it was not profiting the world, and that he should -like to feel that he was working for humanity when he was playing for -sixpenny points. - -And, firstly, it struck him that it would be a good thing to put a -small tax on trumps, and help the dear Budget. He wrote to his uncle -about it, because his uncle was in the House, and had once picked an -earwig off Mr. Gladstone’s coat, and had a good deal of influence. His -uncle wrote back to say that it was a good idea, and that he had given -it his earnest consideration; but that it was impracticable, because -the tax would be too difficult to collect. - -And, at the same time, his aunt sent him a collecting-box for the -Servants’ Home in Tasmania, and asked him to place it in a prominent -position in his rooms and do his best for it. - -So it occurred to him that here was a chance for him to impose a -voluntary tax upon himself, and make his whist do some serious good. He -made a vow, and repeated it aloud in these words:--“I vow that the next -time I have five trumps I will put half a crown in the collecting-box -for the Servants’ Home in Tasmania.” He told me afterwards that if -the experiment had turned out well he had intended to repeat it, and -do a good deal in one way or another for the Tasmanian servants. He -also called my attention to the wording of the vow, which he said was -important. That very night he sat down to a rubber, and started by -dealing himself five trumps. They were the five lowest trumps; but -my friend was surprised and pleased at the coincidence, stole softly -from his place, dropped half a crown into the collecting-box on the -mantelpiece, and returned without saying anything. - -As it happened, one of his opponents had the remaining eight trumps, -and not one of my friend’s five made a trick. Ultimately he lost two -trebles and the rub. It was then that he recalled the exact wording of -his vow. Of course it is not an easy thing to break the bottom out of a -collecting-box for the Servants’ Home in Tasmania with a common brass -poker; but it had to be done, and he did it. - -He lost his money by gambling, which shows how wrong and foolish -gambling is, and the other man won it, which proves---- What beautiful -weather it was on Bank Holiday, wasn’t it? - -Still, it was a curious piece of luck. - -A man once took out his purse in Fleet Street to buy a newspaper, and -out rolled a golden sovereign. He did not see that he had dropped it. -He only discovered his loss that night, and then he remembered the -exact spot where he had taken out his purse. Next day he was ill in -bed; but on the day after he said he should walk back to Fleet Street -and look for that sovereign. His friends laughed at him. They pointed -out that in so crowded a thoroughfare the coin must have been snapped -up in a moment. But the man was obstinate, and went back. He did not -find the whole coin, but he found twelve shillings and sixpence of it, -and an I.O.U. for the remainder. - -Yes, that story’s a lie. Stories about luck generally are. - -That wretched, silly little fly has just perched itself on my boat’s -nose again. Well, I shall hit it next time--the third time. - -Have you ever noticed how luck is connected with the number three--one -of the religious numbers? The dream which comes true is always dreamed -three times. At the cocoanuts, too, you can have three shies for a -penny. There’s a mystery about these things. - -There once was an adopted father, and the son who had adopted him died -without leaving a will, and the poor father was sonless and penniless. -He felt sure that his adoptive son would never have been thoughtless -enough to omit so important an arrangement as the making of a will. -However, no will was found, and the property of the rich son was put up -to auction. The poor father watched the sale with a gloomy face. There -was the Broadwood grand-piano, on which his son had taught him his -scales: he saw it disposed of to a stranger, and turned away to weep. -Then a copper coal-scuttle was put up to auction, and the poor father -fancied he heard a voice within him saying, “Buy the coal-scuttle! Buy -the coal-scuttle!” - -He had but a few pounds left, and it was a Louis XIV. coal-scuttle; but -he bid for it, and ultimately secured it. With trembling hands he bore -it off to the little cottage, which now was all that he had to call a -home. Eagerly he opened the lid, and saw inside some small coal and a -pair of broken braces. - -That shows luck just as much as the other stories; but luck is like the -moon--we see only one side of it. At any rate, it is quite as true as -the other two stories. - -That fly again! This is the third time. I feel that it is fated. I -raise my paddle on high, and bring it down with one mighty whack and a -murmured “Bismillah!” - -I have missed the fly, and split the paddle, and could do with -_something shorter_ than “Bismillah!” - -Now I’m going home. - - - - -VIII. - -ON SOLITUDE: WITH A THIRD ANECDOTE FROM THE “ENTERTAINMENTS” OF -KAPNIDES. - - -If I have gone some distance to seek solitude, it is not because I am -sulky. But I never feel quite certain at this time of the year that -there may not be penny steamers plying between Silver Street Bridge and -Chesterton, or a Lockhart’s tea and cocoa palace erected in King’s. -And I should hardly like to see it. Of course I did not find absolute -solitude even here. The other day an apple fell on my head while I was -like a child picking up pebbles on the shores of the ocean of life. I -saw that there was no help for it; so I just followed precedent and -discovered a natural law--that I never get anything I want. I am quite -contented, consequently, that I did not find any solitude at first, and -am pleasantly surprised that a large picnic party, who came and sniffed -all round me suspiciously, as if they wondered why I was not muzzled, -have finally decided to defile some other part of the river scenery -with their happy laughter and packets of lukewarm comestibles. - -I like a crowd immensely. Ditton Corner is good for the soul. So is the -Strand at noon or midnight. But every one who really likes a crowd, -really likes solitude. - -It is pleasant enough to lie here in the hot sun, to have a pipe that -does its work properly, and to wonder what the time is, but not to be -enough distressed about it to take the trouble to consult one’s watch. -I am finishing the “Entertainments” of Kapnides now, and I am not quite -clear about the last story but one in his book. I give it, in case you -have not read it. - - * * * * * - -It was a most beautiful cloud. Two highly respectable Athenians looked -at it for a long time, and they understood beauty in Athens. - -“Now, if any one were to paint that,” said the first, “every one would -say that it was not natural.” He felt there was depth in the remark. - -“I am not so sure of that,” said the second, intending to be thought -judicious but not disagreeable. - -If the cloud had been painted, its chiefest beauty would have been -omitted. For in the centre of the cloud sat the unborn soul of a -girl-child. To all mortals it had no visible appearance. But the stars, -as they crept slowly up for a night’s work, saw with smiling eyes a -graceful figure seated in the vapour, leaning a little backward, white -against the crimson pillows of mist, with slender hands clasped behind -a shapely head, and long dark hair and closed eyes. For it lived, -but did not think, after the manner of unborn souls, which have ways -distinctly of their own. - -And as the sun poised over the cool, lighted sea that sang to welcome -it, a noise of little tinkling silver bells was heard all down the sky; -and there was some hurry and confusion amid Powers which were usually -calm with the unjust, irritating, excessive calmness of a natural law. - -When it was all over, no one exactly knew whose fault it was. But the -Manager was summoned before the great Zeus, and reprimanded severely. -“It’s carelessness,” said Zeus, “and that’s what I can’t stand. You -ought to have been ready, and there are no two ways about it. You sit -there in the office, wondering how long it will be before you can -sneak out to your beastly lunch, and you forget that you’re paid to be -managing my business for me all that time.” - -Whether it was the Manager’s fault or not, the fact remained. Down in -the world, in the beautiful country just outside Athens, a boy-child -had been born, and he had been born with the soul of a girl-child -inside him. - -“Such a piece of bungling!” grumbled Zeus, and went off to play at -making orphans. - -To play this game you have to be a god, and possess thunderbolts; every -time you kill a father or mother you score one; if you miss, it counts -nothing; if you kill anything else by mistake, you lose one. - -Before the boy was grown Zeus had forgotten all about it. Perhaps this -was as well for the boy, for Zeus had intended only to give him five -years’ life; and perhaps it was not as well. - -At the age of twelve he was tall and straight. But his face was too -delicate, and his eyes were the eyes that had slumbered a dreamless -slumber under the closed lids of the unborn soul of a girl. And -about his ways there was some sweet shyness and tenderness, or -softness--names do not matter--although in courage and spirit and -endurance he had no equal among his comrades. And with all his comrades -he was gentle, and they loved him; but he, having no care for them nor -for the parents who bore him, and angry with himself because he could -feel no such care, went long, wandering walks alone, and heard strange -stories told him by flowers and birds and winds. - -And the years passed, and there was no change until the boy was -sixteen, and then no one knew why he was so unhappy and quiet; he -himself hardly knew. But now his wanderings would take him away for -days at a time. A spirit of longing possessed him, for which he had -no name, and the fulfilment of it was as a dim, dancing light before -him, baffling and dazzling him, and leaving him no peace. And of this -neither winds, nor birds, nor flowers told him anything. And the -longing drove him to climb where no others had dared to climb, or to -swim far out into the cool waters of the bay, that he might come back -tired and sleep through the warm fragrant night in the long grass. And -ever in sleep there came one dream and told him all; and ever when he -awoke, the dream was gone from his memory. So he never knew, but always -knew that he had known. - -Comely maidens, with an intimate knowledge of their own best points, -met him sometimes in his wanderings. And for them he cared nothing at -all, and wondered why one or two of their number looked shyly at him as -he passed them. They said nothing, for maidens are secretive animals; -but one with shapely arms took to herself a new bracelet; and one -with pretty pearly teeth got up a new sigh which just parted the lips -without being ungraceful, and sounded extremely interesting. However, -they might have painted themselves blue, and have had no effect -whatever on the sorrowful youth. But they were not thus minded; and, -seeing that this sad youth neither loved nor hated them, they looked -out for those who understood love and hatred, and were married. - -The boy’s father thought it necessary to consult a physician about this -strange melancholy. Besides, the youth was growing paler every day, -and was listless, and cared for nothing but to lie asleep, or almost -asleep, with the feathery grass rustling in a gentle whisper over him. - -So the physician came, and asked several impertinent questions. Then he -delivered himself upon this wise: - -“It is well known that much exercise and weariness consume the spirits -and substance, refrigerate the body; and such humours which nature -would have otherwise concocted and expelled, it stirs up and makes them -rage; which, being so enraged, diversely affect and trouble the body -and mind.” - -“Those are comforting words,” said the boy’s father, who couldn’t -understand them. - -“Keep it vague,” murmured the boy softly. - -“It is to the immoderate use of gymnastics,” said the physician, “that -I ascribe your son’s melancholy. Wherefore, let him drink of a syrup -of black hellebore, confected with the boiled seeds of anise, endive, -mallow, fermitory, diacatholicon, hierologodium----” - -“Half-time----change ends,” said the boy under his breath. - -“Cassia and sweet almonds,” continued the physician. “And in the -meantime he may drink of a broth of an exenterated chicken.” - -He had heard the youth’s last remark. “And,” he added severely, “let -him beware of intempestive laughter.” - -So the physician went away. - -“What did he say?” asked the mother of the youth. - -“Well,” said the father, “he said that the boy had been growing too -fast, at least he implied that, and he prescribed hierolo----French for -chicken broth, you know.” - -But while the doctor’s prescription was being prepared, the boy went -off to the cliffs; and he stretched himself at full length on the -thyme, and went to sleep, and dreamed the old sweet dream, and the sun -drew near to its setting, and in his pleasant sleep the boy died. - -Never had there been a happier and more desirable death. - -And under the burning sun a cloud was stretched like a cloth of gold. - -And the two highly respectable Athenians came out to look at it. “If I -were to paint that exactly as it is,” said the first, “every one would -say that my picture was intensely unnatural.” - -“Great Zeus!” ejaculated the second, for the first had made the remark -nearly every night for rather more than sixteen years, and still -thought there was a certain insight about it. - -In the golden heart of the cloud were together the soul of a youth and -the soul of a young girl, two souls that had done their work and were -resting. He sat in careless happiness looking down at her: for she -was stretched at his feet, making a daisy-chain with the souls of the -daisies that were to bloom next year. And ever she would look up from -her work into his eyes; and the eyes of the two were strangely alike, -and soft and bright. - -Into the cloud came the Manager. He was in a terrible hurry; for there -had been great doings in Sicily, and an army had been cut to pieces, -and consequently there was a press of business. - -“I’ve called to take your numbers,” he said. - -They both gave the same number. - -He seemed a little startled, then recovered himself, and jotted it -down in his note-book. “I remember now,” he said, half apologetically. -“It was not entirely my fault. I had slipped out to get a glass of -beer, and I told the boy to send for me if anything happened. But he -thought he could manage it himself, and he blundered, and I was blamed. -So you both were born in the same body. I hope you were not crowded. -Zeus had intended you to be born in different bodies, and fall in love -with one another down below. But you can do it up here, you know. It’s -not the same thing, but some people think it’s better: it’s much more -spiritual. You will have this cloud all to yourselves for as long as -you like. At any rate it was not so hard on you as it was on the girl’s -body, which had to be born without any soul at all--but I am told that -she made money out of it. Well, I must be off; good evening.” - -So the Manager departed, and they were alone, and they floated away -into the night when the night came. And the sea sang beneath them, and -the wind was warm and perfumed with flowers. - -“I love you for ever and ever,” he said. - -The same remark had just occurred to her--not strikingly original, -perhaps, but both were satisfied with it. - - - - -IX. - -ON ASSOCIATIONS: TOGETHER WITH A LAST ANECDOTE FROM THE -“ENTERTAINMENTS” OF KAPNIDES. - - -I think _Zeitgeist_ has grown lazy; I had meant to take it a long way -to-day, but it simply stopped at the first shady spot it could find, -and stretched itself there. One has to smoke a little brown tobacco -to keep off the midges, but otherwise I do not mind much. I would not -make use of my superior strength to force a tired boat to do more than -it wanted to do. Besides, _Zeitgeist_ has earned some consideration. -It has behaved excellently; in fact, it has almost been morbid in -the politeness with which it has avoided running into other boats -lately. Somebody, I see, has put a bottle of cider into the canoe. How -thoughtless of him! There are a corkscrew and a drinking-horn as well. -Perhaps it’s all for the best. - -The taste of cider should be full of associations. It should recall -orchards in Devonshire; and rustic inns with porches, and honeysuckle, -and earwigs; and the simple village maiden who got to be rather fond of -the stranger artist, and cried a little in her simple village way when -he went back again to civilisation. I am starving for dreamy poetry and -pleasant memories this morning; I wish this cider had such beautiful -associations for me. But it has not. To me cider is cider, and it is -nothing more. I have never been in a Devonshire orchard; and I am not -an artist; I have never drawn anything. - -Except corks. By the way, I may as well put that bottle of cider in the -shallow water here. It will cool it. Then, afterwards, I may be able to -forgive the person who put it into my canoe. - -I am not sure that people do not set too much store by associations. -There is an old tune that most people have forgotten, I dare say; -perhaps it is not very good music; in fact, I would take an affidavit -that it is the nastiest, tuniest tune I ever heard, and yet it has -associations for me. It recalls to me my landlady’s daughter; it was -the tune she loved most and played most frequently; she was rather an -ugly girl, too. But I do not value the tune any more on that account; I -believe it makes me hate it more bitterly. - -I should think that cider must be almost cool by now, but I will give -it another minute or two. - -I suppose it is for the sake of associations that people have their -dead pets stuffed, or have portions of them made into tobacco-pouches -or paper-knives. I never had any pet myself except one solitary, evil -dog; he was an original dog, and was perfectly good-tempered with -everybody except his master. I am thankful to say that I possess -absolutely nothing which reminds me of him. The smell of tar has -curious associations for me. It reminds me of a day when I drove -frantically in the direction of Liverpool Street, with the intention of -catching the 10.30. I had offered my cabby vast sums to get me there in -time, and he certainly did his best. I did not stop to take a ticket, -but dashed across the platform, and entered the train just as it was -moving out. I sank back on the cushions with a sigh of relief. One gets -so much pleasure out of _just_ doing a thing. Then I found out that the -train which I had entered was not the 10.30, was not going to the same -place, and was not thinking of stopping anywhere for some considerable -time. Perhaps you wonder why the smell of tar should remind me of this. -So do I. I have not the least notion why it is. - -One must not expect to see the reason for the connection always. Why -are the girls with the biggest feet always devoted to quite inferior -works of fiction? Why are clean-shaven men always cynical? - -Then of course there are the tender, romantic associations. A good deal -might be said about them. In the meantime I can’t think where I’ve put -that corkscrew. Ah! here it is, sitting under one of the cushions and -laughing at me. Now for the cider, with a golden glow in it like the -curls of the love-god himself. - -And flat--miserably flat. - - * * * * * - -As I said, _Zeitgeist_ does not care to move about much. So I have -amused myself with reading the last anecdote in the “Entertainments” of -Kapnides. Here it is:-- - - A general feeling of content prevailed in the house of Zeus & Co. “We - shall declare,” said Zeus, “such a dividend as never was.” - - “We shall,” said Co. - - Zeus & Co. occupied the two thrones at the back of the large hall. - During the last spring-cleaning, Zeus had ordered his own throne to - be regilded. Nothing had been done to the other throne, which was - occupied by Co. But Co. was quite humble. As a general rule he merely - echoed the sentiments of Zeus. If he felt the difference between the - two thrones, he had never mentioned it. Perhaps it might be as well - to notice that all the shares were in the hands of Zeus & Co. They - were the directors, and also the shareholders. By this arrangement - much unpleasantness was avoided. - - But at this moment an old gentleman in a very shiny coat rose from - the desk at the farther end of the hall, and stepped towards the - thrones. He looked at Zeus, coughed a little nervously, and began: - - “Mr. Zeus, and also Mr. Co., you will excuse me, but I’ve a little - matter to bring before you, in my position as Chief Agent in the - Punishment Department.” - - “By all means,” said Zeus kindly. “There’s nothing wrong, I hope. - It’s a good department.” - - “A very good and profitable department,” echoed Co. - - “Well, Mr. Zeus, you will probably remember that you assigned to me a - young subordinate, a mere boy, called Eros.” - - “I remember,” said Zeus. “He was not to draw any regular salary.” - - “Precisely so,” replied the Agent. “He just took his small commission - on every broken heart. Well, up to the present I’ve had no complaint - to make of him. He did his work well and cheerfully. The Suicide - Section used to send me in most favourable reports of him. I had even - intended to recommend him for promotion.” - - “But without increase of salary, I hope,” said Zeus. “The - shareholders would never stand that, you know.” - - “They simply wouldn’t tolerate it for a minute,” echoed Co. It was - not supposed to be generally known that Zeus & Co. were the only - shareholders. - - “No, sir,” answered the Agent. “I should have left the question of - salary to you. I hope I know my place, sir. But, if you will believe - it, that boy actually wants to resign the post he holds already. He - got mixed up in that Psyche business a good deal, you know. I never - knew the rights of the case exactly; but I do know that he’s not been - the same boy since, and takes no pleasure in his work at all.” - - “Well, show him in,” said Zeus irritably, “and I’ll have a word or - two to say to him.” - - “I wonder,” suggested Co., “if the Agent can have been fool enough to - let the boy know that he was a punishment and not a blessing?” - - At this moment the Agent, who had retired, reappeared with Eros. - He was a handsome boy, but it was evident that he was very angry. - His eyes flashed, and tears stood in them. He made no obeisance to - Zeus, but with a rapid movement unslung his bow and quiver from his - shoulders, and snapt bow and arrows, one after another, across his - knee, flinging them down on the floor of the hall. - - “I’ve had enough of that,” he said shortly, setting his lips tight. - - “Are you aware,” said Co. solemnly, “that what you have just broken - is the property of the shareholders?” - - “And are you aware,” thundered Zeus, “what the dickens you’re talking - about? Explain yourself.” - - The boy burst into tears. “I _won’t_ do it any more,” he sobbed. “I - _won’t_. I’m not a blessing; I’m a curse. And I’m not going to be - your servant, because you hate everybody.” - - “No,” said Co. quietly; “we love them.” - - “Then what does your first rule mean?” asked the boy fiercely. - - “The first rule,” replied Co., “is that twenty years shall not be - enough to make a life, and ten minutes shall be more than enough to - spoil it. We made that rule to stop people spoiling their lives.” - - Zeus rubbed his hands softly together, and smiled, and said nothing. - - “I did not mind once,” the boy went on, “when I made women weep and - men rave. I do now. It’s always the same thing. They long, and long, - and cannot obtain; and then the weaker sort kill themselves, and the - stronger sort grow cruel. Or, if they obtain, misery in one form or - another follows. I resign my post.” - - “Just pass me that thunderbolt,” said Zeus, in an unpleasant voice. - - “Oh, you can kill me,” the boy exclaimed, contemptuously, “I care - nothing for that. I wish I had never lived.” - - “But you mistake,” said Co., suavely, “you mistake; Mr. Zeus had no - intention of killing you. You have a right to resign your post if you - like. He was going to kill a young girl named Psyche.” - - “What for?” gasped Eros. - - “Oh, for sport.” - - There was a moment’s silence. Then Eros spoke in a hard, unnatural - voice. “I will go back to my work, Zeus, and do it better than ever, - if you will not kill Psyche.” - - “Very well,” said Zeus kindly. “I don’t want to be disagreeable; as - long as I kill somebody, it doesn’t matter. Now, trot along to your - work, my boy, and I won’t kill Psyche.” - - So the boy went back to his work, and did it better than ever. - - “That was a good idea of yours, Co.,” said Zeus, after a moment’s - pause. - - “Very much may be done by kindness,” replied Co. “Don’t you think - this throne of mine looks a little shabby beside yours?” - - “I’ll give the order to have it regilded,” said Zeus affably. - - But, if things go on like this, it will be “Co. & Zeus” soon. - -It’s getting late; time for me to take _Zeitgeist_ home again. - -A curate was once complaining to me about certain hardships that he -suffered at the hands of his vicar. “And, above all,” he said, “I am -never allowed to preach an evening sermon. I get no chances. The vicar -always preaches the evening sermons.” There was a good deal of justice -in the complaint; we are all naturally more righteous in the evening. -When the light dies behind the stained windows, and the music speaks, -and through the open doors you can smell the syringa-bushes, then--for -some reason that I know not--it is more easy to think oneself a sinner -and to wish one were not. Preaching would naturally be more effective -at such a time. - -It is evening now, and I have been thinking about the different things -that I am going to eat shortly. I do not know what is wrong with me -that I should be so low. But external circumstances that suggest one -line of thought are always liable to suggest the exact opposite. It has -been proved by statistics that two-thirds of the best English jokes -are invented, but not necessarily spoken, at funerals. Perhaps this -accounts for the depression one always has to conceal when one hears of -the joy or success of a dear friend. - -_Zeitgeist_ will have a long rest now--until my return. I could wish -for some reasons that I had a more complete control over that boat; -that, when I started out with it, I could be more definitely sure where -it was going; that, in short, its nature was less petulant. However, -there is a charm in uncertainty. I forgive it everything. - - - - -THE NINE MUSES MINUS ONE. - - - - -I. - -CLIO’S STORY: CHARLES MARIUS. - - -On a beautiful summer night of last long vacation a cloud sailed slowly -out of the west. The sun was going down; the honest worker had fallen -asleep over his books, and in his dream was standing before a booking -office in the Bay of Tarentum and asking for a second aorist return to -Clapham; the jubilant whist player, holding the situation in his hand, -had exhausted the trumps, and was bringing in the rest of a long suit; -the mere conversationalist had worked in that epigram again, and the -mere athlete, who did not believe in that fancy kind of talk, had gone -away to drink a little good beer; the fiery bedmaker had just gone -round to the kitchens, to tell the men precisely what she thought about -them: in fact, everything--except the cloud--was much as usual. But the -cloud was extraordinary. - -It was granted to me to see that cloud close at hand, to stand in its -midst, to hear what was spoken there, while I remained unseen and -unheard. I do not wish to speak of myself much, because it seems to me -vain and immodest; but I must say that I believe the real reason why I -was permitted to behold the Muses, and to hear the stories which they -told to one another to while away the summer night, is that my nature -is singularly pure, and good, and spiritual, and free from grossness, -and beautiful. So, I feel sure, is your nature, my dear reader, -although in a less degree. - -In the front of the cloud hung a rosy curtain of some delicate tissue, -and behind this curtain was the rose-lit room in which the Muses were -grouped. Clio was standing erect. She wore a long and ample robe; her -figure was stately; her look was the look of a handsome, learned woman, -who is on the brink of her thirtieth year. In one hand was an open roll -of paper, on which gilt letters were blazoned. She was looking down -upon the towers, and steeples, and house-tops of Cambridge, and on -the slow river winding like a reluctant silver corkscrew through the -beautiful meadows of Grantchester. - -Behind her, seven of her sisters, picturesquely grouped, reclined on a -low divan at the farther end of the room. They all were beautiful in -different ways. Their robes, snow-white and pearly-grey, golden and -crimson and deep-sea blue, made a poem of colour. - -And on the mosaic floor, kneeling on one knee, bending over a little -tripod that supported a brazier, was one who wore no robe, but the long -night of her beautiful hair. Mockery was on her lips, but dreams were -in her eyes. She seemed a young girl of seventeen. She was Erato, who -sings to us of love. The picture of her in the classical dictionaries -is absurdly wrong. Beside her on the floor lay her lyre and a curious -golden casket. From the brazier a thin, wandering line of fragrant -smoke came up, and hovered in the room. - -There was a moment’s silence. Then Clio turned round to her sisters. -“We will stay here,” she said, “for a little while. This is Granta; and -here are gathered young men who are truly gymnasts and yet follow the -Muses. For they do all of them seek after culture, and love naught but -the reading of many learned books, and the hearing of the wisdom of -their teachers; and they all strive to lead the higher life.” - -Terpsichore gave a curious little cough. I have no certain idea what -it meant; but it seemed to imply in some way that she had been there -before. The grave and stately Clio never noticed it. - -“Yes, we will stay, and tell to one another improving stories,” she -went on. “Cupid! Cupid!” she called. - -A curtain at the side of the room was flung aside, and in came a little -winged boy, with laughing eyes, naked but for the quiver that hung from -the shoulders. He does a good deal for the Muses, but not in a menial -way. They all smiled when he came in. He stood by the side of Erato, -who evidently petted him a good deal, drawing one strand of her dark -hair through his little rosy fingers--but he was looking at Clio. - -“Cupid,” said the grave Muse, “we would stay here: let the wind blow -our cloud no farther.” He nodded his head, turned to go, and then -lingered, still playing with Erato’s hair. - -“Erato,” he whispered in her ear, “my bow-string is frayed. Let me make -a bow-string of your hair.” - -“No--perhaps--not now. You wicked little boy!” she said, looking up in -his face and laughing. - -“Then soon,” he whispered again, and passed once more behind the -curtain. I do not know what he did, but the wind ceased, and the cloud -remained still. Clio took her place on the divan. “Who shall begin?” -she asked. - -“Oh, you!” they all cried together. - -“You’re the eldest, you know,” added Erato, a little maliciously. Erato -had taken a cushion from the divan, and stretched herself very lazily -on the floor. I am afraid the other Muses were all anxious to get -Clio’s story over as soon as possible. History was her province, and -she was so exceedingly historical as to be sometimes almost dull. - -“Very well, then. I will begin,” said Clio. “The number of temporal -lords summoned by writ to the parliaments of the House of Plantagenet -was exceedingly various.” - -Clio paused. There was a sly, mischievous look on Erato’s face; she -stretched out one hand to the golden casket, and took from it a little -powder, which she dropped into the brazier. A strange, pungent odour -came up from it. I do not know what it was, but it had a curious effect. - -“I think I will begin again,” said Clio. “That’s the wrong story.” - -Then she told the story which follows. I am afraid the powder had a -little to do with it. - - * * * * * - -With the battle of Waterloo the last hope of Charles was humbled in -the dust. Three years afterwards he was found by the lictors seated -in a poor third-class compartment in the railway junction which was -erected on the site of that scene of carnage, and still retains the -name of Waterloo. Charles surveyed them from the window, calmly and -unflinchingly. “Go,” he said, “and tell the Carthaginians that you have -seen Marius seated in the South-Eastern Express for Charing Cross.” - -His request was never carried out. It was almost impossible to book -through to Carthage, and it was too far to walk. With tears in their -eyes, the lictors walked sorrowfully away to the refreshment-room. -The train steamed out of the station and arrived a week later at -Charing Cross, a little tired, but in fairly good condition. Charles -Marius levied two benevolences on the arrival platform, and conferred -a monopoly on the bookstall; but he was not looking at all well. The -marshes of Minturnæ, and a rooted dislike to being called a man of -blood, had preyed on his mind, and made him appear haggard and anxious. -He was met under the clock by the aged Menenius Agrippa, Socrates, -John Bradshaw, the Spanish Ambassador, and others. John Bradshaw was -naturally the first to speak. - -“As Serjeant-at-Law and President of the High Court of Justice, it is -my painful duty to----” - -“Stay,” interrupted Menenius Agrippa. “I once told a fable to the -Plebeians, and it did good. It is not generally known, and it may be of -service in the present critical juncture. Charles Marius, you man of -blood, listen. Once upon a time the members refused to work any longer -for the Belly, which led a lazy life, and grew fat upon----” - -“Don’t, my dear friend, don’t,” said the Spanish Ambassador piteously. -“We know it by heart. It’s all in little Smith.” - -“But it may do good,” said the aged Menenius. “How far had I got? -Oh yes--and grew fat upon their toils. But receiving no longer any -nourishment from the Belly, they soon began to----” - -At this moment a cheerful porter, with a merry cry of “Now then, -stoopid!” ran a heavy truckful of luggage into the aged Menenius and -bowled him over. This gave John Bradshaw an opportunity to resume his -remarks: - -“It seemeth to me that the time hath now gone by when the telling of -fables might serve the body politick; and seeing what grave charges -have been exhibited against you, Charles Marius, you man of blood, and -duly proven before me, it behoveth us rather to inquire into the method -which shall be deemed most suitable for your execution.” - -He went on to point out that there were many methods of execution, but -that it was most agreeable to the sense of the nation that Charles -Marius should be taken to a very small, very cheap, very dirty, very -Italian restaurant; and that he should drink there one bottle of that -sound dinner-wine Raisonola at eleven shillings the dozen. - -“We hereby give our royal word,” said Charles Marius; but he was -sternly checked by the Serjeant-at-Law. - -“We need nothing of your royal word, having in former times had too -much of it. I myself will walk first, accompanied by the Spanish -Ambassador and Menenius Agrippa. You, Socrates, will accompany that man -of blood, Charles Marius, and administer to him the consolations of -your philosophy. You others will remain.” - -The sad procession filed out of Charing Cross Station. Menenius Agrippa -looked a little angry, and was brushing the dust from his toga; but -the Spanish Ambassador and John Bradshaw were intensely stately and -dignified. Behind them walked Socrates and Charles Marius. Socrates -began at once: - -“Seeing, my friend, that you are about to be executed, let us speak of -execution. For it is well to speak always of the thing which is the -present thing. So, setting aside your misconduct under H. Metellus -Stanleius in Africa, let us discuss this execution. Now, I have often -wondered why to the many it always seems an evil to be executed. For -if a will be duly executed, it takes force therefrom. Now, to acquire -force is plainly to be reckoned among the good things. Therefore to be -executed must be good and desirable. Or shall we say rather that words -have no meaning?” - -“Go to the deuce!” said Charles Marius sulkily. “We offered John -Bradshaw our royal word, and he refused to take it. So we won’t talk at -all.” - -And he never said another word until they were all five seated at -one table in the Italian restaurant. A melancholy waiter of no -nationality brought a soiled bill of fare; he also added two forks and -a mustard-pot as a kind of after-thought. - -“Bring,” said John Bradshaw, “one bottle of Raisonola and one glass.” - -“Ver’ well,” said the waiter sadly, flicking a dead fly off the table -with one end of his napkin. “It will be a shilling, if you please.” - -“Pay afterwards,” said John Bradshaw sharply. - -The waiter shrugged his shoulders. “I am ver’ sorry, but we mos’ always -ask for ze monny before we bring ze Raisonola. We haf our orders. You -see we haf often had a trouble to get ze monny afterwards from ze -heirs. Tree weeks ago two gemmens kom in and order ze Raisonola. They -trink it, and die all over ze floor.” (An expressive shrug of shoulders -came in again here.) “We sweep ’em up, and throw ’em away, and they -pay us nossin--nossin at all. It is all so moch loss.” His hands were -turned outward, deprecatingly. - -“Look here, my man,” said Menenius Agrippa quickly. “Once upon a time -the members refused to work any longer for the Belly, which----” - -“Dry up,” thundered John Bradshaw. “We must pay,” he added. “And it so -befalleth that I have not my purse, but the Spanish Ambassador----” - -The Ambassador explained that he had only Spanish coins with him, which -would not be accepted. Socrates hastily added the information that he -always took his money straight home to Xantippe, and that if he was -short that night there would be unpleasantness. - -Menenius said that he had no money, but would be glad to continue his -fable. “Let’s see. Where was I? Oh, I know--any longer for the Belly, -which----” - -“Do drop it,” sighed the Spanish Ambassador pathetically. - -“Silence,” said John Bradshaw. “Charles, be a man, and pay for your own -execution.” - -Charles offered his note-of-hand and his royal word. - - He nothing common did or mean - Upon that memorable scene. - -But the waiter refused them. And the five were compelled to leave the -restaurant. There was a crowd round the door. When they had got clear -of the crowd, one of their number was missing. It was Charles Marius. - -The rest of the story is well known. Charles Marius escaped to St. -Helena, and spent the rest of his life in collaborating with Dr. Gauden -on a novel called “Eikon Basilike.” The failure of the execution -preyed upon John Bradshaw’s mind, and in a fit of madness he wrote the -time-tables which bear his name. Menenius Agrippa became a diner-out, -and acquired the surname of “History,” because he always repeated -himself. The Ambassador still lives in his castle in Spain. - - * * * * * - -Clio had finished. “Thank you so much,” said the other Muses. - - - - -II. - -EUTERPE’S STORY: THE GIRL AND THE MINSTREL. - - -There was silence for a few moments. Erato, stretched lazily on the -floor, looking up at the dim-lit roof of the cloud-chamber, let her -pretty lips curve half-way to a smile, when she checked herself -suddenly; she never could keep her thoughts still for a moment,--they -flew from poor Clio’s story to a story of her own. She was thinking -now of a hot summer night in Sicily, and of one who walked across -the low hills, with flocks pattering softly after him, and seen but -indistinctly in those fragrant moments when the evening touches the -darkness. She thought of him. As he went, he piped a melody--a simple -strain enough, but with one of those quaint refrains that nestle down -in the memory of a man. Ah--and afterwards! - -“Clio,” she said, drawing a long breath, “I have a story, sweet and fit -for a summer night, a story of the joyousness, and rapture, and sorrow -of Love. Will you hear it?” - -“Ah, yes, Clio!” said Terpsichore. “Erato once told me a story, and it -was so lovely and dreamy. It had the temper of soft valse music. One’s -heart throbbed to it: one lived to it, as it were. Let us hear Erato’s -story.” - -“Not just yet, I think,” answered Clio. “We must not forget that -Granta lies beneath us. Far down below our feet, one sits--a young -man with red hair--amid many dictionaries. He is turning into Latin -elegiacs those beautiful lines--I quote from memory-- - - His head was bare, his matted hair - Was shaved to keep him cool. - -Already he has seven feet in his hexameter, and knows it not, because -the gods do not like him. If we let thoughts of love stray forth from -our cloud-chamber, and flutter down into that young man’s red head, I -fear that he would never get the pentameter at all. No, Erato, to these -young men love is a disturbing influence; they avoid the maidens, and -care only for a surer knowledge of Greek accentuation. When they have -all gone to bed, you shall tell your story; great personages in history -have fallen in love; I myself have no prejudice against it. But you may -choose which of us shall tell the next story.” - -Erato sighed, and glanced round the room. When her eyes fell on Euterpe -her face brightened. And truly Euterpe was good to see: she had a -wonderful grace of body, and fresh gladness in her eyes; yet there -was a depth in the look of her; it was the look of one not easily -understood, of one who could feel a sorrow. - -“I choose Euterpe, because she is so beautiful.” - -A little flush came into Euterpe’s cheeks; her lips parted, showing her -small white teeth. She was ever shy and quiet. - -“I would sooner sing to you,” she said. “I am more used to singing.” - -“No, dear, it must be a story,” said Clio firmly. - -“And perhaps a song will come into it,” added Erato sweetly. - -Then Euterpe told this story. And all the time that she was telling it -Erato sat gazing upward into Euterpe’s eyes. - - * * * * * - -The child came through the forest. The big trees grew close together, -and creeping plants hung like heavy serpents from their boughs. The sun -found its way through, here and there, among the broad, smooth leaves, -and made splashes of light on the red gold of the child’s hair. One -bird called to another; every now and then there was a flutter among -the leaves, or the quick rustle of some small live thing in the tall -grasses and brushwood below, and a scented wind kept singing of a land -of rest where the good winds go when they die. From far away one could -hear the low roar of a lion, as he stood by the margin of the distant -morass, looking over stretches of sand and spaces of still water to the -line of grey hills that seemed to be the end of the world. - -The child was very fair. Her hair was glorious; her eyes were blue; her -young limbs were white, and strong, and graceful. Yet one might see a -fierce look in the blue eyes, and splashes of crimson here and there on -the white limbs, and her breath came quickly; for it was in her nature -to torture and to kill, and she knew no better thing. In one hand -she dragged along the body of a young wild cat, scarcely more than a -kitten. She lived ever in the open air, and she was fleet and fearless. -All the morning she had chased it, until it was weary; yet, although -it was young, it had fought long and fiercely. On the hand that -dragged it along were the marks of its claws and teeth; thick drops of -blood fell slowly on to its body, and its fur was wet and stained. The -child wore a living, tortured, fluttering necklace. She had caught the -butterflies one by one, choosing those which were brightest in colour, -and had threaded a spiked tendril through the soft bodies to make -herself the necklace. She liked the tickling fuss and flutter that the -butterflies made against her smooth skin, as they hung there and died -slowly. - -A great purple flower, that grew low down on the ground, lifted its -brightness towards her as she passed: “And, oh!” sighed the flower, -“she is fair, and sweet would it be if she would take me and wear me -gently at her breast.” The child did not know the voice of flowers; but -she stooped down and tore off the purple petals one by one. From the -cup of the flower rolled a big golden bee: he had been sleeping there. -For one second he buzzed on the ground, trying to remember where he -was and to understand what had happened. In that second the child had -swiftly seized a stone, and so she crushed most of the bee, leaving it -enough life to let it feel the agony of death. She flung down the body -of the wild cat, and ran on for a few steps, with a laugh on her red -mouth. Then she stopped again where a nest was built in a bush with -very dark leaves and little white globes of flowers. In the nest were -three young birds: two of these she cast to the ground and killed at -once: she held the third in her small hot hands for a second, and a -kind of frenzy came on her, and she made her firm teeth meet in its -neck. For a little while she stood shuddering, and then she passed -onwards, but more slowly. Slowly she came through the forest in her -fairness and cruelty, caring nothing for her own beauty, and knowing -nothing better than her cruelty. - -And it chanced that she came to the place where the minstrel sat in -pleasant shade on a mossy curve of a tree’s root. In his hands was his -lyre, and music came from it like falling water. The child crept into -the brushwood, and hid herself, and listened. And the minstrel sang: - - Far away is the land where all things go, - The rest of the winds that have ceased to blow, - The peace of the rose whose leaves lie low, - Scattered and dead, where roses grow. - Far away! far away! - - There the dead bird takes a song again, - And the steed has rest from the spur and rein, - And the dead man learns that all were vain-- - All the old struggles, and joys, and pain. - Far away! far away! - - And the light on their eyes is a wondrous light, - Where there is not day and there is not night, - Where the fallen star once more grows bright - That fell into darkness out of the height-- - Far away! far away! - - Let me win there ere the break of day, - Ere the first faint light o’er the hills grows grey, - I am tired of my work and tired of my play, - And I’ll make better songs in the land far away,-- - Far away! far away! - -The voice ceased; but the music of the lyre still flowed on, and the -minstrel looked upwards towards the sky. No word of cruelty had been in -the song; but through the music her first knowledge of gentleness came -to the child, and she saw that she had been cruel. She crouched there -amid the tall rank grasses; her face had grown whiter and whiter; her -eyes were strained and piteous, but there was no tear in them. With -trembling fingers she unfastened the living fluttering necklace, and -gently killed all the butterflies to spare them torture. Then she flung -herself prone on the ground, with her forehead on her linked hands; her -red lips quivered a little, but the relief of tears came not. “Ah!” she -moaned, “why was I so cruel? Why did I never know?” The wind played -with her hair, moving it caressingly. - -As the child lay there, and the minstrel played on and on, the sky -above grew darker. There was no need now for pleasant shade. Over the -line of grey hills that seemed to be the end of the world rested the -storm-clouds, black and purple. Suddenly the air became quite still, as -if it were waiting for something. Was it the roar of the lion or the -voice of the storm that sounded dimly afar off? - -Once more the minstrel raised his voice to song, and anger was in his -eyes: - - The pure white flower grew up in the way - Where the wild cat’s whelp went forth to play. - - And the whelp rent the flower for the gold within, - And a child slew the whelp for its soft warm skin. - - And the lion slew the child for a draught of blood, - And the river swept the lion away in its flood. - - And the gods dried the river in its deep stone bed, - And all from the flower to the stream were dead. - - We are things that the gods make sport upon: - We shall have no peace till the gods are gone. - -The child had raised herself to watch the minstrel. As he sang the -last words the skies seemed to snap overhead; a quick flash shot -downwards, like the thrust of ghostly steel. For a moment the child’s -eyes were dazzled; then the loud roar of thunder seemed to fill the -forest and the sky. When she looked again she saw that the minstrel had -fallen forward on his face; by his side was his lyre, with the strings -broken and smouldering; from his body, charred by the lightning, -delicate strays of smoke curled up. The child came, and knelt by the -side of the dead minstrel. She raised his head, and looked piteously -upon it, for the beauty had all gone out of it now; then she pressed -her little red lips to the blackened lips of the dead man, and went on -her way. It was the first kiss she had ever given. - -And still she did not weep; but the blood in her veins seemed to be as -fire, and strange voices were sounding in her head. When the evening -fell she stood by the edge of the swamp. Out of a dim cavern crept an -old lion, and looked at her with green, hungry eyes. His lips curled -a little backward. The child called to him: “Come, then! I have been -seeking for you! Torture me, and then let me die!” - -The lion turned swiftly round, and fled with a howl back into the -cavern. - -The child wandered on. She ate the black poison berries, but they would -not hurt her. At last, when the moon was up, she saw a dark, deep pool, -and flung herself into it; but the pool cast her back again on to the -shore. She was fain to die, and to atone; but the gods knew their -business better than to allow it. - -And still she walks through the forest, seeking rest and finding it -not, and she speaks to none. Only sometimes at night, when the golden -moon comes up behind the low grey hills, she sings in a sweet child’s -voice a few lines of a remembered song: - - Let me win there ere the break of day, - Ere the first faint light o’er the hills grows grey! - I am tired of my work and tired of my play, - And I’ll make better songs in the land far away,-- - Far away! far away! - -And the gods are immensely amused. - - * * * * * - -“Thanks,” said Thalia, “though I don’t care much for those fanciful -high-toned stories.” - -But Erato rose, and seated herself on the divan by Euterpe’s side, and -wound one arm round her waist, and kissed her on the lips. I thought -they looked rather pretty and poetical; but I don’t go in much for that -kind of thing myself. - - - - -III. - -TERPSICHORE’S STORY: THE UNDER-STUDY. - - -A short pause, and then Erato spoke, addressing Clio: - -“Clio, my dear, and reverend sister, do you think these young men below -us, in the colleges, have gone to bed yet?” - -“My dear child,” said Clio, “you could hardly expect me to----well, as -far as I can judge, some of them are still up and at work. The young -red-headed man is stamping up and down his room, as if he were angry. -He has discovered that his hexameter would not do, for - - His head was bare, his matted hair, - -and he has been trying it a different way. Now he moans: ‘“Caput erat -nudum”--and the “a” ’s short, and I wish I was dead!”’ - -“I asked the question,” said Erato, “because a story has just occurred -to me, which I should like to tell you. I read it in the French. I -don’t think it would hurt the young men, even if they could hear it. -I’ll tone it down a little, of course. There’s one splendid part where -the husband----” She paused suddenly. - -“Yes,” said Thalia drily. “In those pretty French stories there -generally is one splendid part where the husband----” and she also -paused suddenly. She looked at Erato, and they both smiled. - -“Certainly not! Most certainly not!” said Clio at once. “You must -remember, Erato, that this is not the Greek civilisation. The English -have got beyond that: they have advanced; they sweep through the deep -while the stormy winds do blow, and hearts of oak are their men, and -they’d take a cup o’ kindness yet on the place where the old hoss died. -I make these last remarks on the authority of their own favourite -songs, of which I have made a special study for my book on National -Misfortunes. I assure you, Erato, that any University paper which -printed your story would be ruined.” - -“Ah, well!” answered Erato. “I have heard it said that Love’s a lost -art nowadays.” She paused a second, and then added: “Perhaps--perhaps -they are happier without it.” - -“I don’t think so,” said Terpsichore. “Everything depends on the way -you take it. Some take their love laughing, and some take it crying. I -always take it laughing myself. Either way, you’re happier for it.” - -“Really, Terpsichore,” murmured Clio reprovingly. - -Terpsichore did not heed her. “Where they are so wrong nowadays is in -taking their love commercially; in other words, they do not _love_; -they simply acquire all rights in a cheap housekeeper or an expensive -table ornament. They are so much too judicious. Yet sometimes--well, -there was a man--shall I go on?” - -“Yes, do,” said Erato. - -And this is the way that Terpsichore went on:-- - - * * * * * - -There was a man once--not very long ago--who was poor, but artistic; -and during his life he had rather more than his share of coincidences. -It happened one autumn that he was amusing himself by wandering about -a country that was good enough for an artist, but failed to attract -many tourists because it did not boast enough places where you had -to pay for admission. He had stayed a few days in a little village, -where there was one street that went tumbling downhill, sometimes with -cottages on each side, sometimes through clumps of stunted trees, -sometimes with the open heath all round it. It happened one night that -he was wandering down this street, and had reached one of those places -where the street turned into a country lane for a time, or rather for a -space. He was smoking, and humming to himself a song that he had heard -Viola sing a few months before. - -Viola had taken very fair hold of the town that season. It was not only -that she sang divinely; she was beautiful, and a little mysterious. -The numerous stories told about her were rendered probable by her -beauty, which was rather wicked; but no one could be certain about -them because she was so mysterious. Besides, many of the stories were -self-contradictory. - -On one side of the road was a cottage, standing by itself, and partly -screened by the shrubs which grew in the small garden in front of it. -Here the man stopped short, for the lower windows of the cottage were -open, and from within he could hear some one singing the very song -which he had just been humming. Some one? Why, it could be no other -than Viola herself who was singing it like that! He had always been -interested in Viola, although he had seen her only on the stage. It -was her reputation that she loved splendour and luxury. What could she -be doing in this quiet, out-of-the-way village? - -He leaned over the low garden gate, resting his elbows on the top of -it, and listened until the song’s conclusion. The room in the cottage -was brightly lighted, and the curtains were not drawn over the window; -he had heard rightly; it _was_ Viola. He could see her distinctly. She -was standing with her face towards the garden; and the man watched her -attentively. The mystery increased. Her dress was brilliant, not the -dress that a woman would put on in solitude and in a country village. -She was wearing her diamonds too--those diamonds about which every -story had been told except the true one. What was the reason for it -all? Was this simply her passion for splendour, existing even when the -splendour was to have no witnesses. The little, shabby, taciturn old -woman who acted as her companion in London was seated at the piano, and -had been playing the music for her song. But surely Viola would not -have made herself so magnificent simply on her account. - -It suddenly dawned on him that he was doing rather a mean thing by -watching Viola in this way. He would not look any more, but he would -wait, in case she should be going to sing again. That was love of -music--not curiosity. - -But even as he was making this decision the door of the cottage opened, -and Viola came out. She walked straight up the pathway towards the gate -on which the man was leaning; there was not the least hesitation about -her. - -“I wonder how on earth she managed to see me in this darkness?” he -thought. “Well, I’m not going to run away. I will wait, and make my -apologies to her. I expect she will be angry with me. Well, she should -not leave the windows open when she sings, if she does not want people -to stop and listen.” - -As she drew near to him she murmured a few words in Italian, as if she -were pleased about something; he conjectured that much, for he could -not understand Italian. Then she astonished him by placing her hands on -his shoulders, and kissing him, once, passionately. - -It flashed across him for an instant that she had been expecting some -one else, and had made a mistake. Now he understood the dress, the -diamonds--everything. - -“Excuse me, my dear lady,” he said, “but you are kissing the wrong -face--are you not?” He afterwards thought that he might have expressed -himself better, but he was agitated. - -She, on the other hand, never lost her composure for a second. She -spoke in English, with the faintest possible stammer: - -“Yes, th--thanks; it _is_ the wrong face. Would you t--take it away?” - -He retired at once, walked twenty yards down the road, and then met -the full humour of the situation. He laughed a long, suppressed laugh. -He went on and on, away from the village, out over the heath, away -from the haunts of men. And, as he walked, the humour of the situation -vanished again; but the night was full of her music, her queenliness, -the fragrant charm of her presence. “Viola,” he said softly, “Viola, -what a heavenly mistake!” - -Three years passed away. The poor but artistic man grew slowly wealthy -in those years. The exaltation of that night never left him; he was -full of brightness and happiness; his work was all light and strength. -He grew popular--partly by reason of his excellent spirits, and partly -because of his finer qualities. His luck was proverbially good; but -he had enough hope, optimism, and vigour to have carried him safely -through the most trying fortunes. His reputation was at its brightest -when his death came. - -He was in an accident--a commonplace railway accident--an accident -that passed over a dishonest commercial traveller in one compartment, -and killed the artist in the next. There was a short period, however, -chiefly occupied by delirium, between the accident and the man’s death. - -It was at the end of the delirium that he turned to the friend who was -by his bedside, and asked abruptly: - -“Have I been speaking of Viola?” - -“Yes; of course I wouldn’t----” - -“Of course. All the time?” - -“All the time.” - -“Were you surprised?” - -“Well, I have known you most of your life, and I never heard you speak -of her before--not in that way at all. I did not know that you had been -her lover.” - -“I was not. But once, before she left England, I was--I was her lover’s -under-study. I have lived on it ever since,” he added, after a pause. - -Then, through some queer freak of the brain, the humour of the mistaken -kiss appealed to him again, and he began to laugh--uncontrollably, as -if the thing had just happened. - -Laughter was the worst thing possible for him in that state. He died -laughing. - - * * * * * - -“I suppose she--Viola--didn’t care,” said Erato thoughtfully, when -Terpsichore had finished her story. - -“You forget that she had some one else to think about. Did you ever -know a woman yet that thought twice, by way of pity, about a man she -did _not_ love, when she had a man that she _did_ love to think about?” - -“N--no,” Erato replied. - -There was a moment’s pause. “Personally I don’t mind,” said Clio, -“but--considering where we are--do you think that last story -quite--quite judicious?” - - - - -IV. - -MELPOMENE’S STORY: THE CURSED PIG. - - -“I’m rather thirsty,” said Erato to Clio. Erato had stretched herself -once more on the mosaic floor of the cloud-room, with enough cushions -to make herself comfortable. “So am I,” said Terpsichore. - -“Well, considering how very hot the night is, I am not surprised. -Cupid!” - -The little petulant boy came laughing into the room, and nodded his -head in reply to the order which Clio gave him. Then he brought in a -silver tray covered with fragile glasses of nectar. All the Muses drank -nectar except Melpomene. She had a look of intense gloom, and she drank -blood-and-seltzer from a very large tumbler with a very bad curse cut -in Greek characters on the margin of it. Before Cupid handed her glass -to Erato, he just touched it with his own lips. Then he sat down by -Erato’s side, playing with her long hair. “Erato,” he said, “I would -like to wrap your beautiful dark hair all around me, and go to sleep. -There’s a faint scent of those yellow roses about it, and it’s awfully -soft and warm. I love you, Erato.” - -“You ought to love all of us,” said Clio reprovingly. - -“I try to,” said Cupid, very soberly, “and it’s tough work with some of -them,” he added under his breath. - -“Cupid, darling,” whispered Erato to him, “to-morrow I will give you -the bow-string that you wanted.” - -“Thanks awfully,” said Cupid, “and you must tell the next story, you -know, and I will lie here and listen to it. Tell me the story again -about that shepherd in Sicily who----” - -“Hush! hush!” interrupted Erato, “some of the sisters hardly like that -kind of story; and they say that the young students at work in the -colleges below us never think of love, and would not care to hear about -it.” - -“Well,” replied Cupid, with some assumption of importance, “I was there -last June week on business, and I bagged three hundred and forty-two -brace. That looks rather different, I fancy. Every man that I hit -is engaged. They write long letters to Her. They keep faded flowers -which She wore. They are beginning to drop all their bachelor friends. -One of them has made a kind of little shrine on his mantelpiece, in -which he keeps one tiny white satin slipper that She wore, and also -a large photograph of Her. Unfortunately the virus--I mean the sweet -influence--is not always permanent. Only too often the June week of one -year undoes the work of the previous June. I feel sure they would like -to hear the story about the Sicilian shepherd, and how he got to the -cave, and found----” - -“Hush!” said Erato quickly, “that’s the most dangerous part of all. -We’ll see about it though. Clio,” she added, raising her voice, “Cupid -tells me that you must be a little mistaken about those young students; -he says that----” - -“I am sorry to have to interrupt you,” remarked Clio, “but I have -asked Melpomene to tell us a soul-moving story, and she is going to -commence.” - -“I am not going to listen to that bloodthirsty hag,” whispered Cupid to -Erato. He kissed her and passed out of the room. Erato was busy with -the curious little silver brazier, from which the smoke began to ascend -more quickly. - -Melpomene took a draught of her blood-and-seltzer, and began in a deep -and husky voice:-- - - * * * * * - -A watchman stood on a lonely tower, looking eastward, and whistling -“Wait till the clouds roll by,” shredding it in as a remedy against -impatience. And that watchman was nothing if he was not classical. - -He pondered upon the history of the house. For the master was away -from home, having gone to a lonely place not marked on the maps, in -order to make atonement for his crime. Ten years before he had eaten -a veal-and-ham pie, in which, owing to the inadvertence of the cook, -his eldest daughter had taken the place of the veal-and-ham. And the -cook’s carelessness had been entirely due to absence of mind: he was -distraught because his son had just murdered his aunt, and the son -had murdered the aunt because his mind was unhinged owing to a sudden -depreciation in nitrates, which he had bought largely. And the gods had -caused the nitrates to depreciate because one of the directors hadn’t -sacrificed anything except one thigh slice, rather fat, for the last -two years. And the director hadn’t sacrificed anything else, because -he got his butcher’s meat under contract and the butcher had bilked -him. And the butcher had been compelled to bilk him, because the gods -had sent a murrain on all the cattle in the world, to punish one pig -that they had a spite against. This was not quite the ordinary curse, -descending from father to son with the silver spoons and the mortgages. -It went zigzag, like a snipe. Many people had taken snap-shots at -it with sacrifices, but they hadn’t been able to stop it. Nobody -knew where that curse was going to next; so a general interest in it -prevailed. Teiresias had taken a long prayer at it, just as it was -hopping from the director to the cook’s family, and missed badly. And -now the master of the watchman’s house--by name Eustinkides--had fired -a ten-years’ penance at it. Some thought he’d hit it; others said it -was lying low, and would get up again in a minute. - -This distressed the watchman. He felt uneasy. It was one of those -frisky curses, with an everlasting ricochet about it, going on like -sempiternal billiards with a bad cushion. He did not think it probable, -of course, that it would hit him. He was in such a very humble position -in life. But still he would have felt more comfortable if he could have -seen that curse getting to work somewhere else. It was not a pleasant -thing to have hanging about the house. In the meantime he awaited the -coming of Eustinkides. The master had ordered that at the moment when -he appeared in sight the hot water should be turned into the bath. -For, during the ten years’ penance in the place not recognised by the -Atlas, he had carefully abstained from all manner of washing, and had -not so much as breathed the name of soap. Suddenly the watchman removed -his eye from the telescope, and cried: “Listen, ye that are within -the house. For on the road is a curious geological formation that -walks, and a staff is stuck in a projecting portion of one of its upper -strata.” When it came nearer, and within hearing, the watchman called -out to it: - -“What ho! old alluvial deposit. How’s your ammonites?” - -A deep voice answered: “I am thy master, Eustinkides.” - -“Oh! sorry!” gasped the watchman, and disappeared abruptly. Whish! The -hot water poured into the bath. - -An hour afterwards Eustinkides lay in that bath, and soaked. As -fragments of other climates slowly detached themselves from him, he -thought of his penance and of his journey home. He had stopped at -Delphi and put himself in communication with Zeus. “Could you tell me -how to stop this curse, Mr. Zeus?” he called up the communication tube. -He waited for some little time, and then a hollow voice replied: - -“One pork chop and mashed. Two in order.” At this Eustinkides had -at first been angry; but afterwards it seemed to him that it might -be a mystery. He thought of writing to Zeus to ask for a further -explanation, but there was the difficulty about the address. He felt -sure it would not do to write: - - ----ZEUS, ESQ., - Up Top, R.S.O. - -So he dried himself slowly, and went into the study. As he sat there, -his French cook was announced, to consult with him on the question of -dinner. While they were talking, a smell came out of the kitchen and -walked slowly upstairs; it was a strong young smell, but it was lazy. -It lounged into the study, and sat down under the King’s nose. - -“Ah!” said Eustinkides, “that is very pleasant. What is that you are -cooking downstairs?” - -“Pork chops for myself and the watchman,” said the cook. - -In a moment the words of the oracle flashed across into the mind of -Eustinkides. “I also will eat pork chops, but they must not be cut from -the animal whereof my servants eat. So go out, and catch another pig, -and kill him, and chop him, and cook him, and bring me the result.” - -So the cook went out, and caught a butcher who was very careless, and -demanded a pig. And the careless butcher remembered that he had killed -a pig a month or two before, but he had entirely forgotten what he had -done with it. At last he found it in the coal-cellar, and brought it to -the cook. “It’s a bit dusty,” he remarked, “but that’ll all wash off.” - -“There’s something wrong with that pig,” said the cook as he prepared -dinner for Eustinkides. - -“There’s something deuced wrong with these chops,” remarked Eustinkides -as he worked his way slowly through them. However, he felt sure that he -was doing the right thing, and carrying out the commands of Zeus, so he -did not much mind at the time. - -A quarter of an hour afterwards he staggered into a Chemist’s. “Give us -two-pennyworth of any quick sort of death, will you?” he gasped faintly. - -“What are you suffering from?” - -“Cursed pork,” he murmured. - -That was precisely it. The pig from which those chops had been taken -was the very pig which the gods had such a spite against. Eustinkides -was carried home to fulfil his destiny. His last words were: “Apple -sauce!” - -So the front end of the curse run into the hinder end, and that smashed -the thing up. Wherefore let us all reverence the name of Eustinkides, -and refrain from soap and sin. - - * * * * * - -Melpomene fainted, and squirmed on the floor. I cannot say that -I was surprised. They picked her up, and gave her a little more -blood-and-seltzer, and she recovered gradually. - -“Tragedy _does_ take it out of one,” she explained. - -“There isn’t any more of the story, is there?” asked Thalia. - -“No, that’s all.” - -“Thank Zeus!” all the sisters ejaculated fervently, but in a whisper. - - - - -V. - -POLYMNIA’S STORY: AN HOUR OF DEATH. - - -Clio was toying with the delicate little glass from which she had -been drinking. “Before we have the next story, one of you might sing -something,” she said. “I shall be glad to play the accompaniment on the -sackbut, which is a historical instrument. We first hear of it as being -in use about the latter end of the----” - -“Let’s see,” said Erato, shamelessly interrupting, “I was to tell the -next story, I think.” - -“Well, let’s have the song first.” - -“I like music at night,” said Erato. “At night it has a speaking voice, -and one understands it better. And it would be a good introduction -to my story; but it must not be a drawing-room song. They are called -drawing-room songs because they are whistled in the street. No, my song -must be good. There mustn’t be any-- - - Love me! love me forrever! - Till the years shall porse awye - Beside the flowin’ river - You ’ear the words I sye. - - Love me! love me forrever! - Love, though the world grows cold, - Till no more we roam, and they call us ’ome. - And there’s tew more lambs in the fold. - -That sort of thing couldn’t possibly make anybody love anybody, you -know. It’s rather queer,” she continued meditatively, “but one goes out -at night all alone, and it’s quiet, and a lot of little stars show you -how big the darkness is. You’re thinking just about ordinary things; -and without any reason there comes into your head a bit of one of the -Nocturnes--Chopin’s, the eleventh, I think--and straightway you feel as -if you’ll die unless you kiss somebody you’re awfully fond of. And, of -course, being alone, you can’t. And so you get sorrowful. It’s queer, -because there’s nothing about love in all that--the music, and quiet, -and darkness--to make one think about it; but one always does--at least -I do.” - -“My dear Erato!” remonstrated Clio. - -“Well, I do. Euterpe shall sing to us now. I don’t mind a song that can -be sung in a drawing-room--it’s the drawing-room song that I hate. But -Euterpe knows all about it, and she sings beautifully, and she’s very -pretty--and yet she’s shy.” - -Erato was quite shameless in her favouritism. But she had chosen -well. Euterpe was shy and quiet, but she loved singing. She smiled -at Erato, and seated herself at a cottage piano in one corner of the -cloud-room. I had not noticed before that there was a piano. She -refused Clio’s offer to accompany her on the sackbut, and another offer -from Terpsichore to accompany her on the banjo. She was quiet, but when -it came to music she was firm. The music of her song was beautiful, -but owing to the expense of printing music it is cheaper to give the -words:-- - - Down the dusty road together - Homeward pass the hurrying sheep, - Stupid with the summer weather, - Too much grass and too much sleep. - I, their shepherd, sing to thee - That summer is a joy to me. - - Down the shore rolled waves all creamy - With the flecked surf yesternight; - I swam far out in starlight dreamy, - In moving waters, cool and bright. - I, the shepherd, sing to thee - I love the strong life of the sea. - - And upon the hillside growing, - Where the fat sheep dozed in shade, - Bright red poppies I found blowing, - Drowsy, tall, and loosely made. - I, the shepherd, sing to thee - How fair the bright red poppies be. - - To the red-tiled homestead bending - Winds the road, so white and long; - Day and work are near their ending, - Sleep and dreams will end my song. - I, the shepherd, sing to thee; - In the dream-time answer me. - -“Dear Euterpe,” said Erato, “you must have been thinking of Sicily. It -brings it all back to my mind, how he and I----” Erato paused. “Clio,” -she said at last, “I don’t want to tell the next story. Let one of -the others tell it. Perhaps I sha’n’t listen very much, but you must -forgive me. I want to lie here, and think, and think, with music in my -head.” - -“Perhaps Polymnia has a story to tell us,” suggested Clio. - -Polymnia wore a long robe of pearly-grey; her face was pale, and her -eyes were deep and thoughtful. - -“Yes,” she said, in a low musical voice, “I remember a story.” - -And this is the story which she remembered:-- - - * * * * * - -It happened one day that Zeus was in a bad temper--a thoroughly bad -temper. When this took place the whole of Olympus knew it. John -Ganymede knew it. He had grown respectable and middle-aged. He was -inclined to be portly, and still more inclined to give his views on -anything to anybody. Just at present he was standing in his pantry, -polishing glasses, and talking to the Deputy Cloud-controller. - -“There’s no pleasin’ of him, when he’s like that,” said Ganymede, -shaking his bald respectable head. “Last night he was suthin’ awful. -‘Ganymede,’ he says to me, when I brings him his whisky last thing -afore he goes to bed, ‘you can pour it out for me.’ So I does. ‘And you -can put hot water in it.’ So I does again. ‘I think a couple of lumps -of sugar would improve it--and a little bit of lemon peel--don’t you, -Ganymede?’ ‘Yessir, suttinly sir,’ I says, and puts ’em in. ‘Grate a -little nutmeg on the top.’ I were surprised, o’ course, but I did it. -‘Stick a couple of spoonfuls of Maraschino into it.’ All this time he’s -lookin’ as quiet and gentle as a hangel. There wasn’t no Maraschino, -and I had to go down to the cellar and fetch it. I measures it out -careful, and says nothing. ‘I’ll have a large lump of ice in it, and -two straws.’ I thought his poor ’ead must be going, but it wasn’t my -place to make no remarks. I just carries out the horder. ‘Have you -done all that, Ganymede?’ he asks, drowsy-like. ‘Yessir, suttinly -sir,’ says I. ‘Well, there,’ says he, ‘you--several blanks--now you can -run round, and see if you can find a dog that’s such a Zeus-forsaken -fool as to drink it--because I ain’t going to.’ And with that he goes -off into his bedroom, screamin’ an’ laughin’ an’ swearin’ like a -maniac. Now that ain’t no way to be’ave.” - -The Deputy Cloud-controller could sympathise. That very morning Zeus -had sent for him, and demanded: - -“How’s the wind?” - -“Due East,” said the Deputy. - -“Then make it due West.” - -The Deputy bowed, retired, and made it due West. In ten minutes’ time -he was summoned before Zeus again. - -“Make it East and West and South and North all at once,” said Zeus. - -“I can’t,” said the Deputy. - -“Then consider yourself discharged,” roared Zeus. - -“Then consider _yourself_ a blighted idiot,” replied the Deputy -indiscreetly, getting ready to dodge a thunderbolt. - -“So I do,” said Zeus, who never was very expected. “Go away, and send -me some one else to be angry with. You’re stale.” - -The Deputy Cloud-controller had found some difficulty in getting any -one to go. - -“What am I to do, Mr. Ganymede?” said the Deputy despairingly. “They -all say that it’s more than their lives are worth. And the females -won’t stand his language. I must send some one, or I shall get -discharged in real earnest.” - -“Well, pussonally,” said Ganymede, “I should be very glad to oblige -you, but leave this ’ere glass and plate I can’t. Now, there’s the -Clerk of the Curses. He’s pretty tough. Why don’t you send him?” - -“So I would,” said the Deputy, “but he’s away on his holiday.” - -“Then there’s the Earth-child,” suggested Ganymede, looking a little -ashamed of himself. - -No one quite knew how the Earth-child had come among the gods. There -must have been a mistake somewhere; it was pretty generally known that -she was to have been born in Arcadia. There was something of a scandal -about it, too. But there she was, generally petted and liked, and happy -enough among the gods. - -“Yes, there’s the Earth-child,” said the Deputy, and he too looked a -little ashamed of himself. They talked together a little while longer, -and then the Deputy went away, suffering badly from conscience. - -A few minutes afterwards the Earth-child walked fearlessly into the -hall where Zeus was seated. She had red hair, and an intelligent face. -She was bright, and affectionate, and twelve years old, and not afraid -of anything. - -“I heard you wanted to be angry with me, Zeus,” said the child. - -Zeus looked at her grimly. “I should prefer something rather bigger.” - -“Why do you want to be angry?” the child asked. - -“Because I’ve done everything, and know almost everything, and I’m -quite sick of everything.” - -“Music?” suggested the child. - -“Sick of it!” - -“Love?” - -“Everything--everything, I tell you,” said Zeus hastily. “I’m tired -of eating, drinking, loving, hating, sleeping, walking, talking, -killing--everything.” - -“I’m sorry for you, Zeus,” said the child, with a sigh. “Couldn’t you -die?” she suggested afterwards, seriously. - -Zeus frowned. “No, no--not that,” he said. There was a moment’s pause. -Zeus was thinking; and, as he thought, his face grew very ugly. He was -immortal, but to a certain extent his immortality was conditioned. He -might die at any moment he chose, and remain dead for an hour. If at -the end of that hour any one would put his lips on the lips of Zeus, -and draw in his breath, then Zeus would come back to life, and he -that so drew in his breath would die. But if no one did that, then -Zeus himself would be dead for ever. Zeus had never ventured on the -experiment; he knew that no one loved him enough. But he might play on -the simplicity of the child. And take her life? No, he could not do -that. But he would ask her. - -“Earth-child,” he said, “will you do something for me?” - -“Yes, Zeus--anything that will make you happy again.” - -It was horribly tempting. Should he try this one thing of which he knew -nothing, of which he was not tired? Yes, he must. - -“I am going to sleep,” he said rapidly. “I will turn this hour-glass -here, and when the last grain of sand is running out, you must put your -lips to mine and draw in your breath. Then I shall wake up again, and -be happy.” - -The child stared at him with wondering eyes. “I will do it,” she said. - -A minute afterwards Zeus was lying dead, and the child was watching -him, and in the hour-glass the sand was running out slowly. Time -passed, and the child, as she watched, saw that his face was changing -queerly. It was not quite like the face of one who slept. Suddenly she -crept to his side, and put one hand over his heart. It was motionless. -“Zeus!” she called, in a loud whisper. He did not answer, and she knew -then that he was dead. - -“But shall I wake him?” she said, watching the running sand. - -As the last grains ran out, she bent over him, and did what he had -said. He sat up with a gasp, and a look of horror died slowly out of -his face. And the child lay prone on the floor, face downwards. - -Zeus hardly thought of her. “Take that away,” he said to Ganymede, who -entered the hall just then. Ganymede went pale to the lips, but he -lifted the white burden in his arms, and carried her out. “I wish we -hadn’t sent her,” he sighed to the Deputy Cloud-controller; “I would -have gone myself, if I’d known.” - -“I wish you had,” said the Deputy. “Both of us together are not worth -her.” - -Zeus had forgotten her. He could think only of the things he had known -in that horrible hour. “I will never die again,” he said to himself; -and for many nights he could not sleep. - - * * * * * - -“The weather’s rainy,” said the Muse of Astronomy, who had drawn a -curtain back and was looking out. - -“Yes, but Urania,” murmured Terpsichore, knowing it was wrong, but -quite unable to help it. - - - - -VI. - -CALLIOPE’S STORY: THE LAST STRAW. - - -If Euterpe had happened to have been born a pronoun, she would not have -been demonstrative or personal. She would have been self-possessive. -With all her shyness, she had herself perfectly in hand. She always -was a little in love with somebody, but that was a secret she never -told herself. Some gentle reason guided all that she did. And now for -some little time she had been watching Erato, who was stretched in her -favourite attitude on the floor of the cloud-chamber. - -Now Erato had not even pretended to pay the slightest attention to -Polymnia’s story. She was thinking--and thinking. She thought easiest -when she was lying on her back. Her hands were clasped behind her -head, and she looked upwards with wide-opened eyes. You never saw such -eyes. They told one half the story, how--with all her waywardness and -petulance and laughter--love was the life of her. And now, as she lay -dreaming, it seemed that it was noon in Sicily, and the flocks were -sleeping; and he rested in the shade--he, the shepherd--singing. And -now, again, the noon had passed and the night had fallen; in the dim -cavern the air was fragrant and cool; one heard no footsteps on the -thin white sand; she said nothing to him, nor he to her, for all was -said and sleep was near; only for a little while they listened, and -heard the great sea singing its song eternal. And it all was over -and gone. For the gods are dead, and the steam-roller goes about the -streets; and we are all either brutes or prigs, and most of us are -both, and there is no more love-making. I, of course--a spiritual -nature, very highly civilised--can see that we live in an age of -progress and omnibuses, and can be thankful for it. But Erato, poor -child, did not take many things seriously--only love and the service -of it. And it happened, every now and then, that some such fit of -despondency or fierce sorrow would capture her as had captured her -now. Of late this had been happening too often. To-night it was the -song which Euterpe had sung that had set her pondering--now thrilling -her with some exquisite recollection, now saddening her as she -thought of the present time, the epoch of the brute and the prude. It -was half-pitiful to watch, as Euterpe was watching, and to see the -laughter all die away from those red lips, and the eyes grow liquid and -suddenly close, and the tightening of the little hands, and the hurried -breathing. - -Euterpe was not demonstrative. So it was the more to her credit that -she left her place, and sat down on the cushions by Erato’s side. She -did not say anything to her. She only did one or two of those gentle -things that a girl will do--a touch of the hand--a caress. And suddenly -Erato buried her head in Euterpe’s lap, and clung to her and sobbed -quietly. I suppose Euterpe had the sympathetic way. Some dogs have it: -you are sitting before your fire, alone, smoking, thinking of your -bills or your badness, or anything unpleasant, and you murmur a few -bad words; the big dog gets up, shakes himself, and thrusts his cold -nose into your hand and whines dejectedly. Then you have to slap his -back genially, to make him see that it is not his fault. - -I do not think Clio can have noticed what had happened, for she said -briskly: - -“And now, Erato, we will have your story. The young men in Cambridge -must be all in bed and asleep, so it won’t hurt them. You must not -spoil it by leaving anything out. Let it be the story of you and the -shepherd, you know--and don’t----” - -“Clio, Clio,” said Euterpe quickly, “can’t you see that Erato is ill? -Please go on quickly, and let Calliope tell her story. When that is -finished, Erato will be all right again. She has been worrying herself.” - -It was not often that Euterpe said so much, and so authoritatively. Her -eyes were bright: almost there were tears in them. - -“I should be glad to recite to you,” said Calliope, “a poem in -thirty-five cantos, with two thousand stanzas to the canto, heroic -metre, classical subject----” - -“Swivel-action and no escapement,” Thalia went on, under her breath. - -“I am afraid,” said Clio, “that we shall not have time for all that, -much as we should like to.” - -“Oh, quite so,” added Terpsichore, a little maliciously. - -“If you would read us the synopsis now,” suggested Clio. - -“Or the index,” said Thalia. - -“Or even the advertisements at the end,” Terpsichore proposed. - -“I will read you no poem whatever,” said Calliope severely. “_You are -not--not yet ripe for it._” - -“Yes, we are very crude,” sighed Thalia to Terpsichore. - -“I will tell you instead a perfectly true story, quite unadorned and -not at all epic. When you get a little riper, I will read you one of -my own poems, but not to-night. To-night you have to put up with the -following drivel.” - -This is the drivel which they had to put up with:-- - - * * * * * - -There was once a man, an Athenian, who was the opposite of all that he -wanted to be. The gods had made him for a joke, and a very good joke he -was; but as a man he was a failure. - -To start with, he desired to have a perfect body and then to despise -it. He wanted to be beautiful, and strong, and think nothing of it. -Yet he thought a good deal of the bent piece of ugliness which was the -nearest he could do to a perfect body. For he had nothing he wanted, -and could do nothing he wanted. Sometimes he made good resolutions -and tried to lead a fine life; then the gods dug one another in the -ribs, and rolled about Olympus gasping with laughter. They knew very -well that they had taken unusual pains about that man’s physical -composition; they had afflicted him with several hereditary taints; -they knew that he might make enough good resolutions to pave the whole -of--well, Westminster Abbey, and that it was a physical impossibility -that he should keep any of them. “Let this man,” one of the gods had -said to Zeus, shortly before the failure was born, “be cowardly, -sensual, and brutal.” Then Zeus said that he was tired of making that -sort. “Oh,” the other god urged, “but we’ll give him at the same time -the emotions and aspirations of a noble mind. Then we shall see soul -and body fighting, and the soul will get thrashed every time.” “Now, -that _is_ something like sport,” Zeus had remarked, as he gave the -necessary order. - -So this man went on providing amusement for gods and men until he was -twenty-five years of age. Sometimes he, unfortunately, was quite unable -to laugh at himself. Then he wrote verses. At other times he laughed at -himself very well--often in self-defence, because it made other men let -him off easier--and then he would tear his verses up. - -On that last day he lay in bed in the morning and shivered. He had -slept for a little while--he had seen to that before he went to -bed--but he was wide awake now, and his head was burning, and his -thoughts were of the kind that tighten the muscles of the body and are -likely nowadays to lead on to padded rooms. For the day before he had -been found out; one act of fatal cowardice on his part--such cowardice -as no one could forgive--had cost a girl her life, and this girl was -the sister of his own familiar friend. There was plenty of variety -about his thoughts. Sometimes he felt like a murderer. Sometimes -he heard the dead girl’s brother speaking awful things to him, -contemptuous, heart-broken words. There was no hope of concealment, -no pretty story that he could tell. It had all been seen and known. -In his dreams that night he had been through the whole scene again, -but his own part had been altered. In his dream he had been equal to -the occasion--taken the plunge, rescued the girl, and been welcomed -with praise and honour, and he had walked back through the streets of -Athens feeling more happy than a god. Suddenly he awoke and recalled -the facts. The girl whom he had loved was dead--dead through his own -cowardice. It was such loathly cowardice that he shuddered to think of -it. All men would hate him, and yet their hatred would be nothing to -his own hatred for himself. Every thought was a torture, a knife that -went into his heart and brain, fiercely and with regular beat, stabbing -and stabbing. - -He sprang from his bed, and dressed himself hurriedly. The house seemed -to him to be strangely quiet. He called--in a parched, husky voice--and -no one answered. All had left him: the very slaves had run away from -such a master, and he was alone. No one, he thought, would come near -him now. He had served as a laughing-stock for his friends: he was now -too despicable to be laughed at. If you wish the villain of your drama -to be hissed as villain was never hissed before, make him during the -first two acts the low comedian of the piece. - -The man was trembling and shuddering. He made a small fire, and -crouched down by it. Ah, if he only had it to do again! A million -deaths were better than such torture as this. An impulse--irresistible -almost--came over him to shriek aloud and to tear with his hands at -something. Could he be going mad? The thought horrified him. He fetched -wine, and drank it, and tried to calm himself, crouching down by the -fire again. Suddenly he heard footsteps, and presently one of his old -companions--and the worst man in Athens--stood before him. - -“You cur!” said his old companion. - -“Leave me alone!” gasped the crouching figure. “Leave me alone, or I -will kill you.” - -“You know that you dare not touch me.” - -The coward knew it. It was true. The long knife which he had grasped -fell from his fingers. “Leave me,” he cried again piteously; “you can -say nothing of me which I have not said of myself. You cannot hate me -as I hate myself. Leave me! leave me!” - -Then, with a gesture of disgust and contempt, the worst man in Athens -left him. And now the strength of the wine mastered the coward, and he -slept. This time dream followed dream, and every dream was cruel. It -was late in the evening when he awoke. The only light in the room was -that which came from the dying embers of the fire. By that light he -saw to his horror the figure of a child standing there--a white-faced -child, with awe in her eyes--the younger sister of the girl whose death -his cowardice had caused. - -“I have a message for you,” she said. “As I slept this afternoon she -came to me, and bade me tell you that she knows all about it, and that -you could not help it; the gods made you so; for the gods are strong, -and it is fitting that we should be very patient.” - -The crouching coward said nothing. - -Then the child came quickly to him and kissed his ugly face. “I am very -sorry, very sorry for you,” she whispered gently; and then she crept -gently away. - -The coward burst into tears, and, grasping the long knife once more, -staggered into an inner chamber, and drew the curtain behind him. The -child’s kiss was the thing that had just turned the balance. From the -inner chamber there was the sound of one who fell heavily, and then all -was still--very still indeed. - -“The worst of making that sort,” Zeus remarked, with a jerk of his -thumb in the direction of that inner chamber, “is that they so seldom -last. But they are certainly funny. Personally, I sha’n’t sleep for -laughing to-night.” - - * * * * * - -“Would you mind,” said Euterpe quietly, “drawing back that curtain from -the front of the room? A few minutes ago Erato fainted, and I can’t -bring her round again. I think the cool night air might revive her.” - -Terpsichore drew back the curtain, grumbling to herself. “Just like -her--we shall have the whole place turned into a regular hospital -again, I expect.” - - - - -VII. - -THALIA’S STORY: THE CAMEL WHO NEVER GOT STARTED. - - -Erato soon recovered consciousness, although she did not regain the -spirit which she had shown at the commencement of the evening. She -leaned, white and listless, on a pile of cushions. Cupid had brought -her water to drink; and now he waited, seated on the floor, his knees -drawn up to his chin and his hands clasped over them, gazing lovingly -and sadly at his dear Erato, or downward in sheer dejection at the -mosaic. Euterpe, at Erato’s request, had gone to the piano. For some -time she sat playing nothing in particular with great feeling and much -expression; but she went songwards in the end, as she always did. As -far as I can remember the words, they were something like this--it is -called “Malcontent”: - - At Somerset House in the noontide hour, and close to the roar of the - Strand, - The kind policeman looks to the sky with a piece of bread in his hand, - And the pigeons all come fluttering down, because they understand. - Would that I might a pigeon be, - For some one on earth to care for me! - Heigh-ho! - - And when they’ve had enough of crumbs they turn and fly away, - Upward and onward through the smoke, and they see the city grey, - Like a rotten peach that is stuffed with flies on a stifling summer’s - day. - Had I but wings I would fly afar, - Where no disgusting cities are. - Heigh-ho! - - But the waiter brings the bill of fare and spreads it in front of me, - And pigeon-pie at one-and-four’s the first thing that I see; - Imagine what the effect of this on my young soul must be. - Almost I would that I had died, - And were under the crust with my feet outside! - Waly! Waly! Waly! - -“These verses,” said Euterpe in apology, “were written by a young man -in London, who was forced to live in town, but would have preferred to -have driven the cows to pasture, and to have made wreaths of buttercups -to twine in his beautiful hair.” - -“Had he beautiful hair?” asked Erato softly. - -“N-no; that was the difficulty,” answered Euterpe. - -Then she came and sat by Erato again, blushing at having spoken so -much. And Erato made a good deal of her, as she always did. - -“I am quite well again now, Euterpe,” she said. - -“Ah!” sighed Euterpe, “but this happens every night.” - -“Every night you swoon away,” added Cupid. - -“But I am quite well now, and I will never be ill any more.” - -“Then,” said Clio, “perhaps you would tell us your story now. Love -stories suit the small hours.” - -I am afraid Clio had wanted to hear that story all the time. But she -was the incarnation of outward propriety, and had struggled against her -wishes. And now it was Erato who was unwilling. - -“I can’t,” she said in a low voice. “I could have done it -before--earlier in the night--but now it reminds me of too many things.” - -“Then,” said Clio rather snappishly, “I will ask Thalia.” - -Thalia had a good-humoured smile, and a very pleasant voice, but her -story was nothing more than the following:-- - - * * * * * - -There was once a camel who had got sick of the menagerie business. And -this was pardonable, because the menagerie had now been on tour for six -weeks, and the trombone in the band had been out of tune all the time. -There were other things that made the camel weary. The untamed tigress -had a bad cough, and kept him awake at night. The showman had called -him the ship of the desert at each performance, and he wanted to be -called something else for a change. On one occasion he had been lying -in motionless dignity, and a little boy in a tight suit had asked if -he was stuffed. He had been kicked by his keeper, ridden by children, -starved by the manager, and jested upon by young men with penny cigars, -who sucked intermittent oranges and called one another Chollie. He was -sick of the menagerie business, and he wanted to get out of it. So he -made himself disagreeable. As he was passing the band-stand one night, -he reached out his great neck and ate the trombone part to “Nancy -Lee.” This made him want to be a sailor and sing “heave-ho” during the -rest of the term of his natural life. But where was the sea? He’d got -no sea. He hadn’t an notion, as people say. So he gave up his mind -to being disagreeable again. He knocked down a beautiful child with -golden hair, and trod on her, so that she died; and the management had -to send her parents a gratis admission before they’d stop grumbling. -Then the camel took up his position in front of the lion’s den, and -said sarcastic things to the lioness. This enraged her; and not being -able to reach the camel, she ate a portion of the lion-tamer, to show -her spirit. Finally he walked up to one of the elephants who had a -dummy tusk, and did a little comic dentist business, insomuch that the -audience jeered at the showman, and the showman said several things -which were not set down in the printed guide to the show. That night -the camel kicked his keeper, out of reciprocity, and then talked very -high talk indeed in the still midnight hours to a hyena who had seen -the world. - -“I am going away,” the camel said, with a pathetic gasp which was -the nearest he could do to a sigh. “My soul is being stifled--quite -stifled--in this place.” - -“That’s the bread,” said the hyena decidedly. “We get nothing but -bread.” - -“It’s _not_ the bread,” snapped the camel. “It’s the smell, and the low -social status of the audience. I am going to seek peace and culture in -another clime. I am not happy here; there can be no true happiness in a -tent which smells of thirty-four distinct species, and penny cigars on -the top of them.” - -“Well, I hope you’ll find them--the peace and culture. I’m not much -on pilgrimages myself, but I believe the first thing to do is to get -started. Start away.” - -“I will,” said the camel. So he wandered slowly out of the tent, and -was fetched quickly back again, and tied up, and treated with ignominy. -He tried it again on the following night, and was kicked till he was -more grieved than he could express. He tried it a third time, and then -the menagerie management sold him to a circus. - -Now, at the circus, the camel was at first exceedingly proud, because -he walked in the procession, and cab-horses shied at him; but -afterwards he grew very lonely, for want of other wild beasts with whom -he might converse. But at last the circus people bought an ostrich that -was very cheap because it had consumption, and the camel’s heart was -lightened. Now the ostrich was a great romancer, and told stories of -passion and bulbuls, of rivers and deserts. And the camel listened to -all these stories with glowing eyes. - -“I once,” he said confidingly, “was going to start on a pilgrimage to -find culture, but I was prevented. And after all it would surely be -better to return to my old home in the desert and taste the sweets of -domesticity.” Now the camel had been born in the menagerie, and knew -nought of the desert, but he was nothing if he was not a talker. - -“I shall lie under the palm-trees, and crop the cocoanuts; plunge into -the hot white sands for air and exercise; and I shall take a wife, and -she shall build herself a nest, and sit in it, and lay eggs in it.” - -“My dear sir!” said the ostrich with a blush. - -“And then my family will gather round me in the winter evenings, and -we shall play round games, and go to bed early, and regularly enjoy -ourselves.” - -“When do you start on your pilgrimage in search of domesticity?” - -“I shall start, wind and weather permitting, to-morrow at one pm.” - -But he did not start then, because he ate of circus bread, which was so -exceedingly diseased that he fell on a bed of sickness. And the circus -company saw that he would die, and advertised him for sale very cheap. -And he was bought by an ardent young curate who had an enthusiastic but -indistinct idea that the poor beast might be utilised to illustrate a -lecture on the Holy Land. - -Now the curate was a very humane man, and lodged the camel meanwhile at -a livery stable. And while he was writing a sermon against all manner -of pride, that night a message came to him from the livery stable to -say that the camel had very bad spasms, and had kicked a large hole in -the ostler. The curate, from force of habit, sent the poor quadruped a -pound of tea, a bottle of port, and a tract called, “Mother’s Mangle; -or, Have you a Penny for the Ticket?” The ostler drank the port, and -the camel ate the tea. So much tea made him very nervous, and out of -compassion they put a cat in the stable to keep him company. - -“Pleased to meet you,” said the cat. “Will you sing something?” The -cat knew perfectly well, of course, that camels cannot sing; it wanted -to make the animal return the polite inquiry, and so get a chance of -letting off an erotic song which it had learned in the stables. But the -camel was not such a fool as that. - -“I dislike music,” he said. “I went in search of culture, and never got -started. I also went in search of domesticity, and never got started. -I am now going on a third pilgrimage,--but it will not be in search of -music.” - -“Do you like milk?” said the cat rather inconsequently. - -“No,” said the camel. - -“Do you like being scratched under the left ear?” - -“No,” said the camel. - -“Can you catch mice and kill them slowly?” - -“Look here,” said the camel, now justly irritated, “you’re not the -Catechism, and you’re not the Census; what’s the point of all these -questions?” - -“I was going,” replied the cat, rather aggrieved, “to suggest some -object for your pilgrimage, and I wished to see what you liked.” - -“Well, if that’s all,” said the camel, “I’ve quite made up my mind. I -am going to search for death. I shall start, if the tide serves, at six -a.m. to-morrow morning.” - -But he didn’t, because he died that night. And as he arrived without -ever starting, it has been argued by some that he must have been a -genius. If he had stuck half-way without ever arriving, he would have -been only a camel of considerable talent. - -But these things may be otherwise. Things generally are. - - * * * * * - -“Has that story got an inner meaning?” asked Terpsichore. - -“Yes,” said Thalia. - -“What is it?” - -“Don’t know,” said Thalia. - -“If you do know, you ought to say,” remarked Clio. - -“I do not think the story is quite--quite--well, you know.” - -“No, I don’t,” said Thalia. - -“Nor do I,” said Terpsichore. - -They were just going to quarrel a little more, when Euterpe exclaimed: -“Look, Erato, the dawn is breaking; it is already a little lighter in -the East.” She added gently, after a pause, “Don’t you think you had -better go to bed now, Cupid?” - -“No, no,” said Cupid, “I want to stay with my darling Erato. I love -you, too, Euterpe, but I love Erato more than anything else in the -whole world.” - -“Then come and kiss me--again, and again,” said Erato. - - - - -VIII. - -URANIA’S STORY: NUMBER ONE HUNDRED AND THREE. - - -“Yes,” said Clio, “it will soon be morning. There will be time only for -one more story. Urania shall tell it to us. Do you not think that you -had better go and rest now, Erato? You look so tired.” - -“I am tired,” answered Erato, “but it is not the tiredness that wants -sleep. And I should like to hear Urania’s story.” She was very pale; -dark shadows lay under her burning eyes; her face seemed spiritualised. -Her ways and her voice were subdued and gentle now. The brightness and -vivacity were gone. Sometimes she would look lovingly up into Euterpe’s -eyes, or touch caressingly Cupid’s curly hair. For the most part she -lay motionless, and seemed to be looking fixedly at something--some -vision unseen by her sisters. - -But Cupid never ceased to look earnestly at her, with trouble on his -pretty, boyish face. And all of them felt the strange nervous tension -of those who have watched far into the night; an excited tremor came -over them, bringing with it flashing, vivid imaginings. There was a -pause, a silence that was like a prayer to the dawning light. Then -Terpsichore arose, with no merriment, as of old, upon her face, but -a look of eager penitence. And she knelt down by Erato’s side, and -whispered--so softly that only Erato might hear it--“Forgive me, -Erato, forgive me! I did not love you once as well as I love you now. -I was half jealous because you seemed to like Euterpe better than you -liked me, and because you were so beautiful. But I do love you now--I -love you more than I can say. Oh, forgive me, Erato!” - -Erato kissed her on the lips, and Terpsichore went back to her place, -crying a little, for no particular reason, and hoping that no one -noticed it, after the manner of maidens. - -Suddenly Urania spoke, with a deep thrill in her voice. This was her -story:-- - - * * * * * - -There was once a man who was very careful. He saluted the sun, spoiled -a good floor by making libations, sacrificed freely, and learned by -heart what enabled him to remember the distinction between the _dies -fastus_ and the _dies nefastus_. In fact, he did all that could be -done. And his number in the books was number one hundred and three. - -Now, at the end of the quarter, Zeus & Co. were going through their -books. It was wearying work and dry work. Ganymede was in and out of -the office all day with liquors, and Mercury had been run off his legs -with messages to the different departments. The clerk was reading out -the items in a dreary monotone. - -“Number one hundred and one. Dead. Cholera.” - -“That was a capital cholera,” murmured Co., “and did its work well. Go -on, clerk.” - -“Used to live in Eubœa. Killed to spite his sister, because she----” - -“That’ll do,” said Zeus hurriedly; “I remember that case--a stupid -woman, a very stupid woman--but pretty. Next, please.” - -“Number one hundred and two. Philosopher still living because he wants -to die.” - -“Say ‘usual formula’ when we come to that. It’s no good wasting time. -Has number one hundred and two got anything unpleasant the matter with -him?” - -“No, sir.” - -“Ah, then--let me see--we’ll give him a couple of ulcers. Mercury, -just look in at the Punishment Department, and order a couple of large -ulcers to be sent to number one hundred and two, and look sharp back. -Next, please.” - -“Number one hundred and three. Living and prosperous. Regular in his -righteousness. Further details at the Virtue Record Department.” - -“We ought to give that man some other reward,” said Zeus, who sometimes -suffered from a slight twinge of justice in damp weather. - -“I’m not so sure of that,” said Co., who was very healthy, and -never got a touch of justice in any weather. “I hate a man who does -everything right. It’s so infernally hypocritical. Besides, it shows -a commercial mind. He only does it in order to get something by it. -I hate a commercial mind. I’ll guarantee he doesn’t do it out of -affection for us.” - -Zeus sniggered. “Well, well,” he said, “affection, you know, -affection----” But here he was interrupted by the arrival of Mercury. - -“Just look in at the Virtue Record,” said Co., “and bring the detailed -list for number one hundred and three.” - -Mercury was back again in a minute. “The Virtue Record office is shut, -sir, nobody ever virtuous after lunch, sir--shuts at one, sir. The -clerk’s gone home and taken the keys.” - -“Well,” said Co., “it doesn’t matter. The man is obviously a hypocrite, -and he’s got no business to try and make bargains with us. I don’t mind -it so much myself, Zeus, but it _is_ such an insult to _your_ dignity.” - -“Do you think so?” said Zeus quickly. “Then he shall repent it. I’ll -teach him to call ME a pettifogging huckster. I’ll teach him to try -to bribe ME. I’ll give him a lesson. Pass me those thunderbolts. I’ll -scorch, and blight, and blast----” - -“Gently, gently,” said Co. “We may just as well try and get a little -fun out of it. We’ll see who can torture best--killing barred. You -shall go first.” - -So Zeus, who had plenty of force but very little skill, went to work in -the old-fashioned way. He killed the man’s relations, burned down his -house, destroyed his crops, wrecked his ships, reduced him to poverty, -and afflicted him with the most distressing disease that the Punishment -Department had in stock. And yet the man continued cheerful, saying -that the gods were just and would yet send him prosperity. - -“Oh, this is sickening,” said Zeus; “I can’t do anything with him. Now, -Co., you try.” - -“You’ve not left me much to work on,” said Co.; “you’ve taken away all -the man has, except his baby son and his belief in us. I will give -him something--a little accident--fever--cerebral disorder. See? Then -he kills his child--you observe?--the child whom he loves more than -himself. Then I restore him to his senses again. Pretty, isn’t it?” - -“Yes,” said Zeus, a little sulkily, “you’ve won, Co. What made you -think of that?” - -“I don’t know,” said Co. modestly. “It was just an idea. He could not -be tortured any worse than that?” - -“Oh, I don’t think so,” objected Zeus. “You let me try again.” Number -one hundred and three still lay moaning on the floor of the room. - -“You can try, of course,” said Co. - -Zeus still stuck to the old-fashioned plan of punishing by deprivation. -There was only one thing left to take away--the man’s belief in the -gods. So he took that. - -Suddenly number one hundred and three arose. There was a chill smile -on his face, and he walked out into the courtyard, and looked at the -rising sun. “I was mistaken,” he said. “There are no gods. All is as it -chances. Good is chance and bad is chance. Nothing matters any more. -I would die if I thought anything mattered. There are no more values. -It is the same thing whether I murder my son, who is dearer than life -to me, or whether I give alms, or whether I eat my breakfast. I shall -never be sorry or happy any more. Sorrow and happiness are vain and -foolish.” - -So he went back to his house again, and washed his hands calmly, and -broke his fast. - -“Well, I never!” said Zeus. - -“Ah!” said Co., “you must learn the new ways. You’re behind the times.” - -“Very well,” retorted Zeus snappishly; “you needn’t say it so loudly. -I don’t want all Olympus to know that.” - - * * * * * - -“The dawn is here!” - -It was Terpsichore who spoke. She had drawn back the curtain that -formed the front of the cloud. Below them lay the flat fen country, -with dykes, and waste places, and gaunt lonely trees. The sunrise was -beautiful as a fair dream, sprigs of light snapping on the surface of -the marshy pools and slow streams, where the cool dawn-wind shook the -water’s surface. - -“And now I will go to my rest,” said Clio. - -“And I,” said the others. “And I too.” Only Erato strove to rise and -could not, and fell back, breathing quickly. - -“I have grown weak,” she said, and her voice was low, so that it could -hardly be heard. “I will stay here, and rest here, in the warm light of -the sun: I am cold, strangely cold.” - -Euterpe and Cupid stayed with Erato. The rest all went into an inner -room, far within the cloud. Each as she passed Erato had some gentle -word to say to her. They had bidden Cupid come with them; he had -replied with an angry look and a shake of the head, not trusting -himself to words. - -So these three were left alone in the cloud-chamber. Erato stretched -out her little hands to the sun, and watched the light come flickering -over them. Cupid had drawn a little apart, still watching her. At last -her eyes closed. “Euterpe,” she whispered, “sing to me--sing the last -song. I am drowsy, and would sleep now.” So Euterpe went to the piano. -She did not sing very well, for something seemed to be wrong with her -voice--a kind of huskiness: - - All’s over: fall asleep. - There is no more to say, - There are no more tears to shed, and no more longings dead, - And the watch ends with the day. - Wherefore wish or weep? - Close your eyes, and fall asleep; - And happy are the dead who sleep alway. - - In the fair sunlight lie; - And let your sad thoughts stray - Through the golden gleams of the gate of dreams - At the breaking of the day - Wherefore wish or weep? - Close your eyes, and fall asleep; - And happy---- - -Suddenly Euterpe stopped, and for a moment there was an awful silence -in the room. Then putting restraint aside, she burst into sobs, weeping -as if her heart were broken, and flung herself down by Erato’s side. - -“Dead? Erato, my darling!” - -And Erato did not move or speak; her face was very beautiful as -the sunlight fell upon it. There was no sound in the room but the -passionate sobbing of Euterpe. - -Cupid had risen. His face, for all its boyishness, was firm, unmoved; -only a little drop of blood was on his lip where he had bitten it -through. He looked once at his dead Erato; then walked to the front of -the cloud-chamber, and stared vacantly outwards. It seemed to him that -rings of iron were growing tighter round his chest, and stopping his -breath. A humming sound was in his ears. He did not quite know what -was happening. Flecks of light seemed to dart before his hot, dry eyes. - -He had stood there a long time--he knew not how long--when he heard a -voice behind him. - -“Cupid! Cupid! you loved her too.” - -It was Euterpe, standing there pale and sweet, looking at him, -stretching her hands towards him, the tears trembling still in her eyes. - -And then, at last, flinging himself into her arms and clinging to her, -he wept. “Loved her! loved her!” he cried. - -So Erato lay there dead, and beautiful in death, and the sun shone -fiercely, because it was now day, and men were going forth to their -work. - - - - -THE CELESTIAL GROCERY. - -_A FANTASIA._ - - -It is precisely one year to-day since the incidents happened which I am -going to record. Since that time I have been waiting for developments. -But no developments have taken place. I find myself, in consequence, -so completely at a loss what to do or what to think, that I venture to -state the case plainly, and to ask for advice. - -Thomas Pigge, my old college friend, had sent me a stall-ticket for the -play. It was not often that I went to a theatre at all; and I had never -sat in the stalls before. Pigge said in his letter that he had been -meaning to come with me, but had been prevented by a sprained ankle. -I found afterwards that this was quite untrue. Pigge, as a matter of -fact, had bought the ticket by a mistake. He had been told that _The -Dark Alley_ was having a great success. About a week afterwards he saw -the advertisement of _Fair Alice_, and as his memory is notoriously -weak, he confused the two plays, and ordered a ticket for the wrong -one. Soon afterwards he discovered what he had done, and learning that -_Fair Alice_ was a dismal failure, he offered his ticket first to his -aunt and then to his tailor, both of whom refused it. It was then--and -only then--that he sent it on to me. I do not think this was very -nice of Thomas Pigge. I half suspected something of the kind at the -time, and I was careful to make the few words of thanks that I sent him -rather cold. I do not suppose he noticed it. - -When I had dressed for the evening, I rang the bell--partly to tell -my landlady that she need not sit up for me, but also with the -intention of letting her see that, although I lived in inexpensive -lodgings, I was familiar with the mode of life of English gentlemen. -She surveyed me admiringly, and asked me if I would like a flower for -my button-hole. “No, thank you,” I said, with a smile: “they are not -worn.” I noticed with pleasure that these few authoritative words had -their proper effect. However, as I was walking down the Strand on my -way to the theatre I saw a man, in evening dress, who was wearing -a rose in his coat, and thinking that it would be safe to follow -his example, I spent sixpence on a gardenia with some maidenhair. -The circumstance would be trivial were it not for its bearing on -after-events. - -I cannot say that I enjoyed the piece altogether. The house was by -no means full. The few young men in the stalls seemed mostly to know -one another, and none of them knew me. The two who came in after me -had those hats that shut up; mine was an ordinary silk hat that I had -worn for a year. This fact served to make me feel more lonely. My fine -sensibilities render me peculiarly liable to this sort of thing; but -they also do me good service by making me notice for imitation slight -shades in the manners of the best people, which those of a coarser mind -entirely miss. For instance, I had observed that the habitués of the -stalls generally look a little careless,--not reckless precisely,--but -with an air of taking everything for granted. I copied this expression -throughout the evening. - -A man’s surroundings have a great effect upon his character; I felt -myself perceptibly refined by my presence in the stalls. My position as -an under-master in a private school seemed unworthy of me. “It is not,” -so I thought, “the profession for a gentleman. I shall change it.” I -must have known perfectly well that it was impossible to change it; but -it pleased me to say so to myself. My old tendencies towards economy -vanished. I felt that I must have a cab to take me home. It would cost -two shillings probably, but that would be better than an incongruity. -My æsthetic principles positively forbade me to walk home after having -sat in the stalls. So I hired a four-wheeler, as I always mistrust -hansoms. “After all,” I said to myself as I put up the window, “what is -money? We assign a value to it, but it is relative and transitory. We -don’t know what anything’s really worth. What is money? What is money?” -The words repeated themselves over and over again, in time with the -rattling of the cab,--“What is money?” Such a repetition is liable to -send one off to sleep. I am not sure that I might not have fallen into -a doze myself, if I had not suddenly been startled into wakefulness by -the stopping of the cab. I felt certain that the man could not have -driven to my lodgings in the time, but I jumped out. To my amazement -I found myself in an empty street. On one side of it ran a low stone -wall, on the other there were houses; the darkness hid them to a great -extent; but the house at which my cab had stopped was brightly lighted -up, and appeared to be some kind of a shop. There was nothing set out -in the windows, but over the door were the words “Joseph, Grocer.” The -street itself was paved with blocks of crystal, and in the air there -sounded the wildest music. I turned to my cabby, utterly at a loss as -to where I was, or why I was there. He sat absolutely motionless; his -hands still held the reins, but his eyes were shut. “Now then, cabby!” -I cried, “where have you taken me to?” - -He made no answer, and gave no sign of having heard me; but the horse -turned its head and looked at me. As it did so, the music ceased. - -“You’re starring,” the horse remarked. - -I remember perfectly well that one of the young men with the shut-up -hats had made the same remark about some actress, and I had then -wondered what he meant. “This is very confusing,” I said. “It was the -cabman that my remarks were addressed to.” - -“Look over that parapet,” answered the horse. - -I could not help thinking how extraordinary it was to hear a horse -speak. All my life long I had been accustomed to regard a horse as a -poor dumb animal. It might, of course, be all very well in fables to---- - -“Shut up!” shrieked the horse. - -“I never said anything,” I replied, indignantly. - -“No, but you thought.” - -“Well, I can’t help thinking.” - -“Can’t you? If you think like that again, I’ll kick this cab to -splinters. I was shod yesterday. Why can’t you look over the parapet, -and do as you’re told?” - -I gave in. I had an indistinct idea that I was going mad, but I walked -carefully across the polished street, and leaned over the low stone -wall. Certainly it was a marvellous and beautiful sight. Far down, as -far as my eye could reach, there was darkness; and the darkness was -strewn with myriad golden stars. I heard the horse’s voice behind me: -“The smallest of those is the world you’ve just left, and this is the -world you’ve come to.” - -I knew perfectly well that this was impossible and quite unscientific, -and as I leaned over the wall I formed my conclusions. I had been -terribly overworked lately, and probably part of my brain had given -way---- - -“Never had any!” yelled the horse, and went into a roar of unmannerly -laughter. - -I took no notice whatever of this, but went on thinking. These -delusions must have arisen from some such partial failure of -brain-power. It was to be hoped that it was only temporary. Probably -rest and medical advice would soon set me up again. I would step across -to the grocer’s, and inquire where the nearest doctor lived. As I -crossed the street, I noticed that the horse was humming the National -Anthem. I pushed open the door of the grocery and entered. There were -counters and shelves, but nothing on them. After waiting a little while -I ventured to tap on the floor with my foot. A voice from the other -side of the counter said:-- - -“What may we have the pleasure of doing for you?” - -I looked, but I could not see any one, and I ventured to say so. - -“No, you can’t see me. It doesn’t really matter, but I think I left it -downstairs. James,” the voice called to some invisible person at the -farther end of the shop, “what did I do with my body? I had it only -this morning.” - -The answer came in a boyish voice: “You left it in the cellar, Joseph, -when you were packing up the nightmares.” - -“So I did, so I did. You’re right, James.” - -“But,” I said, “I can’t see James’s body either.” - -“No, you see James has only got one. You’re very inquisitive. If you -must know, his body’s gone to the wash. You wouldn’t have him wear it -dirty?” - -“I generally wash my own,” I said mildly. - -“Well, we don’t. This is a grocery, not a laundry.” - -“You must excuse me,” I pleaded, “I’m quite a stranger in these parts.” -I saw it was no good to inquire for a doctor. If the grocery was part -of the delusion, as it seemed to be, it would be absurd to make the -inquiry there. If, on the other hand, the grocery really existed, then -probably I did not require the doctor’s services. But I felt very -muddled about it. “I suppose you’re Mr. Joseph?” I said. - -“I am Joseph, and I should take it as a favour if you would tell me -with what I can serve you.” - -“Well,” I said, “judging from the state of your counter and shelves, I -don’t see anything you can serve me with.” - -“Of course you don’t see,” he answered, a little snappishly. “You can’t -see the abstract. I’m not a grocer in the concrete. Kindly shut that -door. There’s a draught keeps coming down the back of the place where -my neck would have been, and that’s a thing I can’t stand.” - -As I shut the door I felt more bewildered than ever. An abstract grocer -was beyond me, and I said so. “What, for instance, is abstract sugar?” -I asked. - -“Sugar’s concrete,” was the reply, “and if you abstract it, you -get spanked. We’ve got no sugar here. If you’d like a Pure White, -Crystallised, Disinterested Love, we keep that, although there’s not -much demand. They mostly use the coarser kinds. They say they’re -sweeter.” - -“Ah!” I cried, “you deal in abstract nouns then.” - -“That’s more like it. It’s a clumsy way of putting it, but it’s fairly -right. We supply, or, to speak more accurately, we groce, all the -Emotions to the Solar System, and trade’s very slack just now in that -branch. We are doing rather better in States of Being, and we’ve just -got a new assortment of Deaths. Now, once for all, do you intend to buy -anything?” - -I remembered with joy that I had a couple of sovereigns and some loose -silver in my pocket. All my life long I had suffered from want of -emotional experiences. I had always regretted the want of variety, the -general flatness and dulness. If the delusion or reality--I neither -knew nor cared now which it was--would only last, I was determined to -gratify to the full my fine perceptions. Especially was I struck with -the mention of the Pure White Love. I may confess at once that I never -got on much with women. I have a natural dignity and reserve that is -sometimes mistaken for nervousness. I fancy it sets women against me. -Somehow I am never able to say to them quite what I want to say. I -have often looked at a young girl, and thought that if she could only -know me as I really was--if she could once regard me as apart from -wretched circumstances, my poverty, my shabby clothes, my unfortunate -reserve--she might abate something of her pretty scorn. - -“Certainly, I intend to buy something,” I said. “To commence with, I -should like to see some samples of that peculiar Love you mentioned.” - -“Dear me!” broke in Mr. Joseph. “How many more times am I to tell you? -You can’t _see_ samples. You can feel them if you like. James!” - -“Yes, Joseph,” answered the boyish voice from the further end of the -shop. - -“Let’s have some of the ‘Pure White,’--look sharp.” - -“Right.” - -“Now then,” continued Mr. Joseph. “Take that chair. Adopt an easy, -natural position. Don’t cross the legs. If you find the light too -strong, you can blink the eyes once or twice, it won’t make any -difference. Head a little more this way. You’re frowning. That’s -better. Now then, we’re ready. Steady, please.” - -The light certainly was too strong. A sudden flash blinded me, and when -I recovered my sight I was apparently no longer in the Grocery. I was -in a dimly-lighted conservatory and the middle of a sentence. I have -never been able to find out what could have been the beginning of it. - -“... which it is not, and never was,” I was saying. “I am content only -to have told you, and now I relinquish you. Let this be my farewell, my -good-bye to you before I sail from England. In books that we read, a -man would have asked you for one clasp of the hands, or even one kiss, -but I neither ask nor wish for that.” - -I looked up, and saw the girl to whom I was speaking. I had certainly -never seen her before, but yet the figure was familiar. She sat in her -white dress, shaded from the light by some tropical plant. It was with -passionate and hopeless adoration that I looked at her, and yet I was -full of a strange content; it seemed to be enough to have loved her. I -saw that her head was slightly turned away from me, and that she was -sobbing. - -“I am sorry,” I went on, “that I have made you cry. I want you to be -happy, and I know there is only one way.” - -“I never knew it was going to be like this,” she said tremulously. - -For the matter of that, neither had I when I first ordered the first -sample pure white. But it struck me as being all quite natural. Some of -that peace which must come to men of a great soul, had come to me. - -“Good-bye,” I said. “I am not going to do anything desperate, anything -that could cause you regret. It is enough for me to have loved you, and -to feel that in comparison the rest of my life is one....” - -Just as I had begun in the middle of a sentence so I ended in the -middle of a sentence. The dim-lit conservatory and the maiden vanished, -and I found myself once more in the Celestial Grocery. - -“Do you like it?” asked Mr. Joseph’s voice. - -“Yes,” I said, hesitatingly, “it is grand, it is sublime. But I don’t -think I could stand very much of it. How much is it a pound?” - -“We don’t sell it by the pound; we sell it by the spasm.” - -“Then,” I said, “I’ll take six spasms.” - -“James, six of the pure white.” - -“Right,” said the voice of James. - -For a moment I tried to recall the beautiful girl in white whom I had -just seen. I wondered how my first sentence began and how my last -sentence would have ended. I seemed to have walked for a while upon -those heights of love that reach beyond the fires of passion, and on -which lie the snows of perpetual purity. I felt that my self-respect -had considerably increased in consequence. Here I was interrupted by -Mr. Joseph. - -“What will be the next order?” - -“I have often longed,” I replied, “for a little real happiness.” - -“Yes,” said Mr. Joseph. “But that is a blend. You buy the ingredients -and you blend them yourself. Unfortunately, we do not provide -Incomes. We have a Literary Fame which gives great satisfaction. -‘Political Success’ is in considerable demand. Then there’s ‘Religious -Exaltation’--not much asked for lately, I’m afraid. ‘Requited Love’ is -not expensive, but we’ve had complaints that it doesn’t wear well. Of -course there’s Death by Drowning, Death by----” - -“Stop, Mr. Joseph,” I cried, “I have no desire to die.” I had already -decided what should be my next experiment; for even under-masters have -their ambitions. “I think,” I said, “that I should rather like to try -the ‘Political Success.’” - -Mr. Joseph took my order with alacrity, and the same process as before -was repeated. Once more I seemed to have left the grocery. I was -standing on a balcony, my hat in my hand, and below me in the street -there was a surging mass of people. As far as my sight could reach -I could see eager, excited faces upturned. I was just concluding a -speech, and, as before, was in the middle of a sentence. - -“... not derogatory to the national sense--(cheers)--of what is the -fittest, the truest, and the best way--(renewed applause)--of proving -to those who at one time may have thought otherwise, that, in spite -of all preconceived opinions, which, if they are not praiseworthy--and -I do not say they are so--yet may with some show of justice--(hear, -hear)--be asserted to have had their origin in a sentiment felt by -humanity at large, and more especially by the English-speaking races, -and to which we to-night, with the generosity of the conquerors -towards the conquered--(loud cheers)--can well afford to extend our -fullest indulgence. It is not only in the family but in a man’s public -capacity; not only by the fireside, but also beneath that fiercer light -that beats upon the high offices of this nation--(loud and prolonged -cheering)--not only with the....” - -I would have given anything to have gone on a little further. I do not -even know what my politics were, although I am inclined to form an -opinion from internal evidences in my speech. But I never in all my -life felt such a delightful sense of exhilaration, triumph, and power. -When I came to, I found myself seated on the floor of the grocery, -perspiring profusely. - -“Oh, that was good,” I exclaimed, “very good!” I picked myself up, and -inquired eagerly what the price was, and how it was sold. - -“It is expensive,” said Mr. Joseph, solemnly, “very expensive; and we -sell it in bursts.” - -I did not like to ask for further details. I expected that Mr. Joseph -would give me a reasonable amount of credit, and with the literary fame -that I intended to buy I thought that I should soon be able to pay -for everything. But I thought it wise to order only two bursts of the -“Political Success.” - -“Mr. Joseph,” I said, “I hardly know what to order next. I should -like to have a price-list, and a week to think it over. I never bought -anything abstract before. At present I’ve got only some ‘Disinterested -Love’ and some ‘Political Success’; do you think you could let me have -some Literary Fame, Musical Ability, Personal Charm, Popularity, and -Contentment?” - -“It’s a large order,” said Mr. Joseph, “but we will do our best to -execute it. James, will you see about those articles?” - -“I will,” said James. - -“And when shall I have them?” - -There was no answer. - -“I should like to know when I can have them,” I continued. “I don’t -want to hurry you. Any time in the course of a year would do. I can -give you a reference if you like. The master of St. Cecilia’s knows all -about me. But as I did not imagine I was coming here to-night, I have -brought hardly any money with me. However, if you would not object to -taking two pounds on account----” - -I pulled out my two sovereigns, and laid them on the counter. As I did -so I looked up. I had ceased to be capable of surprise, or I think -I should have been surprised. Before me, on the other side of the -counter, stood a young girl. Perhaps I should more accurately describe -her as a young angel, except that she had no wings or halo. She was -dressed in some loose, white garment, which looked like the apotheosis -of a night-gown. I could not say within a year or two how old she was, -but she seemed to be on the verge of womanhood. Her figure was tall and -slight. Her small white hands were clasped before her. Her face was, -perhaps, a little wan and pale, but full of the most spiritual beauty. -The expression upon it was one of sweet, calm seriousness. Her eyes -seemed to be looking sadly at something far off. Her hair was long and -dark, and fell loosely about her shoulders. I gazed at her a long time -before I could speak. - -“Mr. Joseph?” I stammered out, questioningly. - -“Joseph and James,” she said, in a low musical voice, “have gone -downstairs to feed Joseph’s body. They sent me up here to wait on you. -What are these?” - -She took up the two sovereigns I had placed on the counter. - -“A mere trifle,” I said. “I thought that, perhaps, it would be better -to pay a trifle on account. If I had known that I was coming here, I -would have brought more--I would, indeed.” - -“Will you please put them away?” she said, slowly. “They have no value. -I will tell you about it soon. I have known you for a long time--known -you so well.” - -I was entranced by her beauty, and could hardly find words to speak, -but I muttered the usual commonplaces. It was very stupid of me, but I -did not seem to recall her face. I did not even remember her name. - -“No,” she replied, “you have never seen me before. You will know my -name one day, but not yet. I have watched you for years, and sometimes -I have been with you. I am glad that you came here to-night, for I have -often wished to speak with you.” - -It is possible that I may have looked a little incredulous, for -she fixed her eyes full upon mine, leaning across the counter, and -whispered something to me. I do not see that I am called upon to write -down what she said. It was quite personal and private. If I did record -it, it would probably be misunderstood. But it answered its purpose. -It made me feel that she knew me indeed, that here I had no impression -to make and none to mar. There was no longer any barrier of reserve -between us. - -“And at last you have come to me,” she said. “No one can overhear us; -we are quite alone.” - -My cheeks were flushed and my voice trembled. “You do not talk,” I -said, “as the women I met on earth, nor as Joseph and James did. No -earthly woman that I know would have whispered to me the things that -you did.” - -“You are not angry with me for it?” she said. - -I loved her for it, but I could not tell her so. For a moment or two I -gazed at her in a kind of rapture. “You are very beautiful,” I said at -last. - -“Yes; but that is not of any real consequence here. Here the body is -always beautiful, because the spirit never spoils it. Would that I -could alter your nature and make it like ours! But they told me that -you would look at me as on your earth a man looks at a woman. I do not -understand that. I do not know your way--ah, do not look at me so.” - -“I cannot help it; you draw my eyes towards you.” - -“Do not say that!” she cried, in a distressed voice. “Do not think -of it. I can think, and speak, and love when I am not in the body. I -almost wish that I had not come to you like this. If I had been only a -voice I should still have desired you.” - -Like most people of a shy disposition, I have an occasional access -of boldness. “Do you mean that you do not understand the kind of -attraction that a woman has for a man? Do you not know what flushed -cheeks, and longing looks, and trembling voice mean? And yet I could -believe that the earthly love would be possible to you.” - -“The lower is always possible for the higher,” she said. “But that is -not what I want. I long to-night to teach you the other love. But now -that I am face to face with you I have no words. There are none in any -language that will tell you. I want names for things of which you know -nothing--things which with men and women of your world do not exist. I -should feel no shame in speaking to you of it, for there is no shame in -our love. Your love is full of shame. That was why at first I whispered -to you. That was why I told you that no one could hear us. It was for -your sake, not mine.” She stopped and sighed. - -“Why do you sigh?” I asked. - -“Because I cannot say what I want.” - -“Try,” I said. - -“No, it is no use now. What have you been buying?” - -I gave her a list of my purchases, and she went over them, as it seemed -to me, a little sadly. “You have not bought the best things,” she said. -“But they will cost you all that you have here, one gardenia and a -sprig of maidenhair.” - -“Is that flower really worth more than the two sovereigns that I -offered you?” - -“Yes, we have none here, and flowers are the only purity on your earth.” - -“But this will die in an hour.” - -“No,” she said, “it would have died there, but here it will never die.” -As I laid it on the counter I noticed that even the maidenhair was -quite fresh. - -“If I had only known,” I said, “I would have loaded my cab with -flowers. Can I not come back again?” - -“No--never.” - -“Then let me change the things that I have bought. They seemed high and -noble, especially the White Love.” - -“Yes, you shall change them. You did not value the Love because it was -noble, but because it made you feel noble.” - -“And what shall I buy for myself?” - -“Nothing. If you had kept the goods that you ordered, you would have -made a little flutter on an indescribably small portion of a rather -insignificant world. You would have been called the great poet, the -eminent statesman, and it would not have helped you any further--it -would not have raised you any higher. Your nature would still have -been bounded on the earth by earthly possibilities. No, you shall buy -nothing for yourself. There is only one step that you can take that -will bring you nearer me. There is only one thing that you can do that -has a real value.” - -“You mean self-denial,” I said. “I will obey you. I surrender all that -I had bought. You shall give me instead the best thing for some one -else--for whom?” - -“For your own father.” - -I bent my head in shame. It was a subject of which I could hardly bear -to speak; but she with great tenderness, laying one of her little hands -softly and caressingly on mine, dropped her voice almost to a whisper. - -“Yes, for your father. My poor boy, there are no secrets between you -and me. There is to be no shame between you and me. I know all. In -the same asylum where your grandfather died your father now lies. His -reason is gone. A horrible darkness has come over his mind. He lies -there moaning and----” - -“Stop!” I cried. “For pity’s sake say no more. You are right. Give me -the best thing for him.” - -“It shall be so,” she said. “And now the end of your time here grows -near. But you have taken the first step. You and I have advanced a -little further towards the sacred unity of the new love. Come, let us -go and look down at the stars, and I will tell you about them.” - -She came round to my side of the counter, and we passed through the -door together. Her bare feet trod lightly on the crystal blocks with -which the street was paved. I gazed at her in an ecstasy of adoration. -The cab was still standing there, and the horse looked round at us. He -grinned horribly, showing his yellow fangs. - -“Oh my! ain’t it sweet!” he called out. - -“You vulgar beast!” I said to him angrily, “if you say another word, -I’ll take that whip and simply flay you.” - -“You needn’t distress yourself,” he answered, “because you’ll be asleep -in two minutes.” - -I saw that she had taken no notice of the unmannerly animal. She had -crossed the street, and was leaning over the low stone wall, with her -beautiful head supported on one hand; I saw that my most dignified -course was to follow her, and I did so. - -“Yes,” she said, pointing downwards with her finger, “those are -the other worlds. They were put there to be a heating and lighting -apparatus for the most insignificant of them--at least that is the -prevalent creed, for the most insignificant. Do not believe it. On each -one there is life, and for each one there is a purpose; all are part -of one scheme that----” - -The horse was quite right. At this point, I rested my head on my arms -as I leaned over the parapet, and went fast asleep. I can never forgive -myself for it, but I was powerless to prevent it. I do not know how -long I slept, but I woke suddenly. She was no longer leaning over the -parapet; she stood on the pathway, gazing upwards, with a strange light -in her eyes. Of course she was in the middle of a sentence. That was -only part of the generally unsatisfactory nature of everything. - -“----would get new experiences, new data. You would think and imagine -new things. You would know what the new love means. I can only speak to -you as a woman to a man, but I do not look at you as a woman would. She -would see only a poor little schoolmaster, not very beautiful, rather -sleepy-headed, in a dress-suit much too tight for him. I too can see -that. But I see also a life that long ago came out into the darkness -hand-in-hand with mine. Had you been placed in this world, you would -have known as I know; but I came here, and you were sent elsewhere. Out -of the same clay the potter makes two vessels, one to honour and one to -dishonour.” - -“And that is extremely unjust,” I said. - -“It would be quite impossible for you to think otherwise; but you are -wrong. You will soon know that you are wrong.” - -“When?” I asked. - -“On the day that you know my name, when the earthly love that you feel -for me is changed to the new love of which it is the shadow, when we -come back together, you and I, out of the darkness into the light.” - -“Where is the light?” - -“Look upwards. There are no more stars, and above all seems dark. And -the darkness flows on like a river, on and on. But the river will run -dry at the last, the darkness will have passed at the last, and then we -shall enter into the light.” - -“And now,” said the voice of the unconscionable cab-horse behind us, “I -will ask you to join with me in singing the last hymn on the paper.” - -“What on earth,” I exclaimed testily, “is the point of making that -perfectly idiotic remark?” - -“Mere absent-mindedness,” the brute answered. “I thought from the -general style of the conversation that I was at some missionary -meeting. That’s all.” - -“At any rate,” I said, “you need not interrupt a--a lady.” - -“Lady! S’help me! That high-toned, female grocer’s assistant, a lady!” -The beast positively shrieked with laughter. “Get into the cab, you -little fool, and let’s get home. There’s no place like home.” - -I sprang at the cab, seized the whip, and determined to take my -revenge. But I never got it. The agile beast waltzed round and round -with amazing rapidity in the middle of the street. I struck out wildly; -but though I occasionally hit the cab, I never succeeded in hitting the -horse. All this time the cabman remained motionless. Suddenly the brute -stopped, and backed the cab right into me. I fell down on the pavement -by the low wall. I picked myself up and gazed around. - -She was no longer there. - -I staggered across the road. The lights were out in the grocery. I -tried the door, but it was locked. I shook it, and called loudly, but -no answer came. Once more I turned savagely on the horse, but at the -first stroke the whip broke in my hands. - -“Now then,” he yelled, “you little fool, get into the cab, and let’s -enter into the Light!” - -For a moment I stood there helpless. I felt weak and sick with my fall. -Then I flung down the broken whip, and got into the cab, which started -instantly at full speed. I buried my face in my hands, and burst into -tears. - -When, after a moment, I looked up again, there was the roar of the -London streets about me, and we were within a hundred yards of my -lodgings. The cab stopped at them, and I got out. It was evident that -the cabman knew nothing about what had happened; he looked cheery, -comfortable, and commonplace. I saw that there would be no use in -speaking to him about it. I merely paid him three times his proper -fare, to compensate him for the loss of his whip, which, by the way, he -did not seem to have noticed. - -I was very tired, and soon went off to sleep. I had lost fame, and -I had gained for my father a return to sanity. It was worth the -sacrifice. He should come to London, and live with me. It was years -since I had been able to speak to him. Then slumber interrupted my -thoughts. - -As soon as I woke in the morning I sprang from my bed, and took up my -dress-coat. No, it was no dream. The gardenia and maidenhair were gone, -and my father had regained his reason. Would that I could see her once -more, and thank her. - -There came a tap at my door. - -“All right, Mrs. Smith,” I cried. “I’m getting up.” - -“There’s a telegram for you, sir.” - -It was pushed under the door. I opened it. It was from the doctor at -the asylum where my father was placed, and it read as follows:-- - -“Your father died suddenly early this morning. Please come at once.” - -There have been no further developments, and I do not know what to do. -I feel that I must see her, and ask her. I cannot understand. And, -alas! I cannot get to her. - - * * * * * - -Since writing the above, I have had a letter from my Principal. -He wants my resignation. He says something about “strangeness of -manner--medical advice--real kindness to me--hope for recovery.” Mrs. -Smith has asked me, with tears in her eyes, to leave my apartments. -She says that I have been most regular in my payments, and in every -way showed myself to be a perfect gentleman; but the other lodgers are -frightened of me, and I frighten her sometimes. She can feel for me, -because she had a cousin who once went off like that; but would I mind -going? - -Well, I have resigned my post, and to-night I leave my lodgings. I am -very lonely. - - - - -“BILL.” - -_THE STORY OF A BOY WHOM THE GODS LOVED._ - - -Bill came slowly up the steps from a basement flat in Pond Buildings, -crossed the pavement, and sat down on the kerb-stone in the sunshine, -with his feet in a delightful puddle. He was reflecting. - -“All that fuss about a dead byeby!” he said to himself. - -He was quite a little boy, with a dirty face, gipsy eyes, and a love -for animals. He had slept the deep sleep of childhood the night before, -and had heard nothing of what was happening. In the early morning, -however, he had been enlightened by his father--a weak man, with a -shuffling gait, who tried to do right and generally failed. - -“Bill, cummere. Larst night there were a byeby come to be your sister -if she’d grow’d. But she didn’t live more’n hour. An’ that’s why your -awnt’s ’ere, an’ mind yer do whort she tells yer, an’ don’t go inter -the other room, an’ don’t do nothin’ ’cep’ whort yer told, or I’ll -break yer ’ead for yer, sure’s death, I will!” - -Then Bill’s father had gone away to his work, being unable to afford -the loss of a day; and Bill’s vehement, red-haired aunt had come into -the kitchen, and shaken him, and abused him, and given him some -breakfast. Bill’s aunt was one of those unfortunate people who cannot -love one person without hating three others to make up for it. Just -at present she was loving Bill’s mother, her sister, very much, and -retained her self-respect by being very strict with Bill’s father, with -Bill himself, and with the doctor. She instructed Bill that he was not -to go to school that morning. He was to remain absolutely quiet in the -kitchen, because he might be wanted to run errands and do odd jobs. For -some time Bill had obeyed her, and then monotony tempted him to include -the little yard at the back in his definition of the kitchen. All the -basement flats in Pond Buildings have little yards at the back. Most -of the inhabitants use them as drying-grounds. In some of them there -is a dead shrub or the remains of a sanguine geranium that failed; in -all of them there are cinders and very old meat-tins. Now, when Bill -went out into the yard, he found the black cat, which he called Simon -Peter, asleep in the sun on the wall. Simon Peter did not belong to any -one; she roamed about at the back of Pond Buildings, dodged anything -that was thrown at her, and ate unspeakable things. She had formed a -melancholy and unremunerative attachment to Bill; her name had been -suggested to him by stray visits to a Sunday-school, forced on him -during a short season when his father, to use his own phrase, had got -religion. “Siming Peter,” said Bill, as he scratched her gently under -the ear, “Siming Peter, my cat, come in ’ere along o’ me and ’ave some -milk.” - -It is not at all probable that Simon Peter was deceived by this. She -must have known that, with the best intentions in the world, Bill -could not do so much as this for her. Yet she blinked at him with her -lazy green eyes, and followed him from the yard into the kitchen. Bill -filled a saucer with water, and put it down on the ground before her. -“There yer are, Siming Peter,” he said; “an’ that’s better for yer nor -any milk.” Simon Peter put up her back slowly, mewed contemptuously, -and trotted out into the yard again. Bill, dashing after her, trod on -the saucer and broke it, and overturned a chair. In another moment he -was in the clutches of his fierce aunt. - -“Do you want to kill your blessed mother, you devil? Didn’t I tell yer -to sit quoite? An’ a good saucer broke, with the poor dead corpse of -your byeby sister lyin’ in the next room. Go hout! You’re more nuisance -nor you’re wuth. See ’ere. Don’t you show your ugly ’ead ’ere agin -afore night. An’ when yer comes back I’ll tell your father of yer, an’ -’e ’ll skin yer alive. Dinner? Not for such as you. Hout yer git.” - -So Bill had been turned out, and now sat with his feet in a delightful -puddle, reflecting for a minute or two on dead babies, injustice, -puddles, and other things. It was a larger puddle, as far as Bill -could see, than any other in the street, and it was this which made -it so charming. But a puddle is of no use to any one who has not got -something to float on it. If you have something to float on it you can -imagine boats, and races, and storms, and it becomes a magnificent -playground for the imagination; otherwise the biggest puddle is simply -a puddle, and it is nothing more. So Bill started down the street to -look for something which would float, a scrap of paper or a straw. He -was stopped by a lanky unkempt girl with yellow hair, who was leaning -on a broom that was almost bald, outside an open door. She was four or -five years older than Bill, and she was very fond of him. The girls -of the wretched neighbourhood for the most part rather petted Bill; -they did so, without knowing their reason, because he was quaint, and -pretty, and little. He was rather dirty it was true, but then so were -they; and for the most part they were not so pretty. - -“Bill,” said the yellow-haired girl, “why awnt yer at school? You’ll -ketch it, Bill.” - -“No, I ’ont. They kep’ me, ’cos we’ve got a byeby, an’ the byeby’s -dead. Then they tunned me out for breakin’ a saucer when I was goin’ -after Siming Peter what I were feedin’, an’ I ain’t to ’ave no dinner, -and I ain’t to come back afore night, and when I do come back I’m goin’ -to be walloped. I wish I was dead!” - -“Oh, Bill, you _are_ a bad boy; what are yer goin’ to do?” - -“Play ships at that puddle. I was lookin’ for sutthin’ what ’ud do for -ships, an’ can’t find nothin’.” - -“An’ what’ll yer do about dinner?” - -“I ain’t goin’ to ’ave no dinner,” said Bill, solemnly, “I’m goin’ to -starve. They don’t keer. Dead byebies is what _they_ like.” - -The lanky girl leaned her broom against the wall, sat down on the -doorstep, and commenced the research of a pocket; the pocket yielded -her one penny. - -“Look ’ere, Bill,” she said, “you take this and git yourself sutthin’ -to eat.” - -Bill shook his head, and pressed his lips together. He was much moved. - -“I ’ad it give me a week ago, and I sived it ’cos there warn’t nothin’ -what I wanted. So you take it. I don’t want it. If yer like, yer can -give us a kiss for it.” She pressed it into his hand. “There ain’t -no other little boy I know what I’d give it to,” she added rather -inconsistently. - -Bill nodded his head, and the lips grew a little tremulous. He had been -treated cruelly all the morning, and this sudden change to sympathy and -generosity was almost too much for him. He kissed the yellow-haired -girl--once timidly and then suddenly with great affection. - -“Why, Bill,” she said, “I ain’t done nothin’ to ’urt yer, yer look -ommust as if yer was goin’ to cry.” - -“No, I ain’t,” replied Bill, finding words with difficulty, “but--but I -’ate ev’rybody in the world ’cep’ you.” - -Then he walked away with great dignity, and every nerve in his -excitable little body quivering. He felt on the whole rather more -wretched than before. The contrast made him feel both sides of it -more deeply. He had forgotten now about the beautiful puddle and his -intention to play ships. He wandered down the main street, and then -down a side street which led behind a grim, frowning church. And here -he found something which attracted his attention. It was a dirty little -shop which a small tobacconist and an almost microscopical grocer -had used successively as a last step before bankruptcy. It had then -remained for some time unoccupied. But now the whole of the window was -occupied with one great bright picture, before which a small crowd had -gathered. It represented a beautiful mermaid swimming in a beautiful -sea, accompanied by a small octopus and some boiled shrimps. Her hair -was very golden and very long; her eyes were very blue; she was very -pink and very fat. Underneath was the announcement-- - - THE MERMAID OF THE WESTERN PACIFIC! - - Positively to be Seen Within!! - - FOR A FEW DAYS ONLY. - - ADMISSION ONE PENNY - -An old man was standing in the doorway, with a tattered red curtain -behind him, supplying further details of the history and personal -appearance of the mermaid. He looked slightly military, distinctly -intemperate, and very unfortunate, yet he was energetic. - -“What it comes to is this--for a few days only I am offering two -’igh-class entertainments at the price of one. The performance -commences with an exhibition by that most marvellous Spanish conjurer, -Madumarsell Rimbini, and concludes with that unparalleled wonder of -the world, the mermaid of the Western Pasuffolk. I have been asked -frequent if it pays me to do this. No, it does _not_ pay me. I am -doing it entirely as an advertisement. Kindly take notice that this -mermaid is not a shadder, faked up with lookin’ glasses. She is -real--solid--genuine--discovered by an English officer while cruisin’ -in the Western Pasuffolk, and purchased direct from ’im by myself. The -performance will commence in one minute. If any gentleman is not able -to stay now, I may remark that the performances will be repeated agin -this evenin’ from seven to ten. What it comes to is this--for a few -days only, etc.” - -Of course Bill had seen shows of a kind before. He had seen a ’bus -horse stumble, and almost pick itself up, and stumble again, and -finally go down half on the kerb-stone. That had been attractive, but -there had been nothing to pay for it. Again, in his Sunday-school days, -he had been present at an entertainment where the exhilaration of solid -buns and dissolving views had been gently tempered by a short address. -That too was attractive, but it had been free. And now it would not -be possible to see this beautiful buoyant creature swimming in clear -shrimp-haunted waters unless he paid a penny for it, the only penny -that he possessed. Never before had he paid anything to go anywhere. -The temptation was masterful. It gripped him, and drew him towards the -tattered red curtain that hung over the entrance. In another minute he -had paid his penny, and stood within. - -At one end of the shop a low stage had been erected. On the stage was -something which looked like a large packing-case with a piece of red -baize thrown over it. There was a small table, on which were two packs -of playing-cards and a brightly coloured pill-box, and a tired fat -woman in a low dress of peculiar frowziness. As the audience entered -she put a smile on her face, where it remained fixed as if it had -been pinned. The performance commenced with three clumsy card-tricks. -Then she requested some one in the audience to put a halfpenny in the -painted pill-box and see it changed into a shilling. The audience felt -that they had been weak in paying a penny to see the show, and on -this last point they were adamant. They would put no halfpennies in no -pill-boxes. They were now firm. So also was the Spanish conjurer, and -this trick was omitted. She intimated that she would now proceed to -the second part of the entertainment, the exhibition of the mermaid of -the Western Pacific. She removed, dramatically, the red-baize cover, -disclosing a glass case. The audience pressed forward to examine its -contents. The case was filled for the most part with those romantic -rocks and grasses which conventionality has appointed to be a suitable -setting for stuffed canaries, or stuffed dogs, or anything that is -stuffed. There was a background of painted sky and sea; and in the -front there was a small, most horrible figure, looking straight -at Bill out of hideous, green, glassy eyes. It was not the lovely -creature depicted in the window outside. It was a monstrous thing, -a contemptible fraud to the practised intelligence, but to Bill’s -childish, excitable mind a thing of unspeakable horror and fascination. -The lower half was a wilted, withered fish; then came a girdle of -seaweed, and then something which was near to being human, yellow and -waxy, with a ghastly face, a bald head, and those eyes that would keep -looking at Bill. He shut his own eyes for a second; when he opened them -again the monstrous thing was still looking at him. - -There were two men standing near to Bill. One of them was a very young -and very satirical carpenter, with a foot-rule sticking out of his -coat-pocket. “So that’s a mermaid!” he remarked. “Yer call that a -mermaid--oh!--indeed, a mermaid--oh, yes!” - -“Seems to me,” said the other man, middle-aged, cadaverous, and -dressed in rusty black, “that it’s a sight more like a dead byeby.” - -“Well, you _ought_ to know,” replied the satirical carpenter, grinning. - -Bill heard this. So in that basement flat in Pond Buildings, Bill’s -home, there was something lying quite still and waiting for him, to -frighten him. He had never thought what a dead baby would be like. His -mind began to work in flashes. The first flash reminded him of some -horrible stories which his red-haired, vehement aunt had told him, to -terrify him into being good. He had objected at the close of one story -that dead people could not walk about. - -“You don’t know,” his aunt had replied, “nobody knows, what dead people -can do.” In the second flash he imagined that he had gone home, had -been lectured by his aunt, and beaten by his father, and had cried -himself to sleep. He would wake up at night, when all was quiet--he -felt sure of it--and the room would not be quite dark. He would see -by the white moonlight a horrible, yellow, waxy thing crawling across -the floor. It would not go to the right or to the left, but straight -towards him. It would be his dead baby sister, and it would have a face -like the face of the mermaid, and it would stare at him. He would be -unable to call out. It would come nearer and nearer, and at last it -would touch him. Then he would die of fright. - -No, he would not go home, not until the dead baby had been taken away. - -As the audience crowded out through the narrow doorway, Bill touched -the man in shabby black: - -“Please, sir, ’ow long is it afore they bury dead babies?” - -The man stared at him searchingly. “What do yer want to know that for? -Depends on the weather partly, and on the inclinations of the bereaved -party. ‘Soon as possible’ ’s allus my advice, but they let it go for -days frequent.” - -Bill thanked him, and walked aimlessly away. He could not get the -terror out of his mind. He walked through street after street, so -absorbed in horrible thoughts that he hardly noticed what direction he -was taking, and only just escaped being run over. He had been wandering -for over an hour when he came across two boys, whom he knew, playing -marbles. This was companionship and diversion for his thoughts. For -some time he watched the game with interest, and then one of the -players pulled from his pocket two large marbles of greenish glass, and -set them rolling. Bill turned away at once, for he had been reminded -of those green eyes. He imagined that they were still looking at him; -but, in his imagination, they belonged not to the mermaid, but to the -dead baby. He wished again and again that he had never been to that -show. He was growing almost desperate with terror. Of course, his state -of mind was to some extent due to the fact that he had eaten nothing -for eight hours. But then, Bill did not know this. Suddenly he gave -a great start, and a gasp for breath, for he had been touched on the -shoulder. He looked up and saw his father. Now Bill’s father had drunk -two glasses of bad beer during his dinner hour, and in consequence he -was feeling somewhat angry and somewhat self-righteous, for his head -was exceedingly weak and poor. He addressed Bill very solemnly-- - -“Loit’rin’ in the streets! loit’rin’ and playin’ in the streets! -What’s the good o’ my bringing of yer up in the fear o’ Gawd?” - -Bill had no answer to make; so his father aimed a blow at him, which -Bill dodged. - -“All right,” his father continued, “I’m sent out on a jorb, and I ain’t -got the time to wallup yer now. But you mark my words--this very night, -as sure as my name’s what it is, I’ll knock yer blawstid ’ead off.” - -At any other time this would have frightened Bill. But now it came as a -positive relief. There is no fear so painful, so maddening, as the fear -of the supernatural. The promise that he should have his head knocked -off had in itself but little charm or attraction. But in that case he -knew what to fear and from whence to fear it. It took his thoughts away -for a few minutes from the horror of that dead baby, whose ghastly face -he pictured to himself so clearly. But it was only for a few minutes; -the face came back again to his mind and haunted him. He could not -escape from it. He was more than ever determined that he would not go -home; he dared not spend a night in the next room to it. Already the -afternoon was closing in, and Bill had no notion where he was to go for -the night. For the present he decided to make his way to the green; he -would probably meet other boys there that he knew. - -The green to which he went is much frequented by the poor of the -south-west. The railway skirts one side of it, and gives it an -additional attraction to children. Bill was tired out with walking. -He flung himself down on the grass to rest. His exhaustion at last -overcame his fears, and he fell asleep. He slept for a long time, and -in his sleep he had a dream. - -It was, so it seemed to him in his dream, late in the evening, and he -was standing outside the door of the basement flat. He had knocked, -and was waiting to be admitted. Suddenly he noticed that the door was -just ajar. He pushed it open and entered. He called, but there was no -answer. All was dark. The outer door swung to with a bang behind him. -He thought that he would wait in the kitchen by the light of the fire -until some one came. He felt his way to the kitchen and sat down in -front of the fire. - -It had burnt very low, and the furniture was only just distinguishable -by the light of it. As he was waiting he heard very faintly the sound -of breathing. It did not frighten him; but he could not understand it, -because as far as he could see there was no living thing in the room -except himself. He thought that he would strike a light and discover -what it was. The matches were in a cupboard on the right-hand side of -the fireplace. He could only just reach the fastening, and it took him -some little time to undo it. The moment the fastening was undone the -door flew open, and something yellowish-white fell or rather leapt -out upon him, fixing little quickly-moving fingers in his hair. With -a scream he fell to the floor. He had shut his eyes in horror, but he -felt compelled to open them again to see what this thing was that clung -to him, writhing and panting. A little spurt of flame had shot up, and -showed him the face. Its eyes were blinking and rolling. Its mouth -moved horribly and convulsively, and there was foam on the white lips. -The face was close to his own; it drew nearer; it touched him. It was -wet. - -Bill suddenly woke and sprang to his feet, shivering and maddened -with terror. The green was dark and deserted. A cold, strong wind -had sprung up, and he heard it howling dismally. An impulse seized -him to run--to run for his life. For a moment he hesitated; and then, -under the shadow of the wall, slinking along in the darkness, he saw -something white coming towards him, and with a quick gasp he turned and -ran. He paid no heed to the direction in which he was going; he dared -not look behind, for he felt sure that the nameless horror was behind -him; he ran until he was breathless, and then walked a few paces, and -ran again. As he crossed the road on the outer edge of the green, a -policeman stopped and looked at him suspiciously. Bill did not even see -the policeman. His one idea was escape. - -It happened that he ran in the direction of the river. He had left the -road now, and was following a muddy track that led through some grimy, -desolate market-gardens. All around him there was horror. It screamed -in the screaming wind with a voice that was half human; it took shape -in the darkness, and lean, white arms, convulsively active, seemed to -be snatching at him as he passed; the pattering of blown leaves was -changed by it into the pattering of something ghastly, coming very -quickly after him. For one second he paused on the river’s brink; and -then, pressing both his hands tightly over his eyes, he flung himself -into the water. - -And the river went on unconcerned, and the laws of Nature did not -deviate from their regular course. So the boy was drowned. It was -a pity; for he was in some ways a lovable boy, and there were -possibilities in him. - - * * * * * - -Bill’s aunt was putting the untidy bedroom straight when his mother, -opening her eyes and turning a little on the bed, said, in a low, tired -voice-- - -“I want Bill. Wheer’s Bill?” - -“I sent ’im out, dearie; ’e’ll be back d’rectly. Don’t you worry -yourself about Bill. Why, that drattid lamp’s a-shinin’ strite onto -your eyes. I’ll turn it down.” - -There was a moment’s pause, while the vehement woman--quiet enough -now--arranged the lamp and took her place by the bedside. She smoothed -the young mother’s faded hair with one hand. “Go to sleep, dearie,” she -said. - -Then she began to sing in a hushed, quavering voice. It was a favourite -hymn, and for devotional purposes she rarely used more than one -vowel-sound-- - - “Urbud wuth me! Fust fulls thur uvvun-tud.” - - - - -THE GIRL AND THE BEETLE. - -_A STORY OF HERE AND HEREAFTER._ - - -On the brushwood and groups of trees that here and there broke the -monotony of the flat and sandy common were the marks of autumn. The -wind was soft and mild, and the leaves fell gently, and the white -clouds sailed away into the distance steadily and unquestioningly. Far -off the glint of sunlight fell on the narrow, sluggish river. Winds and -leaves, clouds and river--all were going home, with a calm meekness -that aggravated the dying beetle. It was a good day to die on, and the -beetle knew it; but yet he was dissatisfied. - -Above him there hovered two unkempt birds, tormented by a sense of -what in all the circumstances was the correct thing to do. Each bird -had sighted the beetle, and neither would come and take it; for each -thought that the other would suppose him to be greedy. Of these two -birds the one was magnanimous and the other was nervous, and both were -hungry. - -“There’s a large beetle down there,” the first remarked, “but I don’t -know that I care about it particularly. Won’t you take it?” - -There was nothing that his companion would have liked better, but his -unfortunate nervousness prevented him from availing himself of the -generous offer. “No, thanks,” he stammered, “I couldn’t deprive you.” - -“But I really don’t want it,” said Magnanimity. - -“Nor do I,” replied Nervousness. “Let’s go for a little fly.” - -So they flew slowly away, feeling empty and mistaken, with a sense that -the world must be out of joint where there were nearly always two birds -to one beetle, and both the birds understood etiquette. And the beetle -went on dying. - -He had not during his previous life been a good beetle. He was strongly -built, and his constitution, which had now given way, had always been -considered robust. Female beetles had thought him uncommonly handsome; -yet with all these gifts he had not been a good beetle; on the contrary -he had been extremely immoral. He lay stretched on the sand by the edge -of the pathway, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sunlight. - -“Mary,” he called, a little querulously, “come out.” - -It is difficult to understand how the beetle could call without making -any noise. It should be remembered, however, that sound is to beetles -very much what silence is to us. A certain kind of silence, on the -other hand, answers to what we call conversation, and can be varied so -as to express all that we can do by changing the tone of the voice. -The small female of depressed appearance, who hurried from the shelter -of a stone in answer to this summons, quite understood that she had -been called querulously. The two unkempt birds should undoubtedly have -waited. - -“Thomas,” said the beetle who had been addressed as Mary, “I think you -called me?” - -“Have you stopped crying?” - -“Yes, dear; I won’t cry any more, if you don’t like it.” - -“You know I don’t like it. Have you got any new ideas?” - -“Well, Thomas, nothing that could be absolutely called new, perhaps; -but I remember a little story that my poor dear mother used to----” - -“Stop!” said Thomas, “you’re a stale, heavy-minded female, and you can -get back under the stone. I was going to let you see me die. I shan’t -now!” - -“Do let me stop!” pleaded Mary. - -“No, I won’t!--stay, what’s that pestilential insect creeping towards -us?” - -“It’s the Dear Friend. He looks small and meagre, but we must not judge -from looks, Thomas. Beauty fades.” - -Thomas surveyed Mary slowly. “It does,” he said. - -The Dear Friend was so named from his habit of calling indiscriminately -on other beetles, and excusing himself on the ground that he wanted to -be their dear friend. He lived a very good life, and he wanted other -beetles to be good. The want was noble, but he had not sufficient tact -to conceal it. Some beetles thought him a bore, and did not care to -hear him discuss their sins in his plain way. Others, seeing that he -knew so little about this life, thought that he might have unusual -knowledge of the next. Beetles, as a class, have a tendency towards -mysticism. Mary had a firm belief in the goodness and spirituality of -the Dear Friend, although she was dimly conscious that he was not -clever. She was very anxious that he should have a few words with the -dying Thomas. - -“You will see him, dear, won’t you?” she said. “You’re drawing near to -your end, you know, and it would do you good to experience a word in -season. You have been such a bad beetle.” - -“I have,” said Thomas, with a chuckle of intense self-satisfaction, -“I’ve been a devilish bad beetle.” - -The thought of his own exceeding immorality seemed quite to have -restored his good temper. “Heavy-minded female, you are become -brilliant. Never before have I experienced a word in season. You may -stop, and we’ll interview the Dear Friend.” - -Mary, like some females of higher organisations, was rarely able to -understand the precise value of a satirical silence. Everything was -cloudy in her brain, and nothing precise. She had vague ideas that she -ought to be good, and that served her for aspirations. She had at least -three decided opinions--that her mother had been very good and very -kind to her, that Thomas was horribly bad and very unkind to her, and -that of the two she infinitely preferred Thomas. She was emotional and -rather self-seeking. At present she was very pleased at being praised, -and welcomed the little visitor kindly as he crept across towards them. -They formed an extraordinary trio even for beetles. It is not generally -known that the lower the physical organisation the more complicated is -the character. A beetle is as a rule much more contrary and difficult -than a man. The character of a tubercular bacillus is so complex as to -absolutely defy analysis. - -“Mr. Thomas,” the Dear Friend began solemnly, “I am pleased to see -you--in fact, I have come a long way with that intention. I had heard -that you were very ill and like to die, and I had also heard--you will -excuse me--of your past life.” - -“Quite right,” said Thomas encouragingly, “I am guilty of having had -a past life. Oh, sir, you can’t think how many beetles of my age have -had a past of some kind or other. It is true that it was my own life--I -have not taken any one else’s, not yet--but still I’ve had it. I feel -that deeply.” - -At this the Dear Friend warmed to his work, but made a fatal -mistake--he grew slightly enthusiastic. Now Thomas could stand no -manner of enthusiasm, because it always seemed to him to show an -exaggerated conception of the value of things. - -“Oh, Mr. Thomas, I am so very glad to hear you talk like that. This is -indeed no time for idle compliments, and you recognise the fact. You -have the sense of guilt. You see how disgusting, and loathsome, and -abominable the whole of your life has----” - -Here he was interrupted by a curious stridulating noise which Thomas -made, thereby rendering it impossible to catch the remainder of the -Dear Friend’s silence. The poor little insect cooled down again at -once. He saw that enthusiasm would not do; that he had been taking -matters too fast, and that Thomas was a beetle who required to be -treated with a good deal of tact. The Dear Friend himself was unable -to stridulate, and had sometimes felt the want of it; but it is not a -gift which belongs to every kind of beetle. Perhaps it would be as well -to show some interest in the process, and then gradually to lead up to -more serious subjects. He waited till the last whir had died away, and -then he said: - -“May I inquire how you make that noise? It is most interesting.” - -Thomas knew all about it. - -“It is caused,” he answered drily, “by the friction of a transversely -striated elevation on the posterior border of the hinder coxa against -the hinder margin of the acetabulum, into which it fits.” - -“Ah!” gasped the Dear Friend; but he speedily recovered himself. “That -is indeed interesting--really, extremely interesting.” He was trying -to think in what way it would be possible to connect this with more -important matters. “Talking about fits,” he said, “I have just come -away from such a sad case, quite a young----” - -“I was not talking about fits, sir,” interrupted Thomas, a little -irritably. The Dear Friend hastened to agree with him. - -“No, Mr. Thomas, you were not. I see what you mean, and it’s very good -of you to correct me. I was wrong. I was quite wrong. But you happened -to use the word fits, and that suggests----” - -“And talking about jests,” retorted Thomas severely, “I don’t think -this is the time for them. When you’re calmer, my friend, and have got -over your inclination to make sport of serious subjects, you will see -this. Please don’t get excited; I’m not equal to it. You come to see -me on my death-bed, and when I try to talk about my past life, you wax -ribald, and begin to make puns that a school-girl would be ashamed of. -I’m sorry for you, sir,--very sorry. Mary, show that bug out. I want -to think of my latter end, and he interrupts me.” - -“Oh, dear, dear!” said the poor, well-meaning little insect, almost -whimpering, “I’m afraid I’ve made a very bad beginning. I didn’t intend -to offend you, and I do hope you’ll make allowances. I know I’m not -very clever, and I’m very young, and I’ve never had any education to -speak of, because I’ve always been going about in my humble way trying -to teach others. But I do want to be your really dear friend, and my -heart does yearn to----” - -“Mary,” said the exasperated Thomas, “I asked you to show that bug -out. Will you kindly go away, sir, and drown yourself? I insist upon -thinking of my latter end, and I simply cannot do it when you are here.” - -“I will go away, if you wish it, Mr. Thomas, but you will let me come -back this evening?” - -“You won’t be able to come back, if you drown yourself.” - -“But I’m not going to drown myself.” - -“Well, you said you were, and you ought to, any way.” - -“Oh, Mr. Thomas, I never, never----” - -“Don’t contradict. It’s excessively rude, especially in a young bug -like yourself. You promised to drown yourself, if I’d bequeath Mary to -you in my will. You can take her now, if you like, and you may both go -away and drown yourselves. I shall be dead before this evening; and if -I am quite dead, you may come back. Now go.” - -The Dear Friend turned slowly and sadly away. - -“Are you going to take Mary?” Thomas called after him. “You can if -you like. She’s nearly as fat-headed as yourself, and you’d get on -splendidly together. Pray take her. I’m nearly dead, and I don’t want -her.” - -The Dear Friend made no reply. The wretched Mary was crying again. -Thomas had worked himself up to the climax of fury, and was now lapsing -from it into a series of chuckles. “Moist one,” he said, turning to -Mary, “you don’t love me.” - -“Indeed I do,” sobbed Mary. “I love you ever so much too well--but -you’re so cruel--and you make fun of a good cause--and you’re going to -die.” - -“Let us,” said Thomas, drily, “be categorical. You, like most other -females, say too much at once. Your remarks must be sifted and answered -categorically. Firstly, you state that you love me. Yet you display a -lot of wet, horrible emotion, in order to hasten my end. Don’t speak; -you know you did;--and you asked the Dear Friend to come and bore me in -my last moments; and you refused to sit on his head, or show him out, -or stop him in any way. Consequently I had to stop him myself. I had to -be almost rude to him. Perhaps you’d better go after him if you’re so -fond of him. He’s only half-way across the path, and you’ll be able to -catch him up.” - -“Oh, Thomas! I’m sure I never----” - -“_Will_ you keep quiet? Can’t you see that I’m being categorical? -Secondly, you say that I’m cruel. I am, and it’s not my fault. If you -and other people were not so abominably heavy-minded, I should not be -cruel. You provoke me. You needn’t tell me that you can’t help being -heavy-minded. I know that, and I never said that it was your fault; -but it certainly isn’t mine. Nothing that I know of ever is anybody’s -fault. Thirdly, you said that I made fun of a good cause. You muddler! -I love most causes, and hate most of their promoters. Most causes are -noble, and most promoters are presumptuous. So far from making fun of -the good cause, I did it the greatest service by asking the Dear Friend -to seek an early death. That reminds me--you said that I was going to -die. So I am, if you don’t mind waiting ten minutes. Why this unseemly -haste?” - -At this point Mary became all tears and disclaimers. “If you do that,” -said Thomas, “you really will have to go. I am about to die, and I -intend to die my own way, without any weeping females or dear friends. -It’s much the same with you that it is with man and the other lower -organisms. The good heart generally goes with a bad head; and if you -have a good head, you probably--there, I thought so. Do you see? The -Dear Friend on the further side of the path has just been trodden on -by a passing labourer. If he’d had a little more head, he would have -kept out of the way, and then he would not have died. Intellect is -practical: spirituality is not. Now that is very curious, for although -I have always been a most practical beetle, I have frequently had -strong spiritual desires. For instance, I often after supper yearn -to leave this gross and uncomely world, and bask in an impossible -hereafter.” - -“Ah!” cried Mary. (She liked the ring of his last sentence.) “Those are -beautiful words. If only you would always talk like that, instead of -insulting those who only come to do you good. I know the Dear Friend -made you angry; but then it’s not so much what he said as what he -wanted to say that we must think of.” - -“Ah, yes, my dear Mary, most moist and muddle-headed, and it is not so -much what I am as what I want to be that the deceased bug should have -considered. You were born with a wrong head, and so you form wrong -judgments. It’s not your fault; nothing’s anybody’s fault. The Dear -Friend was good, but it doesn’t matter. I am bad, and that doesn’t -matter either. Nothing matters, and I can’t understand anything, and I -want to die.” - -Thomas threw himself on his back and kicked petulantly. Mary entreated -him not to give way to temper; however, he declared that he was -doing no such thing: that he was trying to think very fast, and that -the action of kicking made it possible to think faster. Suddenly he -stopped, and recovered his normal position. “Mary,” he said, “it is -clear to me, and I will make it clear to you, that nothing matters. -Suppose something had an optical delusion, and the optical delusion -died, and had a ghost----” - -“But it couldn’t, Thomas.” - -“I know that. I am only asking you to suppose it--and the ghost went to -sleep, and dreamed that he was dreaming, that he was dreaming----” - -“Oh, don’t go on! you’ll only make your poor head ache!” - -“Do you think the something would care very much what happened in its -optical delusion’s ghost’s dream’s dream’s dream? Yet the innermost -of the three dreams would seem to be perfectly real, and the apparent -reality would be due to part of the previous experience of the -something, which would be filtered--or, rather, reflected--through the -whole series.” - -“That will do. Please don’t go on. I don’t understand a word of it, and -it’s no use. Oh, _do_ let us talk good.” - -“You are going to understand it, fat-headed one. You think that you -exist; that everything is real. How do you know that it is so? When -you dream, you imagine that the dream is quite real; but you wake up -and find that you are wrong. Now suppose the something one day had -a thought, that went through a million optical delusions, a billion -ghosts, and a trillion dreams----” - -“It’s not a bit of good,” interpolated Mary. “I can’t imagine numbers -like that.” - -“That thought might ultimately take the form of this world, of which I, -Thomas, the beetle, am a considerable part. There is nothing impossible -about that. It may be so, and I am inclined to think that it is so, -because something inside me seems to be struggling to get back to its -origin. But if it is so it must be perfectly clear to you that nothing -matters, because nothing is real, and nothing will be real till it gets -back again to the--the something!” - -“I don’t understand it,” said Mary; “are you quite sure that it doesn’t -confuse you at all to think that way?” - -“Absolutely sure,” said Thomas, which was untrue. - -“And how do you get back again to the something?” - -“That,” said Thomas drily, “I will show you in a few minutes if, as I -said before, you do not mind waiting.” - -For a short time neither of them spoke. The sun, like the spoiled child -who promises to be so good if you will only let him stop, was growing -more beautiful than ever as the time drew near for his departure. -He had nothing but vapour and light with which to work, and yet he -produced some very pretty effects. The gravel path, near which Thomas -and Mary were lying, led into the road which skirted the edge of the -common; along this road was a line of detached villas. The sun did -the best that he could with them, but felt that he could not do much. -The last house in the line was much larger than the rest, and stood -in much larger grounds. The advertisement had described them as being -park-like, and they certainly contained quite enough trees almost to -hide the house from the views of those who passed on the road. The sun -had found out one of the windows through the foliage and was making -it blaze. He liked doing that. He could see a good deal of the house -and grounds; in point of height he had the advantage of passers-by. He -could see two tennis-courts, the players, groups who had gathered to -look on, others who strayed aimlessly about and tried to prove they -were not suburban. It was all cup and conversation, and it rather -bored the sun, who has a masculine mind. None of the people in that -garden were aware that rather less than half a mile from the house a -remarkably fine beetle was dying in his sins; if they had known it, -they might possibly not have cared. - -When Thomas began to talk again, he appeared to be continuing a line -of thought of which he had not considered it worth while to give the -beginning. - -“So the truth of the matter is that a beetle did once get there--right -up beyond the stars, but he never carried a man there. Aristophanes -said he did, but that was an ætiological myth. He made up the story to -account for a prevalent belief that man could rise to higher things.” - -“That was what the Dear Friend always said,” murmured Mary -reflectively. “Cows, and pigs, and men, and fowls can never get up -there--only beetles. It’s all kept for them.” - -“And it’s not what I say,” retorted Thomas sharply. “I’ve got better -things to do in my last moments than to waste them in agreeing with -anybody. The mistake the man made was not in supposing that he could -rise. All beasts can rise, as much as we can. His mistake was in -rejecting the supernatural, and thinking that he could be raised only -by a beetle. We may have more spirituality than men. That is quite -possible: they are a lower organism. We may perhaps find it easier to -soar than they do. But I am sure that all are going there, just as we -are, beyond the stars.” - -“That may be true,” said Mary, plucking up a little spirit; “but it -certainly was not the opinion of the Dear Friend. Only beetles can -rise.” - -“Do you prefer the opinions of the Dear Friend to absolute truth?” - -“I do,” said Mary proudly. - -“Oh, blind and fat of temperament!” [This does not read quite right, -but it is a fairly literal translation. There are no polite English -words that exactly express the silence which Thomas used on this -occasion.] “A few days ago I was down in the grass by the river. It -looks sweet and green from here. It grows long, and it makes a pleasant -shade above one; but at the roots it’s all mud and muck. That is the -way of the world; instead of grumbling at the mud we might just as -well be thankful for the grass; however, that’s not my point. The cows -came down to drink while I was there. They are nasty, lumpy animals; -you can see their slobbering mouths and great yellow teeth as they -bend over one to crop the grass. Some beetles get nervous, but I -don’t fancy there’s any danger. As one of those brutes stooped down, -I looked up and saw right into its eyes. It was like looking into -immeasurable distance. They were sad, humble, trustful eyes; but there -was something in them which signified the consciousness of a purpose in -being. That is my point. A poor devil of a cow! it couldn’t have told -any one why it existed, it could not even have put the reason clearly -in its own mind; but it _knew_. I am much like the beast. I know, but I -cannot say, not even to myself, the reason for my existence. Sometimes -I think that if all sounds were in my power, I could get the whole -thing out in music. It is a thing which defies ordinary processes and -all logical connexion. I see the fading sunlight writing something on -the under edge of a cloud; the intellectual part of me cannot read that -language, but something else in me reads it, and understands it, and -answers it almost piteously. ‘Oh that I might fly away and be at rest!’ -And suddenly the conviction is strong in me that I know why I am here, -and what I shall be hereafter. In the awful silence of the night that -conviction comes dropping down my dark mind like a falling star. In -moments of acute dyspepsia I always feel it.” - -He grinned pleasantly. He had spoiled his own poetry, and that pleased -him. In his former life he had always been trying to make pretty -things, and had always broken them up again. The grin passed from him, -and he continued: - -“Cows, therefore, have souls. You needn’t contradict me, and thrust -that omniscient Dear Friend down my throat, because I won’t stand it. -I tell you that I saw into their eyes, and I know. If you want to -get at the bottom of things, you must leave all ordinary processes, -all logical processes. You can’t crawl down that way: you must jump. -The people who dare not jump see that you have got to the bottom of -things, and comfort themselves with saying that you must have hurt your -poor head terribly. Have I hurt my head, Mary? For my intellect is all -gone, and the light is fading very quickly. You hate men, I think. -Never despise them any more; for they have souls. They cut down the -grass, and it dies. They pull the flowers, and they die. They tread on -the beetles, and they die. They kill the animals, cut down the trees, -and poison the rivers. Where a man comes, death always follows. They -are murderers; they are hideously ugly; they make unpleasant noises, -and do not understand silences; they are the very lowest of all -creatures, but they are on their way to a hereafter. Nothing’s wasted: -the very strictest economy is practised.” - -“I can’t understand you, Thomas; and I am afraid that you are getting -worse. It tries you to talk. Why did you say the light was fading? The -sun is still shining all over us. Oh, Thomas, you’ll be gone soon--may -I cry now? I must.” - -Thomas did not seem to have heard her. “I have been wicked, and yet not -I,” he said. “It was something bad in me that will pass. And the world -did provoke me terribly; it would be so emotional and stupid.” - -Mary was crying unreservedly, but Thomas did not notice it. - -“Something,” he said, “has come into my head which wants thinking out, -but I will not bother myself. I have the easier way. Good-bye--for the -sake of old times--Mary, darling. I am going to know everything.” - -Then he curled up his legs quietly, and died. - -Mary stopped crying, and examined the body. Yes, he was quite dead. -Then she started away on a journey. - -Thomas had been a wicked beetle, and he had talked wrongly in his last -moments, and she was afraid to be near his body. Besides, she had heard -of a vacancy. - -The sun had quite finished with the window of that villa now, and -the park-like grounds were nearly empty. On one of the courts a few -enthusiasts were still playing, and would continue to play until they -went in to dress. Out through the gate a young man sauntered into -the road. The look of an escaped animal was on his face. He had been -talking to a number of people whom he neither knew nor wanted to know. -He had seen nothing of Marjorie, his host’s daughter, a child who -always pleased and generally amused him. He felt that he had done much -for his hostess; he had suffered privations. And now he was glad that -the bulk of the visitors--all who were not staying in the house--had -gone. He took the path across the common, pausing to light a pipe with -a wax match and an air of relief. He walked in the direction of the -spot where the dead body of Thomas was lying. - -One of the two unkempt birds came slowly flying back again. It was he -to whom the surname of Magnanimity has been given. He had got rid of -his companion by some pretext of an appointment, and he had come back -again to look for that beetle. He swooped down close beside the dead -body of the insect, and turned it over with his beak. - -“That’s just my luck,” he murmured softly. “I never could stand cold -meat.” But that was affectation. - -At this moment a small stone struck the ground within a foot of where -the unkempt bird was standing. He hopped away in an aggrieved fashion. - -“I won’t fly away yet,” he said sulkily, “it would only make the man -conceited. They’re always chucking stones, these fools of men, and they -hardly ever hit anything. They like to think that we’re afraid of them, -and I’m not the least bit afraid.” - -Another stone missed by a sixteenth of an inch the bird’s -tail-feathers, and Magnanimity with one scream of bad language flew -upwards. When he got there, he found that his nervous and unkempt -companion had come back again, and had been watching him all the time. -Then the magnanimous fowl swore worse than ever. There was no doubt -that the nervous one would have a pretty story to tell about that -pretended appointment. - -The young man, who had thrown the stones, sauntered slowly up and -surveyed the dead beetle, taking it in his hand to examine it more -closely. He knew something about beetles--he had collected them in his -school-days--and he saw that this was a large one of its kind, a fine -specimen. He slipped it into one of his coat pockets, and strolled -slowly back again to the house. He had originally meant to go further, -but he had changed his intention. He was comparing in his own mind -his favourite Marjorie, a child not quite fifteen, with the finished -and ordinary girl as turned out in large numbers for the purposes of -suburban tennis. He was also wondering casually why there were any -beetles in the world, and why he had once been so interested in them. - -When he got back to the house he paused in the hall for a second, and -then went slowly upstairs to a room at the top of the house, used as a -schoolroom by Marjorie and her governess, Miss Dean. - -Marjorie was seated at the table writing. She had a large French -dictionary by her side. She was dressed in dark blue serge. Her long -hair had become a little untidy in her struggle to be idiomatic. She -had a pale, intelligent face. She looked up as the young man entered. - -“I’m awfully glad you’ve come,” she said, smiling. “It was getting -rather dull, being all alone. Did you have some good setts?” - -“No, not particularly--didn’t play much. I talked, and made myself -useful, and ate ices, and drank things most of the time. You can’t see -like that.” He struck a match, and lit the gas, and then he seated -himself at the piano. “Where’s Miss Dean?” - -“Oh, she went away as usual at half-past five, and left me this stuff -to do for to-morrow. I’m doing it now, because I am going to be down in -the drawing-room to-night. Only three more days to the holidays!” - -“Have you got any tea?” - -Marjorie nodded her head towards a table at the side of the room. “They -brought it up about an hour ago,” she said. “It’s quite cold--will you -ring for some more?” - -“No, thanks,” he answered, as he got up and helped himself. “This will -do very well. I am not really thirsty, because, as I said, I have been -drinking during the whole of the afternoon--more or less. But I never -feel absolutely sociable unless I am either smoking or drinking. Have -you got much more to do for the estimable one?” - -“Oh, no, only a few words. It was a shorter bit than usual, and I -expected to have got it finished ever so long ago. But when it came to -doing it, there were a lot of words that I’d never seen before. I know -the French for a plate, or a glass, or a horse, or a hat, or anything -like that. But I always have to look up words like buttercup or -gridiron. Now here’s a word of that kind. What’s the French for beetle?” - -“Escarbot, I believe, but I wouldn’t swear to it.” - -“Look here, Maurice,” Marjorie said very earnestly, leaning her pretty -little chin on one hand, “I’ll tell you what I’ve noticed. When a -thing’s different in one way, it’s always different in another. If a -piece for translation is extra short, there are always more words to -look up. If I have an awfully bad morning, and Miss Dean is savage, -and Aunt Julia patronises me, and Miss Matthieson makes me kiss -her--bah!--I’m always glad at the end of it, because I know I am going -to have a specially good afternoon or evening.” - -“Marjorie, I believe you’re right. You’ll have a bad morning to-morrow -if that wretched piece about the gridirons and beetles isn’t done for -the inestimable Dean.” - -“Well, I’ll finish in less than two minutes. Play something while I’m -doing it.” - -He opened the piano and took down the first piece that came. It was a -drawing-room piece, and had the entire absence of soul which always -appealed to the corresponding vacuum in the chilly Miss Dean. It was -moderately difficult, and sounded _very_ difficult. Miss Dean well -knew that when a girl like Marjorie, not yet fifteen, played that -piece properly, it would be acknowledged to reflect great credit on -her teacher. Maurice Grey opened the piece, looked at it suspiciously, -skipped the introduction, played a few bars from the first page, -glanced at the fifth page, then shut it up, and put it back again on -the top of the piano with a sigh. - -“I hate that too,” said Marjorie. “Play the thing you played to them -last night in the drawing-room.” - -“You weren’t in the drawing-room last night.” - -“No, but my bedroom’s just above, and I could hear it. It went like -this.” She hummed a few bars. - -Maurice began to play once more. It was a mischievous, tender, -eccentric little dance that went laughing about the piano as if it were -mad. Marjorie had finished her work, and rose from the table and stood -beside him, watching him with dark, attentive eyes as he played. She -was thinking that she liked Maurice. He knew the right way to treat -her. Aunt Julia treated her like a baby, and other visitors often -appeared to be under the impression that children like inanity. Her -father was rather an apathetic man, yet he had the sincerest affection -for his wife, his only daughter, and young Maurice Grey. He had many -acquaintances, but no other friends. He had been “Meyner and Sons,” who -did great things in iron, but he disposed of his business to a company -soon after his marriage. He was absorbed in the study of psychology, -and made many curious experiments upon himself. In one or two of these -young Maurice had been of some service to him. But in his family -affections, his studies, or his experiments, he showed very little -enthusiasm. He never expected to get great results. “The evidence is so -bad,” he said to Maurice once, speaking of his favourite pursuit. “On -my subject men lie often intentionally; and often deceive themselves -and lie unintentionally, and rarely speak the truth. Also I find out -more and more that I cannot even trust my own senses. The human brain -is a shockingly defective instrument.” He was a little sensitive, and -to visitors in his house--with the exception of Maurice--he would -talk of anything but psychology. Psychology, he found, was a thing -they never understood at all, and at which they generally laughed. -Marjorie’s mother, Mrs. Meyner, was not so apathetic or so pessimistic, -but then her horizon was not extended. The circle of her friends and -relations gave her enough to think about and to make life worth living. -She was a very gentle, unselfish woman, and had a provoking knack of -sincerely liking nearly everybody. Her half-sister, Julia, had the -opposite knack of hating nearly everybody. Julia was old and unmarried, -and had a wonderful tongue; she dressed perfectly, had snowy hair, -a kind face, a sweet smile, gentle ways, and a perfectly venomous -disposition. Marjorie did not like her Aunt Julia. She did not like -Miss Matthieson much better--a sentimental woman. Miss Dean was too -chilly a person to like exactly; Marjorie respected her sometimes. But -she did like Maurice, and she liked the music that he was playing now. - -“That is awfully nice,” she said, when the piece was finished. “What is -it?” - -Marjorie’s aunt Julia had asked the same question of him the night -before in the drawing-room, and he had told her that the piece was by -Grieg, which was untrue, and which he knew to be untrue. He was not -aware that that cheerful, spiteful, and horribly intellectual old lady -also knew that he was lying. He had felt it better to blaspheme the -name of Grieg than to give her a chance by owning that he had composed -the thing himself. He was a young man of dangerously diverse talents. -He was just at the end of his first year at Cambridge, and was reading -for the Classical Tripos. Now the Classical Tripos is a jealous -mistress, and admits of no rivals. Nevertheless, he had become a very -fair oar, was socially popular, and had devoted much time to psychology -and more to music. The end of such a course is generally failure. He -did not mind telling Marjorie about the little dance he had just been -playing. - -“Well,” he said, “I have a general impression that it is mine; but -there’s a touch of Grieg about it. In fact, I risked telling your aunt -Julia last night that it was Grieg’s. I daren’t tell her it was mine.” - -“Yes,” said Marjorie sadly, “she is awful. She pats me gently on the -head, and tells me I’m a good little child, and that I may run away to -the nursery and play. It’s perfectly maddening. She knows as well as -I do that I’m nearly fifteen, and that it’s absolute nonsense to talk -like that. She does it on purpose to make me angry, and I hate being -angry.” - -Maurice took a long sip at his cold tea. - -“Yes,” he said, “the people in this world want sorting. Have you -finished your piece about the beetle and the gridirons?” - -“Oh, yes! There’s nothing in it really about gridirons, but a beetle -comes into it--a dead beetle----” - -“By Jove!” said Maurice suddenly, thrusting his hand into his pocket, -“that reminds me!” He pulled out the dead body of Thomas, and laid it -carefully on the table. - -“There,” he said, “what do you think of that?” - -“It’s perfectly horrible,” said Marjorie. “Where did you get it? What -did you do it for?” - -“I strolled on to the common after tennis for a smoke, and I happened -to find it. I used to collect these things when I was at school. I -suppose I picked it up from force of habit, but I’m sure I don’t -know. You ought not to call it horrible, you know. It’s really a fine -specimen of its kind.” - -Marjorie looked at it more closely, turning it over with the end of a -penholder. - -“Do you remember saying just now,” said Maurice, “that things which -were different in one way were generally different in another? Beetles -are different from us; they can’t do the same things; we despise them; -they haven’t as good a time. Perhaps they can do things we don’t know -anything about; perhaps they despise us; perhaps they are going to have -a better time in some other world. What are all the stars for?” - -Marjorie wrinkled her brows, and kicked one tiny slipper half off. - -“I almost think I see what you mean----” - -“I am not at all sure I meant anything,” said Maurice. “It was just a -suggestion.” - -Marjorie had thrown down the penholder, and taken the body of Thomas in -her hand. - -“Beetles might have some secrets that we know nothing about. But Miss -Dean says that all insects were sent into the world for the birds to -eat.” - -Maurice was silent for a moment. He was remembering that Miss Dean had -remarked to him the day before that she considered that the birds had -been created to kill the insects. “I should like to talk the question -over with a beetle. Now I must be off and dress.” - -When he had gone an old trick of Marjorie’s younger days came back to -her. She had often, in her babyhood, held conversations with voiceless -or inarticulate things, such as dolls or cats, and on one occasion, -after a stormy music lesson, she had made the piano promise to _make_ -the music come out right next time. She had always to do the speaking -for them, so it was not quite convincing; but it was helpful and -consolatory in its way. And now she began to talk to the beetle aloud, -holding it on the palm of one little white hand-- - -“Beetle, tell me your secrets. Tell me all your secrets.” - -There was silence. - -“I want to know if beetles are as good as men. Are they? Are they -better than men? Are there better things than we ever think of doing, -which we might do if it was only possible to think of them? _Do_ tell -me. I won’t tell anybody, except Maurice and mamma, if she asks me, but -she won’t. You _might_ tell me--it’s quite safe.” - -There was only silence; but then it has been proved already that -silence is a beetle’s method of speech. Perhaps the spirit of Thomas -was there and answered her; perhaps it was elsewhere; perhaps Thomas -never had a spirit. - -Marjorie put the beetle down again on the table, with a laugh at -herself for her silliness. - -In the drawing-room that night, she saw very little of Maurice. Aunt -Julia looked as perfect and sweet and gentle an old lady as ever; and -her conversation was just as poisonous as usual. Her temper must even -have been a little worse than normal. She commenced to talk about -psychology with Mr. Meyner, because she knew that he hated discussing -it with the uninitiated. She insisted that he was joking--the poor man -never joked; he was half earnestness and half apathy--and she told him -untrue stories. When he escaped, she fastened on to Miss Matthieson, -who was a sentimental and ignorant woman, with a desire to love art. -She invented an entirely fictitious picture of Turner, described it, -and gave its precise position in the National Gallery; she finally made -Miss Matthieson talk about it, become enraptured about it, and confess -what her sensations were when she first saw it. She did not enlighten -her; that would have been too crude an enjoyment for Aunt Julia. Her -smile became just a little sweeter, and she assured Miss Matthieson -that she had learned much from her. Maurice Grey had, for reasons of -his own, been playing Chopin’s Funeral March. “And is that also by -Grieg?” she asked him, looking interested. - -“No, it is not,” he said shortly. He knew very well that Aunt Julia -knew very well what he had been playing; and he saw what she meant by -her question. - -“Oh, please don’t be angry with me,” she said. “I’m no musician, you -know, Mr. Grey,”--her knowledge of music was, as Maurice was aware, -considerably above the average--“and I make stupid mistakes. Last night -you played a little dance which you told me was by Grieg. Now, I never -should have known it; I thought it was pretty enough, but just a little -weak and--well, almost amateurish, you know. You played it again in the -schoolroom this afternoon, and you altered the last part of it. What -_is_ that thing you played just now?” - -“Chopin’s Funeral March.” - -“Are you going to make any--any improvements in it, as you did in the -Grieg? And why did you play a funeral march? I suppose the sight of -an old woman like myself, among so many young people, suggested the -thought of death. Ah, yes--very natural.” - -This was absolutely intolerable, but Maurice was not allowed to protest -or escape. - -“It is a great mistake,” said Aunt Julia, earnestly, “to give one’s -self up to trivialities. We must all die. It is always better to think -about death, even in the drawing-room after dinner. I mean that it’s -better for the aged, like myself. To the young it might perhaps seem a -little gloomy and morbid, but I like it--I enjoy it. I shall be going -to bed directly. Won’t you play a few hymn tunes, Mr. Grey, before I -go? You might play the Dies Iræ.” - -She did not go to bed until she had maddened about half the people in -the room. Even Mrs. Meyner found it difficult at times to make excuses -for Aunt Julia. Maurice Grey managed to be moderately polite to her -as a rule; he generally shammed stupidity, and refused to see the -point of any of her sarcasms. He found afterwards that this style of -treatment had impressed Miss Julia Stone. When Marjorie came round to -say good-night to Maurice, she spoke to him about the beetle. - -“Do you want that dead beetle?” she asked. “Shall I keep it for you?” - -“Yes, keep it.” - -“Are you going on collecting again then?” - -“No, I don’t think so--but it is too good a specimen to throw away just -anywhere. How would you like to be thrown away?” - -“It’s not quite the same thing, you know, Maurice. I’m more important. -But we’ll treat this beetle very well--you’ve just played a funeral -march for it--and then, perhaps, its ghost will come and tell us all -about beetles, and what beetles think about men, and if they know -anything that we don’t.” - -“Yes, treat it kindly,” said Maurice, smiling. “Much can always be done -by kindness.” - -Marjorie went out of the room laughing; but on the following morning, -when she appeared at breakfast, she was very quiet and subdued. -A note came from Miss Dean, regretting that--“owing to a slight -indisposition”--she was unable to come to teach Marjorie that morning. -Even the prospect of a day’s holiday did not seem to cheer her up. -Maurice found her alone in the garden about an hour afterwards. - -“What’s up, Marjorie?” he said. “Aren’t you well?” - -“Oh, yes, I’m always well--I’ve got something to tell you though. I saw -it last night.” - -“Saw what?” - -“The beetle.” - -Maurice was a little startled. He too had had a curious dream in which -the beetle had figured. “Look here, Marjorie,” he said; “I’ve nothing -particular to do this morning, and I believe you’d be the better for a -walk. We’ll go over to Weyford, and then go up to St. Margaret’s, if -you don’t mind climbing the hill.” - -“Oh, that would be lovely! That’s just the thing. We shan’t get back to -lunch, you know.” - -“That’s all right. We’ll lunch in Weyford. I’ll go in and talk to Mrs. -Meyner about it, and you go and get ready.” - -The morning sunlight and the cool wind made walking pleasant. That -unkempt bird, whom we have called Magnanimity, was taking out quite a -young bird for a little exercise. They saw Maurice and Marjorie walking -together. - -“Those are men,” said the young bird. “Bless your heart--I’ve seen lots -of ’em.” - -“Just drop that,” said Magnanimity, sternly. “There’s nothing more -sickening than to hear a mere chick like yourself setting up to be a -complete bird of the world. Fancy taking any notice of contemptible, -ugly men!” - -“That young she-man,” said the mere chick, “isn’t at all ugly. I often -wish I were a man.” - -“You’d soon wish you were a bird again,” retorted Magnanimity. “Are -you aware that men can’t fly, or lay eggs, or talk our language, or do -anything really worth doing? Are you aware that we old birds lead them -the very devil of a life?” - -“How do you do it?” asked the mere chick, quite unable to keep the -wonder and admiration out of the tone of its voice. - -“Why, we mock at ’em--sneer at ’em till they can’t bear themselves.” - -Marjorie and Maurice walked on, talking of indifferent things. They -climbed the hill, resting occasionally in the shade of the plantations -that grew on its sides. They reached the summit at last, a solitary -place where the ruined chapel of St. Margaret stood in a little -deserted grave-yard. The wind was fresh and cool. They could see far -away into the distance; they could see the river winding along down the -valley, until it was a mere thread of silver; they could see the smoke -curling up from low, red-roofed cottages and farm-buildings, scattered -here and there. Maurice stretched himself at full length on the grass, -and endeavoured to light a cigarette. There was just enough wind to -blow a match out. There always is. - -“Now then, Marjorie, you had a dream last night.” - -“Yes!” - -“And it frightened you.” - -“No--no--well, it didn’t exactly frighten me--it made me think. It was -all nonsense, you know, and yet it was the realest dream I ever had in -my life.” - -“Stop a minute. You had some coffee in the drawing-room, and that kept -you awake for a long time, you turned about from side to side, and -thought about the beetle. Your bedroom seemed hot and stifling.” - -“Yes, that’s all true--how did you know, Maurice?--but it has not got -anything to do with it.” - -“Marjorie, if you’d never had that coffee, you’d have never had that -dream. Now, then, let’s hear it. I’ll try to keep awake, but walking -always makes me sleepy.” - -“After I had said good-night to everybody, I went up into the -schoolroom and got the beetle, because I was afraid the servants might -throw it away in the morning, and you said you wanted it. I took it -into my own room, and put it down on a table. All the while I was -undressing, I kept thinking about it and wondering if beetles and other -things could really understand, or if it were only men and women who -knew about things, and if all the world were just made for us alone. -Before I got into bed I picked the beetle up, and said to it, ‘Beetle, -you’ve got to come into my dream to-night, and tell me all about it. -Don’t forget.’ Of course that was just a fancy. I didn’t really think -it could understand what I said, or that it would come. I’m not a -baby, though Aunt Julia treats me like one sometimes. Well, for a long -time I couldn’t get to sleep, but at last I did.” - -“And then the beetle came and suffocated you, or threw you over a -precipice,” remarked Maurice, drowsily. - -“No, that’s not a bit like it. I don’t know how long I had been asleep, -but I dreamed that I woke up suddenly, and that the moonlight was -streaming in at the window. Right in the middle of the moonlight was -the beetle, standing up on his hind legs. He had grown ever so much -bigger, and was as tall as I am. ‘Come on, now,’ he said. ‘How much -longer are you going to keep me waiting? I’m late, as it is.’ - -“I didn’t feel the least bit afraid of him. I just asked him where we -were going. He opened the window, and pointed upwards. ‘Well,’ I said, -‘you must wait till I’m dressed, else I shall catch cold.’ However, he -wouldn’t wait, and so I got out of bed. We climbed up on to the table -in front of the window. ‘Now then,’ he said, ‘you must keep hold of my -fore-leg, or you’ll fall.’ We didn’t fly or walk; we floated out of the -window, and then upwards, going very quickly and steadily, as if a wind -were blowing us. As we were floating up, the beetle’s head changed till -it became just like Aunt Julia’s. ‘Marjorie’s an unnatural child,’ it -said in Aunt Julia’s voice. ‘She doesn’t care for dolls--doesn’t care -for anything except music and Maurice.’” - -Maurice had an unworthy and needless impression that the girl was -making some of this up. He looked at her curiously, as though he were -going to say something; but he refrained, and she continued her dream-- - -“I didn’t quite know what to say, but I told the beetle that he was -entirely wrong--that I liked papa and mamma very much indeed, and -rather liked almost everybody. Then I asked him how he managed to -speak, being a beetle, and how he could hear me speak. He told me that -neither of us had spoken a word: when I contradicted him, he said that -if I had gone back to my own room I should have found that my real -body was still lying asleep in bed. ‘Now,’ he pointed out, ‘you can’t -speak without your body--so that is proved.’ Then he said that beetles -never spoke, and that as a matter of fact we were not speaking, but -just understanding each other’s silence. Still, it seemed just like -speaking. We must have moved very quickly, because by this time we had -got quite beyond the moon. I could see it ever so far beneath my feet, -and the stars all scattered about the darkness; yet I didn’t remember -passing them on our way up. I didn’t feel at all cold. As the beetle -went on talking--it was just like real talking, so it doesn’t matter -whether it was real or not--he stopped being like Aunt Julia. He got -his own head back again, and his own voice--except that sometimes it -began to be rather like yours. You haven’t gone to sleep, have you?” - -Maurice had not gone to sleep, and said so. - -“The strangest thing was that although his body had not really -changed--except that it was so much bigger--it didn’t seem at all ugly -now. In fact, I liked to look at it, and didn’t at all mind keeping -hold of its fore-leg. I think the beetle must have known what I was -thinking about, for all of a sudden he said, as if he were sorry for -me: ‘Poor Marjorie! Poor little Marjorie! They’ve taught you all wrong, -and they taught me all wrong. But I had a glimpse of the right thing: -I always knew that human beings were not half as ugly as they seemed to -be. I said as much, but it was of no use to talk to the Dear Friend. -As for Mary--that fat-headed female had believed so many other things -that she had no capacity left for believing any more. I, however, had -got plenty of room left--oh, yes, plenty of room.’ When he said that -he chuckled in the most horrible way you ever heard. ‘Now I come to -think of it,’ he went on, ‘I believe I did _say_ that the human breed -were ugly. It was such a tame thing to believe anything that one said; -it was a thing that Mary always did, and so I didn’t. Marjorie, if the -good people hadn’t been good, I should have liked goodness.’” - -“But who were Mary and the Dear Friend?” asked Maurice. - -“I don’t know any more than you do. I don’t think he liked the Dear -Friend very much; sometimes he seemed to hate Mary, and sometimes he -seemed to love her and pity her. Now do you know what he told me? He -said positively that all beetles believed that they had souls which -never died, and that the sun, and stars, and everything were made for -them alone. They believed that men, and other animals, had no souls at -all. I told him how very absurd that was, and tried to explain to him -what was really the case; but he only chuckled horribly again. But as -we went up higher and higher he got more grave, and he didn’t laugh -any more; and once or twice he said to me quite sadly, ‘Poor little -Marjorie, you are very young to bother yourself about these things. You -only know part--only part--and I cannot tell you the rest--I may not!’ -I began to get quite sorry for him, because it seemed to trouble him; -I think he really wanted to tell me some more things. Just then I saw -up above us a River of Light. It was flowing very swiftly and smoothly, -and looked like melted gold. I don’t know why, but I wanted to plunge -into the River. It seemed to be the only thing worth doing, or that -ever had been worth doing. I never wanted anything so much before in -my life, but the beetle would not let me go. Last of all I began to -cry; I really did, and you know, Maurice, that I hardly ever cry. But -it was of no use; he still kept tight hold of my hand. The darkness -was all grey darkness, except one black piece which stuck up like a -mountain. We stopped on the top of it, and looked down at the River. I -kept on crying--I do not know why, but I think it was because it all -seemed strange and awful. I may have been frightened a little, but it -was not quite like being frightened. There was a long pause, and then -the beetle said, ‘Ah, if you only knew now, Marjorie! And if I had only -known then!’ - -“Just then out of the grey darkness came a thread of light, like a -little snake, moving very quickly and curling about as if it were glad; -it hurried towards the great River of Light, and melted into it and -was gone. I was eager about it, and asked the beetle what it was. ‘I -may tell you that,’ he replied. ‘It was a soul going home!’ I stopped -crying then; I felt something the way I feel at an evening service in -a church in summer time, when they are singing one of the hymns I like -best. It was a sort of quiet happiness; I can’t explain it properly, -but I never felt so happy as I did then. ‘Beetle,’ I said, ‘you must -tell me the rest now.’ - -“‘I will tell you one thing,’” he said. - -“What was it?” asked Maurice quickly. - -For a few seconds Marjorie did not answer. There was a queer dreamy -look in her eyes. At last she said,-- - -“Maurice, I’m afraid you’ll think now that I have been making all this -up, but I haven’t. I can’t tell you what the beetle said, because I -_don’t know_. It was about you, and it was very important. I don’t -even know whether it was good or bad. It has gone straight out of my -memory, and I _can’t_ get it back again. I’d give anything to be able -to remember it. I’ve been thinking about it all the morning.” - -“I believe you entirely,” said Maurice thoughtfully. “I have had much -the same kind of thing happen to me in a dream.” - -He did not add that much the same thing had happened to him on the same -night. “How did the dream end?” he went on. - -“I awoke directly after the beetle told me that thing that I have -forgotten. It was broad daylight. But when I got up, the beetle was not -on the table where I had put it. I could not find it anywhere.” - -“You probably moved it in your sleep. Did you ever walk in your sleep?” - -“Once, when I was quite little--almost a baby. I had got out into the -garden, and my nurse found me there.” - -Maurice rose, and the two went down the hill together. “I wouldn’t -trouble about all that if I were you,” said Maurice. “These things can -generally be explained in the simplest way when one goes through them -carefully. Coffee, the action of the heart, the position of the body in -bed, the sounds that one hears while asleep, all help to explain a good -deal, you know.” - -He did not tell her his own dream. He thought, perhaps rightly, that a -young girl, unacquainted with the study of mathematics, might be unduly -impressed by coincidences which were unusual but did not require a -supernatural explanation. He did not want to frighten her, or let her -grow superstitious. Yet during the day he thought a good deal about the -two dreams. - -He had dreamed that he was seated on the one side of the fireplace in -his rooms at Cambridge, and that the beetle, with the same exaggerated -dimensions with which Marjorie had seen him, was seated in a lounge -chair on the other side. They were discussing Maurice’s psychological -studies, and Maurice was describing to him some of the curious -experiments which he had made in conjunction with Mr. Meyner. Every -difficulty that Maurice propounded the beetle made clear at once. He -even suggested fresh problems which had not occurred to Maurice before, -and was equally ready with their solution. His last words before -Maurice awoke were: “There are many things besides which you ought to -know, and of which you have not realised your own ignorance. You will -know them all one day.” - -This was all that Maurice could remember of his dream. The difficulties -propounded and the explanations given had passed completely out of his -recollection. He was only conscious that during his dream he had felt -an exhilarating sensation of having known for certain things which he -had thought it impossible that any one, at least in this life, could -know at all. - -Shortly afterwards he returned to Cambridge. By this time Marjorie -seemed to have recovered her normal spirits. She made no further -allusion to her dream. She was unaffectedly sorry at the departure of -Maurice. - -Maurice had not been long at Cambridge before he received news of the -sudden death of Mr. Meyner. Apart from the friendship he had always -felt for Mr. Meyner, the death seemed to him peculiarly distressing and -pathetic. The man had worked hard at a study which fascinated him, not -from any desire for gain, or fame to be derived from it, but with the -most genuine devotion to the study itself; and he had died before his -work was done, before he had arrived at any large and definite result. -Yet Maurice felt assured that Meyner’s patience, and judgment, and -freedom from prejudice, would, if he had but lived longer, have brought -him some reward, some light. He had always distrusted and undervalued -himself; his humility was genuine, but almost irritating. He had been -at school, and subsequently at college, with Maurice’s guardian, and -had first met Maurice when he was a boy of fifteen; the friendship -between the boy and the middle-aged man had formed slowly, but surely, -since then; yet, although he gave every sign of his liking for Maurice, -he never seemed to expect Maurice to like him in return; he certainly -never realised the admiration which Maurice had for his knowledge and -attainments. So too he loved his wife and only child dearly, and he -knew that they loved him; but he had never realised how much they loved -him, and would very possibly have thought such love almost irrational. -To some extent, perhaps, his studies had spoiled him; he had been -groping in the darkness after great things, and the one result that he -seemed to have found there was a sense of his own insignificance. Yet, -illogically enough, he had never thought others insignificant; he had -never reached the cynical conclusion that nobody matters very much. -If his friends and his sympathies were so few, it was not because the -outside world did not matter to him, but because he could not believe -that he mattered to the outside world. He had died without ever having -learned his own value. - -A parcel which was forwarded to Maurice from Mrs. Meyner shortly -afterwards contained the many note-books which her husband had filled -with the evidence he had collected, and the work he had done, until -death interrupted him. With them was a simple and pathetic letter that -he had written to Maurice on the day before he died. “Look through -them,” the letter said, in reference to the note-books. “You will see -and understand what I was aiming at. If you think it worth while, carry -on the investigation which I began; I own that it is some pleasure to -me to think that it is possible that you may do so; that one who was -intimate with my views, and who shared some of my opinions, which are -not generally held, may be able to give those views and opinions their -justification. But I do not want you to pledge yourself in any way, nor -do I ask you to give up your tripos or your career at college for the -purpose.” - -Maurice paused as he read this last sentence. How often he had -thought, as he turned English verse into indifferent alcaics, that -this classical work could only lead, was only educative, could never -be considered as an end. But he came to no final decision until he -had spent nearly a month in a rapid survey of those note-books. They -startled him; the minute accuracy and patience shown in the collection -of evidence were only what he expected from such a man as Meyner, but -the brilliant audacity of his theories, the almost savage independence -of an original mind, looked far different when plainly stated in black -and white, than when they had fallen humbly and almost hesitatingly -from the man’s own lips. The romantic side in Maurice’s character was -touched most by what was worst in Meyner’s books; the finished and -unprejudiced scholar would have shaken his head over much that looked -like vain imagining, that was extravagant, and, so far, unsupported. -Maurice was younger; Meyner’s fierce opposition of an accepted view -attracted him, and awoke his pugnacity. He would linger over page -after page of what seemed to him splendid conjecture, of what might -have seemed to others very useless stuff, and say to himself: “If -only one could prove that this _is_ so, instead of longing that it -_may_ be so!” The air of conviction with which Meyner wrote down his -own views on his own subject gained immeasurably in Maurice’s eyes -from the personal knowledge which Maurice had of Meyner’s perpetual -tendency to undervalue himself, and to distrust himself in all other -matters. Even with these views in his mind, he had expected no great -results; he had been too honest to support them with any evidence that -was not thoroughly tested. They seemed to Maurice to be the guess of -genius; the air of conviction had for him the strange attraction of -a religious, not wholly rational, faith. He decided to abandon his -University career, and to devote his time to a further prosecution of -Meyner’s investigations. - -His guardian, who was also his uncle, made very little opposition. -Maurice had given so much evidence that he was stable. He had an -unusually large allowance for a young man at Cambridge, and yet he had -not run into debt. At Cambridge the wealthy are the most in debt, -because they have most credit and most temptations. As a matter of -fact, Maurice never had considered the financial side of anything; -it had simply happened that he had never wanted more than he could -well afford. But this weighed very much in Maurice’s favour with his -guardian. He felt that his nephew was a man who understood value, and -could be trusted. The property to which Maurice would succeed, when he -came of age, made it unnecessary for him to adopt any profession; nor -did it bring with it any of those special responsibilities for which a -special training is supposed to be necessary. - -Maurice, therefore, spent the next two years abroad, for the most part -in Paris. He had carried with him an introduction to a physician at one -of the Paris hospitals, who sympathised with him in his work, and was -able to be of great assistance to him. In this man he gained a friend; -in other respects these were years, it seemed to him, of disillusion. -One by one the great, beautiful theories had to go; a tiny meagre fact -would start up, a fact that meant but little to the ordinary observer, -and it would be strong enough to overthrow years of work, and send -the conjecture on which they were founded to some limbo for lost -absurdities. He had long ago been aghast when he had tried to realise -how vast is the amount of the things that no man knows. And now for -“knows” he put “can know.” - -Mrs. Meyner and Marjorie had also been abroad, but he had seen them -very seldom in those two years. Marjorie seemed to be slowly changing; -he was no longer the recipient of childish confidences. She was grave -and more beautiful, perhaps, than she had been; and she was also more -quiet and reserved; she was friendly with him, up to a limit; she told -him news, of a kind; she sympathised with his disappointments in his -work, within decent bounds. At the end of the second year, when Mrs. -Meyner and Marjorie were staying for a few days in Paris, and Maurice -was at last awakening to the fact that he could not expect childish -confidences from one who was no longer a child, Marjorie told him some -news which surprised him. - -“Aunt Julia has changed very much. I like her now.” - -“She must certainly have changed then,” said Maurice smiling. - -“I don’t mean,” Marjorie explained, “that she is different to other -people--only to mamma and myself. Her servants are in terror of her, -and her tenants hate her, and so on; but she has been really kind to -me. I think she likes me. We were staying with her a few weeks ago. -You’ll be surprised to hear that she likes you too.” - -“Of course,” said Maurice, “it is surprising that any one likes me, as -you say.” - -“I don’t think I said that. She told me quite suddenly once that she -liked Maurice Grey, because he was the cleverest man she knew in one -respect. Mamma suggested that it was because you understood her. ‘No, -my dear,’ said Aunt Julia, ‘the village people do that, because I -speak plainly, and they try to pay me back again for it. He always -misunderstood me. I like him. He will not do much, because he can’t -concentrate himself on one thing; but I like Maurice Grey all the -same.’” - -Marjorie did not repeat any more of Aunt Julia’s conversation; but the -old lady had gone on to say that Maurice, however, would probably -concentrate himself on one person. She added, in her point-blank way, -that she intended him ultimately to marry Marjorie. She did not appear -to think that Marjorie, or Maurice, or Mrs. Meyner, could have a voice -in the matter; the marriage was one of the things that the perverse old -woman had made up her mind to arrange. - -“I’m glad that dear old lady likes me,” said Maurice. “I always liked -her--I really did. She was full of such striking and impressive -contrasts--the soft, purring voice and the ill-tempered words--her -gentle, peaceful face and her fearful pugnacity. And I like her more -because she has been good to you, you say.” - -“Did you ever,” asked Marjorie, hurriedly going to another subject, -“find out anything new about the intelligence of the brute creation?” - -“I think I used to tell some lies about a favourite terrier of mine -once, and made myself believe them. No, Marjorie, that has not been my -line. It has been quite enough to find out that I and you, and all the -rest of us, have got no intelligence worth mentioning, none that will -do a thousandth part of what we want it to do. What made you ask that?” - -“I was thinking about that beetle you found on the common when you were -stopping with us once, and about the dream I had.” - -“Ah! I remember that.” - -“I never found the dead beetle, although I hunted everywhere for it, -and I never remembered what it told me about you.” - -“I did not tell you at the time, Marjorie, but I had a dream about -the beetle that same night. It came to me that night and told me -everything I wanted to know--the things I have been working at for the -last two years. Of course, they were all gone when I awoke, but I can -remember it saying that I should know them all one day. I am afraid -that dead beetle lied.” - -“Maurice,” said Marjorie suddenly, “sometimes a thought flashes across -my mind that in a minute I may be dead. I don’t know even what life -and death mean; yet I have to live and die. There are stars above me, -but I do not know why they are there. There are beasts, and birds, and -insects everywhere, and I do not know how important they are. I feel -lost and horrible. No, I feel like a prisoner beating against an iron -wall. For a few moments it is torture to be like that; I should kill -myself or go mad if it went on. But it always passes away, and three -minutes afterwards I am wondering if I will do my hair a different -way----” - -“Don’t!” murmured Maurice, softly. - -“Or I can be really angry because my maid knocks something over, or -does something clumsy; when one speaks of it, it seems absurd enough. -Speaking spoils everything. Lovers--in books, I mean--talk the worst -nonsense, and yet that nonsense is the expression of a very fine -thing. I do not think that silence is enough appreciated. I want, for -instance, to let you know what I am thinking. Well, when I put the -thought into words, I lose some of it, or add something to it, or I -alter it by an accident with the tone of my voice. Now if I could just -look at you and you at me, and we could understand one another exactly -through silence, it would be splendid.” - -Maurice agreed with her. After two years of disappointment silence -seemed to him almost the only thing left. There was, however, one -thing even more consolatory. About a year after this conversation with -Marjorie the two met once more, and Maurice put his failures behind him -and told Marjorie that he loved her. So they both spoke the nonsense -which they deprecated. We all believe that in affairs of the heart -we are not as the others, and we are all mistaken. With him there -was an iteration of “I love you,” with a deep tremble in the voice; -and with her there was a sighing echo of the same words, coming up -between blushes. The expression of the feeling was almost ludicrous; -the feeling itself was so sacred that the lightest touch of thought -seemed to soil it, and a writer, after turning over his vocabulary in -disgust, can find nothing explanatory which at all matches it. But when -it took place, it seemed to Maurice the only important thing that ever -had happened to him; the psychological studies, which had brought him -so much disappointment, appeared in a new light as a plaything that had -seemed to amuse him until love came. - -This did not happen at Paris. Maurice had returned to England, and -all of them--Mrs. Meyner, Marjorie, and Maurice--were staying in Aunt -Julia’s house. It was a lonely old house, much too big for that one -wicked old lady; it stood outside a North Yorkshire village, just -where a grand, dignified old hill drew back its skirts, with a sharp -sweep, from contamination with human dwelling-places. Aunt Julia owned -quarries at the foot of the hill, and got therefrom more money than -was good for her. The time was December, and the moors looked bleak -and cold. But it was a comfortable house. Aunt Julia had devoted her -many years to the study of comfort--her own comfort. “There is nothing -to shoot,” she explained to Maurice, “except my tenants down in the -village. You can shoot them, if you like. There’s the library, though, -which is good, and you can smoke anywhere you like----” - -“But you used to hate smoking?” said Maurice. - -“My dear Maurice, there are two of me, and you used to know the wrong -one. Down in the village they mostly know the wrong one, and they call -her, I am told, the hell-cat, which is rude of them. Yes, you can smoke -anywhere. If you and Marjorie want to go out of the house--which is a -thing I never do in December--I believe there are some horses round -at the back. If there is anything wrong about the horses, or Pilkin, -or anything that is his, just tell me, and I will say a word or two. -I believe the man presumes on my ignorance. You can go and see my -quarries, or my cottages; but you had better not go to the cottages, -because they have no drains. I should like to give them some drains, -but the tenants won’t let me. They are poor people, and a strong smell -makes a difference to their colourless existence.” - -So Maurice did a certain amount of reading, riding, and smoking. -But, of course, Marjorie made for him the chief charm of the house. -Mrs. Meyner had willingly consented to the engagement; even if she -had desired to oppose it, her more strenuous half-sister would have -reasoned her out of it; or, to use her own gentle euphemism, would have -said a word or two. The days passed quietly enough. To Maurice they -were a pleasant rest after his three years of wasted laboriousness. -“Marjorie,” he said to her one afternoon, when they had wandered over -the dignified hill, and as they came back saw the bare boughs of the -trees in the plantation black against a red blot of sunset, “Marjorie, -I have done with all questions. I am here, and you are here, and that -is enough for me. I am going to live and love, and enjoy. Blessed be -my fate that has saved me from the sordid worry of life. (Just wait -a second, will you? can’t get a match to light in this wind.) We -will make a beautiful house, with beautiful things in it, with good -books on shelves, and good wine in the cellar, and a good cook in the -kitchen. And no one shall enter into that house who is not either very -beautiful, or very clever, or too good for this world.” - -“But I shall be so lonely there without you,” said Marjorie, gently, -with her sparkling eyes looking groundwards. - -Maurice laughed. “Ah, Marjorie, you and I will be one, and you are more -beautiful, and clever, and better than any one in the world. That is -how I shall have a right to come into my own beautiful house. We will -trouble ourselves with no theories about anything. We will not get -excited about anything; an excited man always has been, or will be, -dull. We will make life one long, gentle enjoyment.” - -He spoke half in jest and half in earnest, telling his soul of -beautiful things laid up in that house for many years; bidding himself -to eat, and drink, and enjoy judiciously. - -Perhaps it was because Marjorie at that moment looked towards the -sunset. It seemed so far away from her, and yet so desirable. She had -the fancy, common among children and poets, that the dying light looked -the gate of some wonderful place to be seen hereafter. - -“Maurice, Maurice!” she cried. “Look at that. I have the lost, -prisoned feeling again when I look at it. It is too far away.” - -That night ended all. There were beautiful things to come, so it seemed -to both of them, such poetry and love as never had been before; and all -was stopped by an accident, one commonplace accident, almost too poor -to be put into a story. - -Marjorie had been subdued, almost depressed; she had talked but little -at dinner or afterwards. Mrs. Meyner and Marjorie both went to bed -rather early. Maurice, restless from his love-passion, had gone to walk -and smoke for an hour on the fell-side. Aunt Julia sat before the fire -in the drawing-room, waiting for Maurice to return, reading a favourite -chapter of Gibbon. - -For some time one would have said that Marjorie was sleeping quietly -and peacefully. Then suddenly she sat up in bed, her eyes still closed. -She began talking in her sleep. “Tell me! Come back again and tell me. -I _will_ know. I am on the verge, and--and----.” She stopped talking; -quickly she moved from the bed to the dressing-table, and her fingers -fumbled impatiently with the opening of her dressing-case. She had -drawn up the blind, and the moonlight shone straight upon her. Her lips -were still moving, but no sound came. She opened the dressing-case and -took from it a glass jar which was filled with old dead rose leaves. -She had filled it herself long before, when she was a child. She -unscrewed the silver top, and began to take out the rose leaves very -carefully. At the bottom of the jar she found the thing for which she -had been looking, and laid it on the palm of her little white hand. It -was the withered body of a large dead beetle. - -For a moment she stood thus. And then she drew a long breath, and -opened her eyes wide. She was awake, and she had remembered the -horrible thing which she had heard in a dream and had forgotten. -Quivering and almost breathless she hurried from the room, just as she -was. - -Aunt Julia had good nerves, but she was a little startled when the -door of the drawing-room was flung open, and she saw, standing in the -doorway, the figure of Marjorie, white-robed, bare-footed, with both -hands stretched out, and struggling in vain, as it seemed, to speak. - -“Marjorie! What is it?” cried Aunt Julia in a shaking voice. - -She found words at last. - -“Maurice is dead--dead! He fell--I saw him fall--over there, against -the plantation, down into the quarry. He is dead!” - -There followed a burst of hysterical laughter, more bitter than any -tears, and then she fainted away. - - * * * * * - -Aunt Julia stood in the porch, looking out. She was white to the lips. -By the moonlight she could see the procession coming nearer--two men -carrying lanterns, four men carrying a hurdle with a burden upon it, -covered up altogether because it was broken and ghastly. - - - LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, - STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS. - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: - - - Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. - - Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. - - Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN A CANADIAN CANOE *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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