FUTURIST STORIES

It was a glorious winter's night. Through a blue haze one saw the ground, covered with snow, shining under the magical moon. And the trees of the forest were also covered with snow; great clusters glistened in their branches. Almost as light as day. Not a bleak light, but an enchanting one, which dazzled in the cold, brisk air. Into the woods walked the Spirit of Art. As he gazed at the surrounding beauty he grew sad, and wondered why he had never reproduced such splendor—the moon—the snow—Oh, he must try again—Tomorrow he would do better.

Then came the Spirit of History and he too grew sad as he gazed into the quietude of the night. His hands were soiled with blood, with dark hideous crimes. And he asked why he had committed such deeds—with all this beauty around him. Why could he not have likened history to these woods where the snow was white. Tomorrow he would do better.

And then came the Spirit of Philosophy and like the others he wondered why he had never been under the spell of the Moonbeams before—why had he filled the minds of men with entangled masses of dark thought, instead of teaching them the beauty, the enchantment of a night like this. Tomorrow he would do better.

The three Spirits met and talked together. They would go back to the cities and begin anew. They would bring the spell of the woods back with them and teach men unknown things.

A New Era was about to be born.

Morning dawned cold and raw, a bleak gray light shone in the deserted streets. The three Spirits returning from their wandering all too soon forgot the magic spell of the woods—the snow—the Moon—and fell to work once more among the sordid things of the day; making Art and History and Philosophy only grayer—darker—

And in the woods where all was beauty, the Moonbeams shone only for the fairies as they danced under the trees, and now and then for a wistful human soul that had strayed into the splendor of the night.

THE DREAM MUFF [To I. K. McF.]

One more day of horror had ended for Russia. At this hour once the lamps along the Neva would have been lighted, the laughter of sleigh-riders would have resounded over the snow. But now the streets were dark—deserted save by some wandering homeless people, seeking refuge in the night.

No one seemed to know exactly what had happened—or the cause—

There was no ruler—no order—

Darkness and chaos.

A girl, perhaps of twelve, sat huddled in a ragged shawl on the steps of a closed church.

There had been a time when a fire burned—

A mother—a father—

Brothers—

They had gone—no one knew where. The mother was royalist.

She used to sew for a great lady—a Princess.

Perhaps the jailers of a prison could tell where she was.

Once—in the life that was only a memory—was it real—or was the biting cold—was the hunger what had always been—her mother had taken her to the house of the great lady—

Her eyes had opened in childish wonder, as the Princess took her from room to room.

On a great couch of palest blue, among cushions that were all lace and blue and pink—a muff.

It had been carelessly thrown down—she had loved it.

Her greatest desire had been to touch it—to feel the soft gray fur on her face.

A piercing wind blew from the frozen river—the muff—if it would come it would keep her warm—

She would put her hand in it and hold it to her heart.

Through half-closed lids she saw the muff—curving and swaying in the air—like a gray bird.

It was looking for her—there were so many freezing children in the streets—she was small for her age—

How warm—how kind of the Princess to send the muff.

Maybe mother will soon be home from work—we can have supper—

Boris will come from school—

But Boris lay dying—prisoner in the enemy's land.

When a pale sun struggled to shine down on the dirty streets—on the confusion and sorrow of that Russian city—an old Priest—dying with all the rest—of sorrow for his land—found the frozen body of a little girl—with hands clasped over her heart—a faint smile on her upturned face.

ROSE PETALS

Thirty years had passed.

Thirty years that I had spent in vainly trying to overcome the love and hatred which consumed me. However occupied I was with the pressing affairs of my almost over-filled life I was conscious of an undercurrent of despair—the despair that I had felt when Eve told me she no longer loved me.

We were engaged.

Whether she really loved me, or whether it was only a girlish fancy I could not tell. But the day was set for our wedding and was not far off when one Sunday afternoon I went to her house for tea.

The mahogany table in the library was covered with fallen rose petals—the roses he had sent her. Although no other detail of the room has remained in my memory, I still can see the rose petals covering the polished surface. By some inexplicable phenomenon those pink petals were fixed forever in my mind.

I left that part of the country and eventually lost all trace of Eve.

Thirty years later I had a professional engagement with a client.

The man was ill with a cold and asked me to come to his house—

I was shown into a large, stately drawing-room. Great portraits were on the walls, there was massive furniture, fine oriental rugs. A fire blazed on the hearth.

Then I perceived it—the great bowl of roses with fallen petals—scattered over the table

Like a knife they went through my soul——

Rose petals——

Eve—the ring she had returned, which lay in some dark recess of my desk——

The door opened and a tall slim girl advanced—

Eve I cried—my eyes blurred till I could hardly see.

With a strange, somewhat strained laugh, the girl replied that she had not been named for her mother, but it was often said that she was indeed her mother's living portrait.

Then she drew aside a heavy curtain—Before my dimmed eyes was a picture of Eve—

My Eve—

I fled from the house.

The purpose of my visit claimed not an instant of my thoughts. Nor did Eve.

Nor the past.

Rose petals only filled my mind.

I learned from a friend that Eve had been drowned years before in the St. Lawrence River—

She had left her husband and baby girl for another love.

Rose petals—

Rose petals everywhere.

IN A FIELD

A child of three or four was playing in the tall grass among the nodding buttercups and daisies. I watched her as she played. She seemed a fit companion of the flowers, this sweet babe. I longed to feel the touch of her little fingers on my face.

But as I advanced to where she was playing I stopped abruptly with the sense of sudden chill. My heart even grew cold.

Was I having a vision, was it an intuition of the future—or was this a meaningless phantom!

I had been reading of late a modern philosopher whose translator had made much use of that somewhat ghostly word. Perhaps that was what had given rise to this inexplicable thing. For as I stood there watching the child there flashed across my consciousness a changing vision of her destiny.

It was terrible.

It struck me that it might be better if she could be taken now while innocent and sweet.

I caught myself back from the act of judging life and death.

I had been the momentary victim of a freakish fancy.

I gazed at the child again, and I saw a strange thing, as clearly as I see you now.

She, a young woman, was standing amidst scattered wilted flowers, with parted lips and wide horrified eyes. It seemed a land far off, some land under the burning sun.

She cried out, a cry of anguish. She was there to hide from herself and tortured by the memory of what she once had been.

I saw her again, this time on the sea, still trying to escape from herself, from the tyranny of her lost innocence.

And then I saw her in a rapid succession of scenes, again and again—gambling places, drinking,—sometimes listless and distraught—sometimes forced and eager—with wonderful, costly jewels. But they were too heavy. The price of them was weighing upon her soul.

Then a grave, alone under leaden skies of some Northern country. No flowers now, only the moaning wind—the cold rain.

I lifted the child in my arms and kissed her.

INCALCULABLE

It was one of those gray days so frequent in Paris in the late fall. A drizzling rain was coming down through the bare branches of the trees and a cold mist was rising from the Seine.

I felt out of tune with the universe.

The rain irritated me.

To cheer my drooping spirits I took refuge in the Louvre.

There I found no solace in the cold white statues of the lower floor. I ascended one of the broad staircases—the headless beauty of the Victoire de Samothrace only made me shudder.

I passed through the halls lined on either side with the masterpieces of French and Italian and Spanish Artists.

One in my depressed state of mind had no right to be there where faces of Madonnas smile down as one passes and deserve a freer look than mine to turn on them.

I wandered out again into the street.

I walked up the quai which winds along the river and where the quaint well-known bookshelves are built displaying to the passerby rare old books and piles of rubbish alike.

Despite the rain several students were eagerly looking through these stores of hidden wealth.

As the Parisian would say ils bouquinaient.

So I too began to pick up at random several old volumes.

An English one caught my glance—

It was a copy of Browning—old and tattered—and pencil-marked. Turning to the fly-leaf I saw a name, written in a woman's hand—

Victoria O'Fallon—Paris 18—

I looked up—and saw far back into now almost forgotten years of my life and there flashed into unaccountable and extraordinary vividness in my mind the remembrance of a western mining camp and of a girl, Vicky O'Fallon. She was a little red-headed beauty, who dreamed and talked of nothing but the stage, who longed to study and to travel, to release her life from the coarse and rude environment in which she lived.

And I questioned almost passionately, could that little, discontented Irish girl be the same one whose name on an old yellowing page was intriguing my thought? How came her book here among these old volumes? Had some strange fate transplanted her to Paris in the year 18—? Had her dreams come true and was she on the stage in this great city of the world? I asked of the bookseller how this copy of Browning had come into his hands. He did not know.

I could not dismiss this girl, I could not forget the book.

Somewhere, somehow she had read Browning. She obsessed my mind.

She possessed my waking hours. I wandered from theatre to theatre, watching at the stage doors, and saw play after play, always in the hope of discovering this girl I had scarcely known. I studied hotel registers, old play-bills, and always old books. I had not thought of her for years and now I desired more than anything else in life to see once more her dancing blue eyes and hear again her laughter.

But it was all in vain that I scanned faces in the streets, in railway stations, in passing cabs. I could find no trace of Victoria O'Fallon.

Years passed.

I was travelling one dull English day from London to Glasgow. In the railway carriage toward night I fell into desultory talk with a sad uneasy looking man who shared the compartment with me. At some turn in the conversation he told me his name was O'Fallon.

The worn copy of Browning seemed almost to take form in my hand—and Victoria—her dream, her hair, her enchanting laugh.

For moments I was too dazed to speak. Then I managed to ask if by any chance he was related to a girl Victoria O'Fallon. He stared at me in silence, while a look of hatred and despair distorted his face.

Finally in a choked voice he breathed rather than spoke—

I am just out of prison because of Victoria O'Fallon—she was my niece. I sent her to Paris. She was on the stage, just one night—I struck her—she fell on a chair—her back. She's dead now.

He gazed vaguely out into the gathering darkness.

Then he seemed to remember me.

There was a French Count he began, but his voice sank into silence.

I sat as if I had been turned to stone.

A NEAPOLITAN STREET SONG

Alone—

A city full of lights, of pleasure. The sea singing to itself as it rolled quietly into the harbor. A glow of light on distant Vesuvius. Gay throngs of people passing to and fro in the summer evening. Alone. For the first time in her life.

A heavy heart—there was no joy.

They had come to Naples on their wedding journey. Her brief happiness had been taken—torn from her.

Ashes.
He—cold—rigid—lay in the adjoining room.

Two candles burned. A nun prayed. Monica leaned out of the window.

Through her tears she saw a star shining in the night.

A star of sorrow.

The sea—they had gone together on its blue waves to Capri—to Sorrento—

Was it some terrible nightmare—would she awaken and find him near.

From a distant street came the sound of music—gay—lively—a Neapolitan street song.

How could there be joy. The sound was agony. An organ might have soothed.

Had there ever been a time when gay music delighted.

O Sole mio sang the clear voices of the street singers. They drew nearer—and stopped under the window.

Monica's wounded inward self cried out for silence

The world was drear. There should be no joyful singing.

She looked down absently. A young girl stood a little apart from the singers. Monica noticed her—and their tearful eyes met.

Then singers also could know sorrow.

Suddenly—her own seemed lightened.

Monica's soul surged forward. She wanted to comfort, to help this brown-eyed girl. Perhaps her grief was harder to bear.

One of the men stepped toward the girl and pushed her rudely.

Sing he commanded.

O Padre mio—she broke into sobs. The singers moved on to another street.

Monica had read into another soul.

Deep calling unto deep.

IN ALGIERS

Moonlight—the still waters of the ocean—

The deck of a ship—

Romance and beauty—

The great liner sailed near the northern coast of Africa. On the deck they had become engaged—the moonlight shone on them.

Dusk and bitter cold. A young woman paced up and down in the snow, waiting the coming of a train.

It was a small town in the Interior of Russia—of the Russia torn by wars and rebellions at home. A sorrow-stricken land.

The mystery, the romance of the night—the distant shores of Africa—seemed still upon her. She could almost feel the murmur of the water as it splashed against the boat.

And the next day—Algiers—the quaint streets—the mosques—flowers—and white robed Arabs.

Very quietly they had been married in the Cathedral which bears the name of a whole continent.

Notre Dame d'Afrique.

The sun had smiled as it shone on the city by the sea.

It grew colder.

A train came into sight on the vast field of snow.

On that train the man she loved and had married was coming to her.

That enchanted period in Algiers—He was returning—perhaps a wreck of his once splendid self—a cripple

War

It had shattered homes—brought skeletons—where once children laughed.

Brought famine—once birds had eaten crumbs.

War—

Horror—dismay

She waited

His eyes were aghast—eyes that had seen death—murder—horror—side by side—

There was no more laughter. He took Anna into his arms. Then the report was not true. He had not given his right arm.

Anna, he whispered, My brave Anna

I have been thinking of Algiers, she murmured. We planned to have sunshine—and roses—even among the snows of our country. But we faced blood—blood on the snows of our forests—

Ivan, it is bitter cold. Do not go out—into the night—

To Africa. The moon will be making golden streaks upon the water. A rose will be blooming in our garden—his eyes were vacant.

Then it was not his arm he had given for Russia—it was—

A cry pierced the cold air.

The weight of a dead body resounded.

I wonder what that was, Ivan mused—

Which is the shortest way to the Cathedral——

These Arab streets are so steep—

CANDLES

Before a statue of Joan of Arc, in a little country church, a child knelt in prayer.

Oh protect my papa—the little one prayed.

She lighted a candle—offered it to the Maid of France.

A young girl prayed at the feet of the Saint. She burned a candle.

For André—for his safety.

The invaders entered the village,—heeding neither church nor ground of the dead.

They ripped open shallow graves to show the living they had power—even over those who had gone. They killed the priest. And the nuns, even, from the school.

They damaged.

Destroyed—

The church caught fire. The candles, burning before the Saint of Domremy, blazed into one huge flame. It shot up to the roof. And seemed to cry—

O Joan of Arc—come back—France needs you.

The child—

An Angel of Heaven

The young girl who had prayed for André—two officers had taken her.

She struggled—

A sword—

The flames of the burning village had revealed it.

Monsieur l'Abbé had said suicide was sin—but surely God would forgive—

She pierced the sword into her white flesh—blood flowed to the ground.

Little fool muttered the maddened officer.

He went back to the village—for more destroying.

A stone from a burning house—

He died with an oath.

But André, weeks before, had died with prayer upon his lips—a thought for his sweet betrothed.

IGOR

Onward

To kill

Pillage

Only a few days before the lighted candles of a chapel. A young monk in prayer. Quietude in his soul. The brown habit—the crucifix lay forgotten.

The maddening din of battle. Its fury burned his soul.

He had been left an orphaned child. At the monastery.

His name was Igor. Some whispered he was the son of a great nobleman.

None knew for sure.

At first his clean soul rebelled at the thought of war, his dark eyes flashed.

Thou shalt not kill called from afar—but the cannons deafened him

They entered the courtyard—into the castle hall.

Had its dwellers fled along the muddy roads and fields of Belgium

Some women still—

A young one, watching for escape

Another with graying hair and soft eyes. She had stayed. Her sins perhaps would be forgiven on the Altar of Sacrifice. Burning anguish.

She had sinned against God.—Against her husband. Long ago.

Remorse still clung in her heart.

Igor drew back—but was pushed on by others, rude, boisterous, toward the wine cellars.

Thou shalt not kill faintly—but a breaking bottle dimmed the sound.

The wine heated, wakened dormant senses.

More wine

With shouts and cries the tottering men came from the cellar—Laughed at the woman with graying hair

She was shielding a girl whose eyes resembled Igor's. The girl who had watched to escape.

And could not

The uniform, the sabre—

Gone was the memory of a brown habit.

He came nearer. Was it a woman—

He clasped her. Her soft hair brushed his face.

Other soldiers came—dragged her from him. Fought over her like powerful beasts, heeding not the mother—

Igor—protect her

In a drunken rage he caught the girl to the open window—

I'll kill her he screamed. You—who seem to know my name.

The crime was spared him.

Her lifeless body slipped from his arms.

Igor, gasped the mother, You have killed—

I'll kill you!—the wine had infuriated—he lifted his sabre—

Stop—you are my son

Dazed—he heard the words but understood not.

A night of drunkenness, of horror, had passed in the Belgian chateau.

The captors had damaged—broken—destroyed.

The sun was setting on a second day—when Igor awoke.

The first time in his life he awakened from drink. He reached out expecting to find the rough wall of the monastery

He felt a dead body—the sharp edge of a sabre—

Where—

Orders had come

The army

Had there been battles—

—And slowly memory returned—

Stop—you are my son.

Who had said it—was it long ago—No. Only after the wine cellar—

He sat up—on the floor—where drunkenness had overcome him.

The horrible memory of his crime swept over him.

His mother—

He seized the body and gazed at the staring eyes. Then this was the remorse the older monks had told him—had been his father's—

And he—her son—had plunged his sabre into her heart

His own was bursting.

And this girl. He had not killed her—she had died—

Was she—his sister—only of a different father—

We are through—burn

A hard line played on the lips of the commander

The flames leapt from room to room—

Igor—

The smoke—it was overcoming him—

His mother—

He had forgotten how to pray

An unutterable abyss.

The horror of war

The fire blazed upward—smoke filled the room—

There's the bell—he staggered to his feet—It is ringing

Tell Brother John to light the candles—he walked into the flames—

I am coming.