III
Snow and cold—suffering—starvation—in the forests the birds were dead—
Little children were dead—
The stream of fugitives increased as the days passed—Starvation—death—
Triumphant over Defeat still rang in Dasha's ears—Some day it would come—
Triumph—
She clothed a child here—
Comforted a mother there—
And still they came—over the snow and corpses—through the woods—fugitives everywhere—
Dasha worked—worked with all her heart—fed—clothed—
Out into the snows, into the storms to look for the wanderers and bring them to a shelter—
Have mercy on my soul—she whispered—Forgive—
The Andante far away—calling—Dasha—a reward—
Dasha Ivanovna died on a bed of snow—On her dead face was a triumphant sweet look.
The fugitives wept and prayed as they buried her in the woods.
When summer came bluebells grew over her grave.
THE MAD ARTIST
Faintly—
Speak, speak—Angel or demon, or both, speak to me before I throw you into the sea.
The storm raged in all its fury around the house, and the rain beat down—
Speak, or I'll break you into a thousand pieces.
But the only answer was the smile of the Angel with the uplifted eyes and the outspread wings as if she was about to ascend to Heaven. The marble Angel that was to have been his masterpiece! His last gift to man was now his hated treasure.
Night came on and with it the fury of the storm increased—and still the mad artist now implored, now threatened. The Angel smiled and looked Heavenward.
When I chose a model for my masterpiece, he murmured, she was beautiful, but had not the face of that Angel. How came I to copy the image in my heart and not the living one that for months was each day here in my studio.
The storm raged without, and within the artist groped for light, clung to the shreds of memory. His madness was increasing, his head seemed miles away. What had he been thinking of just then, had he seen a woman rise from a tomb—no, it was the Angel.
He must get to work and finish it. But it was finished. Vaguely he remembered dismissing his model.
Speak—with a faint cry of anguish he rushed to the statue. Speak, image of my lost Louise! But no, you are cold marble, you have no life, no warmth—
Still, it must be the girl I loved. It is her mouth, her eyes.
The wind moaned around the house, seeming to call the name of Louise. The mad artist wept, and groped for light, for memory. Vaguely he could see, 'way back in some half-forgotten period, a nurse leaning over his cot. The noise of battle still rang in his ears—but that was all past, in his other life—now there were phantoms and the image in his heart of the lost Louise. Why had he chosen that name. That name made him think of running water. Where was reverie—Oh yes, it was the statue—well it must die. Never should men see his masterpiece that had cost him all the joy of life. For he had likened the features of the Angel after Louise.
Speak, demon, he implored. Take on a woman's voice.
The storm had ceased and the sun shone brightly on the wet grass and the flowers of a day in June. One ray peeped in at the window of the studio and saw the Angel broken by hammer and chisel on the floor. Its smiling face seemed to forgive all the madness of the night.
From what strange nightmare was he awakening? At the sight of his loved and hated Angel broken at his feet, his senses were slowly returning—But with what pain they came—as if his head must break.
He could not think yet—he would later on. He had been mad—he remembered the doctor saying so—In France—shell shock.
It had come over him as he stood by the gate of the Chateau. Then a hospital. Afterward all had been darkness, a horrible groping amid a thousand broken memories, phantoms which had shrouded him. But now it was over. He was sane—life, life! Oh what joy to live again, as one risen from the tomb—he would travel out into the world—far from his studio.
The attendant entered bringing lunch to the mad artist and found him dead, his lips pressed to the marble ones of his Angel, the image of Louise.
She was only one of his many phantoms.
OLD SCORES
A night of untold beauty.
Cobwebs on the heavens.
A gray winter sky, brightened by the moon shining through it.
Bare branches of hundreds of trees interlacing their silvery boughs.
And a cottage with thatched roof and square leaded panes—a setting for romance, for dreams of visionary splendor.
Is the master at home, asked a strange woman of the old man servant.
He has not yet returned.
Then I will wait for him.
And despite the protests of the servant, Donna Maria entered the room. It was a story and a half in height.
There was a huge fireplace, and everywhere, without arrangement, in the happy disorder of a studio, were canvases and palettes.
Another setting for romance.
But romance—at least for tonight—has not found its way to the studio in the woods.
There was perhaps some intuition, some forewarning of disaster in the mind of Robert Hale. He walked abstractedly, untouched by the beauty of the night.
He was deep in the inner experience of the conception of a new picture.
He entered his house.
There is a woman, sir.
A woman——but I want to be alone.
The old servant slept—roused for a moment by the closing of a door.
She's gone, he muttered—and slept again.
Through the splendor of the night they went—through its mystery, its beauty.
She, tense, frightened lest her power should fail on the verge of success—
He in a kind of trance, with wavering mind—strange thoughts—nothing clear—a haze
They stopped under a great oak.
Do you remember your Egyptian Dancer asked Donna Maria for the hundredth time.
Egyptian Dancer, he answered tonelessly. No, I tell you I killed him.
With a sense of victory she led him on through the night.
Her mind incessantly repeated to the overpowered mind of the artist
You killed him———You killed him.
The alienist gave his testimony. The prisoner was mad. Clearly.
To every question he responded—I killed him.
And endlessly the court room resounded with dull, monotonous voices
Some pleading for—some against the artist.
Donna Maria was satisfied.
She would go away and Robert—well, no matter—
She hated him.
He had scorned her advances—her coquettish smiles, years ago in Rome when he was a student.
She had been unable to forget. Her pride was like an open wound.
Hale was acquitted.
But his mind was gone. A harmless type of insanity expressing itself in vague reiterations of a fixed idea.
Day after day he walked in the open—Once on and on, down a slope. He slipped. And made a violent clutch to save himself. The cold waters of the river closed over him. Shock and sudden pain—the penetrating pain that comes with returning consciousness—
He began to struggle, got his stroke and swam.
Did you kill the Banker Brunton, the physician inquired gently.
The Banker Brunton—Hale asked curiously—I never heard of him.
A train of thought seemed starting.
But I remember a woman—she dropped her muff—I stooped to pick it up
She must have struck me—
Or was it her eyes!
Once, long ago—in Rome—she tried to influence me that way.
I despise her.
When she came back I was tired. I gave in. Let's not talk about it.
The physician looked at Hale with the look of a kind big brother.
Then he went to the telephone.
THE LAST
This is the last day for me. Tomorrow at this time many hours will have passed since the iron door of my cell was unlocked and I was taken along the corridors of the prison and across the yard to the place of execution. Already I shall know for myself what lies on the other side, I shall have ceased forever, I hope, to count the bars of my iron door, my sole occupation and the one thing which keeps me from thinking too much of the past, so bitter.
Why did they come today. Did they think they would ease my pain, did they think it was charity to play for us, here in the prison.
At first their music only irritated me and kept me from counting properly the iron bars. Then it enraged me, that woman with the soprano voice—
But I counted my iron bars—
Suddenly the pain, worse than any I had ever known,—remorse, sorrow, longing,—crowded into my soul. I felt as if I should die.
A man at the piano was playing the melody my mother most often played. My agony was beyond bearing. Repentance again swept over me, and eased me. It had been many years since I had heard that old-fashioned tune. At the first chord on the piano a flood of memories rushed back to me.
I was once more a boy, in the library at home—lighted lamps and the curtains drawn—a fire blazed and crackled
My younger brothers sat on the floor near it, amusing themselves by fancying they saw monsters and castles in the depths of the flames.
My father was there
My sisters and my mother too.
Oh, misericorde!
What pain at the sight of her—
She is there now— before me at the piano, and I hear that melody.
And who is that boy sitting there,
—the hope and pride of his family. He is reading some book of Roman exploits and deeds of bravery—
His boyish soul is clean.
I am sorrowful unto madness.
I may not live to see the hour of dawn,
The hour of execution.
This grief will kill me
—that melody!
Long since the musicians have returned to their homes,
I still hear it, note for note.
Peace in my soul.
Forgive, Great Master, forgive Thy wandering sheep! I have strayed, my Lord, far—
ASHES
It was a large house on the outskirts of the town.
In the living room a fire blazed. Soft shaded lights—a contrast to the blizzard raging outside.
A small gathering of people for informal afternoon tea.
Lydia Stuart had come in rather late. She sat comfortably on a huge divan near the fire.
A picturesque magnetic figure, dressed in purple, with beautiful warm furs.
Rather dreamily she gazed at the fire. And mused to herself on the strangeness of life—
Ashes—
Something within her long ago had died. And the new Lydia had risen, stronger, better, for the horrible struggles against herself—
Against him.
Her art had been created by the ashes of a dead love.
She had conquered.
On the other side of the fireplace was standing the man she had once loved.
The man who had once possessed her every waking hour.
She had fought. An inward battle—a brave struggle—
In another town she had begged him not to see her—not to write.
Then later they had met unexpectedly at a ball—
There was music—many flowers—brightness—laughter—
His arms had held her close as they danced—
A flood of memories rushed across her mind.
For a moment she had stood with laughing lips—
It had been a moment of triumph.
Then, out of nothing—with no tie to the absorbing passing moment, the image of her mother rose in her thought.
The triumph gave way to a new compelling mood. She was choosing between two loves—
With cold, calculating eyes he had watched her as she moved across the floor—
A graceful figure in pink.
No one saw her as she slipped home—sad—the depths of her soul in burning conflict. The flowers she held fell unnoticed.
The greatest struggle of her life.
Dawn found her still fighting against the overpowering yearning.
Her art increased.
A dying part of Lydia gave power to a new-born personality—strong deep-seeing character grew up from the ashes of her former light self.
This afternoon, sitting on the great divan, she reflected and understood.
Perhaps she had overcome months before.
Till now she had not known.
At last—only ashes—where once had been love—
He stood there—looking at her.
She saw him only as a stranger—
She did not know him—save his name—
The new Lydia—the artist—could find nothing in common, no union of thought.
What strange lost element in her had once loved this man—
Lydia—risen from the ashes—walked out into the snow and cold. She felt her release to a new freedom. She could meet him again—without harm—
Anywhere—
At any time—
He was a stranger.
NANCY TURNER
Nancy Turner, Teacher of Dancing.
This inscription engraved on a brass plate had become as familiar to me as the grim row of terraces and the solemn-looking door to which it was nailed. How many times had I not passed it, as I walked from my house to my place of business. Passed it on snowy mornings and gray misty evenings, or in the summer time when birds chirruped and sang and the sun smiled down upon the earth. I had read it over and over again, as I was wont to do the names of the streets and squares, especially on my homeward walk. L—— Street—a turn to the right, the inscription on the door, B—— square—and I was already half-way home to my cheerful fireside, to my books and my violin; where Shakespeare, Milton and Beethoven would be ready at my whispered call to help me while away the hours of the evening.
But once as I passed this certain row of terraces, something, hitherto unknown, seemed to take possession of me. I began to see the sign in a new light and wondered why I had taken it for granted all these years,—and never once thought that indeed Nancy Turner must be a real person. It was true that I had never seen anyone enter the house, but then I passed it at hours when people would not be likely to be taking dancing lessons. I began to wonder at my being so absent-minded that I could for years read these five words and never have them leave more than a slight impression.
And suddenly I found myself wondering what sort of person this dancing teacher was. Surely young and talented, perhaps even beautiful. I mused about her half the way home. I even wove some strange and fanciful day dreams about her—when to my sorrow I remembered I was no longer young!
And therefore Nancy Turner was also middle-aged. For had not the inscription bearing her name been on that door ever since I was a young boy—perhaps long before my time.
For days I thought about her and failed in explanations to myself, of my sudden strange fascination for an unknown name.
The days flew by, and my curiosity to meet and talk with her only increased.
So one cold and gloomy evening I took courage and knocked at her door.
To my surprise the gruff voice of a man bade me enter. I found myself in a small room, blue with smoke and poorly furnished. An old man was cooking supper, as he hummed some weird old gypsy tune. He seemed scarcely to notice me and displayed neither surprise nor dissatisfaction at my sudden appearance. I murmured some excuse about being in the wrong house, that I was looking for Nancy Turner in order to learn about some of the newest dance steps.
And now you know the story of my life, of hers, and of your own, he said with a sigh. Strange that I should have asked your name. And stranger still that you came here as if led by the hand of Fate. But now that we have discovered that we are half brothers I hope you will come often to chat with me, here in this house where we were both born. I will tell you more about our beautiful mother, of her fame when she danced at the opera, of the days long ago when she and my father and I lived here so happily, of the tragedy—but no—let us forget the past. She forgave—therefore our friendship must be without shadow from the start.
THE PAWN-SHOP KEEPER
I am an old man and life has long since lost the glamor it once held for me. The thrills of youth are no more, novelty is a forgotten word, and things that once would have made my heart leap now leave me cold. Old age indeed is in itself a punishment for the follies of youth and sad is it to await alone the coming of death without some loved face near. For one by one the friends of bygone days have dropped by the roadside and I have been left alone to follow my weary way. Happy they who die while still young and do not know the solitude of a lonely old man.
Day after day, as I sit behind my counter, or warm my old hands by the cheerful blaze of the fire, do customers come to me to buy something or perhaps to sell some loved relic in order that they may live.
All of them faces strange and new. They look at me as if to say Why this one dried leaf of another year left on this tree? Aye, and why am I left—Why among these young, green leaves am I the only withered one? Why were no companions left to cheer me?
But these are questions I can not answer, for I know not the ways of God.
As I sit here musing over the past, faces I have known come back to me and I love to wonder what fate held in store for them, as advancing, the filmy mists of their futures were slowly lifted until the last veil was drawn back and the story of their lives was told.
The snow is falling and covering in white the grim rows of houses opposite my little shop, the streets are deserted save by a few hurrying pedestrians and some merry school children going down to the frozen river for an hour's skating before dusk—
And I am here before the fire, dreaming and waiting, for yesterday brought me an experience very different from my usual monotonous life.
Was it all some phantom? It must be.
The Miriam that I have longed for all these years was not here yesterday, did not sit in this very chair. It must have been a vision, the mere fancy of an old man's mind. For how many times in sleep has not the same dream come to me as a whispered message from another world, from her grave even—and on awakening I always seemed to know that her journey through life was at an end.
But no, it was not a phantom, for here is the necklace. Then it was not a dream. Fate has really sent her to me so we can cheer each other in these, the last hours of our earthly lives.
But will she come back today as she promised? Or will she depart again, this time for good, so that I shall see her no more until I have crossed the River of Death.
O Miriam, come to me, I need you more now than ever before. Come, I am waiting with outstretched arms.
Yes, she is coming. I see the yet distant form of the one I love. She is approaching, coming ever nearer. Miriam, what happiness we shall yet have together, in the dusk of our lives, what pleasant hours here by the fire—
Death, kindly death, come now to me. She passed by my shop and turned the corner and went toward the station. Her heart then is still cold as stone.
It was the money I paid her for the necklace that bought her ticket to another town——
SOMETHING PROVINCIAL
The little house in Pemborough Square had been vacant for many years.
No lights through the closed shutters—
No smoke from the chimneys—
Evening—
An old woman was sitting on the doorstep muttering to herself in some strange tongue—
Her vague eyes saw neither the square nor its straight rows of trees—
Only something far away—a memory perhaps
Some tragedy lay hidden in her heart.
Many years ago this small house had been occupied by a family with several children—children that played games in the great garden behind.
A young woman had been much with the little troop of children.
They had all loved her who played with them as if a child herself and in happy hours had sung French songs to them.
She had gone away, they had heard to the Island of Madeira.
—and the children soon forgot their sweet friend.
On the steps of this now abandoned house sat the muttering old woman.
The sound of quick steps aroused her—she peered through the gathering gloom—
A young man was coming nearer
The woman rose slowly to her feet and waited rigidly
It is you—you! she whispered hoarsely—
Her words went like shots at the slight figure, now perceptible
He stopped abruptly and shuddered like one accused of crime.
I do not know you, he managed to say. He had a flat thin voice.
You once lived in this house, the woman said menacingly.
He shuddered again and stepped back
The young man began to wonder. Could she be the sweet French woman that the village children had loved—
that he, the eldest of the little group had in his boyish awakening been romantic over—
The gypsy sensed his admission of her charge.
She went on—Do you know who you are?
Do you know where you got your black hair?
He lifted his hand unsteadily in the direction of his head.
The old creature nodded and fixed him with her fierce eyes.
I am not your mother
Neither was the woman you called by that name.
The young man gasped.
His body grew tense.
He remembered his adored mother whose grave he visited every Sunday morning.
He made an effort to think that this was only a gypsy—an impostor—
The woman was speaking—
Neither your father nor mother ever knew that you were not their child.
Their little boy is dead
You filled his place.
Her voice sank almost to a breath.
I placed you in his cradle.
An intolerable silence.
I loved your father
You never knew that he was a Portuguese nobleman.
Did you ever hear of Madeira, she asked sharply
It was there that one by one all the passions of love—hatred—revenge had torn my heart. He married and came to England—I followed—repulsed, ignored.
My only weapon against him—was to contrive—the death—of his little son.
She caught a shuddering breath.
I could not—
I hid it securely.
Once again I visited Madeira. On the steps of the Church I stabbed my enemy among the flowers in that land of beauty—a crime to darken its perfection.
So you belong to me—
You owe me much—
All that you can pay.
The little sum of money he had in the Postal Savings rose into his mind—and gave him amazing steadiness
His voice sounded loud and full in his own ears
You lie! he shouted suddenly.
You lie! you fiend! Come into the daylight.
He was tearing his mind free from the influence of the place, the shadows—the possessing voice of the woman.
She crouched back toward the door.
It is you—you! she muttered accusingly.
No, by Heaven, it's you! he cried. I see through you now
Two men came running attracted by his loud voice
They lead the gypsy to a place of security
It is you, she kept muttering to each in turn.
The young man walked behind with straightened back and shining eyes.
CONFLICT
It is night—a moonlight night in the Orient—
The earth is flooded in mystic beauty—
Midnight songbirds in the trees.
And the Palace of the Sultan—great marble halls—fountains of running water—moonlight shining in.
Strange, weird music of the desert played by slaves.
It is the picturesque setting of a strange tale—a tale of inward struggle.
The Sultan—lying amid splendor, vivid coloring of the East—softened by the night's mysterious light.
Among flowers and heavily-scented perfumes.
His dancing girls have left—his bronzed face—framed in black hair—his dark eyes—wear a look, an expression of satisfied desire—Life holds nothing new for him—only the continuation of old pleasures.
At last a heavy portière is lifted.
Perhaps you were expecting an oriental girl of dark beauty—a slave—
The girl advancing to the Sultan's couch is European—a Russian of noble birth.
Among the palms of the Orient—almost as a slave she sojourns in the palace of the Sultan.
Only one of many, a passionate love holds her there.
Ever following—pursuing, is the other self—the gentle nature, which understands neither passion nor envy. The self which still fears and loves—yet—has no courage for prayer. And the spirit of this gentle nature whispers to the dominant one—
Lift yourself up and come away—I will lead you far from the moonlight—the overpowering perfumes—into the bleak light of day—peace will find you.
No—the stillness of the night—the kisses of my Sultan content me. But soon the inner voice cried so loud—even the moonlight could not quiet it.
Pulling against the inner self—her heart must break.
The soft music of the slaves—once it had soothed her—but now—
It was the howling wind of a northern land—of Russia—or the pealing of a bell—There had been a chapel in the dark Zamok where her childhood had been spent.
The inner voice called Katherine—but could not yet overcome the blood which flowed in Katherine's veins—the blood of a favorite of a Czar.
Sometimes in the light of day the inner, other self of Katherine would overcome—would want to flee—but ever the mysticism of Oriental nights would draw out more strongly than before the tainted blood of the unfortunate.
Finally the Sultan grew disdainful—There were newer girls brought from Mecca, from the desert.
The great—the inevitable conflict with her inner self left her torn—haggard.
For days she hung between life and death—with no one to care, save an old colored slave.
Gone the mystic atmosphere of the Orient—the music of cymbals.
A provincial town in France—with the ill-lighted streets—and a steady down-pour of winter rain.
It is Christmas eve
Through the window Katherine has been watching a procession of people hastening to midnight Mass at the Cathedral. Women—dressed in the picturesque garb and coif of Brittany—men and children—What peace is theirs—they know of the Christ Child—of his Mother—and no streams of lowest passion—can cover their souls.
The Cathedral of Nantes has stood in its Gothic beauty for many centuries—has witnessed many scenes.
That night a soul struggled against the past.
A woman—she was alive—for she walked—moved. But within—she was numb.
She lay almost fainting on the steps of a side Altar—before the crèche—
Her inner self was pleading—Katherine—live again!
Presently the Adeste Fidelis sounded—throbbed—filled the church
How beautiful—she murmured.
The memory of the Sultan rose and fell each time at the sight of the candles, the acolytes in prayer. A vision so fierce and lustful could not live in this sacred place.
My child—advised the old Priest—pray—pray always for forgiveness—for enlightenment—for guidance. One who seeks these things as fervently as you do always finds.
THAT NIGHT HIS SORROW WAS LIFTED.
All ye are Christ's and Christ is God.—Saint Paul
High in the mountains,
above the cities
where all was calm—peaceful—
a golden moon shone down
lighting bare branches and fallen leaves—
lighting the dark pines—
It shone on the lake, in a valley in the mountains,
making golden streaks upon the waters—
Christ walked on earth that night and stopped near the shore of the lake
He looked into its depths—
at the sky—at the moon—
and felt the cold night air on His Face.
A great sadness had overcome Him.
God had reflected a corner of Heaven to men on Earth—
and they did not pause in pleasure or in sorrow—
no one felt the beauty of those mountains.
He stood alone by the lake—
again looked into its depths—
What peace—what beauty—
Down below—
men grappled with death
not beautiful death
but hatred—lust—filled their souls.
They killed—were killed——
The agonizing sorrow of Gethsemane again swept over Christ, as He stood by the Lake
and wondered if men would ever be worthy of the gift of life—
if they would ever make it beautiful—and not terrible—
They were endowed with a certain freedom—
they used it to make wars—
to think of barbarous machines that would kill and torture—
The fiendish cries of battle were in the great valley below—
Cannons roared
and flashed a red glare into the sky—
Tears filled His eyes as He thought of the unprepared souls which were being hurled into Eternity—
on both sides of the battle line—
The broken homes—
His heart was breaking in sorrow for the people He loved so well—
Moon streaks were playing on the water—
The cold night air blew through the trees.
Christ wept—
men surely were not worthy of life—
of the beauty which filled the world—
He turned away—
and still hearing the noise of battle—
walked under the pines—
He came upon a small cabin—
sheltered by tall trees—
the roof was covered by fallen leaves—
a light shone from the window.
Inside—a babe slept in its cradle—
and the mother gently rocked it—
singing a soft lullaby—
Her thoughts were with him, in the valley below—battling in the iron clutch of war—
Scarcely knowing for what—or for whom he fought—
She kissed her babe
and knelt down before its cradle—
Oh Christ—
help me in my hour of need.
protect him—
protect my child—
The sorrow of Christ had gone—
The mother's soul leaned to Him—
for help—
unconsciously she had helped Him—
on that night of beauty in the mountains—
when below—the world was being torn—ravaged—
The noise of battle died away from Him—
He heard only the prayer—
the soft breathing of the child and the whispering of
the trees—
He gathered the mother's prayer into His heart
and blessed her as He walked away
Yes—men were worthy—
this hysteria of war would pass
Peace and love would come.