Black is White

by George Barr McCutcheon

As he made his way back to Broadway, somewhat hazily bent on following that thoroughfare up to the district where the night glittered and the stars were shamed, he began turning over in his mind a queer notion that had just suggested itself to him, filtering through the maze of uncertainty in which he had been floundering. It occurred to him that he had been mawkishly sentimental in respect to his father. He was seriously impressed by the feelings that had mastered him, but he found himself ridiculing the idea that his father stood in peril of any description. And suddenly, out of no particular trend of thought, groped the sly, persistent suspicion that he had not been altogether responsible for the sensations of an hour ago. Some outside influence had moulded his emotions, some cunning brain had been doing his thinking for him!

Then came the sharp recollection of that motionless, commanding figure in the lighted window, and his own puzzling behaviour on the side-walk outside. He recalled his impression that someone has called out to him just before he turned to look up at the window. It was all quite preposterous, he kept on saying over and over again to himself, and yet he could not shake off the uncanny feeling.

Like a shot there flashed into his brain the startling question: was Ranjab the solution? Was it Ranjab's mind and not his own that had moved him to such tender resolves? Could such a condition be possible? Was there such a thing as mind control?

He laughed aloud, and was startled by the sound of his own voice. The idea was preposterous! Such a thing could not have been possible. They were his own thoughts, his own emotions, coming from his own brain, his own heart.

An hour later Frederic approached the box-office of the theatre mentioned by Yvonne over the telephone that morning. The play was half over and the house was sold out. He bought a ticket of admission, however, and lined up with others who were content to stand at the back to witness the play.

He had walked past the theatre three or four times before finally making up his mind to enter, and even then his intentions were not quite clear. He only knew that he was consciously committing an act that he was ashamed of, an act so inexcusable that his face burned as he thought of the struggle he had had with himself up to the moment he stood at the box-office window.

Inside the theatre he leaned weakly against the railing at the back of the auditorium and wiped his brow. What was it that had dragged him there against his will, in direct opposition to his dogged determination to shun the place? The curtain was up, the house was still, save for the occasional coughing of those who succumb to a habit that can neither be helped nor explained.

There were people moving on the stage, but Frederic had no eyes for them. He was seeking in the darkness for the two figures that he knew were somewhere in the big, tense throng.

Hundreds of backs confronted him, no faces. A sensation not far removed from stealth took possession of him. His searching eyes were furtive in their quest. If he had been lonely before, he was doubly so now. The very presence of the multitude filled him with a sickening sense of emptiness. He was friendless there, with all those contented backs for company. Not one among them all had a thought for him, not one turned so much as an inch from the engrossing scene that held them in its grip. Straight, immovable, unresponsive backs—nothing but backs!

Again he asked of himself, why was he there? And he pitied himself so vastly that his throat contracted as with pain. His soul sickened. The truth was being revealed to him as he stood there and with aching eyes searched throughout the serried rows of backs. It came home to him all of a sudden that his quest was a gleaming white back and a small, exquisitely poised head crowned with black.