Faintly—
Speak, speak—Angel or demon, or both, speak to me before I throw you into the sea.
Thestorm raged in all its fury around the house, and the rain beat down—
Speak, or I'll break you into a thousand pieces.
Butthe 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.
Nightcame 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.
WhenI 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.
Thestorm 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.
Hemust 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.
Thewind 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.
Thestorm 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 theAngel broken by hammer and chisel on the floor. Its smiling face seemed to forgive all the madness of the night.
Fromwhat 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.
Hecould not think yet—he would later on. He had been mad—he remembered the doctor saying so—In France—shell shock.
Ithad 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.
Theattendant 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.
Shewas only one of his many phantoms.
A nightof untold beauty.
Cobwebson the heavens.
A graywinter sky, brightened by the moon shining through it.
Barebranches of hundreds of trees interlacing their silvery boughs.
Anda cottage with thatched roof and square leaded panes—a setting for romance, for dreams of visionary splendor.
Isthe master at home, asked a strange woman of the old man servant.
Hehas not yet returned.
ThenI will wait for him.
Anddespite the protests of the servant, Donna Maria entered the room. It was a story and a half in height.
Therewas a huge fireplace, and everywhere, without arrangement, in the happy disorder of a studio, were canvases and palettes.
Anothersetting for romance.
Butromance—at least for tonight—has not found its way to the studio in the woods.
Therewas perhaps some intuition, some forewarning of disaster in the mind of Robert Hale. He walkedabstractedly, untouched by the beauty of the night.
Hewas deep in the inner experience of the conception of a new picture.
Heentered his house.
Thereis a woman, sir.
A woman——but I want to be alone.
Theold servant slept—roused for a moment by the closing of a door.
She'sgone, he muttered—and slept again.
Throughthe splendor of the night they went—through its mystery, its beauty.
She, tense, frightened lest her power should fail on the verge of success—
Hein a kind of trance, with wavering mind—strange thoughts—nothing clear—a haze
Theystopped under a great oak.
Doyou remember your Egyptian Dancer asked Donna Maria for the hundredth time.
EgyptianDancer, he answered tonelessly. No, I tell you I killed him.
Witha sense of victory she led him on through the night.
Hermind incessantly repeated to the overpowered mind of the artist
Youkilled him———You killed him.
Thealienist gave his testimony. The prisoner was mad. Clearly.
Toevery question he responded—I killed him.
Andendlessly the court room resounded with dull, monotonous voices
Somepleading for—some against the artist.
Donna Mariawas satisfied.
Shewould go away and Robert—well, no matter—
Shehated him.
Hehad scorned her advances—her coquettish smiles, years ago in Rome when he was a student.
Shehad been unable to forget. Her pride was like an open wound.
Halewas acquitted.
Buthis mind was gone. A harmless type of insanity expressing itself in vague reiterations of a fixed idea.
Dayafter 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—
Hebegan to struggle, got his stroke and swam.
Didyou kill the Banker Brunton, the physician inquired gently.
TheBanker Brunton—Hale asked curiously—Inever heard of him.
A trainof thought seemed starting.
ButI remember a woman—she dropped her muff—I stooped to pick it up
Shemust have struck me—
Orwas it her eyes!
Once, long ago—in Rome—she tried to influence me that way.
I despiseher.
Whenshe came back I was tired. I gave in. Let's not talk about it.
Thephysician looked at Hale with the look of a kind big brother.
Thenhe went to the telephone.
Thisis 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.
Whydid 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.
Atfirst their music only irritated me and kept me from counting properly the iron bars. Then it enraged me, that woman with the soprano voice—
ButI counted my iron bars—
Suddenlythe pain, worse than any I had ever known,—remorse, sorrow, longing,—crowded into my soul. I felt as if I should die.
A manat 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 ofmemories rushed back to me.
I wasonce more a boy, in the library at home—lighted lamps and the curtains drawn—a fire blazed and crackled
Myyounger brothers sat on the floor near it, amusing themselves by fancying they saw monsters and castles in the depths of the flames.
Myfather was there
Mysisters and my mother too.
Oh,misericorde!
Whatpain at the sight of her—
Sheis there now— before me at the piano, and I hear that melody.
Andwho is that boy sitting there,—the hope and pride of his family. He is reading some book of Roman exploits and deeds of bravery—
Hisboyish soul is clean.
I amsorrowful unto madness.
I maynot live to see the hour of dawn,
Thehour of execution.
Thisgrief will kill me—that melody!
Longsince the musicians have returned to their homes,
I stillhear it, note for note.
Motherto welcome me—
Peacein my soul.
Forgive, Great Master, forgive Thy wandering sheep! I have strayed, my Lord, far—
I repent—I come—
Itwas a large house on the outskirts of the town.
Inthe living room a fire blazed. Soft shaded lights—a contrast to the blizzard raging outside.
A smallgathering of people for informal afternoon tea.
Lydia Stuarthad come in rather late. She sat comfortably on a huge divan near the fire.
A picturesquemagnetic figure, dressed in purple, with beautiful warm furs.
Ratherdreamily she gazed at the fire. And mused to herself on the strangeness of life—
Ashes—
Somethingwithin her long ago had died. And the new Lydia had risen, stronger, better, for the horrible struggles against herself—
Againsthim.
Herart had been created by the ashes of a dead love.
Shehad conquered.
Onthe other side of the fireplace was standing the man she had once loved.
Theman who had once possessed her every waking hour.
Shehad fought. An inward battle—a brave struggle—
Inanother town she had begged him not to see her—not to write.
Thenlater they had met unexpectedly at a ball—
Therewas music—many flowers—brightness—laughter—
Hisarms had held her close as they danced—
A floodof memories rushed across her mind.
Fora moment she had stood with laughing lips—
Ithad 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.
Thetriumph gave way to a new compelling mood. She was choosing between two loves—
Withcold, calculating eyes he had watched her as she moved across the floor—
A gracefulfigure in pink.
Noone saw her as she slipped home—sad—the depths of her soul in burning conflict. The flowers she held fell unnoticed.
Thegreatest struggle of her life.
Dawnfound her still fighting against the overpowering yearning.
Formonths she struggled.
Herart increased.
A dyingpart of Lydia gave power to a new-born personality—strong deep-seeing character grew up from the ashes of her former light self.
Thisafternoon, sitting on the great divan, she reflected and understood.
Perhapsshe had overcome months before.
Tillnow she had not known.
Atlast—only ashes—where once had been love—
Hestood there—looking at her.
Shesaw him only as a stranger—
Shedid not know him—save his name—
Thenew Lydia—the artist—could find nothing in common, no union of thought.
Whatstrange 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—
Atany time—
Hewas a stranger.
Nancy Turner, Teacher of Dancing.
Thisinscription 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.
Butonce 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 athours 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.
Andsuddenly 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!
Andtherefore 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.
Fordays I thought about her and failed in explanations to myself, of my sudden strange fascination for an unknown name.
Thedays flew by, and my curiosity to meet and talk with her only increased.
Soone cold and gloomy evening I took courage and knocked at her door.
Tomy 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 seemedscarcely 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.
Andnow 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.
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.
Allof 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 whatfate 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—
AndI 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? Orwill 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——
Thelittle house in Pemborough Square had been vacant for many years.
Nolights through the closed shutters—
Nosmoke from the chimneys—
Evening—
Anold woman was sitting on the doorstep muttering to herself in some strange tongue—
Hervague eyes saw neither the square nor its straight rows of trees—
Onlysomething far away—a memory perhaps
Sometragedy lay hidden in her heart.
Manyyears ago this small house had been occupied by a family with several children—children that played games in the great garden behind.
A youngwoman had been much with the little troop of children.
Theyhad all loved her who played with them as if a child herself and in happy hours had sung French songs to them.
Shehad gone away, they had heard to the Island of Madeira.—and the children soon forgot their sweet friend.
Onthe steps of this now abandoned house sat the muttering old woman.
Thesound of quick steps aroused her—she peered through the gathering gloom—
A youngman was coming nearer
Thewoman rose slowly to her feet and waited rigidly
Itis you—you! she whispered hoarsely—
Herwords went like shots at the slight figure, now perceptible
Hestopped abruptly and shuddered like one accused of crime.
I donot know you, he managed to say. He had a flat thin voice.
Youonce lived in this house, the woman said menacingly.
Heshuddered again and stepped back
Theyoung 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—
Thegypsy sensed his admission of her charge.
Shewent on—Do you know who you are?
Doyou know where you got your black hair?
Helifted his hand unsteadily in the direction of his head.
Theold creature nodded and fixed him with her fierceeyes.
I amnot your mother
Neitherwas the woman you called by that name.
Theyoung man gasped.
Hisbody grew tense.
Heremembered his adored mother whose grave he visited every Sunday morning.
Hemade an effort to think that this was only a gypsy—an impostor—
Thewoman was speaking—
Neitheryour father nor mother ever knew that you were not their child.
Theirlittle boy is dead
Youfilled his place.
Hervoice sank almost to a breath.
I placedyou in his cradle.
Anintolerable silence.
I lovedyour father
Younever knew that he was a Portuguese nobleman.
Didyou ever hear of Madeira, she asked sharply
Itwas 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.
Myonly weapon against him—was to contrive—the death—of his little son.
Butto kill a child—
Shecaught a shuddering breath.
I couldnot—
I hidit securely.
Onceagain 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.
Soyou belong to me—
Youowe me much—
Allthat you can pay.
Thelittle sum of money he had in the Postal Savings rose into his mind—and gave him amazing steadiness
Hisvoice sounded loud and full in his own ears
Youlie! he shouted suddenly.
Youlie! you fiend! Come into the daylight.
Hewas tearing his mind free from the influence of the place, the shadows—the possessing voice of the woman.
Shecrouched back toward the door.
Itis you—you! she muttered accusingly.
No, by Heaven, it's you! he cried. I see through you now
Twomen came running attracted by his loud voice
Theylead the gypsy to a place of security
Itis you, she kept muttering to each in turn.
Theyoung man walked behind with straightened back and shining eyes.
Itis night—a moonlight night in the Orient—
Theearth is flooded in mystic beauty—
Midnightsongbirds in the trees.
Andthe Palace of the Sultan—great marble halls—fountains of running water—moonlight shining in.
Strange, weird music of the desert played by slaves.
Itis the picturesque setting of a strange tale—a tale of inward struggle.
TheSultan—lying amid splendor, vivid coloring of the East—softened by the night's mysterious light.
Amongflowers and heavily-scented perfumes.
Hisdancing 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.
Atlast a heavy portière is lifted.
Perhapsyou were expecting an oriental girl of dark beauty—a slave—
Thegirl advancing to the Sultan's couch is European—a Russian of noble birth.
Amongthe palms of the Orient—almost as a slave she sojourns in the palace of the Sultan.
Onlyone of many, a passionate love holds her there.
Everfollowing—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.
Pullingagainst the inner self—her heart must break.
Thesoft music of the slaves—once it had soothed her—but now—
Itwas 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.
Theinner voice called Katherine—but could not yet overcome the blood which flowed in Katherine's veins—the blood of a favorite of a Czar.
Sometimesin 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 theunfortunate.
Finallythe Sultan grew disdainful—There were newer girls brought from Mecca, from the desert.
Thegreat—the inevitable conflict with her inner self left her torn—haggard.
Fordays she hung between life and death—with no one to care, save an old colored slave.
Gonethe mystic atmosphere of the Orient—the music of cymbals.
A provincialtown in France—with the ill-lighted streets—and a steady down-pour of winter rain.
Itis Christmas eve
Throughthe 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.
TheCathedral of Nantes has stood in its Gothic beauty for many centuries—has witnessed many scenes.
Thatnight a soul struggled against the past.
A woman—she was alive—for she walked—moved. But within—she was numb.
Shelay almost fainting on the steps of a side Altar—before the crèche—
Herinner self was pleading—Katherine—live again!
Presentlythe Adeste Fidelis sounded—throbbed—filled the church
Howbeautiful—she murmured.
Thememory 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.
Mychild—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.
All ye are Christ's and Christ is God.—Saint Paul
Highin the mountains,above the citieswhere all was calm—peaceful—a golden moon shone downlighting bare branches and fallen leaves—lighting the dark pines—
Itshone on the lake, in a valley in the mountains,making golden streaks upon the waters—
Christwalked on earth that night and stopped near the shore of the lake
Helooked into its depths—at the sky—at the moon—and felt the cold night air on His Face.
A greatsadness had overcome Him.
Godhad 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.
Hestood alone by the lake—again looked into its depths—
Whatpeace—what beauty—
Downbelow—men grappled with deathnot beautiful deathbut hatred—lust—filled their souls.
Theykilled—were killed——
Theagonizing sorrow of Gethsemane again swept over Christ, as He stood by the Lakeand wondered if men would ever be worthy of the gift of life—if they would ever make it beautiful—and not terrible—
Theywere endowed with a certain freedom—they used it to make wars—to think of barbarous machines that would kill and torture—
Thefiendish cries of battle were in the great valley below—
Cannonsroaredand flashed a red glare into the sky—
Tearsfilled His eyes as He thought of the unprepared souls which were being hurled into Eternity—on both sides of the battle line—
Thebroken homes—
Hisheart was breaking in sorrow for the people He loved so well—
Moonstreaks were playing on the water—
Thecold night air blew through the trees.
Christwept—men surely were not worthy of life—of the beauty which filled the world—
Heturned away—and still hearing the noise of battle—walked under the pines—
Hecame 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—
Herthoughts were with him, in the valley below—battling in the iron clutch of war—
Scarcelyknowing for what—or for whom he fought—
Shekissed her babeand knelt down before its cradle—
OhChrist—help me in my hour of need.protect him—protect my child—
Thesorrow of Christ had gone—
Themother'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—
Thenoise of battle died away from Him—
Heheard only the prayer—the soft breathing of the child and the whispering ofthe trees—
Hegathered the mother's prayer into His heartand blessed her as He walked away
Yes—men were worthy—this hysteria of war would pass
Peaceand love would come.