CHAPTER III
To have felt anything of the brightness of early morning here was quite out of the question. The same feeling of utter loneliness and depression that accompanied me when I fell asleep was with me when I rose. As I passed down the staircase the sight of those wretched, wizened dwarfs filled me with more gloomy thought than I had even entertained the night before.
When I reached the bottom step I saw sitting there that figure of which Plucritus had spoken laughingly as some great queen of the past. She got up as I stood there, and came and fawned upon me, rubbing against me like some pet animal.
At the first touch my immediate instinct was to recoil, for never until near contact could one fully recognise the utter degradation of such a creature. But along with this feeling came another in consideration of her past majesty and her lost humanity, and I stood still and received the caress pretty much as a sentinel on duty would have done. To those who might have a turn that way there was something distinctly humorous in this, and so evidently someone thought, for at this instant I heard a laugh, very clear and mirthful, come from down the hall I had entered. It was Vestné, coming towards us, her hands clasped behind her, and in that simplest robe which spirits wear. She was evidently not oppressed with any of the heaviness which hung round me: she looked more light and brilliant than the night before. Her head was thrown back a little to one side.
“If you knew how comical you looked,” she said, with very little malice but much amusement, “you would really try to appear more at home. This creature is perfectly harmless—as harmless as she is ugly—that’s saying a great deal. But you drew up as frigidly as if she’d been a snake, and then seemed to have the wish to unbend but not the power. Now, if you don’t like their caresses, and I can sympathise with you, as I cannot myself tolerate one of them, just kick them off. For my own part I would not have one of them about the place, but it is a whim of Plucritus. He likes to see them now and then when he comes home, so they are less confined here than at most of the places round.”
“Where are they usually kept then?” I inquired.
“Oh, they live in the back wings of the palace,” she answered. “Some of them are very happy there, and have quite nice little homes. At least, so Plucritus says, but I never trouble to go, it doesn’t interest me.”
At a table by one of the windows in this large hall breakfast had been laid. She led the way and I followed, the deformed slave having limped away on her mistress’s approach.
I noticed that here we were being served by two tall footmen in splendid livery, whereas the night before everything had been removed and brought by a power corresponding to electricity.
When they had gone I remarked on this to her, and asked why, as such was the case with two beings, all the rest were not allowed to retain at least some of this lost and human beauty.
At first she did not answer, but at last she gave some kind of an explanation.
“Well, you see,” said she, “it costs a great deal to alter them from their natural state. These two were sent last night after your arrival to a friend of ours who is rather clever at transformations. It needs a thorough knowledge of human nature, and a thorough knowledge of their past history, before anything really effective can be produced. But those two are admirable specimens, and as long as they remain in good condition I have no objection to them.”
“May I ask you how the transformation is brought about?”
“Perhaps I ought not to tell you,” she replied. “But still I will, for it is so delightful to talk to a complete stranger. Let us say those two men were in their lifetime built up of selfishness. Naturally when they came here they had to be broken into harness, and before that could be done the selfishness had to be drawn out of them.”
Here she smiled slightly. “Naturally nothing would be left but spiritual skin and bone, which when put under extreme pressure contracts and leaves those stunted creatures you have noticed. Now this friend of whom I spoke has a very delightful hobby. He collects small portions of the essence of all sins, since not even the wealthiest can afford to buy much, except what comes to them by actual possession, and stores them away. Then if any of us wish to have our slaves transformed at any time to their original likeness he will do it for us. He builds them up from what they were originally, selfish, hypocritical, deceitful, ambitious, whatever it may be. Naturally like clings to like, and so in a master hand the whole is soon built up. But for every atom of the original sin he introduces five of decay, so that they cannot last long in that condition, and have to be renewed unless allowed to return to their former state.”
“And do you not prefer to have them in this state than in their naked ugliness?”
She shook her head and smiled.
“No. We like as far as possible to be fair, and it is impossible to transform the whole and keep them in good repair, therefore we leave them as they naturally are. The sight of these two, as it is, will only provoke the envy and spite of all the rest, so they won’t have a happy time of it after all.”
“Then why have you transformed them?” I asked.
“Plucritus said you liked outward show,” she answered. “And moreover, our friend was in a mood to be cruel, and sent round to know if anyone had slaves who wanted punishing.”
“Then does the process entail suffering?”
“Of course,” she replied. “It could not be done otherwise. I have a brother who has wealth unbounded, and all his slaves are thus constructed; but Plucritus is somewhat after the nature of a philanthropist and is rather inclined to spoil than ill-use his servants as long as they do their work well.”
“And if not?” I inquired, interested.
“Well, then, I suppose they have a lively time of it. I never distinctly asked, though. But tell me, what you intend to do to-day?”
“I am quite at a loss. Not being either in my own land or on the earth I am unacquainted with the way the time is spent.”
“You may walk through the grounds if you wish. I am at your disposal and will show you everything of interest.”
“I am afraid I am in that mood when very little interests me.”
“Then will you walk through the picture-galleries? You might find something of interest there if you care for art.”
“I have no particular wish to visit the galleries.”
“But you must do something,” she laughed. “You’ll have to do something. You can’t sit here all day.”
“No,” I remarked, rising. “I will go through the grounds—but alone, I need no companion.”
“Well, you may go alone if you wish it,” she declared, “but I will join you there. Solitude is not good for people; it makes them get into a ‘I’ll do this,’ and ‘I’ll do that,’ and ‘you’re not wanted,’ sort of way, which is very bad for them.”
So I went out alone, leaving her to follow when she cared.
It was quite true that the morning light was shining clear and bright, that the birds were singing and the fountain playing, but it was simply an unreal dream picture to me. I walked from terrace to terrace, descended steps and passed through grottoes, looked at the marvellous fountains and the curious fishes swimming in their basins; I passed down avenues of trees and flowers of softest shade and sweetest fragrance, and at last reached a spot where I heard the sound of the deep dark river. To me there was more reality about this heavy flowing stream than about anything around. I passed down a steep path that led to its banks and stood there looking in the inky tide. Like all deep silent things it had the power to keep me deep in thought. I am not quite sure but that its ever-lapping, flowing waters soothed me, for there I sat watching it and scanning the waste drear land beyond, scarcely conscious of anything besides.
I was aroused by Vestné calling me from above.
“Now I knew if I left you alone,” she explained, “you would come to the most dangerous spot. If you sit here much longer the dregs will poison you, as the vapour is ever rising.”
“I was feeling a much-wished-for restfulness,” I observed.
“It is the effects of the poison,” she returned. “I must beg of you to come away. If you are poisoned I shall be held responsible. Surely you will come away, if only to relieve me from the discomfort of that position.”
Thereupon I got up ungraciously; this interference seemed to me to be very uncalled-for.
“If you wish it I will come away, but can you show me another place as good?”
“I really don’t know,” she answered. “You have such peculiar tastes. Suppose, instead of moving about, you go to the library and write.”
“Write what?”
“Oh, don’t ask me. Anything.”
“I never wrote a line in my life,” I rejoined irritably, turning off on a path away from her. But if by that I hoped or thought to get rid of her I was much mistaken. She followed me without speaking the whole length of a rhododendron walk, and then through a bower twined with honeysuckle and red roses. At the end of it I turned to her again.
“Well?” said I.
“I’ve hit on an excellent plan,” she answered, as if irritation were a thing unknown to her.
“Indeed,” I exclaimed. “Then like all excellent things it can keep.” And I walked on.
At last we came back again to the long terrace and I began to ascend the steps, but she ran up them lightly and waited on the top step right in my path.
“I’ve thought of an excellent plan,” she ventured, when I was still three steps from her.
“What is it?”
“You and I shall write a play together. I will write it and you can dictate it. That will be excellent, it will pass the time away.”
I smiled. “If I helped you to write it, that would be a sure guarantee that it would fail.”
She shook her head. “Not at all,” she cried. “When you got too prosy I would put in a dash of my own position to enliven it.”
“Then we should get to quarreling,” I interposed.
“Not we,” she said. “I should have the common sense to keep my remarks to myself.”
“I see. And who would act it when written?”
“We would. I don’t mean you, but myself and some of my friends. Come, let’s go.”
But I shook my head.
“I have not the slightest inclination to write plays at the present moment, nor to dictate them.” And I sat down on the steps. After a minute’s hesitation she sat down too.
“I’ve hit on another plan,” she suggested.
“What is it?”
“Let us quarrel.”
“You may begin; if it seems worth while I will join you.”
She got up without speaking, and passing behind me came and sat down by my side.
I passed no remark, neither did I move. She waited for a little while, then very quietly she laid her left hand on mine—and there certainly was cause enough for dispute, since on her middle finger shone my own ring—the one with which I had sacrificed everything except existence. I stared at it in surprise and displeasure and then at her.
“Who gave you that?”
“I think I must have stolen it,” she answered, and still she left her hand in mine. Then as quietly as I could I removed her hand and got up. She rose also, and into her eyes had flashed all that anger which I had occasionally seen gleam in the eyes of Plucritus.
“Why do you not ask me for it?” she said.
“It is not yours to return,” I replied.
I remember at this she laughed scornfully and drew the ring from her finger and looked at it.
“I do not think you will ever wear this again,” she went on. “It has been altered to fit my hand. And though an inexpensive trifle it is a pretty ornament—which I should not consent to part with.”
“Since it fits you, you had better wear it,” I remarked. “It was lost fairly, and, as I understand, can only be returned on one condition. As that condition is an impossibility it is much more yours than mine, and I may congratulate you upon the rearrangement of the centre setting.”
“What was it that ever made you relinquish your right to it?” she asked.
“Since you are wearing it you must know,” I answered.
“Not the entire facts,” said she. “Now, tell it me as a story and I will listen carefully.”
“I should speak as a prejudiced narrator,” I declared. “You had better ask Plucritus.”
“But he would speak as a prejudiced narrator too.”
“And you would be prejudiced in his favour, so that you would receive his statement much more readily.”
“Are the women on earth always prejudiced in favour of their husbands?”
“I do not know. I have never distinctly lived on earth.”
“Doesn’t it agree with you?”
I laughed. “I have not wit enough to grasp the human intellect,” I replied. “I had always complimented myself that there was a great similarity between the two worlds.”
“How old are you?” she queried abruptly.
“Alternately as old and young as I appear to be.”
“So am I, so are we all,” she observed softly. “Is not the scene round here magnificent?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Are those forms on the horizon hills or clouds?”
“They are hills,” she said. “Beyond the hills lies one of our great cities. Some day you shall go there—it is very interesting. But now let us return to the house, as I have much to do before the mid-day meal.”
Together we went back into the palace, and to the library. There I saw were many newspapers for the day piled together on the table.
She sat down beside these with pen and ink and paper, and opening the first at the leading article began to scan the lines. Seeing that the papers really came from the earth I drew nearer.
“What are you doing?” I asked at length, when I had watched her busily employed in underlining and writing out various statements from each column.
“I’m copying out all the lies,” she answered simply.
“The what?” I asked again.
“The untruths,” she said apologetically.
“They seem pretty numerous in to-day’s papers,” I laughed.
“No indeed,” she went on. “There are fewer than usual. No matter however small the prevarication may be, I can always spot it.”
“But what is your pleasure in such an unpleasant task?”
“It is no pleasure—it is business, and needs thorough concentration.”
“But considering your people are the instigators of lies, why don’t they send you down the complete list each day? It would save you the trouble.”
She laughed.
“Well, you see by the time a lie has passed through the mind of a man (or a woman for that matter) it has generally undergone certain modifications, and it is my work to get at the truth, which is, of course, a lie, in its original form.”
“I see. Then a pure lie is unadulterated truth?”
“Yes. And that is why a real lie is so hard to discover. It is essentially the truth.”
“But why are you so hard upon the newspapers? You do not leave one paragraph unstudied.”
“It is my work,” she asserted. “A lie that is allowed to circulate gains in bulk though it loses in truth.”
“What do you mean?” I inquired.
“Never ask me what I mean. I talk at random, and if it hits the mark, so much the better, and if not, well, it is none the worse.”
“Do you then read these papers purely from a business standpoint?”
“Undoubtedly. When I read purely for pleasure I read our own. And these are dull work after them. They lack the brilliancy, truth, incisiveness and humour that characterise ours. But there—why do I try to compare them?”
“Yet some of these are very good?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered with a contemptuous curl of her lips. “And very good things are like very bad things, very uninteresting.”
“You are hard to please.”
“Not at all, but I like if possible to be pleased in a particular way.”
“I see. My only wonder is that since you are undoubtedly interested in the world you do not take more pains to make your likes and dislikes known.”
“Interested in which world?” she questioned.
“Earth.”
She now got up laughing and came and sat down on a chair by the fire opposite me.
“I’ll leave the papers to-day, they make me melancholy, they are so very truthful. There’s one that says if you want to shake hands with three duchesses, five countesses, and the very cream of society, you may do it for three guineas.”
“Do you call it dear or cheap?”
“Dear, monstrously dear. If I were promised cream I should expect strawberries, but under those conditions I should receive nothing better than the leaves.”
“Have you ever shaken hands with a duchess?” I asked by way of keeping up the conversation.
“Why do you smile? Once I offered to shake hands with an empress.”
“And did she return the compliment?”
“Oh, no. The temptation to resist me was too great, so she refused; consequently she is serving a term of apprenticeship here. At the same time I offered to shake hands with an emperor, and the temptationnotto resist me was also too great; consequently he is here too. Now if the emperor had behaved like the empress, and the empress like the emperor, there is no telling where they might have been.”
“It takes a very simple sin then to translate a man from earth to hell,” I remarked.
“Well, you see, so much lies in a nutshell,” she explained. “I remember when I shook hands with the emperor he forgot to release my hand. I think he was engaged on matters of state, so it was perhaps excusable. On that occasion I was wearing a toilet which was a simple creation of beauty, though made at home and without assistance. I remember my train was badly torn through his mental aberration.”
“But you had the other hand at liberty?”
“Well, you see it happened most unfortunately that the grand vizier (I think it was the grand vizier) had taken possession of my other hand, and he also was engrossed by state calculations. It would have been a pity to disturb two such eminent gentlemen from so sacred a reverie, so I waited, and afterwards they were obliged to pay the cost of the spoilt robe.”
“Which, taken from the point of view of the nutshell, was your reputation.”
“Not at all. I have no reputation. I am above it.”
“And what did your husband say about this extensive handshaking?”
“He never said a word. But I think he was very cut up about the empress, he thought her so rude. And when she refused to look at me all the other women did too, and it made me quite low-spirited, because however much onelikesthe society of men, one alwaysvaluesthe society of women, especially after they turn nasty. At last I could stand it no longer, therefore I came home and began to cry. After a while some of my friends called to see me, and we had the merriest evening possible, for we sent slaves to collect all the tears I had dropped on the way from earth to hell, and then we went on to the highest turret of the palace and threw them back on the earth again.”
“Indeed.”
“Yes. And the women who had spurned me gathered them up quickest, because they looked like glistening diamonds. And now they wear them, and when they wear them the men fall in love with them, and the women turn their backs on them, and sometimes they can’t understand it, but it is so.”
Suddenly her voice changed from the monotone to one of bright and laughing interest.
“Now give me a criticism on my story of shaking hands with royalty,” she challenged.
“A cool criticism?” I asked.
“If you can,” she answered, laughing.
“Well, I should say it began with vulgarity and ended with a moral.”
“Vulgarity?”
“Yes.”
“But it was a real live emperor. He couldn’t be vulgar if he tried. He never squeezed my hand once.”
“Well, perhaps it was the introduction of the grand vizier.”
“He never squeezed my hand either.”
“Then perhaps it was yourself.”
She got up and drew herself to that graceful height from which she looked down on most things around her.
“Do I look vulgar?” she said.
“No.”
“Then shall I tell you what formed the vulgarity of which you speak?”
“If you will,” I replied.
“It was the atmosphere in which I moved.”
“And what was that?”
“Humanity.”
She went away and left me thinking.
Now, when we were seated together at lunch she turned to me suddenly and said, half laughing, half serious,—
“Genius, whom do you consider the greater sufferer—myself or Christ?”
“It is a subject I would not discuss,” I decided drily.
“You are wise,” she affirmed tauntingly. “Ignorance should always be silent.”
But to this I gave no answer, and soon she changed the conversation.
From that time onward I remained in the palace, unconscious of the passage of time, except that day followed day in monotonous routine and weariness.
Vestné was interesting, and at times even gracious. I have known occasions when she would sacrifice her own inclinations, and even pleasures, to my convenience. She rarely intruded upon me after the first day, unless there was reason for it.
If anything, she was more guarded in her conversation, more distant in her manner, and at times would leave me alone for days together in the vast palace. On one of these occasions she had asked me if I cared to join her in going away, but I answered in the negative.
She laughed.
“It may be as well,” she remarked. “To speak frankly, I must admit some of my friends have found rather amusing nick-names for you. It’s very impolite, I know, but you should never have paid such a lengthy visit in the possession of only one garment.”
But press other raiment upon me as they might I always refused it. Never could I bring myself to wear it, however the obsequious, wretched slave might beg or bow.
I remembered the remark which had been passed by Plucritus about his punishment in case of failure, but even this threat had not the power to turn me, though it pressed heavily on me every day.
Thus the time passed, heavily, wretchedly; I was alone.
Never once did I breathe the pure clear atmosphere of hope and light. In the midst of heartless enemies I walked a stranger, becoming daily more accustomed to the jeer and scoffs that met me at every turn. The very slaves eyed me with baffled cunning, hate and greed, longing doubtless for the day of which their master had spoken, when the last ray of hope expired on earth. You, Deborah, should also have to join me in this drear abode. And, besides, the dream spirit of unreality encompassed me about. Everything was misty and despondent, even as the light of day, and earth, and all its shapes, and forms, and joys, and pleasures are to the broken-hearted.