CHAPTER II
When I awoke, night had fallen without, and I was alone. The fire still burnt brightly, and what other light was needed came from an electric candelabra hanging from the centre of the room. I looked around and noticed for the first time that the walls were lined with book-shelves extending from the ceiling to the floor. With some curiosity I approached and scanned the titles. They were all the works of writers eminent on earth, some dead, some living—mostly dead. One book, which it surprised me greatly to find there, I took down and opened. But beneath the title on the inner leaf was written in manuscript the words, “With the author’s compliments,” and then there came the signature. I put it back with some surprise and took another, and it also contained those words. Then I took others, and they likewise had similar writing in them. At length my eyes lit on a Bible.
“Surely this will not be with ‘compliments,’” I thought, and took it down.
But there the writing was just as in all the others, except that no signatures were given.
I passed through from book to book, and before each the self-same words appeared, till I came to the Gospels. And here the wording altered. It was simply “From the writer.” From that I passed on to the Revelation; there the old wording had returned.
I closed the book and left it on a table and walked to the fireplace.
“Someone here or somewhere has a sense of humor,” I thought. “Or I am in a strange yet vivid dream from which I cannot wake.”
I was not alone long. Shortly the door opened and Plucritus entered.
His entrance surprised me, yet on second thoughts it seemed natural enough.
“I was sorry not to come along with you,” he said in his customary easy way. “But I have made the most haste I could; yet even now my stay is only for a short time.”
His eye rested on the Bible.
“Psalm singing?” he asked.
“No. I have been greatly struck by—”
“The dedications,” he interjected, laughing.
“No—the gifts.”
“Oh. It is only natural. The Bible at one time was so interesting, and at the same time so expensive, that I made friends with the writers and obtained copies gratis. You must admit that the binding and illuminations alone are in themselves treasures of art.”
“Indeed,” I observed drily, “everything about here seems so precious and expensive that a little poverty and plainness would be most acceptable.”
He sat down on the sofa I had left.
“You are in a bad temper,” he remarked simply. “But if you wish to see what you term poverty you shall see it soon enough. But not now, for I will have—let me see (and here he glanced at a curious kind of clock above the fireplace), I suppose you would call it ‘supper.’”
He led the way to the door, but there he stayed.
“We have no guests to-night,” he said, smiling, “so we dine alone. But may I beg of you to assume a more cheerful countenance? My slaves are not accustomed to sad looks, except from prisoners, and you are a guest. Also, I must give you a little advice which is sometimes given in the world we’ve left to poor relations. Look as if you were accustomed to everything, and don’t pay too much deference—‘attention’ rather I should say—to the servants.”
Then he opened the door, and without there stood a dwarfish creature bearing somewhat the semblance of a man. He was very, very thin and little, and very, very old, at least if one was to judge from the wrinkles on his face, for it was lined with them.
“Slave, conduct this Spirit to the apartment that has been prepared,” Plucritus said, and the hauteur in his voice matched the pride upon his face.
“Don’t talk too much to him,” he added more carelessly to me. “He has, or rather had, a pretty bad habit of repeating things.”
Walking backward across the polished floor the old slave conducted me to a broad flight of stairs, which led me to a pillared gallery set with fine armoury and statues. From thence we passed along a corridor built in grained marble with doors on each side, and through one of these we entered into a large apartment set aside for private rest.
I had the advantage, being myself a Spirit, of wearing that simple garment (which is worn by Spirits and needs no other ornament) which you in your world call invisibility. It is that finely-woven mist which clings like graceful raiment or like bright hazes round the sun.
Yet I noticed the old creature was bringing forth from a wardrobe in an adjoining chamber most gorgeous clothing.
“Take it back,” I commanded shortly, turning to him. “This is not my own.”
He scarcely seemed to heed me, but went on placing vestment after vestment in almost luxurious profusion on the bed.
Then, losing my temper, for no other reason perhaps than that I was in hell, I turned to him.
“Fool,” I said, “do you take me for a harlequin or a beggar, that you force things upon me that are not my own?”
He understood; at least, he desisted and carried them away.
After that he brought me living water with which to refresh and cleanse myself from those impurities which, though in a different manner, affect Spirits as well as men.
I was ready to descend long before the summons came, and having nothing more to do, and not knowing exactly whither to go, I sat down and began to question my companion.
But I found he was dumb, for on my third question he opened his mouth and showed the ghastly cavity.
I recognised the spirit of Plucritus well in this, for he was scarcely likely to have left me alone with a servant who could disclose the slightest information, even untruthfully.
Finding therefore nothing of further interest within the room I passed out into the corridor and made my way to the central gallery.
It ran along the walls above the large hall and I walked through it slowly, more intent on my own thoughts than the surroundings.
You have felt depression and can understand the feeling that was mine. It seemed as if the whole great palace hung on me; from ever gloomy piece of armoury some scarcely-breathed sigh escaped; each marble figure looked at me with silence-speaking pain. My thoughts ran ever back to the world I had left; at times I thought of you, and wondered how you fared, being left alone.
But in the midst of this sad reverie I was aroused by hearing a clear and penetrating, yet eerie, mournful sound. Then I laughed. ’Twas but a gong calling to that meal of which by this time I was much in need.
I retraced my steps toward the staircase, and as I descended I became aware of the simplicity of the garment which I wore; but being a Spirit I had, or rather had had, the power to change it to whatever form or kind I chose. But now that power had left me. I remembered with some haste that scene in the bedchamber, in which the wretched menial had offered me such sumptuous attire. Impatiently, then, I had rejected all his offers, whether from preoccupation or some other cause, it would be hard to say. In a marvellously short time, in other places, I could have transformed the simplicity of plainness into that of beauty, but now I must either go back for borrowed garments or appear just as I was. With that independence which has ever been part of my nature I chose the latter course, and passed down into the hall. There I found two slaves waiting for me.
And whilst I mention them I may describe them briefly.
In this palace the slaves and menials were countless, and in shape they were all lean, deformed, wrinkled, and hungry-eyed. They walked about naked, unable to hide one disproportioned limb or hideous defect, and ever through the hungry look within their eyes hatred would gleam and baffled cunning. They alone were in themselves fit subjects for depression, for spirit-instinct told me that round each form was wreathed a history of the past, binding like some tight chain.
These led me, with many varied expressions of obeisance, to the large dining-hall. Here there were many tables, but only one was laid, and this was at the farther end, beside a fireplace.
They were waiting for me—were not yet seated. As I approached they turned from the conversation in which they were engaged and looked at me with some interest. But into the eyes of Plucritus, as he glanced over me, there blazed a flash of anger. I noticed it, and the cause, though the expression was momentary.
“This is our guest,” he said, turning from me to her.
“I know,” she answered lightly, coming forward. “We are well acquainted, though he preferred sleep to me. For all that I have never had your name on good authority, nor indeed at all.”
“Well,” observed Plucritus, slowly, “I do not know that you will ever get his name on good authority, as you call it. He has no name, for the planet from which he comes does not acknowledge him. But as here, at least, we are courteous we will give him the name that best suits his vanity; we will call him Genius. Vestné, this is Genius—Genius, here is my wife.”
“I expect,” she said, with that half-laughing sigh of hers, “you have cast a libel on us both.”
“Not so,” he rejoined. “I describe you as my wife to suit his morals. He has come from Earth, you know the place I mean, where they are all moral on the outside, but underneath they suit their own convenience.”
As he spoke he stood behind her and eyed me with the hard, unflinching stare which was so distasteful. I remember a rather awkward pause followed on this remark till Vestné led the way to the table and sat down. She had attired herself in the most lovely raiment eye could wish, and the soft, silken coils about her head were of the beauty of simplicity.
The meal, though most magnificently served, and delicate in flavour throughout, was a failure. Plucritus, who in hell appeared much different from what he was on earth, sat like some great prince, moody and speechless. He wore the usual civic robe above his tunic, but under this there shone on his arms and neck a fine coat of linked armour, worked in gold, though hard as steel. He wore neither crown nor coronet upon his head, and he needed neither. A crown to him was simply a bauble, unless worn out of courtesy and compliment to those who were his equals.
I understood well the cause of his ill-humour, and even sympathised with it. But no remark was passed till the fruit had been brought, and Vestné, who during the meal had tasked me with many questions about the people on Earth, laughingly left us.
When we were alone Plucritus continued for some time silent, absorbed for the most part in cracking and eating nuts. For you will understand that nuts of certain kinds are a very favourite dessert with Spirits—so much is often contained within a nutshell.
I made no attempt to join him, either in eating or drinking. A glass of untouched wine stood beside me—what appetite I had, had been long since satisfied. At last he broke the silence.
“Genius,” he said in his clear, incisive voice, “would you be kind enough to tell me something? I wish to know if living among boors has transformed you into a boor?”
“In all probability,” I answered, “or the question would be unnecessary.”
“I see,” he commented. And then for a little while silence fell again.
Presently he began once more,—
“Am I to blame you for this negligent, uncourteous attire, or that cursed slave I sent with you?”
“I am to blame entirely. He did his best—but failed.”
“I see. Then I am inclined to blame him. Failure is a crime, a lamentable weakness. He may suffer a little more till he has found out some means of making you do—right.”
His voice as he spoke was filled with cruelty, though towards the end of the sentence it had sunk so low that he seemed really speaking to himself.
“In that case,” I went on quickly, “I will wear as many clothes as you care to put on me—always excepting a scrubby singlet. They don’t suit me.”
He laughed.
“Be careful,” he said. “You were once mistaken for a woman dressed in contravention of the law.”
“I know. But I should have thought the better expression would have been ‘effeminate.’”
“Would you have raised no objection to be called ‘effeminate’?” he questioned.
“None,” I answered.
“But Deborah does.” Whereat he laughed again. “Since you have gone she has raised a kind of statue to your memory, and there you sit in lonely grandeur, for the atmosphere around is ice. Of late she has taken to dragging every man that she has ever met into this gloomy chamber, and sets them side by side with you.”
“And what next?”
“Well, there is rather a change in the atmosphere. So some show to disadvantage. But this comparison always pleases me, because the comparer gains no pleasure from it, but only bitterness. Many a time I have interfered and have thrown a kind of halo round you, making you more a god than mortal, so that the bitterness may be more complete.”
“Do you derive pleasure from this cruelty?”
“Yes. I always derive pleasure from cruelty, as you know. The more so in this case because the writer had laughed at me.”
“But—” I began, but he continued,—
“If people laugh at me I laugh at them when the time comes. If they hold me up to ridicule, I hold them up to ridicule when the time comes. If they speak untruthfully of me I speak untruthfully of them when the time comes.”
“Really,” I interposed, yawning, “I never knew before you were so sensitive.”
He laughed. “If I were not so sensitive,” he rejoined, “I should be less powerful. To make others feel one must feel oneself. Moreover, to be mixed up with one’s own slaves and menials, to be depicted as a kind of Jack-in-the-box, and described as turning from dark brown to pale brown, not to speak of other things, rather surprised me.”
“Come, come, Plucritus,” I said irritably, “where’s the use of all this acting? One might think something had bitten you and put you out of temper. Surely you are having enough revenge. What more do you want?”
“Nothing,” he replied moodily. Then after a pause he looked up.
“Genius,” he said, “do you miss your ring?”
“Very much,” I answered.
“Then why don’t you buy it back?”
“Not having the wherewithal to effect a change in raiment, what funds do you give me the credit of having in order to redeem jewels?”
“You have the book. You can sell the book to me and regain the ring. It means freedom, you know.”
“Is there anything else you would like besides the book?” I asked.
“No,” he answered with that long, penetrating stare. “The first book will be quite sufficient.”
“I see,” I went on. “And the writer?”
“Damn the writer. The book will never go through, so you may as well sell it to me and start afresh in better company.”
“That is your old advice.”
“And my only advice. So long as you stay with Deborah you are a failure. You have had signal examples of it in the past. She will never write another book.”
“Then if I sell you the book for the ring I may go back whence I came?”
He laughed.
“Scarcely so. If you want to be a success, and your life depends upon it, you must come over to my side and leave her.”
“And that means despair following on depression.”
“What matter? God’s kindness counteracts the devil’s cruelty.”
“Do you know, Plucritus, I think I should admire you more if at times you spoke plainer?”
“How so?”
“Well, it would be rather a change to hear you speak the honest truth.”
For a minute there was silence, then he got up and leant against the mantelpiece and looked into the curious burning fire.
“It’s a pity,” he said, “for you and I were meant to be friends. It’s a pity we should be separated by the squalling of one insignificant woman.”
“It may seem so to you,” I rejoined drily and somewhat at random, “but I had rather be separated from you by a woman, however insignificant, than joined to you by one however beautiful.”
“You are not separated from me,” he retorted, his eyes flashing as he turned toward the table. “You are my prisoner, caught and trapped like all the rest, and if you enjoy a little more privilege it is simply because we are waiting the close of events. When the book fails for the last time she will follow you here, and here you can live, a source of torture and torment to each other for ever. If you will not bend your will I have the power to break it, and the only thing that springs from a broken will is pitiable weakness.”
“I can at least wait the close of events,” I declared briefly. “And for the punishment, I doubt not I have strength enough to stand it.”
“You talk like all ignorant people, with much assurance,” he said scornfully. “But you must know that here we never punish in proportion to the fault. We punish to suit our own convenience and pleasure. Look at these wizened, shrivelled slaves that wait on us. Think you they are serving a term of slavery? I tell you they are here unto eternity, though that little muddled world in which you lived turns its face away from the inevitable, and pitying its own weakness, talks of the mercy of God and winks at punishment.”
“I think,” I observed sharply, repaying scorn for scorn, “you must descry the sin before you touch the sinner.”
“And in case of unfair play,” he remarked slowly, leaning his hand upon the table and smiling across at me, “to whom do you intend to appeal?”
I did not answer, since to this question I knew well there was no answer. But through the silence that followed a terrible cry rang. It was the first distinctly human sound I had heard since coming.
Plucritus started at the sound, then moved hastily across the room to where I still sat.
“Come with me,” he said shortly. And as I rose he placed his hand within my arm. I remember well the clasp of those iron fingers as he led the way across the room out into the hall. We passed out by a side entrance into the palace grounds, and then on to a high balcony at some short distance.
It was darkest night, and yet the view around was clear as day.
To one side ran the great river, threading its winding course for miles as far as eye could see. It was very black, and very wide, and very strong, and the swish of its waters against the heavy reeds was loudly audible; by now I was beginning to understand the sounds of hell.
The most glorious sight was the great palaces that rose high among the trees in every direction, their graceful architecture and brilliant lights, together with the pure marble of the steps and terraces that led up to them, making a perfect dream of transcendent beauty. Moreover, the heavy foliage of the trees threw the more into relief their exceeding brilliancy.
Then as I listened I could perceive the sound of voices laughing, talking, and as I watched I saw figures moving on the terraces, till it seemed the whole scene was filled with life and animation.
Below us I recognised the wide avenue along which I had come, and it was to this avenue that all eyes were bent. Just then there came the same cry which we had heard before, this time nearer.
Plucritus laughed softly, and from the neighbouring terraces I heard one general laugh follow the sound.
Presently from a sudden bend in the road dwarfed forms sprang up on every side. Shouting, leaping, making inarticulate cries like wildly-excited animals, half whine, half scream. They were hideous and horrible demons whose unrestrained excitement lent that swollen fulness to their features which was more disfiguring than their leanness heretofore had been. And in the midst the cause of all this wild, unbounded joy was the body, or what looked like the body, of a very lovely woman. It was lying bound stiffly to a funeral car shaped like a coffin, and all round there shone a clear red light. And on the one side was printed in letters of gold, “With care—Perishable.” And on the other side, “Fragile.” Plucritus read these words and laughed.
“I wonder whose little joke that was,” he remarked. “There is a good deal perishable and a good deal fragile, no doubt, but beyond that there is a good deal durable and strong.”
“Is that the soul of a sinful woman?” I asked, as the screaming, howling procession came along.
“Yes. Is it not beautiful?” he queried, and there was a twinkle of merriment in his eyes. “But,” he continued, “it is all put on. The soul has been puffed out and padded and stuffed, and in itself is loathsome. But we throw a very fine and artificial glamour over it and give it a semblance of beauty, so that all these little imps are mad with envy, and spite, and hatred, and long for the day when they shall have sucked all the juices away and left nothing but the dried-up skeleton of a spirit behind.”
“Surely that is impossible,” I exclaimed.
He raised his eyebrows quizzically.
“Never heard of vampires? It is the nature of spirits; Virginius and his set often more so than us.”
By this time the car had reached us and was passing. Just as they came below us the bound figure made a desperate struggle to rise, and gave once more that terrible cry which we had heard before.
A hundred bony hands strong and cruel pressed forward upon the throat and lips. Others shook their fists, others cursed and swore and called her every name which they themselves had doubtless been before her. One old hag rushed forward and struck a cruel blow upon the white breast.
Almost immediately a black swollen bruise appeared.
“Rotten,” cried Plucritus, and he laughed. Then he repeated, “Fragile, perishable,” and laughed again. “Look at that hag who struck the blow,” he continued. “She has an interesting history. She was once more beautiful than the figure lying there; but that was a very, very long time ago, for then she was a great queen.”
I followed her with interest, almost unable from her appearance to believe his words. The victim they were bearing along had sunk back, but her eyes were open, and they expressed all that fear and despair which go to form the greater part of hell. I watched them pass with an ever-growing heaviness and oppression at my heart.
“Let us go to see the incarceration,” he suggested, turning to me.
“I had rather be excused,” I answered coldly.
“Come,” he said, laying hold of my arm again. “They are like animals at the slaughter-house—they will fly anywhere to get away from the right door, and tear and scratch all who approach them. This woman, when she sees the place prepared for her, will fight like a wild animal to escape.”
“And how do you get them in?” I asked, interested despite myself.
“We whip them in,” he replied softly. “Or rather our slaves do. They enjoy it, and are never particular when to stop. It is all we can do at times to call them off. It is their method of welcoming strangers. Come,” he added, “let us go.”
“No,” I repeated. “I have seen enough of this place to last me some time.”
He only laughed.
“Come,” he said, “you must get accustomed to it. For aught I can tell, the next may be Deborah.”
And then with a sudden strength, of which I had judged myself incapable since coming there, I threw his hand off.
“You doubtless have all power over those who get down here,” I remarked. “But whilst a man or woman is yet on the earth there is still means of escape.”
“Very rarely,” he commented, smiling. “Once let them get the noose round their necks, and the more they struggle the tighter grows the knot.”
However, because I refused to go he returned with me to the palace.
“You have missed a never-to-be-forgotten sight,” he said as he led the way to the library, where I had first been conducted. “You won’t succeed in journalism if you throw away opportunities like that.”
“I shall merely leave the place for others,” I replied wearily, for weariness and dejection were a part of living here, except to those whose kingdom it was.
“Genius,” he said as he sat down, “what do you think of my collection of books?”
“It is very fine,” I answered, looking round. “But nothing out of the way for so great an individuality.”
“What more does it need?” he asked as he looked round.
“Nothing. And that is where it becomes uninteresting. You have everything.”
“Yes,” he replied. “And I’m growing sick of it. One of these days I shall burn more than half the lying rubbish. I don’t know why I ever collected it.”
“That would be a pity,” I rejoined. “To destroy so much beauty of thought would be very needless destruction.”
“Not at all,” he observed sharply. “I am going—”
Here he was interrupted by the opening of the door, and there entered several others very similar to him.
“Plucritus, why were you not there?” queried the first comer. “It was an almost more amusing scene than that witnessed at Dino’s last week. But you were not here last week. What an age it is since we have seen you.”
“And I am off again within this half-hour,” he interjected, looking at a curious watch he brought from the girdle of his tunic. “But tell me of this scene, was it much better than usual?”
“Well, perhaps not better, but just as good. When—”
“Don’t use names,” said Plucritus, hastily, as if he almost interpreted the other’s words. “Can’t you see I have a guest?”
“No,” answered the other, looking round superciliously. “Or rather,” he added, “we met Vestné without and she explained that you had here a beggar dependent on your charity.”
“Really—” broke in another, and then his tone altered to one of mock courtesy. “Your wardrobe seems somewhat scanty, sir. May I offer you a change of raiment?”
“This stranger surely has come from earth,” interrupted a third. “That planet which is one of our most fruitful gardens. Such a rarity deserves a golden cage and a public show day.”
“Why, this is he who wished to make a friend of that cold saint Virginius and failed,” put in another.
“Thereby proving himself for once not such a saint as he appears,” laughed a fifth.
“This is the spirit who wrote a book and confounded the devil with something less powerful than himself,” said a sixth.
“Ay,” sneered a seventh. “And in the same book he confounded men with women, and women with men in a way which was at timesabsolutely shocking.”
He turned his eyes down at the last words and shook his head. He had perhaps heard some old lady use the same expression.
“This is the spirit,” said another, “who flung down a challenge at the gate of heaven and expected to escape the fire of hell.”
The sudden onslaught would in another place and at another time have provoked me to some answer, but I felt myself incapable of it. I was learning still further that every prisoner here simply endures—having no power, sometimes feeling no wish, to retaliate. This latter was the case with me. I felt a certain coldness clinging round me which numbed the sharper edge of feeling, so I sat there apparently indifferent to their scoffing, and felt inwardly the same.
Following this outburst Plucritus rose, laughing.
“I must go,” he observed. “It is growing late. Genius, I must leave you, but I shall return ere long. Till then, think upon my offer of the ring.”
“Genius?” cried he who had first spoken, “Is this Genius?”
“That cannot be,” exclaimed another, solemnly. “He has produced nothing in blank verse.”
“It’s out of fashion,” urged another. “Love-letters are all that are needed nowadays.”
“You’re getting behind the times,” said another, talking at random. “Read theDaily Scorcher.”
“Is that written in blank verse?”
“Oh, no. It’s after the same rhythm as ‘Mary had a little lamb.’”
“What do you mean? If you cast a slur upon them they will prosecute you.”
“I said nothing detrimental. I simply meant to convey the impression that they wrote in a popular vein.”
“I see. But at that rate you ought to quote the poet-laureate.”
There was a silence till someone queried, rather quietly,—
“What’s his name?”
“Don’t know,” answered the one who had first spoken. “He hasn’t got one. He doesn’t believe in that sort of thing. He leaves it to the lady novelists who won’t have their photo taken.”
“What does he believe in?”
“Blank verse and popular ballads,Chip potatoes and lettuce salads.”
“Blank verse and popular ballads,Chip potatoes and lettuce salads.”
“Blank verse and popular ballads,Chip potatoes and lettuce salads.”
“Blank verse and popular ballads,
Chip potatoes and lettuce salads.”
“The two last are very good,” said he who had put the question. “The poet-laureate is undoubtedly a gentleman.”
I think in the midst of this random and unceasing talking I must have fallen asleep, for when I again became conscious of the things around me I was lying on my bed amid the silence of night. I was experiencing that misty, unreal sensation which, when accompanied by dejection and depression, is so terrible to bear.
At times I felt it must simply be a phase, a part of the working of my own inner spirit, but again I realised that the force acting on me was external, and that this unreality was simply a more horrible form of what was real. I lay awake for a long time wrapped in thought, and when that light born out of darkness which they call “Day” had risen I rose too and prepared to descend to the lower hall.