The House of the Vampire, Page 2

  "Why not?"

  Clarke was gazing abstractedly at the bust of Balzac.

  "A man's genius is commensurate with his ability of absorbing from lifethe elements essential to his artistic completion. Balzac possessed thispower in a remarkable degree. But, strange to say, it was evil thatattracted him most. He absorbed it as a sponge absorbs water; perhapsbecause there was so little of it in his own make-up. He must havepurified the atmosphere around him for miles, by bringing all the evilthat was floating in the air or slumbering in men's souls to the pointof his pen.

  "And he"--his eyes were resting on Shakespeare's features as a man mightlook upon the face of a brother--"he, too, was such a nature. In fact,he was the most perfect type of the artist. Nothing escaped his mind.From life and from books he drew his material, each time reshaping itwith a master-hand. Creation is a divine prerogative. Re-creation,infinitely more wonderful than mere calling into existence, is theprerogative of the poet. Shakespeare took his colours from manypalettes. That is why he is so great, and why his work is incrediblygreater than he. It alone explains his unique achievement. Who was he?What education did he have, what opportunities? None. And yet we find inhis work the wisdom of Bacon, Sir Walter Raleigh's fancies anddiscoveries, Marlowe's verbal thunders and the mysterious loveliness ofMr. W.H."

  Ernest listened, entranced by the sound of Clarke's mellifluous voice.He was, indeed, a master of the spoken word, and possessed a miraculouspower of giving to the wildest fancies an air of vraisemblance.

  V

  "Yes," said Walkham, the sculptor, "it's a most curious thing."

  "What is?" asked Ernest, who had been dreaming over the Sphinx that waslooking at him from its corner with the sarcastic smile of five thousandyears.

  "How our dreams of yesterday stare at us like strangers to-day."

  "On the contrary," remarked Reginald, "it would be strange if they werestill to know us. In fact, it would be unnatural. The skies above us andthe earth underfoot are in perpetual motion. Each atom of our physicalnature is vibrating with unimaginable rapidity. Change is identical withlife."

  "It sometimes seems," said the sculptor, "as if thoughts evaporated likewater."

  "Why not, under favorable conditions?"

  "But where do they go? Surely they cannot perish utterly?"

  "Yes, that is the question. Or, rather, it is not a question. Nothingis ever lost in the spiritual universe."

  "But what," inquired Ernest, "is the particular reason for yourreflection?"

  "It is this," the sculptor replied; "I had a striking motive and lostit."

  "Do you remember," he continued, speaking to Reginald, "the Narcissus Iwas working on the last time when you called at my studio?"

  "Yes; it was a striking thing and impressed me very much, though Icannot recall it at the moment."

  "Well, it was a commission. An eccentric young millionaire had offeredme eight thousand dollars for it. I had an absolutely originalconception. But I cannot execute it. It's as if a breeze had carried itaway."

  "That is very regrettable."

  "Well, I should say so," replied the sculptor.

  Ernest smiled. For everybody knew of Walkham's domestic troubles. Havingtwice figured in the divorce court, he was at present defraying theexpenses of three households.

  The sculptor had meanwhile seated himself at Reginald's writing-table,unintentionally scanning a typewritten page that was lying before him.Like all artists, something of a madman and something of a child, he atfirst glanced over its contents distractedly, then with an interest sointense that he was no longer aware of the impropriety of his action.

  "By Jove!" he cried. "What is this?"

  "It's an epic of the French Revolution," Reginald replied, not withoutsurprise.

  "But, man, do you know that I have discovered my motive in it?"

  "What do you mean?" asked Ernest, looking first at Reginald and then atWalkham, whose sanity he began to doubt.

  "Listen!"

  And the sculptor read, trembling with emotion, a long passage whosemeasured cadence delighted Ernest's ear, without, however, enlighteninghis mind as to the purport of Walkham's cryptic remark.

  Reginald said nothing, but the gleam in his eye showed that this time,at least, his interest was alert.

  Walkham saw the hopelessness of making clear his meaning without anexplanation.

  "I forget you haven't a sculptor's mind. I am so constituted that, withme, all impressions are immediately translated into the sense of form. Ido not hear music; I see it rise with domes and spires, with paintedwindows and Arabesques. The scent of the rose is to me tangible. I canalmost feel it with my hand. So your prose suggested to me, by itsrhythmic flow, something which, at first indefinite, crystallisedfinally into my lost conception of Narcissus."

  "It is extraordinary," murmured Reginald. "I had not dreamed of it."

  "So you do not think it rather fantastic?" remarked Ernest,circumscribing his true meaning.

  "No, it is quite possible. Perhaps his Narcissus was engaging thesub-conscious strata of my mind while I was writing this passage. Andsurely it would be strange if the undercurrents of our mind were notreflected in our style."

  "Do you mean, then, that a subtle psychologist ought to be able to readbeneath and between our lines, not only what we express, but also whatwe leave unexpressed?"

  "Undoubtedly."

  "Even if, while we are writing, we are unconscious of our state of mind?That would open a new field to psychology."

  "Only to those that have the key, that can read the hidden symbols. Itis to me a matter-of-course that every mind-movement below or above thethreshold of consciousness must, of a necessity, leave its imprintfaintly or clearly, as the case may be, upon our activities."

  "This may explain why books that seem intolerably dull to the majority,delight the hearts of the few," Ernest interjected.

  "Yes, to the few that possess the key. I distinctly remember how anuncle of mine once laid down a discussion on higher mathematics andblushed fearfully when his innocent wife looked over his shoulder. Theman who had written it was a roue."

  "Then the seemingly most harmless books may secretly possess the powerof scattering in young minds the seed of corruption," Walkham remarked.

  "If they happen to understand," Clarke observed thoughtfully. "I canvery well conceive of a lecherous text-book of the calculus, or of areporter's story of a picnic in which burnt, under the surface,undiscoverable, save to the initiate, the tragic passion of Tristram andIseult."

  VI

  Several weeks had elapsed since the conversation in Reginald Clarke'sstudio. The spring was now well advanced and had sprinkled the meadowswith flowers, and the bookshelves of the reviewers with fiction. Thelatter Ernest turned to good account, but from the flowers no poemblossomed forth. In writing about other men's books, he almost forgotthat the springtide had brought to him no bouquet of song. Only now andthen, like a rippling of water, disquietude troubled his soul.

  The strange personality of the master of the house had enveloped thelad's thoughts with an impenetrable maze. The day before Jack had comeon a flying visit from Harvard, but even he was unable to free Ernest'ssoul from the obsession of Reginald Clarke.

  Ernest was lazily stretching himself on a couch, waving the smoke ofhis cigarette to Reginald, who was writing at his desk.

  "Your friend Jack is delightful," Reginald remarked, looking up from hispapers. "And his ebon-coloured hair contrasts prettily with the gold inyours. I should imagine that you are temperamental antipodes."

  "So we are; but friendship bridges the chasm between."

  "How long have you known him?"

  "We have been chums ever since our sophomore year."

  "What attracted you in him?"

  "It is no simple matter to define exactly one's likes and dislikes. Evena tiny protoplasmic animal appears to be highly complex under themicroscope. How can we hope to analyse, with any degree of certitude,our souls, especially when, under the i
nfluence of feeling, we see asthrough a glass darkly."

  "It is true that personal feeling colours our spectacles and distortsthe perspective. Still, we should not shrink from self-analysis. We mustlearn to see clearly into our own hearts if we would give vitality toour work. Indiscretion is the better part of literature, and itbehooves us to hound down each delicate elusive shadow of emotion, andconvert it into copy."

  "It is because I am so self-analytical that I realise the complexity ofmy nature, and am at a loss to define my emotions. Conflicting forcessway us hither and thither without neutralising each other. Physicologyisn't physics. There were many things to attract me to Jack. He wassubtler, more sympathetic, more feminine, perhaps, than the rest of mycollege-mates."

  "That I have noticed. In fact, his lashes are those of a girl. You stillcare for him very much?"

  "It isn't a matter of caring. We are two beings that live one life."

  "A sort of psychic Siamese twins?"

  "Almost. Why, the matter is very simple. Our hearts root in the samesoil; the same books have nourished us, the same great winds have shakenour being, and the same sunshine called forth the beautiful blossom offriendship."

  "He struck me, if you will pardon my saying so, as a rather commonplacecompanion."

  "There is in him a hidden sweetness, and a depth of feeling which onlyintimate contact reveals. He is now taking his post-graduate course atHarvard, and for well-nigh two months we have not met; yet so manyinvisible threads of common experience unite us that we could meet afteryears and still be near each other."

  "You are very young," Reginald replied.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Ah--never mind."

  "So you do not believe that two hearts may ever beat as one?"

  "No, that is an auditory delusion. Not even two clocks beat in unison.There is always a discrepancy, infinitesimal, perhaps, but a discrepancynevertheless."

  A sharp ring of the bell interrupted the conversation. A moment later acurly head peeped through the door.

  "Hello, Ernest! How are you, old man?" the intruder cried, with a laughin his voice. Then, noticing Clarke, he shook hands with the great manunceremoniously, with the nonchalance of the healthy young animal bredin the atmosphere of an American college.

  His touch seemed to thrill Clarke, who breathed heavily and then steppedto the window, as if to conceal the flush of vitality on his cheek.

  It was a breath of springtide that Jack had brought with him. Youth is aPrince Charming. To shrivelled veins the pressure of his hand imparts aspark of animation, and middle age unfolds its petals in his presence,as a sunflower gazing at late noon once more upon its lord.

  "I have come to take Ernest away from you," said Jack. "He looks atrifle paler than usual, and a day's outing will stir the red corpusclesin his blood."

  "I have no doubt that you will take very good care of him," Reginaldreplied.

  "Where shall we go?" Ernest asked, absent-mindedly.

  But he did not hear the answer, for Reginald's scepticisms had moredeeply impressed him than he cared to confess to himself.

  VII

  The two boys had bathed their souls in the sea-breeze, and their eyes inlight.

  The tide of pleasure-loving humanity jostling against them had carriedtheir feet to the "Lion Palace." From there, seated at table andquenching their thirst with high-balls, they watched the feverishpalpitations of the city's life-blood pulsating in the veins of ConeyIsland, to which they had drifted from Brighton Beach.

  Ernest blew thoughtful rings of smoke into the air.

  "Do you notice the ferocious look in the mien of the average frequenterof this island resort?" he said to Jack, whose eyes, following theimpulse of his more robust youth, were examining specimens of feminineflotsam on the waves of the crowd.

  "It is," he continued, speaking to himself for want of an audience,"the American who is in for having a 'good time.' And he is going to getit. Like a huntsman, he follows the scent of happiness; but I warrantthat always it eludes him. Perhaps his mad race is only the epitome ofhumanity's vain pursuit of pleasure, the eternal cry that is neveranswered."

  But Jack was not listening. There are times in the life of every manwhen a petticoat is more attractive to him than all the philosophy ofthe world.

  Ernest was a little hurt, and it was not without some silentremonstrance that he acquiesced when Jack invited to their table twocreatures that once were women.

  "Why?"

  "But they are interesting."

  "I cannot find so."

  They both had seen better times--of course. Then money losses came, withwork in shop or factory, and the voice of the tempter in the commercialwilderness.

  One, a frail nervous little creature, who had instinctively chosen aseat at Ernest's side, kept prattling in his ear, ready to tell thestory of her life to any one who was willing to treat her to a drink.Something in her demeanour interested him.

  "And then I had a stroke of luck. The manager of a vaudeville was myfriend and decided to give me a trial. He thought I had a voice. Theycalled me Betsy, the Hyacinth Girl. At first it seemed as if peopleliked to hear me. But I suppose that was because I was new. After amonth or two they discharged me."

  "And why?"

  "I suppose I was just used up, that's all."

  "Frightful!"

  "I never had much of a voice--and the tobacco smoke--and the wine--Ilove wine."

  She gulped down her glass.

  "And do you like your present occupation?"

  "Why not? Am I not young? Am I not pretty?"

  This she said not parrotwise, but with a simple coquettishness that wasall her own.

  On the way to the steamer a few moments later, Ernest asked,half-reproachfully: "Jack--and you really enjoyed this conversation?"

  "Didn't you?"

  "Do you mean this?"

  "Why, yes; she was--very agreeable."

  Ernest frowned.

  "We're twenty, Ernest. And then, you see, it's like a course insociology. Susie--"

  "Susie, was that her name?"

  "Yes."

  "So she had a name?"

  "Of course."

  "She shouldn't. It should be a number."

  "They may not be pillars of society; still, they're human."

  "Yes," said Ernest, "that is the most horrible part of it."

  VIII

  The moon was shining brightly.

  Swift and sure the prow of the night-boat parted the silvery foam.

  The smell of young flesh. Peals of laughter. A breathless pianola. Thetripping of dancing-feet. Voices husked with drink and voices soft withlove. The shrill accents of vulgarity. Hustling waiters. Shop-girls.Bourgeois couples. Tired families of four and upward. Sleeping children.A boy selling candy. The crying of babies.

  The two friends were sitting on the upper deck, muffled in their longrain-coats.

  In the distance the Empire City rose radiant from the mist.

  "Say, Ernest, you should spout some poetry as of old. Are your lipsstricken mute, or are you still thinking of Coney Island?"

  "Oh, no, the swift wind has taken it away. I am clean, I am pure. Lifehas passed me. It has kissed me, but it has left no trace."

  He looked upon the face of his friend. Their hands met. They felt, withkeen enjoyment, the beauty of the night, of their friendship, and of thecity beyond.

  Then Ernest's lips moved softly, musically, twitching with a strangeascetic passion that trembled in his voice as he began:

  _"Huge steel-ribbed monsters rise into the air Her Babylonian towers, while on high, Like gilt-scaled serpents, glide the swift trains by, Or, underfoot, creep to their secret lair. A thousand lights are jewels in her hair, The sea her girdle, and her crown the sky; Her life-blood throbs, the fevered pulses fly. Immense, defiant, breathless she stands there.

  "And ever listens in the ceaseless din, Waiting for him, her lover, who shall come, Whose singing lips shall boldly claim
their own, And render sonant what in her was dumb, The splendour, and the madness, and the sin, Her dreams in iron and her thoughts of stone."_

  He paused. The boat glided on. For a long time neither spoke a word.

  After a while Jack broke the silence: "And are you dreaming of becomingthe lyric mouth of the city, of giving utterance to all its yearnings,its 'dreams in iron and its thoughts of stone'?"

  "No," replied Ernest, simply, "not yet. It is strange to whatimpressions the brain will respond. In Clarke's house, in the midst ofinspiring things, inspiration failed me. But while I was with that girlan idea came to me--an idea, big, real."

  "Will it deal with her?"

  Ernest smiled: "Oh, no. She personally has nothing to do with it. Atleast not directly. It was the commotion of blood and--brain. Theair--the change. I don't know what."

  "What will it be?" asked Jack, with interest all alert.

  "A play, a wonderful play. And its heroine will be a princess, a littleprincess, with a yellow veil."

  "What of the plot?"

  "That I shall not tell you to-day. In fact, I shall not breathe a wordto any one. It will take you all by surprise--and the public by storm."

  "So it will be playable?"

  "If I am not very much mistaken, you will see it on Broadway within ayear. And," he added graciously, "I will let you have two box-seats forthe first night."

  They both chuckled at the thought, and their hearts leaped within them.