pretty, boyish face. And all of them felt the strange nervous tension
of those who have watched far into the night; an excited tremor came
over them, bringing with it flashing, vivid imaginings. There was a
pause, a silence that was like a prayer to the dawning light. Then
Terpsichore arose, with no merriment, as of old, upon her face, but
a look of eager penitence. And she knelt down by Erato’s side, and
whispered--so softly that only Erato might hear it--“Forgive me,
Erato, forgive me! I did not love you once as well as I love you now.
I was half jealous because you seemed to like Euterpe better than you
liked me, and because you were so beautiful. But I do love you now--I
love you more than I can say. Oh, forgive me, Erato!”
Erato kissed her on the lips, and Terpsichore went back to her place,
crying a little, for no particular reason, and hoping that no one
noticed it, after the manner of maidens.
Suddenly Urania spoke, with a deep thrill in her voice. This was her
story:--
* * * * *
There was once a man who was very careful. He saluted the sun, spoiled
a good floor by making libations, sacrificed freely, and learned by
heart what enabled him to remember the distinction between the _dies
fastus_ and the _dies nefastus_. In fact, he did all that could be
done. And his number in the books was number one hundred and three.
Now, at the end of the quarter, Zeus & Co. were going through their
books. It was wearying work and dry work. Ganymede was in and out of
the office all day with liquors, and Mercury had been run off his legs
with messages to the different departments. The clerk was reading out
the items in a dreary monotone.
“Number one hundred and one. Dead. Cholera.”
“That was a capital cholera,” murmured Co., “and did its work well. Go
on, clerk.”
“Used to live in Eubœa. Killed to spite his sister, because she----”
“That’ll do,” said Zeus hurriedly; “I remember that case--a stupid
woman, a very stupid woman--but pretty. Next, please.”
“Number one hundred and two. Philosopher still living because he wants
to die.”
“Say ‘usual formula’ when we come to that. It’s no good wasting time.
Has number one hundred and two got anything unpleasant the matter with
him?”
“No, sir.”
“Ah, then--let me see--we’ll give him a couple of ulcers. Mercury,
just look in at the Punishment Department, and order a couple of large
ulcers to be sent to number one hundred and two, and look sharp back.
Next, please.”
“Number one hundred and three. Living and prosperous. Regular in his
righteousness. Further details at the Virtue Record Department.”
“We ought to give that man some other reward,” said Zeus, who sometimes
suffered from a slight twinge of justice in damp weather.
“I’m not so sure of that,” said Co., who was very healthy, and
never got a touch of justice in any weather. “I hate a man who does
everything right. It’s so infernally hypocritical. Besides, it shows
a commercial mind. He only does it in order to get something by it.
I hate a commercial mind. I’ll guarantee he doesn’t do it out of
affection for us.”
Zeus sniggered. “Well, well,” he said, “affection, you know,
affection----” But here he was interrupted by the arrival of Mercury.
“Just look in at the Virtue Record,” said Co., “and bring the detailed
list for number one hundred and three.”
Mercury was back again in a minute. “The Virtue Record office is shut,
sir, nobody ever virtuous after lunch, sir--shuts at one, sir. The
clerk’s gone home and taken the keys.”
“Well,” said Co., “it doesn’t matter. The man is obviously a hypocrite,
and he’s got no business to try and make bargains with us. I don’t mind
it so much myself, Zeus, but it _is_ such an insult to _your_ dignity.”
“Do you think so?” said Zeus quickly. “Then he shall repent it. I’ll
teach him to call ME a pettifogging huckster. I’ll teach him to try
to bribe ME. I’ll give him a lesson. Pass me those thunderbolts. I’ll
scorch, and blight, and blast----”
“Gently, gently,” said Co. “We may just as well try and get a little
fun out of it. We’ll see who can torture best--killing barred. You
shall go first.”
So Zeus, who had plenty of force but very little skill, went to work in
the old-fashioned way. He killed the man’s relations, burned down his
house, destroyed his crops, wrecked his ships, reduced him to poverty,
and afflicted him with the most distressing disease that the Punishment
Department had in stock. And yet the man continued cheerful, saying
that the gods were just and would yet send him prosperity.
“Oh, this is sickening,” said Zeus; “I can’t do anything with him. Now,
Co., you try.”
“You’ve not left me much to work on,” said Co.; “you’ve taken away all
the man has, except his baby son and his belief in us. I will give
him something--a little accident--fever--cerebral disorder. See? Then
he kills his child--you observe?--the child whom he loves more than
himself. Then I restore him to his senses again. Pretty, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Zeus, a little sulkily, “you’ve won, Co. What made you
think of that?”
“I don’t know,” said Co. modestly. “It was just an idea. He could not
be tortured any worse than that?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” objected Zeus. “You let me try again.” Number
one hundred and three still lay moaning on the floor of the room.
“You can try, of course,” said Co.
Zeus still stuck to the old-fashioned plan of punishing by deprivation.
There was only one thing left to take away--the man’s belief in the
gods. So he took that.
Suddenly number one hundred and three arose. There was a chill smile
on his face, and he walked out into the courtyard, and looked at the
rising sun. “I was mistaken,” he said. “There are no gods. All is as it
chances. Good is chance and bad is chance. Nothing matters any more.
I would die if I thought anything mattered. There are no more values.
It is the same thing whether I murder my son, who is dearer than life
to me, or whether I give alms, or whether I eat my breakfast. I shall
never be sorry or happy any more. Sorrow and happiness are vain and
foolish.”
So he went back to his house again, and washed his hands calmly, and
broke his fast.
“Well, I never!” said Zeus.
“Ah!” said Co., “you must learn the new ways. You’re behind the times.”
“Very well,” retorted Zeus snappishly; “you needn’t say it so loudly.
I don’t want all Olympus to know that.”
* * * * *
“The dawn is here!”
It was Terpsichore who spoke. She had drawn back the curtain that
formed the front of the cloud. Below them lay the flat fen country,
with dykes, and waste places, and gaunt lonely trees. The sunrise was
beautiful as a fair dream, sprigs of light snapping on the surface of
the marshy pools and slow streams, where the cool dawn-wind shook the
water’s surface.
“And now I will go to my rest,” said Clio.
“And I,” said the others. “And I too.” Only Erato strove to rise and
could not, and fell back, breathing quickly.
“I have grown weak,” she said, and her voice was low, so that it could
hardly be heard. “I will stay here, and rest here, in the warm light of
the sun: I am cold, strangely cold.”
Euterpe and Cupid stayed with Erato. The rest all went into an inner
room, far within the cloud. Each as she passed Erato had some gentle
word to say to her. They had bidden Cupid come with them; he had
replied with an angry look and a shake of the head, not trusting
himself to words.
So these three were left alone in the cloud-chamber. Erato stretched
out her little hands to the sun, and watched the light come flickering
over them. Cupid had drawn a little apart, still watching her. At last
her eyes closed. “Euterpe,” she whispered, “sing to me--sing the last
song. I am drowsy, and would sleep now.” So Euterpe went to the piano.
She did not sing very well, for something seemed to be wrong with her
voice--a kind of huskiness:
All’s over: fall asleep.
There is no more to say,
There are no more tears to shed, and no more longings dead,
And the watch ends with the day.
Wherefore wish or weep?
Close your eyes, and fall asleep;
And happy are the dead who sleep alway.
In the fair sunlight lie;
And let your sad thoughts stray
Through the golden gleams of the gate of dreams
At the breaking of the day
Wherefore wish or weep?
Close your eyes, and fall asleep;
And happy----
Suddenly Euterpe stopped, and for a moment there was an awful silence
in the room. Then putting restraint aside, she burst into sobs, weeping
as if her heart were broken, and flung herself down by Erato’s side.
“Dead? Erato, my darling!”
And Erato did not move or speak; her face was very beautiful as
the sunlight fell upon it. There was no sound in the room but the
passionate sobbing of Euterpe.
Cupid had risen. His face, for all its boyishness, was firm, unmoved;
only a little drop of blood was on his lip where he had bitten it
through. He looked once at his dead Erato; then walked to the front of
the cloud-chamber, and stared vacantly outwards. It seemed to him that
rings of iron were growing tighter round his chest, and stopping his
breath. A humming sound was in his ears. He did not quite know what
was happening. Flecks of light seemed to dart before his hot, dry eyes.
He had stood there a long time--he knew not how long--when he heard a
voice behind him.
“Cupid! Cupid! you loved her too.”
It was Euterpe, standing there pale and sweet, looking at him,
stretching her hands towards him, the tears trembling still in her eyes.
And then, at last, flinging himself into her arms and clinging to her,
he wept. “Loved her! loved her!” he cried.
So Erato lay there dead, and beautiful in death, and the sun shone
fiercely, because it was now day, and men were going forth to their
work.
THE CELESTIAL GROCERY.
_A FANTASIA._
It is precisely one year to-day since the incidents happened which I am
going to record. Since that time I have been waiting for developments.
But no developments have taken place. I find myself, in consequence,
so completely at a loss what to do or what to think, that I venture to
state the case plainly, and to ask for advice.
Thomas Pigge, my old college friend, had sent me a stall-ticket for the
play. It was not often that I went to a theatre at all; and I had never
sat in the stalls before. Pigge said in his letter that he had been
meaning to come with me, but had been prevented by a sprained ankle.
I found afterwards that this was quite untrue. Pigge, as a matter of
fact, had bought the ticket by a mistake. He had been told that _The
Dark Alley_ was having a great success. About a week afterwards he saw
the advertisement of _Fair Alice_, and as his memory is notoriously
weak, he confused the two plays, and ordered a ticket for the wrong
one. Soon afterwards he discovered what he had done, and learning that
_Fair Alice_ was a dismal failure, he offered his ticket first to his
aunt and then to his tailor, both of whom refused it. It was then--and
only then--that he sent it on to me. I do not think this was very
nice of Thomas Pigge. I half suspected something of the kind at the
time, and I was careful to make the few words of thanks that I sent him
rather cold. I do not suppose he noticed it.
When I had dressed for the evening, I rang the bell--partly to tell
my landlady that she need not sit up for me, but also with the
intention of letting her see that, although I lived in inexpensive
lodgings, I was familiar with the mode of life of English gentlemen.
She surveyed me admiringly, and asked me if I would like a flower for
my button-hole. “No, thank you,” I said, with a smile: “they are not
worn.” I noticed with pleasure that these few authoritative words had
their proper effect. However, as I was walking down the Strand on my
way to the theatre I saw a man, in evening dress, who was wearing
a rose in his coat, and thinking that it would be safe to follow
his example, I spent sixpence on a gardenia with some maidenhair.
The circumstance would be trivial were it not for its bearing on
after-events.
I cannot say that I enjoyed the piece altogether. The house was by
no means full. The few young men in the stalls seemed mostly to know
one another, and none of them knew me. The two who came in after me
had those hats that shut up; mine was an ordinary silk hat that I had
worn for a year. This fact served to make me feel more lonely. My fine
sensibilities render me peculiarly liable to this sort of thing; but
they also do me good service by making me notice for imitation slight
shades in the manners of the best people, which those of a coarser mind
entirely miss. For instance, I had observed that the habitués of the
stalls generally look a little careless,--not reckless precisely,--but
with an air of taking everything for granted. I copied this expression
throughout the evening.
A man’s surroundings have a great effect upon his character; I felt
myself perceptibly refined by my presence in the stalls. My position as
an under-master in a private school seemed unworthy of me. “It is not,”
so I thought, “the profession for a gentleman. I shall change it.” I
must have known perfectly well that it was impossible to change it; but
it pleased me to say so to myself. My old tendencies towards economy
vanished. I felt that I must have a cab to take me home. It would cost
two shillings probably, but that would be better than an incongruity.
My æsthetic principles positively forbade me to walk home after having
sat in the stalls. So I hired a four-wheeler, as I always mistrust
hansoms. “After all,” I said to myself as I put up the window, “what is
money? We assign a value to it, but it is relative and transitory. We
don’t know what anything’s really worth. What is money? What is money?”
The words repeated themselves over and over again, in time with the
rattling of the cab,--“What is money?” Such a repetition is liable to
send one off to sleep. I am not sure that I might not have fallen into
a doze myself, if I had not suddenly been startled into wakefulness by
the stopping of the cab. I felt certain that the man could not have
driven to my lodgings in the time, but I jumped out. To my amazement
I found myself in an empty street. On one side of it ran a low stone
wall, on the other there were houses; the darkness hid them to a great
extent; but the house at which my cab had stopped was brightly lighted
up, and appeared to be some kind of a shop. There was nothing set out
in the windows, but over the door were the words “Joseph, Grocer.” The
street itself was paved with blocks of crystal, and in the air there
sounded the wildest music. I turned to my cabby, utterly at a loss as
to where I was, or why I was there. He sat absolutely motionless; his
hands still held the reins, but his eyes were shut. “Now then, cabby!”
I cried, “where have you taken me to?”
He made no answer, and gave no sign of having heard me; but the horse
turned its head and looked at me. As it did so, the music ceased.
“You’re starring,” the horse remarked.
I remember perfectly well that one of the young men with the shut-up
hats had made the same remark about some actress, and I had then
wondered what he meant. “This is very confusing,” I said. “It was the
cabman that my remarks were addressed to.”
“Look over that parapet,” answered the horse.
I could not help thinking how extraordinary it was to hear a horse
speak. All my life long I had been accustomed to regard a horse as a
poor dumb animal. It might, of course, be all very well in fables to----
“Shut up!” shrieked the horse.
“I never said anything,” I replied, indignantly.
“No, but you thought.”
“Well, I can’t help thinking.”
“Can’t you? If you think like that again, I’ll kick this cab to
splinters. I was shod yesterday. Why can’t you look over the parapet,
and do as you’re told?”
I gave in. I had an indistinct idea that I was going mad, but I walked
carefully across the polished street, and leaned over the low stone
wall. Certainly it was a marvellous and beautiful sight. Far down, as
far as my eye could reach, there was darkness; and the darkness was
strewn with myriad golden stars. I heard the horse’s voice behind me:
“The smallest of those is the world you’ve just left, and this is the
world you’ve come to.”
I knew perfectly well that this was impossible and quite unscientific,
and as I leaned over the wall I formed my conclusions. I had been
terribly overworked lately, and probably part of my brain had given
way----
“Never had any!” yelled the horse, and went into a roar of unmannerly
laughter.
I took no notice whatever of this, but went on thinking. These
delusions must have arisen from some such partial failure of
brain-power. It was to be hoped that it was only temporary. Probably
rest and medical advice would soon set me up again. I would step across
to the grocer’s, and inquire where the nearest doctor lived. As I
crossed the street, I noticed that the horse was humming the National
Anthem. I pushed open the door of the grocery and entered. There were
counters and shelves, but nothing on them. After waiting a little while
I ventured to tap on the floor with my foot. A voice from the other
side of the counter said:--
“What may we have the pleasure of doing for you?”
I looked, but I could not see any one, and I ventured to say so.
“No, you can’t see me. It doesn’t really matter, but I think I left it
downstairs. James,” the voice called to some invisible person at the
farther end of the shop, “what did I do with my body? I had it only
this morning.”
The answer came in a boyish voice: “You left it in the cellar, Joseph,
when you were packing up the nightmares.”
“So I did, so I did. You’re right, James.”
“But,” I said, “I can’t see James’s body either.”
“No, you see James has only got one. You’re very inquisitive. If you
must know, his body’s gone to the wash. You wouldn’t have him wear it
dirty?”
“I generally wash my own,” I said mildly.
“Well, we don’t. This is a grocery, not a laundry.”
“You must excuse me,” I pleaded, “I’m quite a stranger in these parts.”
I saw it was no good to inquire for a doctor. If the grocery was part
of the delusion, as it seemed to be, it would be absurd to make the
inquiry there. If, on the other hand, the grocery really existed, then
probably I did not require the doctor’s services. But I felt very
muddled about it. “I suppose you’re Mr. Joseph?” I said.
“I am Joseph, and I should take it as a favour if you would tell me
with what I can serve you.”
“Well,” I said, “judging from the state of your counter and shelves, I
don’t see anything you can serve me with.”
“Of course you don’t see,” he answered, a little snappishly. “You can’t
see the abstract. I’m not a grocer in the concrete. Kindly shut that
door. There’s a draught keeps coming down the back of the place where
my neck would have been, and that’s a thing I can’t stand.”
As I shut the door I felt more bewildered than ever. An abstract grocer
was beyond me, and I said so. “What, for instance, is abstract sugar?”
I asked.
“Sugar’s concrete,” was the reply, “and if you abstract it, you
get spanked. We’ve got no sugar here. If you’d like a Pure White,
Crystallised, Disinterested Love, we keep that, although there’s not
much demand. They mostly use the coarser kinds. They say they’re
sweeter.”
“Ah!” I cried, “you deal in abstract nouns then.”
“That’s more like it. It’s a clumsy way of putting it, but it’s fairly
right. We supply, or, to speak more accurately, we groce, all the
Emotions to the Solar System, and trade’s very slack just now in that
branch. We are doing rather better in States of Being, and we’ve just
got a new assortment of Deaths. Now, once for all, do you intend to buy
anything?”
I remembered with joy that I had a couple of sovereigns and some loose
silver in my pocket. All my life long I had suffered from want of
emotional experiences. I had always regretted the want of variety, the
general flatness and dulness. If the delusion or reality--I neither
knew nor cared now which it was--would only last, I was determined to
gratify to the full my fine perceptions. Especially was I struck with
the mention of the Pure White Love. I may confess at once that I never
got on much with women. I have a natural dignity and reserve that is
sometimes mistaken for nervousness. I fancy it sets women against me.
Somehow I am never able to say to them quite what I want to say. I
have often looked at a young girl, and thought that if she could only
know me as I really was--if she could once regard me as apart from
wretched circumstances, my poverty, my shabby clothes, my unfortunate
reserve--she might abate something of her pretty scorn.
“Certainly, I intend to buy something,” I said. “To commence with, I
should like to see some samples of that peculiar Love you mentioned.”
“Dear me!” broke in Mr. Joseph. “How many more times am I to tell you?
You can’t _see_ samples. You can feel them if you like. James!”
“Yes, Joseph,” answered the boyish voice from the further end of the
shop.
“Let’s have some of the ‘Pure White,’--look sharp.”
“Right.”
“Now then,” continued Mr. Joseph. “Take that chair. Adopt an easy,
natural position. Don’t cross the legs. If you find the light too
strong, you can blink the eyes once or twice, it won’t make any
difference. Head a little more this way. You’re frowning. That’s
better. Now then, we’re ready. Steady, please.”
The light certainly was too strong. A sudden flash blinded me, and when
I recovered my sight I was apparently no longer in the Grocery. I was
in a dimly-lighted conservatory and the middle of a sentence. I have
never been able to find out what could have been the beginning of it.
“... which it is not, and never was,” I was saying. “I am content only
to have told you, and now I relinquish you. Let this be my farewell, my
good-bye to you before I sail from England. In books that we read, a
man would have asked you for one clasp of the hands, or even one kiss,
but I neither ask nor wish for that.”
I looked up, and saw the girl to whom I was speaking. I had certainly
never seen her before, but yet the figure was familiar. She sat in her
white dress, shaded from the light by some tropical plant. It was with
passionate and hopeless adoration that I looked at her, and yet I was
full of a strange content; it seemed to be enough to have loved her. I
saw that her head was slightly turned away from me, and that she was
sobbing.
“I am sorry,” I went on, “that I have made you cry. I want you to be
happy, and I know there is only one way.”
“I never knew it was going to be like this,” she said tremulously.
For the matter of that, neither had I when I first ordered the first
sample pure white. But it struck me as being all quite natural. Some of
that peace which must come to men of a great soul, had come to me.
“Good-bye,” I said. “I am not going to do anything desperate, anything
that could cause you regret. It is enough for me to have loved you, and
to feel that in comparison the rest of my life is one....”
Just as I had begun in the middle of a sentence so I ended in the
middle of a sentence. The dim-lit conservatory and the maiden vanished,
and I found myself once more in the Celestial Grocery.
“Do you like it?” asked Mr. Joseph’s voice.
“Yes,” I said, hesitatingly, “it is grand, it is sublime. But I don’t
think I could stand very much of it. How much is it a pound?”
“We don’t sell it by the pound; we sell it by the spasm.”
“Then,” I said, “I’ll take six spasms.”
“James, six of the pure white.”
“Right,” said the voice of James.
For a moment I tried to recall the beautiful girl in white whom I had
just seen. I wondered how my first sentence began and how my last
sentence would have ended. I seemed to have walked for a while upon
those heights of love that reach beyond the fires of passion, and on
which lie the snows of perpetual purity. I felt that my self-respect
had considerably increased in consequence. Here I was interrupted by
Mr. Joseph.
“What will be the next order?”
“I have often longed,” I replied, “for a little real happiness.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Joseph. “But that is a blend. You buy the ingredients
and you blend them yourself. Unfortunately, we do not provide
Incomes. We have a Literary Fame which gives great satisfaction.
‘Political Success’ is in considerable demand. Then there’s ‘Religious
Exaltation’--not much asked for lately, I’m afraid. ‘Requited Love’ is
not expensive, but we’ve had complaints that it doesn’t wear well. Of
course there’s Death by Drowning, Death by----”
“Stop, Mr. Joseph,” I cried, “I have no desire to die.” I had already
decided what should be my next experiment; for even under-masters have
their ambitions. “I think,” I said, “that I should rather like to try
the ‘Political Success.’”