"That isn't what I mean," said Nicholas Devine, turning his eyes on his
companion. "I mean pure horror in the sense of horror detached from
experience, apart from reality. Not just a formless fear, which implies
either fear of something that _might_ happen, or fear of unknown
dangers. Do you see what I mean?"
"Of course," said Pat, letting her eyes wander over the black expanse
of night-dark Lake Michigan. "Certainly I see what you mean but I don't
quite understand how you'd do it. It sounds--well, difficult."
She gazed at his lean profile, clear-cut against the distant light.
He had turned, staring thoughtfully over the lake, idly fingering the
levers on the steering wheel before him. The girl wondered a little at
her feeling of contentment; she, Patricia Lane, satisfied to spend an
evening in nothing more exciting than conversation! And they must have
parked here a full two hours now. There was something about Nick--she
didn't understand exactly what; sensitivity, charm, personality. Those
were meaningless cliches, handles to hold the unexplainable nuances of
character.
"It _is_ difficult," resumed Nick. "Baudelaire tried it, Poe tried it.
And in painting, Hogarth, Goya, Dore. Poe came closest, I think; he
caught the essence of horror in an occasional poem or story. Don't you
think so?"
"I don't know," said Pat. "I've forgotten most of my Poe."
"Remember that story of his--'The Black Cat'?"
"Dimly. The man murdered his wife."
"Yes. That isn't the part I mean. I mean the cat itself--the second
cat. You know a cat, used rightly, can be a symbol of horror."
"Indeed yes!" The girl shuddered. "I don't like the treacherous beasts!"
"And this cat of Poe's," continued Nick, warming to his subject. "Just
think of it--in the first place, it's black; element of horror. Then,
it's gigantic, unnaturally, abnormally large. And then it's not all
black--that would be inartistically perfect--but has a formless white
mark on its breast, a mark that little by little assumes a fantastic
form--do you remember what?"
"No."
"The form of a gallows!"
"Oh!" said the girl. "Ugh!"
"And then--climax of genius--the eyes! Blind in one eye, the other a
baleful yellow orb! Do you feel it? A black cat, an enormous black cat
marked with a gallows, and lacking one eye, to make the other even
more terrible! Literary tricks, of course, but they work, and _that's_
genius! Isn't it?"
"Genius! Yes, if you call it that. The perverse genius of the Devil!"
"That's what I want to write--what I will write some day." He watched
the play of lights on the restless surface of the waters. "Pure horror,
the epitome of the horrible. It could be written, but it hasn't been
yet; not even by Poe."
"That little analysis of yours was bad enough, Nick! Why should you
want to improve on his treatment of the theme?"
"Because I like to write, and because I'm interested in the horrible.
Two good reasons."
"Two excuses, you mean. Of course, even if you'd succeed, you couldn't
force anyone to read it."
"If I succeed, there'd be no need to force people. Success would mean
that the thing would be great literature, and even today, in these
times, there are still people to read that. And besides--" He paused.
"Besides what?"
"Everybody's interested in the horrible. Even you are, whether or not
you deny it."
"I certainly do deny it!"
"But you are, Pat. It's natural to be."
"It isn't!"
"Then what is?"
"Interest in people, and life, and gay times, and pretty things,
and--and one's self and one's own feelings. And the feelings of the
people one loves."
"Yes. It comes to exactly the point I've been stressing. People are
sordid, life is hopeless, gay times are stupid, beauty is sensual,
one's own feelings are selfish. And love is carnal. That's the array of
horrors that holds your interest!"
The girl laughed in exasperation. "Nick, you could out-argue your
name-sake, the Devil himself! Do you really believe that indictment of
the normal viewpoint?"
"I do--often!"
"Now?"
"Now," he said, turning his gaze on Pat, "I have no feeling of it at
all. Now, right now, I don't believe it."
"Why not?" she queried, smiling ingenuously at him.
"You, obviously."
"Gracious! I had no idea my logic was as convincing as that."
"Your logic isn't. The rest of you is."
"That sounds like a compliment," observed Pat. "If it is," she
continued in a bantering tone, "it's the only one I can recall
obtaining from you."
"That's because I seldom call attention to the obvious."
"And that's another," laughed the girl. "I'll have to mark this date in
red on my calendar. It's entirely unique in our--let's see--nearly a
month's acquaintance."
"Is it really so short a time? I know you so well that it must have
taken years. Every detail!" He closed his eyes. "Hair like black silk,
and oddly dark blue eyes--if I were writing a poem at the moment, I'd
call them violet. Tiny lips, the sort the Elizabethan called bee-stung.
Straight nose, and a figure that is a sort of vest-pocket copy of
Diana. Right?" He opened his eyes.
"Nice, but exaggerated. And even if you were correct, that isn't Pat
Lane, the real Pat Lane. A camera could do better on a tenth of a
second's acquaintance!"
"Check!" He closed his eyes again. "Personality, piquant. Character,
loyal, naturally happy, intelligent, but not serious. An intellectual
butterfly; a dilettante. Poised, cool, self-possessed, yet inherently
affectionate. A being untouched by reality, as yet, living in Chicago
and in a make-believe world at the same time." He paused, "How old are
you, Pat?"
"Twenty-two. Why?"
"I wondered how long one could manage to stay in the world of
make-believe. I'm twenty-six, and I'm long exiled."
"I don't think you know what you mean by a make-believe world. I'm sure
I don't."
"Of course you don't. You can't know and still remain there. It's like
being happy; once you realize it, it's no longer perfect."
"Then don't explain!"
"Wouldn't make any difference if I did, Pat. It's a queer world, like
the Sardoodledom of Sardou and the afternoon-tea school of playwrights.
All stage-settings and pretense, but it looks real while you're
watching, especially if you're one of the characters."
The girl laughed. "You're a deliciously solemn sort, Nick. How would
you like to hear my analysis of you?"
"I wouldn't!"
"You inflicted yours on me, and I'm entitled to revenge. And so--you're
intelligent, lazy, dreamy, and with a fine perception of artistic
values. You're very alert to impressions of the senses--I mean you're
sensuous without being sensual. You're delightfully serious without
being somber, except sometimes. Sometimes I feel a hint, just a
thrilling hint, in your character, of something dangerously darker--"
"Don't!" said Nick sharply.
Pat shot him a quick glance. "And you're frightened to death of
falling in love," she concluded imperturbably.
"Oh! Do you think so?"
"I do."
"Then you're wrong! I can't be afraid of it, since I've known for the
better part of a month that I've been in love."
"With me," said the girl.
"Yes, with you!"
"Well!" said Pat. "It never before took me a month to extract that
admission from a man. Is twenty-two getting old?"
"You're a tantalizing imp!"
"And so?" She pursed her lips, assuming an air of disappointment. "What
am I to do about it--scream for help? You haven't given me anything to
scream about."
The kiss, Pat admitted to herself, was quite satisfactory. She yielded
herself to the pleasure of it; it was decidedly the best kiss she had,
in her somewhat limited experience, encountered. She pushed herself
away finally, with a little gasp, gazing bright-eyed at her companion.
He was staring down at her with serious eyes; there was a tense twist
to his mouth, and a curiously unexpected attitude of unhappiness.
"Nick!" she murmured. "Was it as bad as all that?"
"Bad! Pat, does it mean you--care for me? A little, anyway?"
"A little," she admitted. "Maybe more. Is that what makes you look so
forlorn?"
He drew her closer to him. "How could I look forlorn, Honey, when
something like this has happened to me? That was just my way of looking
happy."
She nestled as closely as the steering wheel permitted, drawing his arm
about her shoulders. "I hope you mean that, Nick."
"Then _you_ mean it? You really do?"
"I really do."
"I'm glad," he said huskily. The girl thought she detected a strange
dubious note in his voice. She glanced at his face; his eyes were
gazing into the dim remoteness of the night horizon.
"Nick," she said, "why were you so--well, so reluctant about admitting
this? You must have known I--like you. I showed you that deliberately
in so many ways."
"I--I wasn't quite sure."
"You were! That isn't it, Nick. I had to practically browbeat you into
confessing you cared for me. Why?"
He stepped on the starter; the motor ground into sudden life. The car
backed into the road, turning toward Chicago, that glared like a false
dawn in the southern sky.
"I hope you never find out," he said.
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