turned horrible, becoming awful with the nightmare touch. The sky lost
all its blue and sunshine. Far, far below him the little dove enticed
him into nameless depths, so that he flew faster and faster, yet never
fast enough to overtake it. Behind him came a great thing down the air,
black, hovering, with gigantic wings outstretched. It had terrific
eyes, and the beating of its feathers stole his wind away. It followed
him, crowding space. He was aware of a colossal beak, curved like a
scimitar and pointed wickedly like a tooth of iron. He dropped. He
faltered. He tried to scream.
Through empty space he fell, caught by the neck. The huge spectral
falcon was upon him. The talons were in his heart. And in sleep he
remembered then that he had cursed. He recalled his reckless language.
The curse of the ignorant is meaningless; that of the worshipper is
real. This attack was on his soul. He had invoked it. He realised
next, with a touch of ghastly horror, that the dove he chased was,
after all, the bait that had lured him purposely to destruction, and
awoke with a suffocating terror upon him, and his entire body bathed
in icy perspiration. Outside the open window he heard a sound of wings
retreating with powerful strokes into the surrounding darkness of the
sky.
The nightmare made its impression upon Binovitch's impressionable and
dramatic temperament. It aggravated his tendencies. He related it next
day to Mme. de Drühn, the friend of Vera, telling it with that somewhat
boisterous laughter some minds use to disguise less kind emotions.
But he received no encouragement. The mood of the previous night was
not recoverable; it was already ancient history. Russians never make
the banal mistake of repeating a sensation till it is exhausted;
they hurry on to novelties. Life flashes and rushes with them, never
standing still for exposure before the cameras of their minds. Mme. de
Drühn, however, took the trouble to mention the matter to Plitzinger,
for Plitzinger, like Freud of Vienna, held that dreams revealed
subconscious tendencies which sooner or later must betray themselves in
action.
"Thank you for telling me," he smiled politely, "but I have already
heard it from him." He watched her eyes for a moment, really examining
her soul. "Binovitch, you see," he continued, apparently satisfied with
what he saw, "I regard as that rare phenomenon--a genius without an
outlet. His spirit, intensely creative, finds no adequate expression.
His power of production is enormous and prolific; yet he accomplishes
nothing." He paused an instant. "Binovitch, therefore, is in danger of
poisoning--himself." He looked steadily into her face, as a man who
weighs how much he may confide. "Now," he continued, "_if_ we can find
an outlet for him, a field wherein his bursting imaginative genius
can produce results--above all, _visible_ results"--he shrugged his
shoulders--"the man is saved. Otherwise"--he looked extraordinarily
impressive--"there is bound to be sooner or later----"
"Madness?" she asked very quietly.
"An explosion, let us say," he replied gravely. "For instance, take
this Horus obsession of his, quite wrong archæologically though it is.
_Au fond_ it is megalomania of a most unusual kind. His passionate
interest, his love, his worship of birds, wholesome enough in itself,
finds no satisfying outlet. A man who _really_ loves birds neither
keeps them in cages nor shoots them nor stuffs them. What, then, can he
do? The commonplace bird-lover observes them through glasses, studies
their habits, then writes a book about them. But a man like Binovitch,
overflowing with this intense creative power of mind and imagination,
is not content with that. He wants to know them from within. He wants
to feel what they feel, to live their life. He wants to _become_ them.
You follow me? Not quite. Well, he seeks to be identified with the
object of his sacred, passionate adoration. All genius seeks to know
the thing itself from its own point of view. It desires union. That
tendency, unrecognised by himself, perhaps, and therefore subconscious,
hides in his very soul." He paused a moment. "And the sudden sight
of those majestic figures at Edfu--that crystallisation of his _idée
fixe_ in granite--took hold of this excess in him, so to speak--and is
now focusing it toward some definite act. Binovitch sometimes--feels
himself a bird! You noticed what occurred last night?"
She nodded; a slight shiver passed over her.
"A most curious performance," she murmured; "an exhibition I never want
to see again."
"The most curious part," replied the doctor coolly, "was its truth."
"Its truth!" she exclaimed beneath her breath. She was frightened by
something in his voice and by the uncommon gravity in his eyes. It
seemed to arrest her intelligence. She felt upon the edge of things
beyond her. "You mean that Binovitch did for a moment--hang--in the
air?" The other verb, the right one, she could not bring herself to use.
The great man's face was enigmatical. He talked to her sympathy,
perhaps, rather than to her mind.
"Real genius," he said smilingly, "is as rare as talent, even great
talent, is common. It means that the personality, if only for one
second, becomes everything; becomes the universe; becomes the soul
of the world. It gets the flash. It is identified with the universal
life. Being everything and everywhere, all is possible to it--in that
second of vivid realisation. It can brood with the crystal, grow with
the plant, leap with the animal, fly with the bird: genius unifies
all three. That is the meaning of 'creative.' It is faith. Knowing
it, you can pass through fire and not be burned, walk on water and
not sink, move a mountain, fly. Because you _are_ fire, water, earth,
air. Genius, you see, is madness in the magnificent sense of being
superhuman. Binovitch has it."
He broke off abruptly, seeing he was not understood. Some great
enthusiasm in him he deliberately suppressed.
"The point is," he resumed, speaking more carefully, "that we must try
to lead this passionate constructive genius of the man into some human
channel that will absorb it, and therefore render it harmless."
"He loves Vera," the woman said, bewildered, yet seizing this point
correctly.
"But would he marry her?" asked Plitzinger at once.
"He is already married."
The doctor looked steadily at her a moment, hesitating whether he
should utter all his thought.
"In that case," he said slowly after a pause, "it is better he or she
should leave."
His tone and manner were exceedingly impressive.
"You mean there's danger?" she asked.
"I mean, rather," he replied earnestly, "that this great creative flood
in him, so curiously focused now upon his Horus-falcon-bird idea, may
result in some act of violence----"
"Which would be madness," she said, looking hard at him.
"Which would be disastrous," he corrected her. And then he added
slowly: "Because in the mental moment of immense creation he might
overlook material laws."
* * * * *
The costume ball two nights later was a great success. Palazov was
a Bedouin, and Khilkoff an Apache; Mme. de Drühn wore a national
head-dress; Minski looked almost natural as Don Quixote; and the entire
Russian "set" was cleverly, if somewhat extravagantly, dressed. But
Binovitch and Vera were the most successful of all the two hundred
dancers who took part. Another figure, a big man dressed as a Pierrot,
also claimed exceptional attention, for though the costume was
commonplace enough, there was something of dignity in his appearance
that drew the eyes of all upon him. But he wore a mask, and his
identity was not discoverable.
It was Binovitch and Vera, however, who must have won the prize,
if prize there had been, for they not only looked their parts, but
acted them as well. The former in his dark grey feather tunic, and
his falcon mask, complete even to the brown hooked beak and tufted
talons, looked fierce and splendid. The disguise was so admirable,
yet so entirely natural, that it was uncommonly seductive. Vera, in
blue and gold, a charming head-dress of a dove upon her loosened hair,
and a pair of little dove-pale wings fluttering from her shoulders,
her tiny twinkling feet and slender ankles well visible, too, was
equally successful and admired. Her large and timid eyes, her flitting
movements, her light and dainty way of dancing--all added touches that
made the picture perfect.
How Binovitch contrived his dress remained a mystery, for the layers
of wings upon his back were real; the large black kites that haunt
the Nile, soaring in their hundreds over Cairo and the bleak Mokattam
Hills, had furnished them. He had procured them none knew how. They
measured four feet across from tip to tip; they swished and rustled
as he swept along; they were true falcons' wings. He danced with
Nautch-girls and Egyptian princesses and Rumanian Gipsies; he danced
well, with beauty, grace, and lightness. But with Vera he did not dance
at all; with her he simply flew. A kind of passionate abandon was in
him as he skimmed the floor with her in a way that made everybody
turn to watch them. They seemed to leave the ground together. It was
delightful, an amazing sight; but it was peculiar. The strangeness of
it was on many lips. Somehow its queer extravagance communicated itself
to the entire ball-room. They became the centre of observation. There
were whispers.
"There's that extraordinary bird-man! Look! He goes by like a hawk. And
he's always after that dove-girl. How marvellously he does it! It's
rather awful. Who is he? I don't envy _her_."
People stood aside when he rushed past. They got out of his way. He
seemed forever pursuing Vera, even when dancing with another partner.
Word passed from mouth to mouth. A kind of telepathic interest was
established everywhere. It was a shade too real sometimes, something
unduly earnest in the chasing wildness, something unpleasant. There was
even alarm.
"It's rowdy; I'd rather not see it; it's quite disgraceful," was heard.
"_I_ think it's horrible; you can see she's terrified."
And once there was a little scene, trivial enough, yet betraying this
reality that many noticed and disliked. Binovitch came up to claim
a dance, programme clutched in his great tufted claws, and at the
same moment the big Pierrot appeared abruptly round the corner with a
similar claim. Those who saw it assert he had been waiting, and came
on purpose, and that there was something protective and authoritative
in his bearing. The misunderstanding was ordinary enough--both men had
written her name against the dance--but "No. 13, Tango" also included
the supper interval, and neither Hawk nor Pierrot would give way. They
were very obstinate. Both men wanted her. It was awkward.
"The Dove shall decide between us," smiled the Hawk politely, yet his
taloned fingers working nervously. Pierrot, however, more experienced
in the ways of dealing with women, or more bold, said suavely:
"I am ready to abide by her decision"--his voice poorly cloaked this
aggravating authority, as though he had the right to her--"only I
engaged this dance before his Majesty Horus appeared upon the scene at
all, and therefore it is clear that Pierrot has the right of way."
At once, with a masterful air, he took her off. There was no
withstanding him. He meant to have her and he got her. She yielded
meekly. They vanished among the maze of coloured dancers, leaving the
Hawk, disconsolate and vanquished, amid the titters of the onlookers.
His swiftness, as against this steady power, was of no avail.
It was then that the singular phenomenon was witnessed first. Those
who saw it affirm that he changed absolutely into the part he played.
It was dreadful; it was wicked. A frightened whisper ran about the
rooms and corridors:
"An extraordinary thing is in the air!"
Some shrank away, while others flocked to see. There were those who
swore that a curious, rushing sound was audible, the atmosphere visibly
disturbed and shaken; that a shadow fell upon the spot the couple had
vacated; that a cry was heard, a high, wild, searching cry: "Horus!
bright deity of wind," it began, then died away. One man was positive
that the windows had been opened and that something had flown in.
It was the obvious explanation. The thing spread horribly. As in a
fire-panic, there was consternation and excitement. Confusion caught
the feet of all the dancers. The music fumbled and lost time. The
leading pair of tango dancers halted and looked round. It seemed that
everybody pressed back, hiding, shuffling, eager to see, yet more eager
not to be seen, as though something dangerous, hostile, terrible, had
broken loose. In rows against the wall they stood. For a great space
had made itself in the middle of the ball-room, and into this empty
space appeared suddenly the Pierrot and the Dove.
It was like a challenge. A sound of applause, half voices, half
clapping of gloved hands, was heard. The couple danced exquisitely into
the arena. All stared. There was an impression that a set piece had
been prepared, and that this was its beginning. The music again took
heart. Pierrot was strong and dignified, no whit nonplussed by this
abrupt publicity. The Dove, though faltering, was deliciously obedient.
They danced together like a single outline. She was captured utterly.
And to the man who needed her the sight was naturally agonizing--the
protective way the Pierrot held her, the right and strength of it, the
mastery, the complete possession.
"He's got her!" some one breathed too loud, uttering the thought of
all. "Good thing it's not the Hawk!"
And, to the absolute amazement of the throng, this sight was then
apparent. A figure dropped through space. That high, shrill cry again
was heard:
"Feather my soul ... to know thy awful swiftness!"
Its singing loveliness touched the heart, its appealing, passionate
sweetness was marvellous, as from the gallery this figure of a man,
dressed as a strong, dark bird, shot down with splendid grace and ease.
The feathers swept; the swings spread out as sails that take the wind.
Like a hawk that darts with unerring power and aim upon its prey, this
thing of mighty wings rushed down into the empty space where the two
danced. Observed by all, he entered, swooping beautifully, stretching
his wings like any eagle. He dropped. He fixed his point of landing
with consummate skill close beside the astonished dancers. He landed.
It happened with such swiftness it brought the dazzle and blindness
as when lightning strikes. People in different parts of the room saw
different details; a few saw nothing at all after the first startling
shock, closing their eyes, or holding their arms before their faces as
in self-protection. The touch of panic fear caught the entire room. The
nameless thing that all the evening had been vaguely felt was come. It
had suddenly materialised.
For this incredible thing occurred in the full blaze of light upon
the open floor. Binovitch, grown in some sense formidable, opened his
dark, big wings about the girl. The long grey feathers moved, causing
powerful draughts of wind that made a rushing sound. An aspect of the
terrible was about him, like an emanation. The great beaked head was
poised to strike, the tufted claws were raised like fingers that shut
and opened, and the whole presentment of his amazing figure focused in
an attitude of attack that was magnificent and terrible. No one who saw
it doubted. Yet there were those who swore that it was not Binovitch
at all, but that another outline, monstrous and shadowy, towered
above him, draping his lesser proportions with two colossal wings of
darkness. That some touch of strange divinity lay in it may be claimed,
however confused the wild descriptions afterward. For many lowered
their heads and bowed their shoulders. There was terror. There was also
awe. The onlookers swayed as though some power passed over them through
the air.
A sound of wings was certainly in the room.
Then some one screamed; a shriek broke high and clear; and emotion,
ordinary human emotion, unaccustomed to terrific things, swept loose.
The Hawk and Vera flew. Beaten back against the wall as by a stroke
of whirlwind, the Pierrot staggered. He watched them go. Out of the
lighted room they flew, out of the crowded human atmosphere, out of
the heat and artificial light, the walled-in, airless halls that were
a cage. All this they left behind. They seemed things of wind and air,
made free happily of another element. Earth held them not. Toward the
open night they raced with this extraordinary lightness as of birds,
down the long corridor and on to the southern terrace, where great
coloured curtains were hung suspended from the columns. A moment they
were visible. Then the fringe of one huge curtain, lifted by the wind,
showed their dark outline for a second against the starry sky. There
was a cry, a leap. The curtain flapped again and closed. They vanished.
And into the ball-room swept the cold draught of night air from the
desert.
But three figures instantly were close upon their heels. The throng
of half-dazed, half-stupefied onlookers, it seemed, projected them as
though by some explosive force. The general mass held back, but, like
projectiles, these three flung themselves after the fugitives down the
corridor at high speed--the Apache, Don Quixote, and, last of them,
the Pierrot. For Khilkoff, the brother, and Baron Minski, the man who
caught wolves alive, had been for some time keenly on the watch, while
Dr. Plitzinger, reading the symptoms clearly, never far away, had been
faithfully observant of every movement. His mask tossed aside, the
great psychiatrist was now recognised by all. They reached the parapet
just as the curtain flapped back heavily into place; the next second
all three were out of sight behind it. Khilkoff was first, however,
urged forward at frantic speed by the warning words the doctor had
whispered as they ran. Some thirty yards beyond the terrace was the
brink of the crumbling cliff on which the great hotel was built, and
there was a drop of sixty feet to the desert floor below. Only a low
stone wall marked the edge.
Accounts varied. Khilkoff, it seems, arrived in time--in the nick of
time--to seize his sister, virtually hovering on the brink. He heard
the loose stones strike the sand below. There was no struggle, though
it appears she did not thank him for his interference at first. In a
sense she was beside--outside--herself. And he did a characteristic
thing: he not only brought her back into the ball-room, but he
_danced_ her back. It was admirable. Nothing could have calmed the
general excitement better. The pair of them danced in together as
though nothing was amiss. Accustomed to the strenuous practice of his
Cossack regiment, this young cavalry officer's muscles were equal to
the semi-dead weight in his arms. At most the onlookers thought her
tired, perhaps. Confidence was restored--such is the psychology of
a crowd--and in the middle of a thrilling Viennese waltz he easily
smuggled her out of the room, administered brandy, and got her up to
bed. The absence of the Hawk, meanwhile, was hardly noticed; comments
were made and then forgotten; it was Vera in whom the strange, anxious
sympathy had centred. And, with her obvious safety, the moment of
primitive, childish panic passed away. Don Quixote, too, was presently
seen dancing gaily as though nothing untoward had happened; supper
intervened; the incident was over; it had melted into the general
wildness of the evening's irresponsibility. The fact that Pierrot did
not appear again was noticed by no single person.
But Dr. Plitzinger was otherwise engaged, his heart and mind and
soul all deeply exercised. A death-certificate is not always made
out quite so simply as the public thinks. That Binovitch had died of
suffocation in his swift descent through merely sixty feet of air
was not conceivable; yet that his body lay so neatly placed upon the
desert after such a fall was stranger still. It was not crumpled, it
was not torn; no single bone was broken, no muscle wrenched; there was
no bruise. There was no indenture in the sand. The figure lay sidewise
as though in sleep, no sign of violence visible anywhere, the dark
wings folded as a great bird folds them when it creeps away to die in
loneliness. Beneath the Horus mask the face was smiling. It seemed
he had floated into death upon the element he loved. And only Vera
had seen the enormous wings that, hovering invitingly above the dark
abyss, bore him so softly into another world. Plitzinger, that is,
saw them, too, but he said firmly that they belonged to the big black
falcons that haunt the Mokattam Hills and roost upon these ridges,
close beside the hotel, at night. Both he and Vera, however, agreed
on one thing: the high, sharp cry in the air above them, wild and
plaintive, was certainly the black kite's cry--the note of the falcon
that passionately seeks its mate. It was the pause of a second, when
she stood to listen, that made her rescue possible. A moment later and
she, too, would have flown to death with Binovitch.
IV
INITIATION
A few years ago, on a Black Sea steamer heading for the Caucasus, I
fell into conversation with an American. He mentioned that he was on
his way to the Baku oilfields, and I replied that I was going up into
the mountains. He looked at me questioningly a moment. "Your first
trip?" he asked with interest. I said it was. A conversation followed;
it was continued the next day, and renewed the following day, until we
parted company at Batoum. I don't know why he talked so freely to me in
particular. Normally, he was a taciturn, silent man. We had been fellow
travellers from Marseilles, but after Constantinople we had the boat
pretty much to ourselves. What struck me about him was his vehement,
almost passionate, love of natural beauty--in seas and woods and sky,
but above all in mountains. It was like a religion in him. His taciturn
manner hid deep poetic feeling.
And he told me it had not always been so with him. A kind of friendship
sprang up between us. He was a New York business man--buying and
selling exchange between banks--but was English born. He had gone out
thirty years before, and become naturalised. His talk was exceedingly
"American," slangy, and almost Western. He said he had roughed it in
the West for a year or two first. But what he chiefly talked about was
mountains. He said it was in the mountains an unusual experience had
come to him that had opened his eyes to many things, but principally to
the beauty that was now everything to him, and to the--insignificance
of death.
He knew the Caucasus well where I was going. I think that was why he
was interested in me and my journey. "Up there," he said, "you'll feel
things--and maybe find out things you never knew before."
"What kind of things?" I asked.
"Why, for one," he replied with emotion and enthusiasm in his voice,
"that living and dying ain't either of them of much account. That if
you know Beauty, I mean, and Beauty is in your life, you live on in it
and with it for others--even when you're dead."
The conversation that followed is too long to give here, but it led to
his telling me the experience in his own life that had opened his eyes
to the truth of what he said. "Beauty is imperishable," he declared,
"and if you live with it, why, you're imperishable too!"
The story, as he told it verbally in his curious language, remains
vividly in my memory. But he had written it down, too, he said. And he
gave me the written account, with the remark that I was free to hand it
on to others if I "felt that way." He called it "Initiation." It runs
as follows.
1