Next my chair is moved easily along and I open my eyes in an ice grotto,
where a large company is assembled, whom I imagine are the many
relatives.
As older people, like them in feature are occupying special chairs of
state—the parents?
The change to cool arbor from summer heat is so greatly refreshing I
regain animation.
At the parents’ request, we are placed on pedestals for exhibition.
“Are all so small?” they inquire.
“We are medium. There are midgets and giants,” we reply.
“How greatly you have multiplied. How great the size of the earth in
comparison with Arc. You do more wonderful acts in proportion as you
have more land to work upon.”
They place their hands upon our heads in token of membership in their
family.
[Illustration: Decoration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
“There is magic in the air.”
Another pedestal is being occupied by Show Off and Serpenta, who are
dancing a betrothal. In graceful pose and gesture, his movements are an
epic poem in majesty and solid grandeur, hers the duplicate shadow of
his, with interlacing quicksteps. An ice dance on the ice, the feet not
raised off. The complication of steps is insidious to the eye in their
noiseless turns. Noiseless? rising on the air is a melody, that grows
and lessens, produced by the swift slipping. Ending in smooth tone as
true love ought.
When it is over, and the company dispersed, I wander around by myself to
soon get lost in the tangle of halls, which labyrinth every way. Just
here are niches in the walls with statues of people and animals like
life. Here is a family group. The host is deep in Arc news ball (writing
rolled up) his wife is crossing the floor toward the grandma, asleep in
her arm chair, a kitten rolled up beside it. A child is playing on the
floor. I touch its soft hair. It is cold. An idea enters my mind. Have
not all these been once alive, and now ice embalmed? I intrude no
farther. None look up to ask me to stay. A charm comes over me driving
all uncanny sense away. How pleasant to have our dead welcome among us,
as though not lost.
Now I come to rooms of birds and other pets. A boa that swung Robet in
olden time. What is this, an elephant like the mammoth, ice-locked in
southern zone. Washed away?
“O auntie!”
I turn nervously around. It is not Miss Mae but Miss Serpenta. Show
Off’s betrothed, who has mistaken my name.
“Miss Robet is in the great hall, where Charley (mistake) is going to
lecture. It is superbly decorated, a great globe of the earth in the
center, colored. He will tell all about it. He has counted out a
thousand and one inventions never seen here. He says he will lionize the
natives. She told me to find you, for though any can enter an open
archway, none can open a closed door.”
I begin to feel as if Blue Beard lived here. The open rooms are so
magnificent and shining one need not hunt him up.
“The cue in the halls,” goes on the friendly girl, “is to keep on the
smooth path. The lecture will soon begin. She is afraid you will take
cold or something and wants you by to watch you.”
“To watch me!” I muse maliciously. “Did I come, clear to Arc to be
watched by an old maid, an old one truly?”
_I turn to the rough path._ What is that under that chair? I do believe
it is a paper. Charley has dropped some of his notes. I am so tired. I
will sit down while I pick them up. Why don’t they come out? I get up
and perceive the chair is an open work door, solid built.
“O,” says Serpenta, trembling, as I hurry to undo the bar. She is
paralyzed. As I open the door a little way, I see in the jar a Blue
Beard. I said the lions are pink, this one is blue. His paw on the
paper, his breath on me. No art manufacture now.
I dream in shadow. I see Show Off, who has followed his girl, with one
tremendous blow put us two around an archway. The lions are in the room.
They mind him not. When did a king mind? They see me not. I see them
from reflections on the ice mirror walls.
He leans against a column and plays. (He has in his mouth a harmonica,
Saucy’s property.) Plaintive at first, then shrill, one note touches a
chord in the lions’ ears. They shake their heads. It comes again. They
snort. A mother back of them calls to a lost babe; three heroes go to
her aid flying. The door is shut. Tableau.
The lecture is very good. When it comes to lions I am surprised to see
in the archway behind Charley, no less than Show Off astride his young
thoroughbred, who, when lions are said to dance and play music in
America, this one dances and plays behind the speaker, who looks back
wild-eyed. The harmonica in its mouth, Show Off chokes out the strains
with his hands. So apt and comical is it, the speaker himself breaks out
laughing. Show Off has learned to read Unit writing. He got the paper
under the door. Did not get left by a Unit scion.