CHAPTER XVIII

THE SILENT FOREST[1]

Then Deborah, walking alone in the shade of evening, came on the

outskirts of a dense forest. The foliage within was thick and feathery,

the branches heavy and dark. Above there hung a cloud so black that it

sent a dull shadow through the dull leaves, and made the ground below

blacker than itself.

Just outside the cloud, where the sky was pale with the after-glow

of clear evening, shone a star, a very large and bright one. But the

cloud was so heavy that it hung over the whole forest like some dark

curse. It looked like a thunder-cloud that could not burst, being held

by iron chains covered with black rust. There was unutterable silence

in the forest, so that you looked in with a strange fear, and then

turned away, and yet again returned. Surely no living thing stirred or

breathed in there!

[Footnote 1: There are indications in the paging of this chapter in

MS. that it was written separately from the previous chapters. It

was afterwards added and the connection is obviously incomplete. To

this state of incompletion may be referred the indefiniteness of

the conclusion, though it may have been also part of the author’s

deliberate intention.—ED. NOTE.]

A great dampness rose from the ground, a vapour in the gathering

twilight, as it rises in the marshy districts near the sea. Now a bat

whirled out from the gloom on to the lonely flats, and then came a

sound like the hoot of an owl. But was it an owl? Oh, no. It was one

more “exceeding bitter cry,” at the bitter end, you know.

Then, there is life in the breathless forest after all.

The cry was repeated, louder and clearer, and it died away, you know

how, just as if it wanted somehow or other to cling on to life. You

didn’t like to hear the end of that last cry; it was so inarticulate

that it spoke.

But it ended at last, as all such end. What had happened to it? It had

fallen among the black leaves.

It had touched the black water. There is a very still Deep in the

Silent Forest, and its waters run slowly but surely. It’s part of the

curse, you know, raindrops distilled from the Black Cloud.

It was only one of many deeps, but the silence had fallen again, even

deeper it seemed than before, till a breeze swept over the tops of the

trees, and here is what it sang as it passed:—

“This is the Forest of Failure. Here is the Humiliation Vale. It

is filled with tears which are never seen, and sighs that are

never heard. All mankind has to tread it—now or then—now or

then—willy-nilly—each man treads it, and alone, now or then.”

Deborah saw a gate and passed in. And over the gate there was a prayer

written, just as we see writing through a looking-glass.

“I ought to know that prayer,” she thought.

“It is the Lord’s Prayer,” said a voice.

“No. I think it is too short,” and the gate clanged to with a horrible

grate.

“I want to go out.” It was too late—too late. But what pretty flowers

grew along the path! White ones with yellow eyes, and jessamine, and

even pink wild roses, and honeysuckle too. Yet when you picked them

they fell like dust.

“This is very strange,” thought Deborah. “I thought they were real.”

But no one answered, unless silence answered—no one at all.

And, looking on the ground, she saw that it was all covered with soft

black dust, before and after.

“It is easy to walk upon,” said she. “And the flowers look pretty as

they grow, but the silence and the gloom frighten me just a little.”

And then suddenly black rocks rose in the path with little jagged

edges. They cut into your shoes and hurt you ever so much, and instead

of getting better the road became worse.

Presently from between two black rocks shot out a crimson fountain

across the path.

Deborah stood still.

“It looks like blood,” she said, and shuddered. “And it kills all the

flowers as it passes on. I don’t like this wood, I think I’ll go back.”

But when you looked behind briars had grown across the path, and the

silence was so terrible that it seemed to say “Go on.” And there was

only one way to tread, and that was through the path of blood.

So Deborah went on, and the red stream soaked through the thin shoes,

and sent a strange kind of pain to her heart.

“It’s just like having toothache very badly, only I never knew of a

dentist who could pull out hearts.” But the pain became so bad that

for the time she was silent too, like everything else round about.

And then the stream flowed into a deep chasm that seemed to lead

underground, only now and again you could hear the gurgling as it went,

so that it never seemed to pass away, not quite.

After a time the road looked better again, for the rocks had vanished,

but now and then in the gloom you put your foot down on a very sharp

one, and when you drew it up quickly it gave you cramp, so that you

almost feared to put it down.

This path made you very tired. You kept slipping because you could not

see properly, and the worst of it was there was no path out, nor any

back. You were forced forward by Silence, that cruel and most perfect

teacher that sneers at heartaches and pain, and looks with a withering

smile on self-pity.

You see it was a magical forest; to stand still was to fall, to fall

was to be stifled by something. It is best to go on, therefore, as long

as you can. And then, after a weary length of road had been travelled,

the gloom turned to darkness, so gradually that at first you thought it

was your eyes that were dim; and ever from the unseen channel came the

gurgle of the stream, the only sound in the still forest.

Presently the darkness had turned to blackness, so that you groped the

way along; and now the weird Silence and the gentle sound of the unseen

stream led you between them in blind faith, till with a sudden bubble

the stream shot up again and you slipped in the quagmire of leaves.

But the road was so black that you did not see the colour of the

stream, and you thought it black too; and it softened the leaves and

the black dust, and your feet slipped in it, and the pain was coming

back to your heart as it had come at the fountain long since, only

worse if anything, and perhaps different.

Then the road grew much worse, for this unseen fluid was covering it.

Suddenly a light shone overhead, the first along the whole dark path,

and soon it died away.

But to Deborah standing there uncertainly came a figure, a gliding

spirit wearing a curious robe. At times it shone white as silver, and

again black as dusky night.

“How familiar is this figure,” thought Deborah. “In some ways it is

like the prayer. I ought to know it, and yet I don’t.”

But being extremely weary, for the road made you so, she had scarcely

the strength to think at all.

This forest makes every mortal weary that passes through it. Oh! very,

very weary. It teaches you so much too; more than the most brilliant

ball-room or entertainment or anything that the gay world can give. It

is a magical forest, you know. When the dust falls from the flowers

Silence says, “Were not those pretty little baubles? Anywhere but in

the Dark Path they would have won a first-class prize for brilliancy

and colour.” And then Silence laughs as the dust flickers down. “The

world would build a hot-house for one of these posies, and pay a

thousand guineas down if it were fashion. Ah! but you are in the Dark

Path and must travel on. We stand no whims, we who govern here. Though

your feet ache and your ankles are weary you must still go on or the

black leaves will stifle you. Do you hear the gurgle of the Stream?

It’s Pain, you know. Silence and Pain. Twin sisters. Gurgle, gurgle.

Your father has trod it all before. How his feet ached too! Poor

father!”

Oh! this stream is a very teaching stream. It makes men feel to the

very marrow of the bone. It stings to the core so that brilliant lights

flash from your aching, feverish eyes, and the world laughs and says,

“Ah! that was very good.” Not knowing what a sepulchre it laughs at.

Now let us go back to the Spirit, standing there in the forest.

It isn’t an angel, and not even a Spirit of Paradise, not in the

accepted sense; but it is so familiar to Deborah that she rubs her eyes

and looks again, and can make nothing of it.

“It’s Dante out of one of the pictures,” says she; but even that did

not solve the riddle, not at all.

“It is that being who guided him.” But no.

It was indeed hard to describe this spirit, for it was so transparent

and yet so real. You could see the trees through the graceful robe

quite plainly, yea, and something more. You could see other black paths

in the forest which had hitherto been hidden. For this place was all

magical, and the spirit was magical too. It had the power of explaining

the key to life, or rather lives, and no sooner did you look through it

than the whole forest became peopled with poor drudges in the shape of

men. And it made you irresistibly sad. Here you saw a man struggling

on, his feet all drenched with the red stream that to him looked black.

He had fallen, and the black leaves smirched with blood clung to his

poor lean ribs. Now he staggered. Good God! Would he fall again? Oh,

yes. Hark! The bitter cry! And outside in the world a shrill laugh

went up, for as he fell he kicked out somewhat with his heels and the

devil translated it onto a comic canvas, and made it appear too funny

for words. He is still now. The black leaves cover him. What was his

last living thought? God’s secret and his own.

And lo! _There_ is another path, and along it crawls a woman, all

alone—there are no pairs in the Forest of Failure, Silence will see to

that. There is the red dye again, that to her looks black.

It is a very fragile woman, with a lovely face, which the gloom hides.

She has very tender feet, and there are so many flinty stones along the

path. The black leaves cling to her skirts like millstones.

There! Another fall! No upward struggle here. There is a golden hoop of

a wedding-ring that slips off the skeleton finger into the thin stream.

It is dyed blood red. And there is another little plaything in her

hand, a baby’s rattle, red too. Why, you know, it is only the failure

of domestic love; and when she falls there is no cry in the accepted

sense; a childish sob that speaks more than words, and in the outside

world the shout of drunken revelry has drowned it. That’s how it is the

tears and sighs of the mighty forest are never heard.

And there were very many other paths, and many faces; and on all the

faces suffering was written, so that there was a terrible beauty and

refinement in the forest. You see it was not the Forest of Sin, or

reckless Self-indulgence, but the Forest of Silence and Pain, that do

not allow of them.

Now I said that the Spirit’s robes were transparent; they reflected,

or rather revealed, things that were beyond. But all this Deborah took

in vaguely, or perhaps it seemed to her she had been used to looking

through that figure all her life, so there was nothing very wonderful

in the sights it showed.

But the face Deborah was not so sure about. It was a face as perfectly

moulded as if it were cut in marble. There was no trace of human

passion or emotion on it. A broad brow, a calm eye, a straight nose

with finely-cut nostrils, a mouth of exquisite beauty, if somewhat

coldly drawn, and a well-shaped chin.

The whole figure was one of grace and calmness, strangely out of

keeping with the human agony around. Why, even now, through the clear

robe appeared a face of such exceeding torture that it sent a sickly

feeling to the heart. Then suddenly the white robes turned to a dusky

black and hid the pale, hopeless features.

“Don’t you know me, Deborah?”

“Well,” thought Deborah, “it’s just as if someone were playing the

‘Frühlingslied’ backwards. I know that voice, and yet I don’t.” But

aloud she said,—

“I expect if you were to tell me who you are I should perhaps remember

you.”

At this the Spirit laughed, and Deborah started, for of all places in

which to hear such a sound that seemed the most unlikely, and moreover,

the alteration in the face was so complete that it was almost dazzling.

“This is a very heartless Spirit,” thought she. “I could not have

laughed in this wood, not for anything. The agony is too sacred.”

And, as if interpreting her thoughts, the Spirit answered, “Let us

walk out of the Forest on to the Moors. They are lonely and cold, and

the night wind is keen. We can hear, and see, and understand better

there.”

And he led the way by some unknown path on to a high moorland dotted

with crags, with hills rising black in the distance. Stars were shining

bright in the clear sky, for it had deepened to that length of twilight

which approaches night. A crescent moon rose over the irregular bank

of mountains—the narrowest, clearest crescent, like a thin slit in

the blue-grey heaven. Over there was the sound of running water.

How different from the deep gurgle of the wood! And there the white

splashing of a waterfall over a rocky bed. There was a clump of fir

trees and the smell of the pine forest; and there—oh! what was that?

Oh! only another bitter cry, and you thought it was the cry of a dog or

wolf in the autumn’s frosty distance.

“One hears very plainly on this moorland,” observed the Spirit, and

smiled again. “This is the sounding board and mirror of the world. One

hears and sees. One pays a pretty dear price, but I think it is the one

of the few things that returns full value.”

Deborah was silent. The moor was so unutterably lonely; a vaster

loneliness than the forest; it did not stifle, it awed.

“Look over there,” pointed the Spirit, “where the sky is hidden by the

black billows of cloud. That inky pile is always there. Below it you

see the gloomy mass of the forest boundary. Black, black, always black.

Now I will hold this wing of my robe with my hand, so. Look through it

towards the Silent Wood. What do you see?”

“Bubbles of light floating here and there at intervals amongst the

trees.”

“Will-o’-the-wisps. Here—there—up and down—now quick, now slow.

Watch and listen earnestly.”

And Deborah, looking through the robe, saw the bubbles shining in

the darkness; and listening, heard the sound of faintest music—harp

strings and bells—and the lights kept time to them. Ting! ting! They

danced in the branches, balls of clearest, transparent light. Oh! There

was a beauty! Crimson and larger than most. The Spirit moved slightly,

the scene became clearer. Why, it was another dark path, and the ball,

moving airily, lit it up as it tossed gracefully forward to the magic

sounds. Another figure in the path. This time a man. And he was running

and stumbling forward in the darkness, grasping at the dazzling ball.

But it always evaded him. The music quickened—his step quickened also.

The shining globe danced forward. Then he, being weary, for the road

had been long and dark, and he had stumbled often, leant back against a

gnarled tree trunk, his chin sunk upon his breast. His was a very ashen

face, with sunken eyes; blackened leaves smirched all with red stuck

to him everywhere. The clear ball, swung by a backward motion, danced

to where he leant with the weariness of death, and stood suspended in

the air before him. He raised his eyes and looked at it for one second,

then the lids fell again. It danced nearer, swung itself even till

it grazed his hand. Stung to life by the touch he started quivering.

The red light was reflected in his eyes. The ball rose in the air to

the level of his head. With a sudden plunge forward he caught it in

both hands. It burst and fell around him in crimson flames of blood.

Over head, and face, and hands, and shoulders. Ugh! think of it. Hist!

Ssh! The music is still. With both hands raised above his head in

helpless agony, his face drawn back, he staggers sideways. Hark! ’Tis

the bitter cry. Oh! but this is agony, exceeding agony, burning to the

brain and heart. That bitter, bitter, bitter cry. To hear it sends the

blood like icicles to the heart, and makes it run slower and colder

for ever after. He doesn’t fall. His tattered coat has caught in the

forked branch of a tree. He looks like a dancing puppet run down and

left unstrung. His legs, and arms, and head hang limp and lifeless. He

has gone. But there is something grotesque about him after all. Scarce

has the last low wail died away before a roar of laughter rises. An

excellent joke provided for the world, because the upnotes of his cry

resembled somewhat the crowing of a cock.

Ah! There is another glimmering light—blue this time and purple.

Another path—another figure. Only a woman now. Round! Round! in a

giddy whirl the ball flies. Her feet are cut by briars and stones, and

the red stream has dyed them.

Will-o’-the-wisp! Will-o’-the-wisp! What devil’s cruelty has put you

there? Will you burst too and shower your death-pangs on her gentle

head? Why, no. Suddenly, as by a puff of unfelt wind, the dancing

flame goes out. The music stops. She stands still in the path that to

her has turned to fatal blackness, her eyes wide open, staring into

space. Then, terrified by the darkness and the hopeless failure, she

gives one terrible scream. No soul could stay in a body after that; it

would rend the very heart-strings. She falls down too; and because the

road has been long and weary, and the rocks sharp, the scanty clothes

have been badly torn, and in the fall they have slipped aside and show

more of the human form than this world reckons decent. Very tender

limbs, worn thin with pain and silent suffering. But again the Devil

translates it. The Spirit’s robe has changed, and Deborah looks down on

a different scene, one of the world’s own.

It is a company of women, dressed in the loveliest gossamer and jewels

that money can provide. Arms and busts shine out in satiny smoothness,

and the slight veiling discloses other charms. This is the lap of

Luxury and Chastity—that ill-matched pair which the world pretends can

grow abreast.

There is a very lovely woman in the midst, clothed all in white, and as

the scream dies away these are the words she’s saying: “Alas! too true!

and was it not disgusting?” And the other women yawn, and echo, with

airy laughs, “Oh! terribly disgusting.”

And Deborah, looking round on the chill moor, sees it peopled with

white Spirits all looking in the same direction, to that vision of fair

women.

And then the curtain falls upon them, and Deborah, looking at the forms

around her, sees a smile on every lip of scarcely veiled cynicism. “Oh!

terribly disgusting,” they cry with the right accent and tone, and look

at one another and laugh as Spirits will, and then disappear once more.

The Spirit turned to Deborah.

“The voice of that woman is as clear as a bell,” he remarked, with a

cruel smile. “Think you it would echo well through the Silent Forest?”

“I cannot say,” answered Deborah.

He laughed.

“Some day we shall hear it,” he went on. “Now or then, willy-nilly,

each man treads it, and alone—now or then.”

“But she seemed a wealthy woman of the world.”

“And she will die a success to the world,” he rejoined, kicking a

pebble thoughtfully with his sandalled foot, so that flint sparks shot

from it. “But we have all to reckon with eternity. It can canker and

rust, and make harsh discord of one-time harmony. A rusty bell with a

broken clapper is not very delightful to the ear at the best of times.

Now let us sit down on this rock and talk. See, I will draw my mantle

round you, and then we shall scarce feel the cold.”

So they sat down. And the crescent moon rose higher, and the stars

shone brighter, and the waterfall splashed merrily near by.

“It is night now in the world,” said the Spirit. “Here we come to view

the great theatre. Do you think it is worth the price?”

Deborah shivered.

“It is not for me to judge,” she replied. “Perhaps I’m a coward.”

The Spirit smiled.

“So you think the price paid to come to this chill dreary place too

dear.”

“Oh, yes, yes. Left to myself I never would have come.”

For some minutes they waited in silence. Suddenly the middle of the

Black Cloud changed to a dusky red, and took a shape—the old,

timeworn shape, the Cross. And on it hung the sacred Figure. Great

drops of blood dripped from hands and feet and brow, and trickled

between the thick branches into the Silent Wood. The pale bloodless

face hung low. Outside in the world the big clock at Westminster struck

the midnight hour. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight,

nine.” No more. There came then that bitter cry—the bitterest the

still air has ever heard or the wide world ever known—the keynote

from which every voice in the forest takes its pitch, and it was

those words, which must strike a chill even to the heart of the most

thoughtless—“My God! My God! Why hast thou forsaken me?” And oh! the

lingering moan on that last word! What father could ever thus torture

his own beloved son, who had given up all and suffered all for him?

The gay streets of the world were rowdy and noisy—carriages, hansoms,

’buses driving everywhere. Laughter and songs and shouting.

But Deborah shuddered.

“Why did you bring me here for this?”

“To hear the bitterest cry of all. Do you wonder at the blackness of

the Cloud now? It contains such mental agony and human pain. It’s the

great curse, you know, that the world calls a blessing, and says can

save it from the power of hell. Reckoned from the world’s storehouse

that cramped Figure was a marvellous fool. He had brains enough to have

won a kingdom, and He’d learnt no more from His early trade than to

make use of two rough planks of wood.”

Then, as it had come, the pained vision melted away. But afterwards

you never looked at the dark cloud without seeming to see the red drops

flowing from it into the stifling groves below.

“That is the Baptism and the Cup He speaks of,” said the Spirit. “It is

the Reservoir of the Gurgling Streams.”

“But is He suffering all the time?”

“No. No. It is the Reflection from the Forest. That Cross overhangs the

Central part, where He of His own Free will fell down among the leaves,

in Silence and in Desolation. The learned Jews shook their sides with

laughing when He fell, but rather strangely He rose again the third

day.”

“And the blood that flows, is it not real?”

“Oh, yes! very real,” replied the Spirit, smiling. “Having felt it I

thought you would have known. It’s pain, you know. Just in the same

way that the sun attracts the moisture from the earth and lets it drop

again, so that cloud attracts the red-dyed dew and drops it every

evening.

“Now we will walk on a little and turn our backs upon the forest

and the cloud. Our moon is growing brighter. Every night after that

wild cry has died away it rounds to fulness, and the stars, gaining

brilliancy in the tingling air, glance and gleam with uncommon

witchery. This is my natural home, Deborah; I love it, love it, with

a wild, fierce love. I had rather hear that cry and laugh than any

charm of music. I had rather see those scenes of agony and the world’s

scenes of joy than any rose-bowered garden on the earth. Then when I

sicken of both I turn to the moorland and the hill, the cold quietness

that reckons naught of either pain or pleasure. I wander here on the

ridge of hills and in the shadows of caves, and then with a sudden

whimsical change of feeling I turn to social life again, and receive

the courtesies of pretty women and the respect of men.”

There was a long silence—not broken for a long time—till Deborah

said, “Why are you so silent?”

And the Spirit answered, “I am thinking—thinking—thinking—and why

should I not think? Ting! Ting! Listen to the magic music in the wood.

Will-o’-the-wisps are dancing everywhere. Harp strings and bells,

neither of heaven or earth. Blue and purple. Red and yellow. Green and

golden. Now in, now out. Ting! Ting! The magic music in the magic wood.

Wild flowers and myrtle—black dust and dying leaves—stones smeared

with blood—and the deep dull gurgle of the stream—raindrops distilled

from the black cloud. Ting! Ting! Tinkle! Twinkle! Tired feet keep time

to the magic sounds. Dull brains grow brilliant. Cold blood grows warm.

Ting! Ting! Now in. Now out. Up and down. Unreal sounds in the Silent

Forest. Unreal lights in the Blackened Paths. Ting! Ting! Silver bells,

golden strings, and burning balls. Baubles for fools! What! Darkness

and Silence! Silence and Darkness! Twin sisters. Grope! Grope! with

trembling fingers and blinded eyes. Hark! The bitter cry! and the echo

from the world. The worse the cry, the louder the laugh.”

And whilst he spoke those glorious eyes were shining with a gloomy,

far-off light.

“He trusted in another man,” he said.

Deborah shuddered. “That is what poor father did.”

“I know. I know. God grant him a double blessing. God grant him a

double blessing.”

“He went one autumn night to meet a man. I held his coat and got his

hat, and shut the door behind him. And when he came back I said,

‘Father, did you see him?’ And he looked at me and answered, ‘He—he

did not come.’”

“Poor father,” said the Spirit, softly.

And overhead the star shone, and the magic moon was still high in

heaven, and the waterfall sparkled, and the stream ran lightly on, and

the hills were clear and the moorland frosty and cold.

“I love this place too,” observed Deborah. “Even to the wind and the

glittering frost crystals. But when we turn and look toward the Silent

Forest I need to hold you very tight. It makes my heart ache, and the

blackness sticks. Would God it could be turned to a garden of Summer

Roses!” And then Plucritus, Prince of the Powers of Evil, turned and

looked at her and laughed. And on his finger gleamed the _opal_

ring.

Ting! Ting! the magic music and the magic fire!

Then another bitter cry and all was still.

END OF PART I

PART II

HELL

CHAPTER I

[The want of the author’s revising hand is here evident. There is no

literary link between this part of the story and “Earth.” The reader

will, however, perceive that it is Genius who is now telling his

experiences to Deborah. Where Deborah is does not seem quite clear.

The concluding passages of the last chapter in “Earth” suggest her

death. Genius presently alludes to her “lost soul in the wilderness,”

so that apparently she is in a kind of Purgatory, in close

communication with Genius. The connection between Genius and Deborah

is exceedingly intimate throughout, and as we have the author’s own

word that Deborah goes to Heaven, it may be presumed that she is there

entirely merged in Genius. At any rate she does not reappear in person

after “Earth.”

We have the author’s own word that Deborah represents herself. Deborah

probably symbolises the human, Genius the mental and spiritual element

in the personality of the author; some confirmation of which may be

found in the clearly-expressed assertion of the dual personality of

the Saviour (in “Heaven”)—namely, as Jesus in His human aspect, as

Christ in His spiritual. With regard to Plucritus and Virginius, the

conjecture may be hazarded that the former embodies Deborah’s lower

tendencies, the latter her higher soul.—ED. NOTE.]

You, Deborah, remember the summer evening when I left you. It was no

more pleasure to me than you, though I cannot say that then the pain

which I experienced equalled yours. The force which parted us, the

first time for so many years, was stronger than my own. For I had made

a bet upon the book, and by the bet I sacrificed my ring, the only

safeguard I possessed.

Between two forces, Good and Evil, I had stood alone, leaning to one

who ever faced me cold and silently. Time and again I tried to break

the weary barrier down, and in you that generated feeble efforts unto

prayer. I had followed your lost soul about the wilderness, sprinkling

flowers upon the barren ground, and unripe fruit, which withered. But

ever like the thirsty wanderer I looked in search of fruitful soil.

Good and Evil stalked with me all the time side by side, the one

laughing, jesting all the way, the other silent, almost wordless.

Mirage followed mirage, till at last the Angel said, “Dig for the well.”

Then, as in the olden times, like our first fathers, I set to work

laboriously. Hindrance followed hindrance, and the task was slow and

painful, more so to you because you could not understand the cause of

pain.

But to return to the present and my going. The journey was long, yet

short, and I took it alone. It led through a mighty forest dark as

night, chilly and damp, with here and there the shining coils of a

sleeping serpent lying prone across the path. This was the mighty

vestibule to hell, that spread through space by regions infinite. Here

the traveller may often lose himself and fall down starved and dead.

Here the sinuous snake will coil its writhing body round him and drag

him o’er the unresisting slimy soil right to the prison gates which he

in life so feared—or, maybe, laughed at.

By the side of blackened pools and hideous precipice I passed far out

into the wild. The darkness was as clear as light before me, for I

saw with darkened sight. Crags, rocks and gurgling torrents, flowing

through dreary chasms, met my eyes, and the further I went the lonelier

I ever grew, for the pressure of intensity had fallen on to Silence

and the power of Goodness no longer walked beside.

I saw the glorious bubbles floating round me—red, purple,

golden-yellow, green—I heard the magic music as it tinkled, I saw the

victim quiver when it stilled. I heard the helpless cry, and then the

laugh of devils as it died; I heard the feeble, far-off echo of the

world, and darker, drearier grew the scene.

One by one the bubbles burst and fainter grew, note by note the music

died upon the ear, the mortal cry of pain was left behind, and Silence,

born of all, closed round me as I trod.

Then before me in the distance gleamed the danger-lights of hell,

bloody-red against the darkness, clear and piercing as they shone. As I

drew nearer they shone still clearer, lighting up the shining bulwarks,

polished and cut like myriads of gem-strewn columns in the night.

The heavy gates were open, no sound disturbed my thought, yet I stood

still upon the threshold and looked behind. Far off in the distance

through the darkness gleamed a gloomy, lurid light upon a leaden ball,

and on the farther side, almost like giant shadows on a giant curtain,

two giant forms were struggling for the ball.

But that to me had little interest. Why should it have? Who ever yet

upon Hell’s threshold glanced back except to breathe the air that is

not? For Misery had come, and Desolation, and Mistrust, that fiend of

fiends which eats the hearts of kings and poisons homesteads, bringing

one general curse to all.

Thus far I had come alone and unattended, but as I passed beneath the

overwhelming shadow I became conscious of this other world.

And the thing that struck me most on entering was the deathly silence

hanging over all. And the next thing that struck me was the weird,

unnatural beauty of the scene. And the next that I was now no longer

quite alone.

To a broad avenue, banked by sculptured terraces and crowned with

towering mansions, I had come, yet in this city of the night no living

form appeared, till, looking up above to some alabaster steps carved by

some magic hand, I beheld a spirit woman watching me.

Even as I looked she moved toward me, with all the grace and lightness

which spirits may possess.

“You are dull of seeing, dull of hearing, dull at recognising,” she

said, and I heard the siren’s voice and remembered my lost ring. I had

no voice to answer, till with an effort I had roused myself.

“And you, it seems, are duller at receiving.”

“How so?” she asked, and laughed and drew much nearer, so that I

recognised the more this spirit beauty.

“I come like an unwelcome guest, finding no preparation at the end of

travel.”

“Indeed,” she answered, “all has been prepared, but it was done in

silence. We knew your hatred of display. And is it true that you are

here without one bite, one ugly serpent twist to mar your strength or

beauty? Then indeed you are welcome. Come this way.”

She led me by the steps of alabaster under the shade of heavy drooping

trees. We passed along the margin of a river, by many statues of

exceeding beauty, whose images were reflected in its bed. But to me,

foreign to this nature, the gloom and heavy grandeur were oppressive.

Even to my feet the hard, unbending marble brought weariness and pain.

“Lady,” I said at last, “this kingdom is in need of something. It lacks

a joyful element of sound.”

At this she laughed, and there was beauty in it, maybe some merriment.

“You are dull of hearing,” she repeated, and looked back at me and

stayed, then laughed again. She pointed toward the river.

“Come nearer,” she went on. “Now listen, listen.” And she raised a

finger. “Does it not run so? Gurgle, gurgle! Is there no rhythm in

that?” And as I listened I could hear the sound.

“There is no joyousness in it,” I said.

“You are dull of understanding,” she repeated, and laughed again and

moved along.

Her dress, now that I came to see it more distinctly and follow it more

closely in the unnoticeable haze, was of the clearest shade of twilight

inlaid with many a shining gem.

And still we passed along, till on a sudden we lit on a great and

glorious building among the trees and jewel-spraying fountains. From

every window sparkled brilliant light.

“That is my home,” she said, and pointed to it.

At length, when I had looked some time and viewed its every pinnacle

and spire, buttress and gable, tower and minaret, I turned to her.

“Is this a church or palace, pleasure house or prison?” I questioned.

“Oh, stranger, you are dull at seeing,” she replied, and shook her head.

And then, for the first time since coming there, I smiled; this

creature’s fascination told on me, the only seeming-living thing about

the place.

“You will come home with me,” she urged. “I am alone, but what of that?

Poor company will suffice one night. And to-morrow who knows? I may

expect my husband home.”

“Your husband?” I queried.

She placed her hand on my arm and drew her lips close to my ear. Her

eyes were laughing, and her voice.

She whispered lightly, “I think you are mistaking this for heaven.”

“That would be the greatest compliment,” I rejoined.

Her manner altered to one of sarcasm and scorn.

“If you esteem it so, why do you linger here?”

“That is an answer quite beyond me,” I made answer. “I think I linger

here because I must.”

“Yes—as a prisoner,” she said slowly. “A much-prized prisoner, almost

like a guest.”

We had reached the broad flight of steps that led toward the entrance.

Here she stood still and took my left hand in her right, and with her

other placed upon my finger a narrow circlet of blood-red stones. I

looked at it with vain regret; to me there was no beauty in these gems.

I remembered my own fair jewels and remorse more keen that I had felt

before cut to my heart.

“Stranger, how little courtesy you show! Silent and thankless even for

a gift.”

“I remember another ring more beautiful than this,” I answered.

Her eyes lit up with that intensity which in its lesser forms mortals

call greed.

“Be content with what you get,” she remarked. “Those stones are

priceless—millions could scarcely buy them; your stones are the dross

of that little planet, Earth—bought, perhaps, with trumpery silver.”

I was then silent, and together we went up the steps.

The entrance was barred with gates of gold. They were like the iron

ones that protect churches. Inside these gates was a high arched

door. It was like the door of some cathedral—covered with knobs. But

they were not of rusted iron; they glowed like carbuncles in a carved

setting, which was itself in substance like black oak.

At her touch the heavy gates drew back, the gloomy door flew open.

Beyond was an arched space like the central aisle of some large temple.

And as we stood upon the threshold I looked in upon the dim, dark

grandeur. Blood-red lighted censers swung from the golden fluted roof.

They lit up the fluted pillars that branched out into the most delicate

arches eye could wish.

Here was the sound of organ music beautiful to hear, yet to my ears it

came like a paining memory of long ago.

“Do you not like our music?” she asked.

“It is short of but one thing,” I answered as we went in, “and that is

joyousness.”

The door closed behind us and the music ceased. Presently it began

again. I listened enraptured and entranced.

“What do you think of that?” she queried.

“That is not joyous, it is madness—an elation which does not last.”

“You are very bad to please. Or rather, let me use my old argument, I

will say that you are dull.”

At the farther end, above a high-standing altar, rose a mighty

crucifix. It was so beautiful, so real, so truthful in its silent

agony, that, looking through the dusk, it startled me.

I grasped the yielding arm beside me.

“What is that?” I questioned sharply.

“You a Christian and so dull?” she exclaimed. “That is Christ, the

carpenter, the king, the God, the Tool, the Fool, anything, everything.

Whatever you will. Is it not like him?”

The airy mockery in her tone jarred on me.

“Go nearer,” she continued, “look at it closer. It is worth studying,

and is of excellent workmanship. Everything in these places should be

and is of the best.”

I went nearer as she bade me. It was indeed of exquisite workmanship.

“I had not thought to meet with that in Hell,” I said at length.

“I do not think you could get it better done in Heaven,” she observed,

and laughed and turned away.

I too turned from it, with a horrible repugnance growing in me

mixed with extreme pain. I saw this figure for the first time in an

unexpected place, and something within me struggled for expression, yet

found none. Beneath the Crucifix, which was exceeding highly placed,

broad flights of steps led up to a crimson altar, and above the altar

was a handsome doorway of gold, which reached just so high as the

Saviour’s feet.

I noticed with some curiosity and surprise that she was ascending the

steps before us. I followed with cold yet burning interest, for in this

place white heat is only quenched with ice, and ice melted with white

heat alone.

But when we reached the upper step the altar was invisible. It had

vanished, and the door alone remained before us. It opened, as all

things opened here, silent and swiftly.

She had been watching, and espied my look of evident astonishment,

which amused her.

“The lights are thrown on in such a manner that when you are below you

imagine you see an arrangement something like a table,” she said. “But

that would be a very inconvenient, and at the same time undignified,

way of approaching the doorway, and I should have thought your own

common sense would tell you it was nothing but a sham—a myth rather, I

might say.”

We stood upon the threshold and looked down the dim, grand aisle.

No painter ever yet imagined in his fondest, highest dream a scene of

richer grandeur. In place of the straight-backed pews of churches,

jewelled thrones ranged tier behind tier, meeting the eye with

ever-gleaming, changing light. Over the font there hung by finest cords

of diamond and ruby intermingled, a royal crown, its golden background

hidden by gems. A great golden bird spread out its giant wings below

us, every feather tipped with curious light, and on its back rested

the mighty Bible opened at the Gospel according to St John. The twelve

Apostles stood out in bold relief around the pulpit, and from the

tasseled cushion on the desk a simple cross was hanging in needlework

of gold.

Yet all this glittering, gleaming brilliancy was subdued by the dimness

of the light, and the organ-loft shone out almost as from a mist of

unreal glamour.

She paused beside the open door and looked behind. I stood and looked

upon it too.

“What wealth! what countless millions have been spent on this,” I

murmured.

She laughed; and when she laughed it seemed as if the jewels gleamed

more magically.

“Yes,” she affirmed, “countless millions have been spent. It is the

work of ages, and has been built to the glory and praise of God

Eternal.”

Then she turned away, and I turned too and gazed within the doorway.

A large hall of great expanse met our eyes. From its sides many doors

led off, and passages, and here and there on the right side high

windows opened on the gardens we had left.

I had hoped on leaving the dim church to throw off the deep depression

that hung round me, but it was hopeless.

From without there came the sound of singing birds, the splash of

fountains, a gentle music, but I recognised they might as well be

silent for all the joyousness they brought to me.

The beauties of the hall were lost except to my intellect. I regarded

them calmly and with an interest that had dulled.

Exquisite workmanship in furniture met my eye at every turn. The

painted ceilings, the polished floor of rich mosaic, the easeful

chairs that were in themselves like flattering apologies for graceful

broad-armed thrones, the squares of rich-coloured carpet, the inlaid

tables with their fine carved legs, the couches piled with softest

cushions, the massive fireplaces filled with living coal, met my eye

and left merely the impression of a dream.

Yet I strove to find some pleasure, but could find none.

From this she led the way into an apartment which was smaller and more

adaptable for private life.

Its beauty was like all the rest, on the richest, finest scale.

She beckoned me toward a sofa by the fireplace, in which the flames

leapt lightly, and with a sudden feeling of weariness I threw myself

down on it.

“You are tired, stranger,” she said softly. “Sleep, sleep, and wake

refreshed. The journey has been long, longer than mortal thought can

reckon.”

And then, overcome with weariness and exhaustion, I slept, and for the

time remembered nothing more.

CHAPTER II

When I awoke, night had fallen without, and I was alone. The fire still

burnt brightly, and what other light was needed came from an electric

candelabra hanging from the centre of the room. I looked around and

noticed for the first time that the walls were lined with book-shelves

extending from the ceiling to the floor. With some curiosity I

approached and scanned the titles. They were all the works of writers

eminent on earth, some dead, some living—mostly dead. One book,

which it surprised me greatly to find there, I took down and opened.

But beneath the title on the inner leaf was written in manuscript

the words, “With the author’s compliments,” and then there came the

signature. I put it back with some surprise and took another, and it

also contained those words. Then I took others, and they likewise had

similar writing in them. At length my eyes lit on a Bible.

“Surely this will not be with ‘compliments,’” I thought, and took it

down.

But there the writing was just as in all the others, except that no

signatures were given.

I passed through from book to book, and before each the self-same words

appeared, till I came to the Gospels. And here the wording altered. It

was simply “From the writer.” From that I passed on to the Revelation;

there the old wording had returned.

I closed the book and left it on a table and walked to the fireplace.

“Someone here or somewhere has a sense of humor,” I thought. “Or I am

in a strange yet vivid dream from which I cannot wake.”

I was not alone long. Shortly the door opened and Plucritus entered.

His entrance surprised me, yet on second thoughts it seemed natural

enough.

“I was sorry not to come along with you,” he said in his customary easy

way. “But I have made the most haste I could; yet even now my stay is

only for a short time.”

His eye rested on the Bible.

“Psalm singing?” he asked.

“No. I have been greatly struck by—”

“The dedications,” he interjected, laughing.

“No—the gifts.”

“Oh. It is only natural. The Bible at one time was so interesting, and

at the same time so expensive, that I made friends with the writers

and obtained copies gratis. You must admit that the binding and

illuminations alone are in themselves treasures of art.”

“Indeed,” I observed drily, “everything about here seems so precious

and expensive that a little poverty and plainness would be most

acceptable.”

He sat down on the sofa I had left.

“You are in a bad temper,” he remarked simply. “But if you wish to see

what you term poverty you shall see it soon enough. But not now, for I

will have—let me see (and here he glanced at a curious kind of clock

above the fireplace), I suppose you would call it ‘supper.’”

He led the way to the door, but there he stayed.

“We have no guests to-night,” he said, smiling, “so we dine alone.

But may I beg of you to assume a more cheerful countenance? My slaves

are not accustomed to sad looks, except from prisoners, and you are

a guest. Also, I must give you a little advice which is sometimes

given in the world we’ve left to poor relations. Look as if you were

accustomed to everything, and don’t pay too much deference—‘attention’

rather I should say—to the servants.”

Then he opened the door, and without there stood a dwarfish creature

bearing somewhat the semblance of a man. He was very, very thin and

little, and very, very old, at least if one was to judge from the

wrinkles on his face, for it was lined with them.

“Slave, conduct this Spirit to the apartment that has been prepared,”

Plucritus said, and the hauteur in his voice matched the pride upon his

face.

“Don’t talk too much to him,” he added more carelessly to me. “He has,

or rather had, a pretty bad habit of repeating things.”

Walking backward across the polished floor the old slave conducted me

to a broad flight of stairs, which led me to a pillared gallery set

with fine armoury and statues. From thence we passed along a corridor

built in grained marble with doors on each side, and through one of

these we entered into a large apartment set aside for private rest.

I had the advantage, being myself a Spirit, of wearing that simple

garment (which is worn by Spirits and needs no other ornament) which

you in your world call invisibility. It is that finely-woven mist which

clings like graceful raiment or like bright hazes round the sun.

Yet I noticed the old creature was bringing forth from a wardrobe in an

adjoining chamber most gorgeous clothing.

“Take it back,” I commanded shortly, turning to him. “This is not my

own.”

He scarcely seemed to heed me, but went on placing vestment after

vestment in almost luxurious profusion on the bed.

Then, losing my temper, for no other reason perhaps than that I was in

hell, I turned to him.

“Fool,” I said, “do you take me for a harlequin or a beggar, that you

force things upon me that are not my own?”

He understood; at least, he desisted and carried them away.

After that he brought me living water with which to refresh and cleanse

myself from those impurities which, though in a different manner,

affect Spirits as well as men.

I was ready to descend long before the summons came, and having nothing

more to do, and not knowing exactly whither to go, I sat down and began

to question my companion.

But I found he was dumb, for on my third question he opened his mouth

and showed the ghastly cavity.

I recognised the spirit of Plucritus well in this, for he was scarcely

likely to have left me alone with a servant who could disclose the

slightest information, even untruthfully.

Finding therefore nothing of further interest within the room I passed

out into the corridor and made my way to the central gallery.

It ran along the walls above the large hall and I walked through it

slowly, more intent on my own thoughts than the surroundings.

You have felt depression and can understand the feeling that was mine.

It seemed as if the whole great palace hung on me; from ever gloomy

piece of armoury some scarcely-breathed sigh escaped; each marble

figure looked at me with silence-speaking pain. My thoughts ran ever

back to the world I had left; at times I thought of you, and wondered

how you fared, being left alone.

But in the midst of this sad reverie I was aroused by hearing a clear

and penetrating, yet eerie, mournful sound. Then I laughed. ’Twas but a

gong calling to that meal of which by this time I was much in need.

I retraced my steps toward the staircase, and as I descended I became

aware of the simplicity of the garment which I wore; but being a Spirit

I had, or rather had had, the power to change it to whatever form or

kind I chose. But now that power had left me. I remembered with some

haste that scene in the bedchamber, in which the wretched menial had

offered me such sumptuous attire. Impatiently, then, I had rejected all

his offers, whether from preoccupation or some other cause, it would

be hard to say. In a marvellously short time, in other places, I could

have transformed the simplicity of plainness into that of beauty, but

now I must either go back for borrowed garments or appear just as I

was. With that independence which has ever been part of my nature I

chose the latter course, and passed down into the hall. There I found

two slaves waiting for me.

And whilst I mention them I may describe them briefly.

In this palace the slaves and menials were countless, and in shape

they were all lean, deformed, wrinkled, and hungry-eyed. They walked

about naked, unable to hide one disproportioned limb or hideous defect,

and ever through the hungry look within their eyes hatred would gleam

and baffled cunning. They alone were in themselves fit subjects for

depression, for spirit-instinct told me that round each form was

wreathed a history of the past, binding like some tight chain.

These led me, with many varied expressions of obeisance, to the large

dining-hall. Here there were many tables, but only one was laid, and

this was at the farther end, beside a fireplace.

They were waiting for me—were not yet seated. As I approached they

turned from the conversation in which they were engaged and looked at

me with some interest. But into the eyes of Plucritus, as he glanced

over me, there blazed a flash of anger. I noticed it, and the cause,

though the expression was momentary.

“This is our guest,” he said, turning from me to her.

“I know,” she answered lightly, coming forward. “We are well

acquainted, though he preferred sleep to me. For all that I have never

had your name on good authority, nor indeed at all.”

“Well,” observed Plucritus, slowly, “I do not know that you will ever

get his name on good authority, as you call it. He has no name, for the

planet from which he comes does not acknowledge him. But as here, at

least, we are courteous we will give him the name that best suits his

vanity; we will call him Genius. Vestné, this is Genius—Genius, here

is my wife.”

“I expect,” she said, with that half-laughing sigh of hers, “you have

cast a libel on us both.”

“Not so,” he rejoined. “I describe you as my wife to suit his morals.

He has come from Earth, you know the place I mean, where they are all

moral on the outside, but underneath they suit their own convenience.”

As he spoke he stood behind her and eyed me with the hard, unflinching

stare which was so distasteful. I remember a rather awkward pause

followed on this remark till Vestné led the way to the table and sat

down. She had attired herself in the most lovely raiment eye could

wish, and the soft, silken coils about her head were of the beauty of

simplicity.

The meal, though most magnificently served, and delicate in flavour

throughout, was a failure. Plucritus, who in hell appeared much

different from what he was on earth, sat like some great prince, moody

and speechless. He wore the usual civic robe above his tunic, but under

this there shone on his arms and neck a fine coat of linked armour,

worked in gold, though hard as steel. He wore neither crown nor coronet

upon his head, and he needed neither. A crown to him was simply a

bauble, unless worn out of courtesy and compliment to those who were

his equals.

I understood well the cause of his ill-humour, and even sympathised

with it. But no remark was passed till the fruit had been brought, and

Vestné, who during the meal had tasked me with many questions about the

people on Earth, laughingly left us.

When we were alone Plucritus continued for some time silent, absorbed

for the most part in cracking and eating nuts. For you will understand

that nuts of certain kinds are a very favourite dessert with

Spirits—so much is often contained within a nutshell.

I made no attempt to join him, either in eating or drinking. A glass

of untouched wine stood beside me—what appetite I had, had been long

since satisfied. At last he broke the silence.

“Genius,” he said in his clear, incisive voice, “would you be kind

enough to tell me something? I wish to know if living among boors has

transformed you into a boor?”

“In all probability,” I answered, “or the question would be

unnecessary.”

“I see,” he commented. And then for a little while silence fell again.

Presently he began once more,—

“Am I to blame you for this negligent, uncourteous attire, or that

cursed slave I sent with you?”

“I am to blame entirely. He did his best—but failed.”

“I see. Then I am inclined to blame him. Failure is a crime, a

lamentable weakness. He may suffer a little more till he has found out

some means of making you do—right.”

His voice as he spoke was filled with cruelty, though towards the end

of the sentence it had sunk so low that he seemed really speaking to

himself.

“In that case,” I went on quickly, “I will wear as many clothes as you

care to put on me—always excepting a scrubby singlet. They don’t suit

me.”

He laughed.

“Be careful,” he said. “You were once mistaken for a woman dressed in

contravention of the law.”

“I know. But I should have thought the better expression would have

been ‘effeminate.’”

“Would you have raised no objection to be called ‘effeminate’?” he

questioned.

“None,” I answered.

“But Deborah does.” Whereat he laughed again. “Since you have gone she

has raised a kind of statue to your memory, and there you sit in lonely

grandeur, for the atmosphere around is ice. Of late she has taken to

dragging every man that she has ever met into this gloomy chamber, and

sets them side by side with you.”

“And what next?”

“Well, there is rather a change in the atmosphere. So some show to

disadvantage. But this comparison always pleases me, because the

comparer gains no pleasure from it, but only bitterness. Many a time I

have interfered and have thrown a kind of halo round you, making you

more a god than mortal, so that the bitterness may be more complete.”

“Do you derive pleasure from this cruelty?”

“Yes. I always derive pleasure from cruelty, as you know. The more so

in this case because the writer had laughed at me.”

“But—” I began, but he continued,—

“If people laugh at me I laugh at them when the time comes. If they

hold me up to ridicule, I hold them up to ridicule when the time comes.

If they speak untruthfully of me I speak untruthfully of them when the

time comes.”

“Really,” I interposed, yawning, “I never knew before you were so

sensitive.”

He laughed. “If I were not so sensitive,” he rejoined, “I should be

less powerful. To make others feel one must feel oneself. Moreover, to

be mixed up with one’s own slaves and menials, to be depicted as a kind

of Jack-in-the-box, and described as turning from dark brown to pale

brown, not to speak of other things, rather surprised me.”

“Come, come, Plucritus,” I said irritably, “where’s the use of all this

acting? One might think something had bitten you and put you out of

temper. Surely you are having enough revenge. What more do you want?”

“Nothing,” he replied moodily. Then after a pause he looked up.

“Genius,” he said, “do you miss your ring?”

“Very much,” I answered.

“Then why don’t you buy it back?”

“Not having the wherewithal to effect a change in raiment, what funds

do you give me the credit of having in order to redeem jewels?”

“You have the book. You can sell the book to me and regain the ring. It

means freedom, you know.”

“Is there anything else you would like besides the book?” I asked.

“No,” he answered with that long, penetrating stare. “The first book

will be quite sufficient.”

“I see,” I went on. “And the writer?”

“Damn the writer. The book will never go through, so you may as well

sell it to me and start afresh in better company.”

“That is your old advice.”

“And my only advice. So long as you stay with Deborah you are a

failure. You have had signal examples of it in the past. She will never

write another book.”

“Then if I sell you the book for the ring I may go back whence I came?”

He laughed.

“Scarcely so. If you want to be a success, and your life depends upon

it, you must come over to my side and leave her.”

“And that means despair following on depression.”

“What matter? God’s kindness counteracts the devil’s cruelty.”

“Do you know, Plucritus, I think I should admire you more if at times

you spoke plainer?”

“How so?”

“Well, it would be rather a change to hear you speak the honest truth.”

For a minute there was silence, then he got up and leant against the

mantelpiece and looked into the curious burning fire.

“It’s a pity,” he said, “for you and I were meant to be friends. It’s

a pity we should be separated by the squalling of one insignificant

woman.”

“It may seem so to you,” I rejoined drily and somewhat at random, “but

I had rather be separated from you by a woman, however insignificant,

than joined to you by one however beautiful.”

“You are not separated from me,” he retorted, his eyes flashing as he

turned toward the table. “You are my prisoner, caught and trapped like

all the rest, and if you enjoy a little more privilege it is simply

because we are waiting the close of events. When the book fails for the

last time she will follow you here, and here you can live, a source of

torture and torment to each other for ever. If you will not bend your

will I have the power to break it, and the only thing that springs from

a broken will is pitiable weakness.”

“I can at least wait the close of events,” I declared briefly. “And for

the punishment, I doubt not I have strength enough to stand it.”

“You talk like all ignorant people, with much assurance,” he said

scornfully. “But you must know that here we never punish in proportion

to the fault. We punish to suit our own convenience and pleasure. Look

at these wizened, shrivelled slaves that wait on us. Think you they

are serving a term of slavery? I tell you they are here unto eternity,

though that little muddled world in which you lived turns its face away

from the inevitable, and pitying its own weakness, talks of the mercy

of God and winks at punishment.”

“I think,” I observed sharply, repaying scorn for scorn, “you must

descry the sin before you touch the sinner.”

“And in case of unfair play,” he remarked slowly, leaning his hand upon

the table and smiling across at me, “to whom do you intend to appeal?”

I did not answer, since to this question I knew well there was no

answer. But through the silence that followed a terrible cry rang. It

was the first distinctly human sound I had heard since coming.

Plucritus started at the sound, then moved hastily across the room to

where I still sat.

“Come with me,” he said shortly. And as I rose he placed his hand

within my arm. I remember well the clasp of those iron fingers as he

led the way across the room out into the hall. We passed out by a side

entrance into the palace grounds, and then on to a high balcony at some

short distance.

It was darkest night, and yet the view around was clear as day.

To one side ran the great river, threading its winding course for miles

as far as eye could see. It was very black, and very wide, and very

strong, and the swish of its waters against the heavy reeds was loudly

audible; by now I was beginning to understand the sounds of hell.

The most glorious sight was the great palaces that rose high among the

trees in every direction, their graceful architecture and brilliant

lights, together with the pure marble of the steps and terraces

that led up to them, making a perfect dream of transcendent beauty.

Moreover, the heavy foliage of the trees threw the more into relief

their exceeding brilliancy.

Then as I listened I could perceive the sound of voices laughing,

talking, and as I watched I saw figures moving on the terraces, till it

seemed the whole scene was filled with life and animation.

Below us I recognised the wide avenue along which I had come, and it

was to this avenue that all eyes were bent. Just then there came the

same cry which we had heard before, this time nearer.

Plucritus laughed softly, and from the neighbouring terraces I heard

one general laugh follow the sound.

Presently from a sudden bend in the road dwarfed forms sprang up

on every side. Shouting, leaping, making inarticulate cries like

wildly-excited animals, half whine, half scream. They were hideous

and horrible demons whose unrestrained excitement lent that swollen

fulness to their features which was more disfiguring than their

leanness heretofore had been. And in the midst the cause of all this

wild, unbounded joy was the body, or what looked like the body, of a

very lovely woman. It was lying bound stiffly to a funeral car shaped

like a coffin, and all round there shone a clear red light. And on the

one side was printed in letters of gold, “With care—Perishable.” And

on the other side, “Fragile.” Plucritus read these words and laughed.

“I wonder whose little joke that was,” he remarked. “There is a good

deal perishable and a good deal fragile, no doubt, but beyond that

there is a good deal durable and strong.”

“Is that the soul of a sinful woman?” I asked, as the screaming,

howling procession came along.

“Yes. Is it not beautiful?” he queried, and there was a twinkle of

merriment in his eyes. “But,” he continued, “it is all put on. The soul

has been puffed out and padded and stuffed, and in itself is loathsome.

But we throw a very fine and artificial glamour over it and give it a

semblance of beauty, so that all these little imps are mad with envy,

and spite, and hatred, and long for the day when they shall have sucked

all the juices away and left nothing but the dried-up skeleton of a

spirit behind.”

“Surely that is impossible,” I exclaimed.

He raised his eyebrows quizzically.

“Never heard of vampires? It is the nature of spirits; Virginius and

his set often more so than us.”

By this time the car had reached us and was passing. Just as they came

below us the bound figure made a desperate struggle to rise, and gave

once more that terrible cry which we had heard before.

A hundred bony hands strong and cruel pressed forward upon the throat

and lips. Others shook their fists, others cursed and swore and called

her every name which they themselves had doubtless been before her. One

old hag rushed forward and struck a cruel blow upon the white breast.

Almost immediately a black swollen bruise appeared.

“Rotten,” cried Plucritus, and he laughed. Then he repeated, “Fragile,

perishable,” and laughed again. “Look at that hag who struck the blow,”

he continued. “She has an interesting history. She was once more

beautiful than the figure lying there; but that was a very, very long

time ago, for then she was a great queen.”

I followed her with interest, almost unable from her appearance to

believe his words. The victim they were bearing along had sunk back,

but her eyes were open, and they expressed all that fear and despair

which go to form the greater part of hell. I watched them pass with an

ever-growing heaviness and oppression at my heart.

“Let us go to see the incarceration,” he suggested, turning to me.

“I had rather be excused,” I answered coldly.

“Come,” he said, laying hold of my arm again. “They are like animals at

the slaughter-house—they will fly anywhere to get away from the right

door, and tear and scratch all who approach them. This woman, when

she sees the place prepared for her, will fight like a wild animal to

escape.”

“And how do you get them in?” I asked, interested despite myself.

“We whip them in,” he replied softly. “Or rather our slaves do. They

enjoy it, and are never particular when to stop. It is all we can do

at times to call them off. It is their method of welcoming strangers.

Come,” he added, “let us go.”

“No,” I repeated. “I have seen enough of this place to last me some

time.”

He only laughed.

“Come,” he said, “you must get accustomed to it. For aught I can tell,

the next may be Deborah.”

And then with a sudden strength, of which I had judged myself incapable

since coming there, I threw his hand off.

“You doubtless have all power over those who get down here,” I

remarked. “But whilst a man or woman is yet on the earth there is still

means of escape.”

“Very rarely,” he commented, smiling. “Once let them get the noose

round their necks, and the more they struggle the tighter grows the

knot.”

However, because I refused to go he returned with me to the palace.

“You have missed a never-to-be-forgotten sight,” he said as he led

the way to the library, where I had first been conducted. “You won’t

succeed in journalism if you throw away opportunities like that.”

“I shall merely leave the place for others,” I replied wearily, for

weariness and dejection were a part of living here, except to those

whose kingdom it was.

“Genius,” he said as he sat down, “what do you think of my collection

of books?”

“It is very fine,” I answered, looking round. “But nothing out of the

way for so great an individuality.”

“What more does it need?” he asked as he looked round.

“Nothing. And that is where it becomes uninteresting. You have

everything.”

“Yes,” he replied. “And I’m growing sick of it. One of these days I

shall burn more than half the lying rubbish. I don’t know why I ever

collected it.”

“That would be a pity,” I rejoined. “To destroy so much beauty of

thought would be very needless destruction.”

“Not at all,” he observed sharply. “I am going—”

Here he was interrupted by the opening of the door, and there entered

several others very similar to him.

“Plucritus, why were you not there?” queried the first comer. “It was

an almost more amusing scene than that witnessed at Dino’s last week.

But you were not here last week. What an age it is since we have seen

you.”

“And I am off again within this half-hour,” he interjected, looking at

a curious watch he brought from the girdle of his tunic. “But tell me

of this scene, was it much better than usual?”

“Well, perhaps not better, but just as good. When—”

“Don’t use names,” said Plucritus, hastily, as if he almost interpreted

the other’s words. “Can’t you see I have a guest?”

“No,” answered the other, looking round superciliously. “Or rather,”

he added, “we met Vestné without and she explained that you had here a

beggar dependent on your charity.”

“Really—” broke in another, and then his tone altered to one of mock

courtesy. “Your wardrobe seems somewhat scanty, sir. May I offer you a

change of raiment?”

“This stranger surely has come from earth,” interrupted a third.

“That planet which is one of our most fruitful gardens. Such a rarity

deserves a golden cage and a public show day.”

“Why, this is he who wished to make a friend of that cold saint

Virginius and failed,” put in another.

“Thereby proving himself for once not such a saint as he appears,”

laughed a fifth.

“This is the spirit who wrote a book and confounded the devil with

something less powerful than himself,” said a sixth.

“Ay,” sneered a seventh. “And in the same book he confounded men with

women, and women with men in a way which was at times _absolutely

shocking_.”

He turned his eyes down at the last words and shook his head. He had

perhaps heard some old lady use the same expression.

“This is the spirit,” said another, “who flung down a challenge at the

gate of heaven and expected to escape the fire of hell.”

The sudden onslaught would in another place and at another time have

provoked me to some answer, but I felt myself incapable of it. I was

learning still further that every prisoner here simply endures—having

no power, sometimes feeling no wish, to retaliate. This latter was the

case with me. I felt a certain coldness clinging round me which numbed

the sharper edge of feeling, so I sat there apparently indifferent to

their scoffing, and felt inwardly the same.

Following this outburst Plucritus rose, laughing.

“I must go,” he observed. “It is growing late. Genius, I must leave

you, but I shall return ere long. Till then, think upon my offer of the

ring.”

“Genius?” cried he who had first spoken, “Is this Genius?”

“That cannot be,” exclaimed another, solemnly. “He has produced nothing

in blank verse.”

“It’s out of fashion,” urged another. “Love-letters are all that are

needed nowadays.”

“You’re getting behind the times,” said another, talking at random.

“Read the _Daily Scorcher_.”

“Is that written in blank verse?”

“Oh, no. It’s after the same rhythm as ‘Mary had a little lamb.’”

“What do you mean? If you cast a slur upon them they will prosecute

you.”

“I said nothing detrimental. I simply meant to convey the impression

that they wrote in a popular vein.”

“I see. But at that rate you ought to quote the poet-laureate.”

There was a silence till someone queried, rather quietly,—

“What’s his name?”

“Don’t know,” answered the one who had first spoken. “He hasn’t got

one. He doesn’t believe in that sort of thing. He leaves it to the lady

novelists who won’t have their photo taken.”

“What does he believe in?”

“Blank verse and popular ballads,

Chip potatoes and lettuce salads.”

“The two last are very good,” said he who had put the question. “The

poet-laureate is undoubtedly a gentleman.”

I think in the midst of this random and unceasing talking I must have

fallen asleep, for when I again became conscious of the things around

me I was lying on my bed amid the silence of night. I was experiencing

that misty, unreal sensation which, when accompanied by dejection and

depression, is so terrible to bear.

At times I felt it must simply be a phase, a part of the working of my

own inner spirit, but again I realised that the force acting on me was

external, and that this unreality was simply a more horrible form of

what was real. I lay awake for a long time wrapped in thought, and when

that light born out of darkness which they call “Day” had risen I rose

too and prepared to descend to the lower hall.

CHAPTER III

To have felt anything of the brightness of early morning here was

quite out of the question. The same feeling of utter loneliness and

depression that accompanied me when I fell asleep was with me when

I rose. As I passed down the staircase the sight of those wretched,

wizened dwarfs filled me with more gloomy thought than I had even

entertained the night before.

When I reached the bottom step I saw sitting there that figure of which

Plucritus had spoken laughingly as some great queen of the past. She

got up as I stood there, and came and fawned upon me, rubbing against

me like some pet animal.

At the first touch my immediate instinct was to recoil, for never until

near contact could one fully recognise the utter degradation of such a

creature. But along with this feeling came another in consideration of

her past majesty and her lost humanity, and I stood still and received

the caress pretty much as a sentinel on duty would have done. To those

who might have a turn that way there was something distinctly humorous

in this, and so evidently someone thought, for at this instant I

heard a laugh, very clear and mirthful, come from down the hall I had

entered. It was Vestné, coming towards us, her hands clasped behind

her, and in that simplest robe which spirits wear. She was evidently

not oppressed with any of the heaviness which hung round me: she looked

more light and brilliant than the night before. Her head was thrown

back a little to one side.

“If you knew how comical you looked,” she said, with very little malice

but much amusement, “you would really try to appear more at home. This

creature is perfectly harmless—as harmless as she is ugly—that’s

saying a great deal. But you drew up as frigidly as if she’d been a

snake, and then seemed to have the wish to unbend but not the power.

Now, if you don’t like their caresses, and I can sympathise with you,

as I cannot myself tolerate one of them, just kick them off. For my own

part I would not have one of them about the place, but it is a whim of

Plucritus. He likes to see them now and then when he comes home, so

they are less confined here than at most of the places round.”

“Where are they usually kept then?” I inquired.

“Oh, they live in the back wings of the palace,” she answered. “Some of

them are very happy there, and have quite nice little homes. At least,

so Plucritus says, but I never trouble to go, it doesn’t interest me.”

At a table by one of the windows in this large hall breakfast had been

laid. She led the way and I followed, the deformed slave having limped

away on her mistress’s approach.

I noticed that here we were being served by two tall footmen in

splendid livery, whereas the night before everything had been removed

and brought by a power corresponding to electricity.

When they had gone I remarked on this to her, and asked why, as such

was the case with two beings, all the rest were not allowed to retain

at least some of this lost and human beauty.

At first she did not answer, but at last she gave some kind of an

explanation.

“Well, you see,” said she, “it costs a great deal to alter them from

their natural state. These two were sent last night after your arrival

to a friend of ours who is rather clever at transformations. It needs a

thorough knowledge of human nature, and a thorough knowledge of their

past history, before anything really effective can be produced. But

those two are admirable specimens, and as long as they remain in good

condition I have no objection to them.”

“May I ask you how the transformation is brought about?”

“Perhaps I ought not to tell you,” she replied. “But still I will, for

it is so delightful to talk to a complete stranger. Let us say those

two men were in their lifetime built up of selfishness. Naturally when

they came here they had to be broken into harness, and before that

could be done the selfishness had to be drawn out of them.”

Here she smiled slightly. “Naturally nothing would be left but

spiritual skin and bone, which when put under extreme pressure

contracts and leaves those stunted creatures you have noticed. Now this

friend of whom I spoke has a very delightful hobby. He collects small

portions of the essence of all sins, since not even the wealthiest can

afford to buy much, except what comes to them by actual possession, and

stores them away. Then if any of us wish to have our slaves transformed

at any time to their original likeness he will do it for us. He builds

them up from what they were originally, selfish, hypocritical,

deceitful, ambitious, whatever it may be. Naturally like clings to

like, and so in a master hand the whole is soon built up. But for

every atom of the original sin he introduces five of decay, so that

they cannot last long in that condition, and have to be renewed unless

allowed to return to their former state.”

“And do you not prefer to have them in this state than in their naked

ugliness?”

She shook her head and smiled.

“No. We like as far as possible to be fair, and it is impossible to

transform the whole and keep them in good repair, therefore we leave

them as they naturally are. The sight of these two, as it is, will only

provoke the envy and spite of all the rest, so they won’t have a happy

time of it after all.”

“Then why have you transformed them?” I asked.

“Plucritus said you liked outward show,” she answered. “And moreover,

our friend was in a mood to be cruel, and sent round to know if anyone

had slaves who wanted punishing.”

“Then does the process entail suffering?”

“Of course,” she replied. “It could not be done otherwise. I have

a brother who has wealth unbounded, and all his slaves are thus

constructed; but Plucritus is somewhat after the nature of a

philanthropist and is rather inclined to spoil than ill-use his

servants as long as they do their work well.”

“And if not?” I inquired, interested.

“Well, then, I suppose they have a lively time of it. I never

distinctly asked, though. But tell me, what you intend to do to-day?”

“I am quite at a loss. Not being either in my own land or on the earth

I am unacquainted with the way the time is spent.”

“You may walk through the grounds if you wish. I am at your disposal

and will show you everything of interest.”

“I am afraid I am in that mood when very little interests me.”

“Then will you walk through the picture-galleries? You might find

something of interest there if you care for art.”

“I have no particular wish to visit the galleries.”

“But you must do something,” she laughed. “You’ll have to do something.

You can’t sit here all day.”

“No,” I remarked, rising. “I will go through the grounds—but alone, I

need no companion.”

“Well, you may go alone if you wish it,” she declared, “but I will join

you there. Solitude is not good for people; it makes them get into a

‘I’ll do this,’ and ‘I’ll do that,’ and ‘you’re not wanted,’ sort of

way, which is very bad for them.”

So I went out alone, leaving her to follow when she cared.

It was quite true that the morning light was shining clear and

bright, that the birds were singing and the fountain playing, but it

was simply an unreal dream picture to me. I walked from terrace to

terrace, descended steps and passed through grottoes, looked at the

marvellous fountains and the curious fishes swimming in their basins; I

passed down avenues of trees and flowers of softest shade and sweetest

fragrance, and at last reached a spot where I heard the sound of the

deep dark river. To me there was more reality about this heavy flowing

stream than about anything around. I passed down a steep path that

led to its banks and stood there looking in the inky tide. Like all

deep silent things it had the power to keep me deep in thought. I am

not quite sure but that its ever-lapping, flowing waters soothed me,

for there I sat watching it and scanning the waste drear land beyond,

scarcely conscious of anything besides.

I was aroused by Vestné calling me from above.

“Now I knew if I left you alone,” she explained, “you would come to the

most dangerous spot. If you sit here much longer the dregs will poison

you, as the vapour is ever rising.”

“I was feeling a much-wished-for restfulness,” I observed.

“It is the effects of the poison,” she returned. “I must beg of you

to come away. If you are poisoned I shall be held responsible. Surely

you will come away, if only to relieve me from the discomfort of that

position.”

Thereupon I got up ungraciously; this interference seemed to me to be

very uncalled-for.

“If you wish it I will come away, but can you show me another place as

good?”

“I really don’t know,” she answered. “You have such peculiar tastes.

Suppose, instead of moving about, you go to the library and write.”

“Write what?”

“Oh, don’t ask me. Anything.”

“I never wrote a line in my life,” I rejoined irritably, turning off

on a path away from her. But if by that I hoped or thought to get rid

of her I was much mistaken. She followed me without speaking the whole

length of a rhododendron walk, and then through a bower twined with

honeysuckle and red roses. At the end of it I turned to her again.

“Well?” said I.

“I’ve hit on an excellent plan,” she answered, as if irritation were a

thing unknown to her.

“Indeed,” I exclaimed. “Then like all excellent things it can keep.”

And I walked on.

At last we came back again to the long terrace and I began to ascend

the steps, but she ran up them lightly and waited on the top step right

in my path.

“I’ve thought of an excellent plan,” she ventured, when I was still

three steps from her.

“What is it?”

“You and I shall write a play together. I will write it and you can

dictate it. That will be excellent, it will pass the time away.”

I smiled. “If I helped you to write it, that would be a sure guarantee

that it would fail.”

She shook her head. “Not at all,” she cried. “When you got too prosy I

would put in a dash of my own position to enliven it.”

“Then we should get to quarreling,” I interposed.

“Not we,” she said. “I should have the common sense to keep my remarks

to myself.”

“I see. And who would act it when written?”

“We would. I don’t mean you, but myself and some of my friends. Come,

let’s go.”

But I shook my head.

“I have not the slightest inclination to write plays at the present

moment, nor to dictate them.” And I sat down on the steps. After a

minute’s hesitation she sat down too.

“I’ve hit on another plan,” she suggested.

“What is it?”

“Let us quarrel.”

“You may begin; if it seems worth while I will join you.”

She got up without speaking, and passing behind me came and sat down by

my side.

I passed no remark, neither did I move. She waited for a little while,

then very quietly she laid her left hand on mine—and there certainly

was cause enough for dispute, since on her middle finger shone my own

ring—the one with which I had sacrificed everything except existence.

I stared at it in surprise and displeasure and then at her.

“Who gave you that?”

“I think I must have stolen it,” she answered, and still she left her

hand in mine. Then as quietly as I could I removed her hand and got up.

She rose also, and into her eyes had flashed all that anger which I had

occasionally seen gleam in the eyes of Plucritus.

“Why do you not ask me for it?” she said.

“It is not yours to return,” I replied.

I remember at this she laughed scornfully and drew the ring from her

finger and looked at it.

“I do not think you will ever wear this again,” she went on. “It has

been altered to fit my hand. And though an inexpensive trifle it is a

pretty ornament—which I should not consent to part with.”

“Since it fits you, you had better wear it,” I remarked. “It was lost

fairly, and, as I understand, can only be returned on one condition. As

that condition is an impossibility it is much more yours than mine, and

I may congratulate you upon the rearrangement of the centre setting.”

“What was it that ever made you relinquish your right to it?” she asked.

“Since you are wearing it you must know,” I answered.

“Not the entire facts,” said she. “Now, tell it me as a story and I

will listen carefully.”

“I should speak as a prejudiced narrator,” I declared. “You had better

ask Plucritus.”

“But he would speak as a prejudiced narrator too.”

“And you would be prejudiced in his favour, so that you would receive

his statement much more readily.”

“Are the women on earth always prejudiced in favour of their husbands?”

“I do not know. I have never distinctly lived on earth.”

“Doesn’t it agree with you?”

I laughed. “I have not wit enough to grasp the human intellect,” I

replied. “I had always complimented myself that there was a great

similarity between the two worlds.”

“How old are you?” she queried abruptly.

“Alternately as old and young as I appear to be.”

“So am I, so are we all,” she observed softly. “Is not the scene round

here magnificent?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Are those forms on the horizon hills or clouds?”

“They are hills,” she said. “Beyond the hills lies one of our great

cities. Some day you shall go there—it is very interesting. But now

let us return to the house, as I have much to do before the mid-day

meal.”

Together we went back into the palace, and to the library. There I saw

were many newspapers for the day piled together on the table.

She sat down beside these with pen and ink and paper, and opening the

first at the leading article began to scan the lines. Seeing that the

papers really came from the earth I drew nearer.

“What are you doing?” I asked at length, when I had watched her busily

employed in underlining and writing out various statements from each

column.

“I’m copying out all the lies,” she answered simply.

“The what?” I asked again.

“The untruths,” she said apologetically.

“They seem pretty numerous in to-day’s papers,” I laughed.

“No indeed,” she went on. “There are fewer than usual. No matter

however small the prevarication may be, I can always spot it.”

“But what is your pleasure in such an unpleasant task?”

“It is no pleasure—it is business, and needs thorough concentration.”

“But considering your people are the instigators of lies, why don’t

they send you down the complete list each day? It would save you the

trouble.”

She laughed.

“Well, you see by the time a lie has passed through the mind of a

man (or a woman for that matter) it has generally undergone certain

modifications, and it is my work to get at the truth, which is, of

course, a lie, in its original form.”

“I see. Then a pure lie is unadulterated truth?”

“Yes. And that is why a real lie is so hard to discover. It is

essentially the truth.”

“But why are you so hard upon the newspapers? You do not leave one

paragraph unstudied.”

“It is my work,” she asserted. “A lie that is allowed to circulate

gains in bulk though it loses in truth.”

“What do you mean?” I inquired.

“Never ask me what I mean. I talk at random, and if it hits the mark,

so much the better, and if not, well, it is none the worse.”

“Do you then read these papers purely from a business standpoint?”

“Undoubtedly. When I read purely for pleasure I read our own. And these

are dull work after them. They lack the brilliancy, truth, incisiveness

and humour that characterise ours. But there—why do I try to compare

them?”

“Yet some of these are very good?”

“Oh, yes,” she answered with a contemptuous curl of her lips. “And very

good things are like very bad things, very uninteresting.”

“You are hard to please.”

“Not at all, but I like if possible to be pleased in a particular way.”

“I see. My only wonder is that since you are undoubtedly interested in

the world you do not take more pains to make your likes and dislikes

known.”

“Interested in which world?” she questioned.

“Earth.”

She now got up laughing and came and sat down on a chair by the fire

opposite me.

“I’ll leave the papers to-day, they make me melancholy, they are so

very truthful. There’s one that says if you want to shake hands with

three duchesses, five countesses, and the very cream of society, you

may do it for three guineas.”

“Do you call it dear or cheap?”

“Dear, monstrously dear. If I were promised cream I should expect

strawberries, but under those conditions I should receive nothing

better than the leaves.”

“Have you ever shaken hands with a duchess?” I asked by way of keeping

up the conversation.

“Why do you smile? Once I offered to shake hands with an empress.”

“And did she return the compliment?”

“Oh, no. The temptation to resist me was too great, so she refused;

consequently she is serving a term of apprenticeship here. At the same

time I offered to shake hands with an emperor, and the temptation

_not_ to resist me was also too great; consequently he is here

too. Now if the emperor had behaved like the empress, and the empress

like the emperor, there is no telling where they might have been.”

“It takes a very simple sin then to translate a man from earth to

hell,” I remarked.

“Well, you see, so much lies in a nutshell,” she explained. “I remember

when I shook hands with the emperor he forgot to release my hand. I

think he was engaged on matters of state, so it was perhaps excusable.

On that occasion I was wearing a toilet which was a simple creation of

beauty, though made at home and without assistance. I remember my train

was badly torn through his mental aberration.”

“But you had the other hand at liberty?”

“Well, you see it happened most unfortunately that the grand vizier (I

think it was the grand vizier) had taken possession of my other hand,

and he also was engrossed by state calculations. It would have been a

pity to disturb two such eminent gentlemen from so sacred a reverie,

so I waited, and afterwards they were obliged to pay the cost of the

spoilt robe.”

“Which, taken from the point of view of the nutshell, was your

reputation.”

“Not at all. I have no reputation. I am above it.”

“And what did your husband say about this extensive handshaking?”

“He never said a word. But I think he was very cut up about the

empress, he thought her so rude. And when she refused to look at

me all the other women did too, and it made me quite low-spirited,

because however much one _likes_ the society of men, one always

_values_ the society of women, especially after they turn nasty.

At last I could stand it no longer, therefore I came home and began to

cry. After a while some of my friends called to see me, and we had the

merriest evening possible, for we sent slaves to collect all the tears

I had dropped on the way from earth to hell, and then we went on to the

highest turret of the palace and threw them back on the earth again.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes. And the women who had spurned me gathered them up quickest,

because they looked like glistening diamonds. And now they wear them,

and when they wear them the men fall in love with them, and the women

turn their backs on them, and sometimes they can’t understand it, but

it is so.”

Suddenly her voice changed from the monotone to one of bright and

laughing interest.

“Now give me a criticism on my story of shaking hands with royalty,”

she challenged.

“A cool criticism?” I asked.

“If you can,” she answered, laughing.

“Well, I should say it began with vulgarity and ended with a moral.”

“Vulgarity?”

“Yes.”

“But it was a real live emperor. He couldn’t be vulgar if he tried. He

never squeezed my hand once.”

“Well, perhaps it was the introduction of the grand vizier.”

“He never squeezed my hand either.”

“Then perhaps it was yourself.”

She got up and drew herself to that graceful height from which she

looked down on most things around her.

“Do I look vulgar?” she said.

“No.”

“Then shall I tell you what formed the vulgarity of which you speak?”

“If you will,” I replied.

“It was the atmosphere in which I moved.”

“And what was that?”

“Humanity.”

She went away and left me thinking.

Now, when we were seated together at lunch she turned to me suddenly

and said, half laughing, half serious,—

“Genius, whom do you consider the greater sufferer—myself or Christ?”

“It is a subject I would not discuss,” I decided drily.

“You are wise,” she affirmed tauntingly. “Ignorance should always be

silent.”

But to this I gave no answer, and soon she changed the conversation.

From that time onward I remained in the palace, unconscious of the

passage of time, except that day followed day in monotonous routine and

weariness.

Vestné was interesting, and at times even gracious. I have known

occasions when she would sacrifice her own inclinations, and even

pleasures, to my convenience. She rarely intruded upon me after the

first day, unless there was reason for it.

If anything, she was more guarded in her conversation, more distant in

her manner, and at times would leave me alone for days together in the

vast palace. On one of these occasions she had asked me if I cared to

join her in going away, but I answered in the negative.

She laughed.

“It may be as well,” she remarked. “To speak frankly, I must admit some

of my friends have found rather amusing nick-names for you. It’s very

impolite, I know, but you should never have paid such a lengthy visit

in the possession of only one garment.”

But press other raiment upon me as they might I always refused it.

Never could I bring myself to wear it, however the obsequious, wretched

slave might beg or bow.

I remembered the remark which had been passed by Plucritus about his

punishment in case of failure, but even this threat had not the power

to turn me, though it pressed heavily on me every day.

Thus the time passed, heavily, wretchedly; I was alone.

Never once did I breathe the pure clear atmosphere of hope and light.

In the midst of heartless enemies I walked a stranger, becoming daily

more accustomed to the jeer and scoffs that met me at every turn. The

very slaves eyed me with baffled cunning, hate and greed, longing

doubtless for the day of which their master had spoken, when the last

ray of hope expired on earth. You, Deborah, should also have to join

me in this drear abode. And, besides, the dream spirit of unreality

encompassed me about. Everything was misty and despondent, even as the

light of day, and earth, and all its shapes, and forms, and joys, and

pleasures are to the broken-hearted.

CHAPTER IV

I remember one afternoon wandering through the grounds alone, hating

my empty existence, yet having no power to alter it, when I was

interrupted by Vestné coming to me. In her eyes there gleamed that

curious, brilliant light which characterised them at times, when stung

to answer or excited by some emotion.

She did not speak till near me, and then she said, quickly and

distinctly,—

“Genius, I do not think you have yet seen all through my palace.

Though you have not asked to do so I cannot think but that you must be

curious. If you will come with me I will show it you now.”

With little answer I followed her back to the door from which I had

come out, and we re-entered the palace. Hitherto I had only been

acquainted with those principal apartments which led from the large

hall and from each other.

But now she led me to a large folding-door at the upper end, remote

from the end by which I had entered on the day when first I came.

I had often looked towards this door with curiosity. There was a

darkness and mystery about it which had caught even my uncaring

thoughts.

Many a time too I had seen a slave pass through it, either in or out,

and in the momentary opening I had noticed the blackness beyond.

I remember as we passed through this heavy door a terrible silence

greeted us, so terrible that whereas without there had been light and

warmth, here one experienced neither. I stood still. A feeling of utter

repugnance overwhelmed me, that feeling of undeniable degradation which

had overwhelmed me when touched by the stunted woman long ago. “I do

not wish to see this place,” I cried.

“Are you afraid?” she asked scornfully.

“If fear is born of unavailing sorrow then I am much afraid,” I

answered.

Her laugh broke drearily on the stillness. “You must come,” she went

on. “It will do you good and act like a tonic. When we get back again

you will feel quite cheerful, and congratulate yourself upon your

luxurious life as a guest.”

I made no further reply.

We had come into a long narrow passage, so gloomy and dark that it

seemed more like the passage through the thick wall of an old church

than anything else.

It appeared dusty and full of cobwebs despite its evident occasional

use, and I remember I coughed once, because there was some irritating

matter in the air.

At the other end of the passage was another door. It was locked, and

I noticed for the first time that she unlocked it before we passed

through; and also from this time I became conscious that she was

carrying a large bunch of keys.

The gloom beyond was greater than it had been before. It was deepened

by a narrow spiral staircase leading sheer down for what might have

been several hundred feet. It was a giddy, gloomy depth, and would

have made dizzy any mortal brain, but we passed down it silently and

swiftly, she leading, I following, till we lighted on firm ground again

amidst total darkness.

Where we had come to I could not tell, as the isolation and heaviness

were complete.

“Can you hear anything?” she whispered in my ear. And again she

whispered,—

“Listen.”

Yes, I heard it. “Gurgle, gurgle.” Ever the same deep sound—the dull

keynote to hell.

Then gradually, slowly and mysteriously, the darkness gave way to a

dull red light. It lit up the arched passages that branched out in

every direction from where we stood, like the crypt of some cathedral.

“They’re all buried down here,” she whispered again.

Gurgle—gurgle—gurgle. There flowed the black stream, turned to

dullest red, along every aisle and dimly-shining passage. No sound of

footfall ever rose among those arches. Nothing but the awful lapping

of the stream. She stepped into a boat which was anchored there, and I

followed.

Of itself it loosed from mooring and floated silently into the central

channel.

Oh, hell! oh, terrible, silent, twisting, twining power of hell!

Remorseless cruel power that clings and holds, and never will give way

but by inhuman power! Oh, devils! dyed and steeped in cruelty and hate!

Luring each willing victim to the brink in hateful silence, till the

last long shriek and counter-laugh are heard! What good can ever rise

from all the torture you inflict? Destroying evil with worse evil,

burning out with white heat that which yourselves implanted!

Oh, giddy, heedless mortals treading the brilliant path or easy,

unmindful of the gurgling warning stream!

Oh! rise! rise! but there—what hope is there to give in hell? It

belongs only to the earth.