wings. Press reviews descended like a mist of coloured laudation.
Resonant interviews swamped the thin stream of prickling criticism. The
Artist really had no need to worry about his Inspiration. For the time
fame was poured to him from silver flagons, and wealth handed up on a
gold plate. Vanity of vanities! but all authorship becomes vanity. When
the most beautiful member of the chorus knelt and kissed his hand he
felt strangely moved. It was because his hand had written the Drama.
Men thought it an honour and women thought it lucky to touch that hand,
those inspired fingers. He was very pleased with the action of the
chorus girl, and the following day he noted that she was fairly fair,
and the week following that she was pretty pretty, so to speak. And the
more he liked her, the angrier he felt with Queenie for letting the
Manager embrace her on that night of nights. It was rather bitter, but
bitterness when it stays and curdles in the mind often brings about a
decision. Perhaps it was a stroke of luck after all, for it dawned on
his mind that he had a perfect excuse for leaving Queenie when he felt
so inclined, and he told her so. He spoke to her as a father might
speak to an erring daughter. She had served him well and he would
always think kindly of her, but now that he was famous he could not
afford to have his name connected with a woman who was susceptible to
anything as vulgar as a theatrical manager. He was an Artist and he
owed a duty to his Inspiration. He turned her out. His drama touched a
hundredth performance that same night.
She had no redress and she passed silently and whitely into the black
roaring night, into the whirlpool above which she had sustained him in
his months of obscurity. For the last time the light glittered in her
eyes, though it met no response from his iris, which was blurred with a
little red patch as he went his way, floating buoyantly, basking in a
limelit sea, watching his own portentous shadow bulge in the theatric
moonlight. He thoroughly enjoyed being the successful dramatic writer
of the day. He was very agile at bearing the Palm. Actors and Managers
came buzzing and puffing round him, pleading and imploring him to write
another play. It was weeks before he consented even to return to work.
It was without misgiving eventually that he dipped pen into the silver
inkstand presented by the staff after the five hundredth performance;
the pen by the way tipped with a real ruby, the grateful tribute of
the Chorus. For inspiration there was the new beloved practising steps
in a Poiret gown on his expensive Persian carpet. Yet it was not all
as inspiring as might have been expected. The Artist wrote phrases at
intervals and the week’s work filled many sheets, but too often he
found himself chewing the ruby knot at the end of his pen. Then he
would call the chorus girl to his knee and peer into her eyes, which
were lit with artificial radiance. They lacked the stellar light which
used to beckon him from Queenie’s orbs. He looked in them and always
saw the fiery fume of his own pleasure. There was nothing mysterious
or new, nothing that he did not know before. He never saw the shapes
he used to see of dreams personifying in his partner’s eyes. But on
the material side he was much better off. He drank Tokay instead of
tea, and ate fresh caviare instead of stale seed cake. And he twirled
his pen and his hair and the chorus girl in turns. And nothing very
wonderful happened on paper. He was still twirling all three a year
later when his first drama had been given a rest on the stage and
managers were asking anxiously and then angrily why he had not filled
his contract to write another. He had thought he was safe in giving
himself a year to write and he had written reams, but he did not dare
show them to the managers. Compared to the first it was merely corked
wine.
He felt that he needed a rest and the inevitable and harassing month
on the Riviera followed. The chorus girl died of influenza in an hotel
after losing six months’ royalties for him in the local Casino. When he
returned to London he found he was in debt and that his furniture was
being sold out of his flat. He sat down to twirl pen and thumbs again,
but only succeeded in breaking the encrusted ruby off his penholder
with exasperation. Eventually he mislaid it. It was found next morning
and safely placed in a pawnbroker’s safe by a careful charwoman. The
silver inkpot had become caked with the ink which flowed in but not
out. Hours he passed staring blankly into blank paper and trying to
crush the half-formed answers to the eternal query why could he not
write another Poetic Drama as beautiful and as wonderful as the first.
But the fire was gone and he could not catch the wistful pleasantry
which the critics were fond of divining in his lyrics. It would not
come to the surface of his mind as it had, when he lived humbly and
cheaply, lacking all that he now enjoyed in such abundance. As though
abundance can ever be enjoyed, as cats drowning in cream have never
failed to observe. He lacked nothing now except perhaps the one thing
necessary!
At last he arose darkly and miserably in the night. There was nothing
left to be done but to wander forth in search of his lost Inspiration.
He felt leaden-footed and soiled in the soul. If his mind still moved
it was like a hobbledehoy and no longer a Pegasus. He started in mad
search for what he had lost. He swam into the first dance hall and
listened to the jazz-rhythms with their slow and broken cross-ripples.
He watched the undulating shoulders of the dancers as they circled
and cross circled. But neither rhythm nor song did they lend him.
Then he passed into a drinking cabaret and began sipping the yellow
and pink-coloured mixtures called cocktails which are to true wine as
mosaics are to real sculpture. But again he found no release. In vain
he drank unintoxicating intoxicants, quenchers that proved unquenching,
potations that were impotent, and the chill, stupefying drench which
neither cheers nor inebriates and is called wormwood.
The Artist was at the end of all artificial expedients, and it was
very late when he came to close truths with himself, and walked
deliberately toward the mean street where he believed Queenie was
living. He had left her with enough to live on and paid the rent on
their old lodging for a year in advance. He crept into the ghastly
tenement building. He knocked and knocked vainly. There was no answer.
He leaned miserably against the door and it swung open. He slipped into
the foul passage and stood before the single room in which his first
Drama, his masterpiece, had been written. It was tightly closed, but
the lock snapped under his thrust. He felt resentful against the room
and against the woman whom he had left there, and resentful against
himself, for an Artist only hates himself when he realises that his
Art has deserted him. A stale odour and a dead draught met him as he
entered. He called and there was no answer. He knew his way round
the room in the dark and he groped in the corner for the gas jet. He
turned it on, but it made no lucent response to a lighted match. The
gas meter was empty and then he noticed that he had turned the gas off
instead of on. He twisted it back and forward. By the light of a second
match he looked round the room and his eyes fell on the bed where his
Inspiration lay cold and self-slain before her time.
In a moment all his ambition and hope seemed to be turned off as
completely as the gas. He was where he was before he met Queenie
Elkington. He turned and shuffled back to his flat. He knew now that
the virtue had gone out of him, and why. The Artist in him shrivelled
into the undertaker’s clerk. He sat down before the ink-crusted silver
inkstand and began writing on a blank sheet slowly in scrivener’s
copperplate. He wrote to order the most beautiful coffin procurable.
It must be made of scented wood and lined with silk, and the fittings
must be of solid silver. In it he explained that he intended to bury
all that was precious to him, his guardian angel in the past, what
might have been his ambition in the future, and the Inspiration which
had forsaken him in the present. And this pathetic letter he sealed and
addressed to the old-established firm of Gammon and Hardwash.
BALTHASAR THE CRUEL
Don Balthasar was called the Cruel for a number of very satisfying and
respectable reasons. As a child he had flayed a live monkey, which
had been brought to amuse him in an ebony cage. And he had been fond
of biting off the heads of singing birds or slipping hot needles into
their eyes according as he wished to make them sing or not. Arrived at
the age of discretion, he showed his seriousness of purpose by taking
a breakneck journey across Spain without sleep and almost forfeiting
his meals in order to be in time for the execution of his illegitimate
brother. His hands had so often failed of killing him that he was
seized with the idea of making his eyes at least fratricidal. But Don
Balthasar was always morbid.
On the other hand he showed some remarkable traits. His restless energy
was an example to the lethargic princelets by whom his boundaries were
neighboured. In the infliction of pain or the pursuit of domestic
vengeance he would endure what only the bravest and strongest
would dare. He had a fine sense of the rules of chivalry and his
discrimination in matters of taste was never challenged. When he said a
ruby was a ruby, it was not disputed even in the Orient; and for sign
of his passionate hobby toward precious stones he wore a large ruby
in his iron helm about as large as a cuckoo’s egg dyed in carmine.
He personally supervised the cutting and trimming of the velvet
vestments used in his private chapel. His chapel was decorated with an
excruciating picture of Saint Bartholomew the Apostle being deprived
somewhat reluctantly of his apostolic skin. And Don Balthasar’s clothes
kept busy several Moorish haberdashers during the greater part of the
year.
He had peculiar notions as to property, particularly towards what had
ceased to be his property or had ever been dignified by his ownership.
For instance, he aped the royal Castilian etiquette, which allowed no
lesser man to bestride a horse that had once been ridden by a King of
Spain or to marry even a forgotten and abandoned lady love who had
once enjoyed the royal embrace. Don Balthasar, once at the end of a
long siege discovering in his net a damsel, whom he had seduced in
boyhood, comfortably married to a burgess of the fallen town, insisted
on strangling him with his own hands that he might realise how high an
honour the unfortunate burgess had presumed to pay himself. The burgess
who had been found in possession of the Don’s discarded romance died
in the market-place with his broken eyeballs staring into the quaint
features of Don Balthasar called the Cruel, who considerately provided
him with a funeral furnished neither above nor below his rank. What
time he could spare from the adornment of his person or the adjustment
of etiquette he devoted to the beleaguerment of Castles upon which he
or his ancestors had the shadow or phantom of a claim.
At the moment of writing he was engaged in laying close siege to the
Castle of his arch-enemy Don Ximenes. His tactical array resembled
rather a game of chess than one of those conflicts of sanguinary
hordes into which the beautiful mediæval science of war developed. Don
Ximenes was not in his lair, for Don Balthasar had been conveniently
apprised of his secret absence on a neighbouring campaign to which
Don Balthasar had not been invited. He could not lose the opportunity
to bring two thousand men against Don Ximenes’s Castle, which was in
those days of supreme fortification adequately held by the Seneschal
and twelve men. When walls were impenetrable and ramparts unassailable
except by the slow poising and escalading of ladders, they were
sufficient to ward and defy a host. The Castle of Don Ximenes was as
solidly built and magnificently engineered as any Castle in Spain,
which was saying a great deal. It was originally a Moorish stronghold.
The great dungeon-keep covered one side of the quadrangle. It was
crenellated and thinly slashed with murderous arrowholes. The other
three sides were flanked at each corner by turrets massively gathered
to each other by a fortified passage running round the whole rampart.
The dry moat was cut out of the quick rock. Across the moat rose a
bridge like the hump of a donkey’s back and protected by a barbican.
The angles and embrasures commanded and cross-commanded every approach.
While the Seneschal watched from the top of the keep, two men held each
turret, three remained in the barbican and three took turns to sleep.
The Seneschal had no more than enough men and provender to hold the
Castle for Don Ximenes, and it was weary work peeping over the ramparts
at every move made by the redoubtable Don Balthasar.
Don Balthasar with his masses of fresh troops attacked or feigned
attack at all hours, even at night when his camp fires blazed red with
feasting and revelry. Each time an alarm was given by lighting a torch
at the menaced turret, the Seneschal would collect the sleepers and
hurry them as a reserve to the ramparts to meet each successive attack.
Every third or fifth day there was a general attack and a number of
surprise attempts to hook scaling ladders to some unwatched portion of
the wall. With poles and sledge-hammers the Seneschal and his faithful
few dislocated or smashed the feelers of the prying ladders as fast
as they appeared above the walls. But day was as weary as night, and
only the obstinate loyalty of the Seneschal made the hours pass without
question or murmuring among his men. His determination was unflexed.
Everything he could possibly value was at stake: the impregnable
old keep in which he had been reared as a child, his loyalty to his
lord, and incidentally his own wife and daughter who, unknown to the
besiegers, were helping to consume his slender store behind the walls.
It was a strong satisfaction to him to know that ten feet of masonry
lay between their charms and Balthasar called the Cruel.
The Castle possessed all the strength and subtlety of construction and
design that Moorish and Gothic architects could give after handling and
remodelling each other’s work. Don Balthasar found it quite impossible
to take it by assault and sat down in permanent circumsession. Within,
there was enough to tide them over until Don Ximenes’s return, provided
he returned with the New Year. But occasionally the Seneschal caught
sight of a lean look. While the camp echoed with revelry and the air
was thick with the steam of feasting, none of the besieged ever ate to
satisfy or drank into the delicious preludes of intoxication. And there
was a constant lack of sleep, which is a great subduer of grumbling
and tedium. But no suspicion of the garrison’s loyalty ever glided
through the mind of the Seneschal. He would not allow the possible
fall of the Castle to dwell in his mind. He only looked forward to the
day of triumph when the portcullis would be drawn and the Don Ximenes
enter into his keep as inviolate as upon the day he had left it. If the
Castle fell--well, there was nothing worse that Don Balthasar surnamed
the Cruel could do to him.
Nevertheless murmuring had arisen and sometimes was hardly hushed
before the sore-tried Seneschal stumbled into hearing. Though the
besiegers were making no progress, time was; and time was on the side
of Don Balthasar. To the garrison it became acutely clear that their
days were shortened. There was enough provender for a month or for
three months of semi-starvation. Two grim days already appeared on
the horizon: the day when the Seneschal would announce half-rations
and the day when, drowsy with hunger, they would be surprised and one
turret would be taken and occupied with fresh troops, who would pour
like a Moorish poison through the passages and into the stony veins
of the Castle until every corner was captured. The Seneschal would
undoubtedly fight to the end. When they had filled their tiny tasks
they would perish like pawns. The life of foot soldiers was not sweet
in Old Castile, but it was thought by their lords to be much sweetened
by a death in their private service and defence. They could but accept
their approaching fate with the devotion of feudal hirelots. It was
already a matter of weeks or even days, and meantime Don Balthasar’s
banners flaunted the landscape. He was only waiting for the first sign
of weakness to show itself, if not in the fortifications, at least in
the less enduring minds of men.
The weak spot in the garrison manifested itself one evening as the
tired Seneschal was dragging himself to his place of rest. The best
prospect before him was a name among those who had served their lords
to the death. The garrison had less rosy expectation in the memories
of Spanish chivalry. They would be forgotten.... Two men-at-arms stood
in the Seneschal’s roadway. They had spent the day guarding one of the
turrets and they had come to tell him simply that they were going to
mutiny. Knowing how essential they were to the defence, they had no
fear of instant execution. The Seneschal might as well surrender the
Castle forthwith as dispense with their services. The Seneschal bowed
his grey face. Tired as he was, he still struggled for time and thought
and breath. He told them that, if they wished to mutiny, the Castle
could no longer be held and he would send them over the ramparts to
announce the surrender to Don Balthasar the following morning. He only
asked them to keep their share of the watch that night. The morrow
could care for the morrow. His only present endeavour was to hold the
Castle for that night. The mutineers appeared to refuse his courteous
offer, for they stood shaking their heads in an awkward way. Then they
spoke.
They were not mutinying with any desire to save their skins. Least of
all did they wish to join Balthasar or put him in possession of the
Castle. They were loyal men and true to their lord. The Seneschal
gave them an ironical glower. They were ready to fight to the end,
they continued to observe. They only asked for a little consolation in
the last days of their lives. They insisted that they were loyal and
true to the great law which bound men of valour to their lords. And
they would yet obey the Seneschal in all matters except perhaps where
a stronger than military custom constrained their souls. This was all
pointless speech, and the Seneschal made a sign to express that he
thought so. However, they mentioned their readiness to fight to the
end on condition that their last hours were sweetened with love. Their
tranquil smile hardly seemed to clash against the Seneschal’s baffled
misunderstanding. He, poor man, was feebly perplexed. If they had asked
for a larger ration of bread or wine he would gladly have reduced that
of his own family to satisfy them. But they might as well have asked
him for the excitements of the chase or the luxuries of the Moorish
bath within the Castle’s narrow world. For a moment they seemed to him
mad; rendered mad by the rigours of the siege. His next hope was that
they would fight the better for being insane. But what a moment to
think of love! And he answered them with a kind laugh:
“Would that I could satisfy your wishes, my dear children, but you must
not ask for a well of wine in the desert or for loaves to rain from
heaven. Love will come to you some day among the beautiful girls of the
town when Don Ximenes has returned to his own. Come, return to your
noble duty, and some of the best wine will be served you on the morrow.
Oh, my children.”
“But we do not need your red wine,” replied the mutineers. “If we are
to die, we prefer we should drink something better than red wine.”
“My children, I would not hesitate if by opening my purse or my veins I
could furnish you with a wine worthy of your valour during this siege.
If I could encourage you to hold out against Don Balthasar, there is
nothing that I would not promise you. And my word is true as you have
always known.”
“We do not ask for promises or words. We would prefer to accept what
you have to offer on the spot.”
“But I have nothing, my children, except what you know is in the store.
If these are our last days (which may the Most Serene Virgin otherwise
dispose!) at least you shall feed and drink well.”
But the mutineers still looked at him with their dull stare. “Well, in
the Holy Virgin’s name,” shouted the Seneschal, “what do you want?”
“We want love, and if you will allow us a little share of love we will
hold the Castle with you till the last of us is killed. It will not be
well for any of us to fall alive into the hands of Don Balthasar.”
“Yes, make love,” murmured the tired Seneschal, “make love and be
happy.” And he turned slowly away. “But where will you find love in
this prison of stone?”
“We thought it convenient as well as pleasant to offer our courteous
love to your family.”
The poor Seneschal’s face turned ashen; “You mean my daughter as the
price of remaining at your duty?” And his determination to hold the
Castle at all costs received a fiercer blow than any that had been
dealt by the enemy. But still his staggering mind was essaying how to
hold on and on. The mutineers came to his rescue when words failed him.
“We are willing that you choose upon which one of us you will bestow
your daughter.”
“And will you return to your duties if I bestow her on the morrow?” he
asked. The Seneschal’s word was good and they saluted him with their
swords.
“You shall have her,” groaned the unhappy man, as he laid his hand upon
the younger and fresher of the two, “but if the God of Castile and the
Most Serene Virgin suffer me to bring this Castle through the siege I
will not spare you.”
The mutineers laughed; “Be not troubled. Our days shall end long before
Don Ximenes returns. Don Balthasar will see to that.” The younger one
added: “When may I make the acquaintance of the beautiful daughter you
have promised me?”
“On the morrow,” hissed the Seneschal; “have I not said it? I cannot
disturb her this night.” The mutineer returned to his turret. His
companion remained bulking in the narrow stone passage.
“And I, my master, must my last days be passed without love or solace
because my companion in arms has borne less years of fighting and has
less scars to show in his boy’s face?”
“Come,” murmured the exhausted Seneschal, “That is no reason for
leaving the ramparts. You are a fine battle-pocked warrior and you
could not spend your last days more happily than by facing the army of
Don Balthasar.”
The grisled warrior seemed to hesitate over what was most likely to
felicitate his last days on earth. Then he spoke quite abruptly: “Give
me your wife and I will fight better.” It was like saying “check”
to a chess player playing with members of his own family instead of
wooden pieces. The Seneschal bowed his head in utter despair and the
other slowly turned his back. His nod was as good as his word under the
circumstances. At that moment a torch flared from the central keep, and
the Seneschal rushed to the scene of attack hurrying his reserves on
the way. A frontal attack was being made in full force and he rushed
from turret to turret shouting hoarse commands and disengaging the
cruel little hooks and feelers, that were pushed over the walls, with
his own hands. Never had the garrison fought so magnificently. The
intrepid coolness and energy of the two mutineers was beyond praise or
emulation. They fought with their hands, their feet and their toes,
hacking, pushing, kicking, and biting, now in one corner and now in
another. With their bare hands they uprooted ladder after ladder and
with swift leverage hurled clusters of men headlong into the hard dry
moat. The Seneschal caught sight of the pair at moments and his loyal,
long-tried heart was at rest.