_At the second gate, the warder stripped her; he took the pendants from
her ears_....
I
Ulick Invern preferred the short cut down the hill to the smoother
roundabout road, which, though shaded, was dusty. It was the last week
of his vacation, much needed, little desired. He was loath to leave New
York, best-beloved city after Paris; but his doctor advised him to try
New Hampshire to relieve his hay-fever. As he went across the fields
of the Forest Hills park he was forced to admit that the fortnight
in Franconia had put him on his feet. No sneezing, no insomnia, no
writing, lots of reading. Such reading. He had made up his mind that no
fiction, either frivolous or serious, would he fetch in his trunk; not
even his adored Flaubert. Nothing but books dealing with the origins of
religious beliefs, mystic books; Thomas à Kempis, Apollo, by Reinach,
several Cardinal Newman volumes, the Old Testament, Browning, and
as a concession to his profane leanings, a copy of Petronius in the
original. Ulick was a fair latinist; his literary tastes versatile.
This serene September forenoon he pondered the idea of a new religion.
He had been reading in Reinach's Apollo of the mushroom swiftness with
which any crazy silly superstition grows overnight in proper soil. The
more ignorant the mob the easier it is to convince with some insane
doctrine. Witness the growth of Mormonism or the new cult in America
which already boasted a female pope and a big following.
"A new religion" he said aloud. "Well, why not? the time seems ripe.
Everything is unsettled. We are on the verge of something tremendous,
a world-war, a social revolution, and yet we have never been seemingly
more prosperous--I mean the entire earth. We must be entering into a
new constellation; perhaps Mars is in the ascendant; or the sullen
house of Saturn...." Ulick wasn't a star-worshipper, he liked to flirt
with astrology as he flirted with a belief in the Fourth Dimension of
Space. He was a well set-up young man still in the twenties, vigourous
mentally and physically, nervous rather than muscular, yet capable of
great powers of resistance. His friends, and he had many, said he was
too volatile to compass distinction; he couldn't stick at anything
over a month. This mania for the study of comparative religions was
not new--he had only revived an old interest. Christianity with
its stems deep in Judaism, Asiatic legends, Alexandrian mysticism;
with its taboos, fetishes, totems, animism and magic, its lofty
belief in the idealism of Jesus and its mumbo-jumbo conjurations and
incredibly absurd miracles--this welter of old-world faiths and
debasing superstition, a polytheistic judaism, held his fancy, for,
as a former student of theology, he saw more clearly the polyphonic
criss-crossing of ideas and ceremonies than the majority of critics.
A palimpsest, rather, many palimpsests, was this religion, which in
less than two thousand years has undergone more radical changes than
any that preceded it. A chameleon among religions, compared with which
Buddhism is a rock of eternal certitude. But sentimentality always
ends by wrecking a religion, or a nation, and Christianity is first
sentimental, the romantic as opposed to the classic faiths of the
Greeks and Romans.
He debouched into the road leading to Zaneburg, after a plunge down
the hill. Shade-trees bordered the avenue upon which stood pretty
bungalows. There were an unusual number of people walking and riding;
perhaps because of Saturday, or, and he suddenly remembered, because
the Hillcrest Hotel was to be sold at public auction that very noon,
with all its contents. Country folk are keen on buying something for
nothing. Invern flicked golden-rod, abhorred of hay-fever sufferers,
and decided to go with the crowd. But first I'll stop at Zaneburg and
get a drink of cider. Nothing stronger in the state; indeed, nothing
could be stronger than New Hampshire cider. He was thirsty, which
pleasant condition he laughingly set down to his constellation; he had
been born under the sign of Aquarius the Water-Carrier.
He entered the village and made for the Inn which bore the resounding
title: At the Sign of the Golden Buck. He had hardly reached the
post-office, also the general store, when noisy, discordant music
struck his unwilling ears. A critic of music, once upon a time, he
suffered from his sensitive hearing. He averred it was the false
intonation of singers, whether in opera or concert that had driven him
from professional criticism into the theatre; from the frying-pan into
the fire, he lamented. So the horrible conglomeration of noises which
assailed his tympani set him to wondering--and cursing. There were the
banging of big drums, tambourine thumping, tooting of fifes coupled
with hideous howling without tune or rhythm; just the howling of idiots
penned-up behind bars, or the screeching of hyenas on a desert plain
beneath the rays of a sultry midnight moon. He looked around for a path
to escape, and then decided to see the show--probably some circus.
A crowd had quickly formed. Borne along he soon saw an irregular
procession chiefly composed of women dancing, screaming, beating
tambourines. Hysteria was in the air. Two figures, detached from the
others, focussed his attention. A gigantic noseless negro wearing a
scarlet turban and dressed in a gaudy gown like a woman's wrapper,
headed the throng. His big eyes rolled, and at intervals he emitted a
roar as he struck an exotic gong with a hammer.
"De Holy Yowlers is here!" he boomed in a formidable basso. "Welcome
de Holy Yowlers. Services at de rotunda in ten minutes. Entrance
free. Come one, come all. Welcome all. Hear de Holy Yowlers." A young
woman walking behind this giant and carrying a banner shrieked: "Holy
Yowlers. Save your dirty souls. Dance into paradise. Holy Yowlers."
Her pretty eyes were bloodshot. She staggered under the grievous
burden. Her face was bloated with enthusiasm as she cursed the evil
of rum-drinking. The Holy Yowlers was a prohibition organization,
evidently, as the woman's words and behaviour indicated. Ulick
examined her with curiosity. Here's the beginning of my new religion,
he cogitated. Lots of noise, a few incomprehensible phrases, plenty
of rum--and it's enough to start anything from a political party to
the second advent of some sheep-god. I forgot to add fornication. The
twin pillars of all religions have been, still are and ever shall
be, superstition and fornication; faith in the imbecile doctrines
and fornication--else the membership would dwindle. His reverie was
interrupted by a voice that whispered: "It's Roarin' Nell, sartain.
She's on one of her regular sprees. Nuthin' stops her. Just look at
that big nigger, how he handles her. He ought to get his derned ugly
head punched. Nell used to be pretty. Too much rum and religion got the
best of her." It was a farm-hand who spoke. Ulick asked him questions.
Nell joined them. She planted her banner--blazoned with the device of
a cross and crescent on a red ground--the initials H. Y.--before him,
and casually remarked:
"It's as hot as the hinges of hell. Buy a drink for me mister."
"Surely," he answered. "I'm going to the Inn. Come along." She held
back. "They wunt be selling me any drink. I'm forbidden." "How
forbidden?" "Well, see here. It's this way. When I drink I don't know
when to stop--" "Yes stick to cider--" She burst into hysterical
laughter. "Cider? That's the worst ever. It's a temperance drink,
too. Them teetotallers just dote on cider." The procession had been
halted. The coloured person had temporarily lost his zeal. Burning
sunrays concentrated on his woolly skull. He vaguely passed thick
fingers across his blubber lips. His eyes were soft and appealing as
he gazed at Ulick. Roarin' Nell made significant motions. She threw
back her head, whose shapeliness was concealed by a sunbonnet and
placed a finger on her mouth. The thirst was in her and had insidiously
attacked the citadel of the invading host. Brother Rainbow couldn't
get any further. "Go back to de rotunda!" he bellowed to the faithful
disciples, and as he once more struck the metallic gong he added: "In
ten minutes, beloved brethren, de Holy Yowlers will attack de rum-devil
and put him to flight." "Come along," impatiently cried Ulick, "I'm
dying with thirst." "Go behind the barn, we can get what we want,"
cautioned Nell.
Oblivious to criticism the trio marched to a road at the side of the
Inn and disappeared. The villagers winked and smiled. The motley gang
of worshippers dispersed in irregular groups, slowly moving toward
the rotunda, an ancient wooden structure originally destined to house
circuses, theatrical companies, musical festivals, but now crowded
with the odds and ends of agricultural implements. It was not so easy
to get the coveted cider at the Inn; Invern soon found that out. The
landlord was in a rage over something. To the request of the young man
he snarled: "Nary a drink for Roarin' Nell or for that dam coon of
hers. I've been warned by the judge over at Middletown. You can have
all you want, not a drop for them others." Invern was disconcerted.
He was thoroughly interested in his companions and didn't like to
leave them; besides, he determined to attend their service and see
the queer brand of religion they would serve. A minute or two had
shown him that Brother Rainbow was not a fool; rather, a cunning
imposter glib of speech. He didn't bother about the psychology of
Nell. She was a poor deluded drunken creature under the control of
this monstrous African. He irresolutely paused, then turned his back
on the churlish inn-keeper. As he dawdled across to the barn, where
his fellow-conspirators waited, he was dazzled by the vision of a
tall beautiful girl in white, framed by an old New England doorway,
clustered with honeysuckles. "God!" he ejaculated, "where did that
dream come from?" He rubbed his eyes, but the dream did not fade from
the spot of blazing sunshine and honeysuckles. She beckoned to him: "I
was in the parlour," she said in contralto tones that made him vibrate,
"and I heard how the old humbug lied to you. Tell your friends to
come right in here. It's my room. I board at the Inn. I'll give you
something better than cider." Hardly stopping to note that the girl was
dark and that her smile was fascinating Ulick called to Brother Rainbow
and Roarin' Nell and introduced them as he inquisitively regarded the
new hostess.
"Names don't matter," she declared. "I'm Miss Richmond." "And I'm Mr.
Paris," added Ulick, using the first name that occurred to him. She
bade them be seated and then left the room. Brother Rainbow looked
mighty solemn. Nell was like a cat in a strange cellar. Her roving
eyes saw the flowers in the window-box, the white dimity curtains, the
few scattered feminine ornaments. The photograph of a sweet-faced lady
was on the bureau. She stared at it, and then, as if secretly, drew a
hand across her eyes, and afterward the same hand across her mouth.
She could have wept from sentiment and her tormenting thirst. Invern
was vastly amused. Firm footsteps announced the return of the young
woman. She was flushed, but triumphant. "He dared to refuse me, but I
threatened to leave. I pay well. This is supposed to be the best room
in the house, so here's your cider." She put down the tray with its
pitcher and glasses and went to her trunk. "Here's the chaser." She
held out a large liquour flask for their astonished inspection. Ulick
openly admired her, and, with that easy Celtic assurance of his, he
confessed his admiration.
"I'm a Southerner, born and bred down there," she confided, "I'm not
ashamed of a whisky-flask. I never drink. It's full, as you see, but
I hate good folks like you to go dry. Here's to!" She poured a goodly
drink into each of the glasses, except her own. "I prefer cider," she
explained. They drank in silence. The cider followed. Nell was all
eyes. Never had she been so close to such a lovely woman. Such a gown.
Invern thought the reverse. A pretty girl, but hoper lessly provincial.
Their gaze collided. She smiled. He closed his eyes. He seemed to
have seen sparks. Perhaps it was only the whisky. Then he thought
of the time. He consulted his watch. "Hello there Brother Rainbow!
You're twenty minutes late. Let's go to the rotunda. Come along, do
Miss--Richmond?--I think we shall have lots of fun." She nodded,
and carefully locking the door she followed the others into the hot
sunlight. Brother Rainbow again sounded his exotic gong as he shouted:
"De Holy Yowlers. We fight de rum devil!" And his voice was more
unctuous and appealing than before, possibly because the whisky hailed
from Kentucky.
In single file they entered the rotunda. The building was not crowded.
Although midday a rusty chandelier was lighted. The Holy Yowlers
believed in mystery. The gas-jets were to illuminate the collection
platter, nothing more. A murmur greeted them and a solitary female
voice shrilled: "He comes. The High Holiness comes. Bless the name of
the Holy Yowlers." This signalled an outburst of yells as the black
pontiff conducted his guests to the platform where were several
wooden benches and a table. After looking with unaffected longing at
the white girl, who mocked him, Brother Rainbow struck the mystic gong
and harangued his flock. "I'se de new prophet of de Lord. Who follows
me will see de Lord. Bless de name of de Holy Yowlers. Let us dance."
Instantly the audience was in an uproar. The howling began. Whirling in
pairs or alone, men and women behaved as if possessed by devils. Ulick
had seen camp-meeting revivals, yet they were a mere hymn carnival
compared with this orgy of sound and motion. And as a Southern girl the
sight could not have been altogether unfamiliar to his companion, who,
her face pale, held his arm as if seeking protection. He pressed that
arm and he felt the pressure returned. Roarin' Nell lay outstretched
on a bench. She was red in the face, her eyes closed. Brother Rainbow
banged his gong, his shrewd eyes showing their whites, a sinister grin
on his noseless face.
Suddenly he commanded: "Lights out!" and darkness supervened. The
whirling and the howling ceased. Ulick was pinioned by a pair of arms,
violently embraced and pushed to the floor. As his knees gave way, a
moaning cry in his ear made his blood freeze. He tried to shake off the
importunate lascivious embrace of a woman. In vain. The moaning ceased.
From the pit below came a rutilant groaning and sharp exclamations of
pain and ecstasy. Scrambling to his knees Ulick put out his hands and
seized a figure. It relaxed in his arms and then came in stentorian
tones: "Lights!" In the dim atmosphere he saw that he held a fainting
woman, Miss Richmond. Nell sprawled on the floor next to them like a
drunken drab: "Get us out of here, quick, you damned scoundrel or I'll
shoot you full of holes." Ulick made a movement. But the serenity of
the grand Panjandrum was undisturbed. He calmly viewed the room with
its recumbent and exhausted men and women and slowly answered:
"De young lady will be all right in a moment. She has had true
religion. She is now one of de Holy Yowlers." Outside the glaring
sunlight stabbed his eyeballs, yet it seemed a black sun. Supporting
the limp girl he set her at the edge of an old well in the yard. The
dipper was in the bucket and he scooped some water which he gave her.
Her olive skin was drawn and yellow, her lips a sanguinary purple. Her
great eyes were narrowed to slits and their hazel fire was like a cat's
eyes in the dark. She looked straight in front of her as if she were
watching a horrible play. He almost felt sorry for the irreparable.
Was it his fault? What extraordinary caprice of the gods had guided
his footsteps to this spot, there to meet and mingle with a girl he
had never seen before ... and then the devilish whisky ... did they
know what they were doing? The girl stirred. "Darling," he whispered,
"it can't be helped. I love you. Let's go away ... to New York." She
started as if stung. "You beast!..." she cried, and "you beast!" With
the words came a blow in the face that blinded him and she instantly
fled away. It was like a bad dream. In the rotunda the Holy Yowlers
were howling their pious noise punctured by the gong-strokes of Brother
Rainbow. I've witnessed the birth of a new religion, muttered Ulick
Invern, as he made his way across the low-lying Franconian hills,
misted by the approach of a peaceful September evening....