slight foundation. Some years ago in Jerusalem they arrested a
poverty-stricken fanatic, the son of a Jewess. His father was said to
have been an indigent and aged carpenter. This Joshua, or Ieshua, was
driven out of Jerusalem, and he took refuge among a lot of poor
fishermen on Lake Gennesareth. There he joined a sect called the
Baptists, because their founder, a socialist named Ioakanaan, poured
water on the heads of the converted. Ieshua never married and was
suspected of idolatrous practices, which he had absorbed from hermits of
the Egyptian Thebaïd. Josephus, a wise friend and companion of my youth,
wrote me these details. He said that Ieshua disappeared after his mad
attempt to take Jerusalem by storm, riding--as is depicted the Bona
Dea--on the back of a humble animal. Yet, if you wish to appeal to the
common folk, make your hero a deposed king or divinity, who walks
familiarly among the poor, as walked the gods at the dawn of time with
the daughters of men. I depict my protagonist as a half-cracked Jew. I
call him Iesus Christos--after Krishna; and this poor man's god proposes
to redeem the world, to place the lowly in the seats of the mighty--he
is an Anarchos, as they would say in Athens. He promises the Kingdom of
God to those who follow him; but only a few do. He is the friend of
outcasts, prostitutes, criminals. And though he does not triumph on
earth, nevertheless he is the spiritual ruler of earth; he is the Son of
the Trinity which comprises the Father and Holy Ghost. The contending
forces to my hero will be incarnated by Pontius Pilatus, the Roman
governor, and Judas of Kerioth, a very dangerous and powerful Hebrew
politician--a man of very liberal ideas, one who believed in the
supremacy of the West. What a glorious play it will make! I have named
it The Third Kingdom, Hyzlo. What a glorious idea it is, Hyzlo--the
greatest drama the world has ever witnessed!"
III
THE DOVE
"The greatest drama the world has ever witnessed" ... mumbled his
disciple.... The sun still shone on the cold stone flagging, and upon
the wall facing him hung the crucifix. But the motes no longer danced
merrily in the light. Evening was setting in apace, and Hyzlo, accepting
one dream as equal in veracity with the other, crossed to the embrasure
and, his elbows on the sill, watched the sun--looking like a
sulphur-coloured cymbal--sink behind the sky-line. He was still in the
same attitude when the blue of the heavens--ah! but not that gorgeous,
hard Alexandrian blue--melted into peacock and cool saffron hues. He
mused aloud:--
"By the very nature of his mental organs man can never grasp reality. It
is always the sensation, never the real thing, he feels. The
metaphysicians are right. We can never know the actual world outside of
ourselves. We are imprisoned in a dream cage; the globe itself is a cage
of echoes. Science, instead of contradicting religion, has but affirmed
its truths. Matter is radiant energy--matter is electric phenomenon. The
germ-plasma from which we stem--the red clay of Genesis--is eternal. The
individual is sacrificed to the species. The species never dies. And how
beautifully logical is the order of our ancestry as demonstrated by the
science of embryology. Fish, batrachians, reptiles, mammals; in which
latter are included the marsupials as well as lemurs, primates, Man. And
after what struggles Man assumed an erect position and looked into the
eyes of his mate! After Man? Nietzsche preaches that man is a link
between the primate and Superman; Superman--the angels! But intelligence
in man may be an accident caused by over-nutrition, the brain developing
from rich phosphors. If this were so--how would fall to earth our house
of pride! Are we so close to the animal? But Quinton proves that _after_
man in the zoölogical series comes the bird. Birds--half reptiles, half
angels. Angels! Do evolution and revelation meet here on common ground?
Or was Joachim, the Abbot of Flores, inspired when he wrote of the Third
Kingdom, that Kingdom in which the empire of the flesh is swallowed up
in the empire of the spirit; that Third Kingdom in which the
twin-natured shall reign, as Ibsen declares; the Messiah--neither
Emperor nor Redeemer, but the Emperor-God. The slime shall become sap
and the sap become spirit! From gorilla to God! Man in the coming Third
Kingdom may say: "I, too, am a god." But is this not blasphemous? And
after the wheel of the universe has again revolved, will I see, as
foresaw Nietzsche, the selfsame spider, the same moonlight? There is
nothing new under the sun, says Ecclesiastes. Wretched man is never to
know the entire truth but will be always at daggers drawn with his
destiny. After classic Paganism came romantic Christianity; after the
romantic will the pendulum swing back--or--alas! is there coming another
horde of atheists with a new Attila at their head?"
He threw himself before the crucifix and sobbed.
"Lord Jesus, Our Christ! Thou art the real Christ and not the fiction of
that supersubtle Greek-Jewish and boastful philosopher in Alexandria!
Make for me, O God, a sign! Give me back in all its purity my faith;
faith, noblest gift of all! Oh! to hear once more the thrilling of the
harps divine, whereon the dawn plays, those precursors of the Eternal
Harmony! _Gloria in Excelsis_." He remained prostrate, his heart no
longer battered by doubts and swimming in blissful love for his
crucified God. The celestial hurricane subsided in his bosom; he arose
and again interrogated the heavens. The stars in the profound splendours
of the sky stared at him like the naked eyes of _houris_. Suddenly a
vast white cloud sailed over the edge of the horizon and as it
approached his habitation assumed the shape of a monstrous dove, its
fleecy wings moving in solemn rhythms. In the resurgence of his hopes
this apparition was the coveted sign from the Almighty.
And flat upon the floor of his cell, his face abased in the dust, Hyzlo
worshipped in epileptic frenzy, crying aloud, after the manner of the
sad-tongued Preacher:--
"The thing that hath been, it _is_ that which shall be!"
XI
THE HAUNTED HARPSICHORD
[In the Style of Mock-Mediæval Fiction]
I told Michael to look sharply to his horse. It was dusk; a few bits of
torn clouds, unresolved modulations of nebulous lace, trembled over the
pink pit in the west, wherein had sunk the sun; and one evening star,
silver pointed, told the tale of another spent day.
Michael was surly, I was impatient, and the groom, who lagged in the
rear, whistled softly; but I knew that both men were tired and hungry,
and so were the horses. The road, hard and free from dust, echoed the
resilient hoof-falls of our beasts. The early evening was finely cool,
for it was the month of September. We had lost our way. Green fields on
either side, and before us the path declined down a steep slope, that
lost itself in huddled foliage.
Michael spoke up:--
"We are astray. I knew this damnable excursion would lead to no good."
I gently chided him. "Pooh, you braggart! Even Arnold, who rides a brute
a world too wide for him, has not uttered a complaint. Brave Michael, if
her ladyship heard you now!"
His face grew hard as he muttered:--
"Her ladyship! may all the saints in the calendar watch over her
ladyship! But I wish she had never taken you at your hot-headed word.
Then we would not have launched upon this madcap adventure."
I grew stern. "Her ladyship, I bid you remember, my worthy man, is our
mistress, and it ill behooves you to question her commands, especially
in the presence of a groom."
Michael growled, and then the sudden turn in the road startled our
horses on a gallop, and for a quarter of an hour we thrashed our way
ahead in the twilight. We had entered a small thicket when an
ejaculation from Arnold--who had been riding abreast--brought us all up
to a sharp standstill.
"There's a light," said the groom, in a most tranquil manner, pointing
his heavy crop stick to the left. How we had missed seeing the inn from
the crest of the hill was strange. A hundred yards away stood a low,
red-tiled house, with lights burning downstairs, and an unmistakable air
of hostlery for man and beast. We veered at once in our course, and in a
few minutes were hallooing for the host or the hostler.
"Now I hope that you are satisfied, my friend," I said exultantly to
Michael, who only grunted as he swung off his animal. Arnold followed,
and soon we were chatting with an amiable old man in a white cap and
apron, who had run out of the house when we shouted.
"Amboise?" he answered me when I told him of our destination. "Amboise;
why, sirrah, you are a good five leagues from Amboise! Step within and
remain here for the night. I have plenty of convenience for you and your
suite."
I glanced at Michael, but he was busily employed in loosening his
pistols from the holster, and Arnold, in company with a lame man, led
the horses to the stable. There was little use in vain regrets. The
_other_ had the start of the half-day, and surely we could go no further
that night. I gritted my teeth as the little fat landlord led us into
the house.
In half an hour we were smoking our pipes before a lively fire--the
night had grown chilly--and enjoying silent recollections of a round of
beef and several bottles of fortifying burgundy.
Our groom had gone to bed, and I soon saw that I could get nothing out
of Michael for the present. He stared moodily into the fire. I noticed
that his pistols were handy. The host came in and asked my permission to
join us. He felt lonely, he explained, for he was a widower, and his
only son was away in the world somewhere. I was very glad to ease myself
with gossip; my heart was not quite at peace with this expedition of
ours. I knew what her ladyship asked of us was much, so much that only a
bold spirit and a thirst for the unknown could pardon the folly of the
chase.
I bade the innkeeper to take a seat at the fire, and soon we fell to
chatting like ladies' maids. He was a Norman and curious as a cat. He
opened his inquiries delicately.
"You have ridden far and fast to-day, my sir. Your horses were all but
done for. Yet there is no cloud of war in the sky and you are too far
from Paris to be honourable envoys. I hope you like our country?"
I dodged his tentative attempt at prying by asking him a question
myself.
"You don't seem to have many guests, good host? Yet do I hardly wonder
at it. You are all but swallowed up in the green and too far from the
main travelled road."
The little man sighed and said in sad accents: "Too true, yet the
Scarlet Dragon was once a thriving place, a fine money-breeding house.
Before my son went away--"
I interrupted him. "Your son, what is he, and where is he now?"
The other became visibly agitated and puffed at his pipe some minutes
before replying.
"Alas! worthy sir," he said at last in a lower key, "my son dare not
return here for reasons I cannot divulge. Indeed, this was no cheerful
house for the boy. He had his ambitions and he left me to pursue them."
"What does he do, this youngster?" interrupted Michael, in his gruffest
tones. The landlord started.
"Indeed, good sir, I could not tell you, for I know not myself."
"Humph!" grunted my sullen companion; but I observed his suspicious
little eyes fixed persistently on the man of the inn.
I turned the talk, which had threatened to languish. The old man did not
relish the questions about his son, and began deploring the poor crops.
At this juncture an indefinable feeling that we were losing time in
stopping at this lonely place came over me. I am not superstitious, but
I swear that I felt ill at ease and confused in my plans.
On bended knee I had sworn to my lady that I would bring back to her the
fugitive unharmed, and I would never return to her empty-handed,
confessing failure. Michael's queer behaviour disconcerted me. From the
outset of the chase he had turned sour and inaccessible, and now he was
so ill-tempered that I feared he would pick a quarrel at the slightest
provocation with our host.
With a strange sinking at the heart I asked about our horses.
"They will be attended to, my sirs; my servant is a good boy. He is
handy, although he can't get about lively, for he was thrown in a turnip
field from our only donkey."
I was in no mood for this sort of chatter and quizzed the fellow as to
our beds.
"We must be off early in the morning; we have important business to
transact at Amboise before the sun sets to-morrow," I testily remarked.
"At Amboise--h'm, h'm! Well, I don't mind telling you that you can reach
Amboise by stroke of noon; and so you have business at Amboise, eh?"
I saw Michael's brow lower at this wheedling little man's question, and
answered rather hastily and imprudently:--
"Yes, business, my good man, important business, as you will see when we
return this road to-morrow night with the prize we are after."
Michael jumped up and cried "Damnation!" and I at once saw my mistake.
The landlord's manner instantly altered. He looked at me triumphantly
and said:--
"Beds, beds! but, my honoured sirs, I have no beds in the house. I
forgot to tell you that no guest has been upstairs in years, for certain
reasons. Indeed, sirs, I am so embarrassed! I should have told you at
once I have only a day trade. My regular customers would not dare to
stop here over night, as the house,"--here a cunning, even sinister,
look spread over the fellow's fat face--"the house bears an evil
reputation."
Michael started and crossed himself, but not I. I suspected some deep
devilry and determined to discover it.
"So ho? Haunted, eh? Well, ghosts and old women's stories shan't make me
budge until dawn. Go fetch more wine and open it here, mine host of the
Scarlet Dragon," I roared. The little man was nonplussed, hesitated a
moment, and then trotted off.
I saw that Michael was at last aroused.
"What diabolical fooling is this? If the place is haunted, I'm off."
"I'm damned if I am," I said quite bravely, and more wine appeared. We
both sat down.
The air had become nipping, and the blaze on the hearth was reassuring.
Besides, the wind was querulous, and I didn't fancy a ride at midnight,
even if my lady's quest were an urgent one.
Michael held his peace as the wine was poured out, and I insisted on the
landlord drinking with us. We finished two bottles, and I sent for more.
I foresaw that sleep was out of the question, and so determined to make
a night of it.
"Touching upon this ghost," I began, when the other bade me in God's
name not to jest. There were some things, he said, not to be broached in
honest Christian company.
"A fig for your scruples!" I cried, emptying my glass; my head was hot
and I felt bold. "A fig, I say, for your bogie-man nonsense! Tell me at
what time doth this phantom choose to show itself." The landlord
shivered and drew his seat closer to the fire.
"Oh, sir, do not jest! What I tell you is no matter for rude laughter.
Begging your pardon for my offer, if you will be patient, I will relate
to you the story, and how my misfortune came from this awful visitant."
Even Michael seemed placated, and after I nodded my head in token of
assent the landlord related to us this story:--
* * * * *
Once upon a time, sirs, when the great and good Louis, sixteenth of his
name, was King of France, this domain was the property of the Duke of
Langlois. The duke was proud and rich, and prouder and haughtier was his
duchess, who was born Berri. Ah! they were mighty folk then, before the
Revolution came with its sharp axes to clip off their heads. This inn
was the stable of the château, which stood off yonder in the woods.
Alas! nothing remains of it to-day but a few blackened foundations, for
it was burned to the earth by the red devils in '93. But at the time I
speak of, the château was a big, rich palace, full of gay folk; all the
nobility came there, and the duchess ruled the land.
She was crazy for music, and to such lengths did she go in her madness
that she even invited as her guests celebrated composers and singers.
The duke was old-fashioned and hated those crazy people who lived only
to hum and strum. He would have none of them, and quarrels with his
duchess were of daily occurrence. Indeed, sirs, so bad did it become
that he swore that he would leave the house if Messire Gluck, or Messire
Piccini, or any of the other strolling vagabonds--so the duke called
them--entered his château. And he kept his word, did the duke. The
Chevalier Gluck, a fine, shapely man, was invited down by the duchess
and amused her and her guests by playing his wonderful tunes on the
beautiful harpsichord in the great salon.
The duke would have none of this nonsense and went to Paris, where he
amused himself gambling and throwing gold into his mistresses' laps. The
duchess kept right on, and then the gossips of the neighbourhood began
to wag their busy tongues. The lady of the château was getting very fine
pleasure from the company of the handsome Austrian chevalier. It was
whispered that the Queen Marie Antoinette had looked with favourable
eyes upon the composer, and, furthermore, had lent him certain moneys to
further his schemes for reforming the stage.
Reform, forsooth! all he cared for was the company of the duchess, and
he vowed that he could make better music at the château than up in noisy
Paris. On a fine afternoon it is said that it was no uncommon sight to
see the chevalier, all togged up in his bravest court costume, sword and
all, sitting at his harpsichord, playing ravishing music. This was out
in the pretty little park back of the château, and the duchess would sit
at Gluck's side and pour out champagne for him. All this may have been
idle talk, but at last the duke got wind of the rumours, and one night
he surprised the pair playing a duo at the harpsichord, and stabbed them
both dead.
Since then the château was burned down, but the place has been haunted.
I, myself, good gentlemen, have heard ghostly music, and I swear to
you--
"Oh, my God, listen, listen!"
"What pagan nonsense!" blurted out Michael.
I cautioned silence, and we all listened. The old man had slid off his
chair, and his face was chalky white. Michael's ugly mouth was half
opened in his black beard, and I confess that I felt rather chilly.
Music, faint, tinkling, we certainly heard. It came with the wind in
little sobs, and then silence settled upon us.
"It's the Chevalier Gluck, and he is playing to his duchess out in the
fields. See, I will open the door and show you," whispered the fat
landlord.
He went slowly to the door, and we followed him breathlessly. The door
was pushed open, and we peered out. The wind was still high, and the
moon rode among rolling boulders of yellow, fleecy clouds.
"There, there, over yonder, look; Mother of Christ, look at the ghost!"
the old man pointed a shaking hand.
Just then the moonlight was blackened by a big cloud, and we heard the
tinkling music of a harpsichord again, but could see naught. The sounds
were plainer now, and presently resolved into the rhythmic accents of a
gavotte. But it seemed far away and very plaintive!
"Hark," said Michael, in a hoarse voice. "That's the gavotte from
Pagliacci. Listen! Don't you remember it?"
"Pshaw!" I said roughly, for my nerves were all astir. "It's the Alceste
music of Gluck."
"Look, look, gentlemen!" called our host, and as the moon glowed again
in the blue we saw at the edge of the forest a white figure, saw it, I
swear, although it vanished at once and the music ceased. I started to
follow, but Michael and the old man seized my arms, the door was closed
with a crash, and we found ourselves staring blankly into the fire, all
feeling a bit shaken up.
It was Michael's turn to speak. "You may do what you please, but I stay
here for the night, no sleep for me," and he placed his pistols on his
knee.
I looked at the landlord and I thought I saw an expression of
disappointment on his face, but I was not sure. He made some excuse
about being tired and went out of the room. We spent the rest of the
night in gloomy silence. We did not speak five words, for I saw that
conversation only irritated my companion.
At dawn we walked into the sweet air and I called loudly for Arnold, who
looked sleepy and out of sorts when he appeared. The fat old man came to
see us off and smilingly accepted the silver I put into his hand for our
night's reckoning.
"Au revoir, my old friend," I said as I pressed the unnecessary spur
into my horse's flank. "Au revoir, and look out for the ghost of the
gallant Chevalier Gluck. Tell him, with my compliments, not to play
such latter-day tunes as the gavotte from Pagliacci."
"Oh, I'll tell him, you may be sure," said he, quite dryly.
We saluted and dashed down the road to Amboise, where we hoped to
capture our rare prize.
We had ridden about a mile when a dog attempted to cross our path. We
all but ran the poor brute down.
"Why, it's lame!" exclaimed Arnold.
"Oh, if it were but a lame man, instead of a dog!" fervently said the
groom, who was in the secret of our quest.
A horrid oath rang out on the smoky morning air. Michael, his wicked
eyes bulging fiercely, his thick neck swollen with rage, was cursing
like the army in Flanders, as related by dear old Uncle Toby.
"Lame man! why, oddsbodkins, that hostler was lame! Oh, fooled, by God!
cheated, fooled, swindled and tricked by that scamp and scullion of the
inn! Oh, we've been nicely swindled by an old wives' tale of a ghost!"
I stared in sheer amazement at Michael, wondering if the strangely spent
night had upset his reason. He could only splutter out between his awful
curses:--
"Gluck, the rascal, the ghost, the man we're after! That
harpsichord--the lying knave--that tune--I swear it wasn't Gluck--oh,
the rascal has escaped again! The ghost story--the villain was told to
scare us out of the house--to put us off the track. A thousand devils
chase the scamp!" And Michael let his head drop on the pommel of his
saddle as he fairly groaned in the bitterness of defeat.
I had just begun a dignified rebuke, for Michael's language was
inexcusable, when it flashed upon me that we had been, indeed, duped.
"Ah," I cried, in my fury, "of course we were taken in! Of course his
son was the lame hostler, the very prize we expected to bag! O Lord!
what will we say to my lady? We are precious sharp! I ought to have
known better. That stuff he told us! Langlois, pshaw, Berri--pouf! A
Berri never married a Langlois, and I might have remembered that Gluck
wasn't assassinated by a jealous duke. What shall we do?"
We all stood in the middle of the road, gazing stupidly at the lame dog
that gave us the clue. Then Arnold timidly suggested:--
"Hadn't we better go back to the inn?"
Instantly our horses' heads were turned and we galloped madly back on
our old tracks. Not a word was uttered until we reined up in front of
the lonely house, which looked more haunted by daylight than it did the
night before.
"What did I tell you?" suddenly cried Michael.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Over there, you blind bat!" he said, coarsely and impatiently; and
pulling out his pistol he fired thrice, and a low, melodious sound
followed the reports of his weapon. When the smoke cleared away I saw
that he had hit an old harpsichord which stood against a tree, facing
the house.
"The ghost!" we yelled, and then we laughed consumedly. But the shots
that winged the old-fashioned instrument had a greater result. The fat
host appeared on the edge of the forest, and he waved a large napkin as
a flag of truce. With him was the lame hostler.
"Mercy, gentlemen, mercy, we beseech you!" he cried, and we soon
surrounded both and bound them securely.
"You will pay dearly for the trick you put upon us, my man," said
Michael, grimly, and, walking our horses, we went by easy stages toward
the castle, towing our prisoners along.
When I fetched the lame man to my lady, her face glowed with joy, and
her Parisian eyes grew brilliant with victory.
"So you tried to escape?" she cruelly asked of the poor, cowering
wretch. "You will never get another chance, I'll warrant me. Go, let the
servants put you to work in the large music room first. Begin with the
grands, then follow with the uprights. Thank you, gentlemen both, for
the courage and finesse you displayed in this desperate quest. I'll see
that you are both suitably rewarded." I fancied that Michael regarded
me sardonically, but he held his peace about the night's adventures.
We had indeed reason to feel flattered at the success of the dangerous
expedition. Had we not captured, more by sheer good luck than strategy,
the only piano-tuner in mediæval France?
XII
THE TRAGIC WALL
I
BY THE DARK POOL
It was not so high, the wall, as massive, not so old as moss-covered.
After Rudolph Côt, the painter, had achieved celebrity with his
historical canvas, The Death of the Antique World, now in the Louvre, he
bought the estate of Chalfontaine, which lies at the junction of two
highroads: one leading to Ecouen, the other to Villiers-le-Bel. Almost
touching the end of the park on the Ecouen side there is a little lake,
hardly larger than a pool, and because of its melancholy
aspect--sorrowful willows hem it about, drooping into stagnant
waters--Monsieur Côt had christened the spot: The Dark Tarn of Auber. He
was a fanatical lover of Poe, reading him in the Baudelaire translation,
and openly avowing his preference for the French version of the great
American's tales. That he could speak only five words of English did not
deter his associates from considering him a profound critic of
literature.