The desert of my soul is peopled with black gods,
Huge blocks of wood;
Brave with gilded horns and shining gems,
The black and silent gods
Tower in the naked desert of my soul.
With eyes of wolves they watch me in the night;
With eyes like moons.
My gods are they; in each the evil grows,
The grandiose evil darkens over each
And each black god, silent
Under the iron skies, dreams
Of his omnipotence--the taciturn black gods!
And my flesh and my brain are underneath their feet;
I am the victim, and I perish
Under the weight of these nocturnal gods
And in the iron winds of their unceasing wrath.
--LINGWOOD EVANS.
I
It was opera night, and the lights burned with an official brilliancy
that challenged the radiance of the Café Monferino across the asphalt.
There, all was decorous gaiety; and the doubles of Pilsner never
vanished from the little round metal tables that overflowed into the
juncture of the streets Gluck and Halévy. Among the brasseries in Paris
this the most desirable to lovers of the Bohemian brew. The cooking,
Neapolitan and Viennese, perhaps explained the presence, one June
evening in the year 1930, of tall, blond, blue-eyed Illowski, the
notorious Russian symphonist. With several admirers he sat sipping bocks
and watched the motley waves of the boulevard wash back strange men and
women--and again women.
Lenyard spoke first. Young and from New England he was studying music in
Paris.
"Master, why don't you compose a music drama?" Illowski, gazing into the
soft blur of light and mist over the Place de l'Opéra, did not answer.
Scheff burst into laughter. The one who had put the question became
angry. "Confound it! What have I said, Mr. Dutchman, that seems so funny
to you?" Illowski put out a long, thin hand,--a veritable flag of truce:
"Children, cease! I have written something better than a music drama. I
told Scheff about it before he left St. Petersburg last spring. Don't be
jealous, Lenyard. There is nothing in the work that warrants
publicity--yet. It is merely a venture into an unfamiliar region,
nothing more. But how useless to write for a public that still listens
to Meyerbeer in the musical catacombs across the street!"
Lenyard's lean, dark features relaxed. He gazed smilingly at the fat and
careless Scheff. Then Illowski arose. It was late, he said, and his
head ached. He had been scoring all day--sufficient reason for early
retirement. The others demurred, though meekly. If their sun set so
early, how could they be expected to pass the night with any degree of
pleasure? The composer saw all this; but he was sensibly selfish, and
buttoning the long frock-coat which hung loosely on his attenuated frame
shook hands with his disciples, called a carriage and drove away.
Lenyard and Scheff stared after him and then faced the situation. There
were many tell-tale porcelain tallies on the table to be settled, and
neither had much money; so the manoeuvring was an agreeable sight for
the cynical waiter. Finally Lenyard, his national pride rising at the
spectacle of the Austrian's penuriousness, paid the entire bill with a
ten-franc piece.
Scheff sank back in his chair and grinningly inquired, "Say, my boy, I
wonder if Illowski has enough money for his coachman when he reaches the
mysterious, old dream-barn he calls home?" Lenyard slowly emptied his
glass: "I don't know, you don't know, and, strictly speaking, we don't
care. But I'd dearly like to see the score of his new work."
Scheff blinked with surprise. He, too, was thinking of the same dread
matter. "What, in God's name, do you mean? Speak out. I've been
frightened long enough. This Illowski is a terrible man, Scheff. Do you
suspect the stories are true, after all--?" Then both men stood up,
shook hands and said: "Neshevna will tell us. She knows." ...