conception. Eros, patron saint of the laundryman, conducts ancient
rituals.
"Ah, these indefatigable and unctuous fornicators, rolling their eyes
piously between orgasms; embroidering noble mottoes on their pleasure
towels! [These prim exquisites, carefully and with raised eyebrows,
folding their toilet paper into proper squares!] Who can be angry with
them? God drove them out of Paradise--punishment enough. They revenge
themselves with a monotonous enthusiasm. Ah, these fellatian moralists!
It is folly to take their hypocrisies to heart. The plot is too
delicious for tears. These two-fisted citizens, these purity braggarts
masturbating with one finger unemployed and pointing scornfully at their
neighbors!
"Charming street. It offers consolations, simple ones, to be sure. But
nevertheless, consolations. My madness was not as mad as this dark
street. This is a prettier witches' night than the one I aspired to. I
am amused and my amusement is an insult that inspires me. If one cannot
become God, one can at least sit and sneer happily at the handiwork of
his rival.
"The dawn comes into my head. Poor Mallare, who must readjust his
vocabulary to coherences. The night flies away. How simple this little
scene becomes. Mysteries vanish. Doors open. Window blinds raise
themselves. And now people stick their heads out into the cold. Wagons,
trucks, crowds begin. They hurry to work, older by a night.
"My sanity laughs at them, but sadly. I detect an obligato to my mirth.
The comedy is poignant only because I am a part of it. These hurrying
ones with their tired faces and eager shoulders are my brothers and
sisters sharing with me the spectacle they make. They are a
disillusioning mirror in which I see myself a million times. Yes, they
look back at me, and their weariness, their hopelessness saddens me. Man
sees himself by gazing into the world--and is overcome. It is only a
lunatic who can keep merry in the face of so monstrous an image.
"My happiness is without merriment. I return quickly. I have already the
habit of coherence. In a few hours I will go back again and begin with
canvas and paint once more. My madness is a lost argument. I am a little
tired. But, alas, he who has danced and slept with Medusa goes home
weary.
"It will take time before my amusement ripens into rages. And without
rages work is impossible. I will wait. Now I am too indifferent for
anything but happiness. It is easy to walk and forget one's self and
one's senses. It will come back. Mallare will return and expend himself
naively in decorations once more.
"When I am strong again I will hunt up a woman. Poor Rita, whom I have
murdered twice, illustrating the paradox of possession. Man, the slave
of his senses, possesses only what his five masters offer him as gifts.
"I will find a clever one this time whom jests do not frighten. One who
does not burn incense before her vagina and cover it with an altar
piece. How unctuously women embrace ideas which increase the value and
importance of their urinal ducts! Modesty, morality, prurience, piety,
are the effulgent underwear behind which they increase the mystery and
charm of the mons veneris. Alas, they are the artists of sex and not
men. Man has even thrown away the seductive cod-piece. The origins of
ideas are varied and multiple. But whatever their origins, it is women
who utilize them. What an incredible sex! Vaginomaniacs.
"I will hunt up a vulgar woman, one who does not piously regard her
vulva as an orifice to be approached with Gregorian chants. I must be
careful to avoid those veteran masturbators marching heroically under
the gonfalons of virginity. It is a difficult business, finding a woman.
A modest one will offend my intellect. A shameless one will harass my
virility. A stupid one will be unable to appreciate my largess. An
intelligent one will penetrate my impotency.
"But why women? The devil take them all. I am almost tired of the
disillusions they have to offer. The homely ones go away grateful for
something they never received. The pretty ones go away chuckling
secretly over something they never gave. It is a confused and
unintelligible waste of time. It will be enough to paint, to talk, to
sip tea, to wander about proselyting in behalf of improvised Gods. I
will divert myself, making love to women out of range of their bedrooms.
I will engage them conversationally and ravish them with erect and
quivering adjectives. It is not necessary to undress a woman to know
her. She reveals herself almost as piquantly in moods. I will be the
father of moods. And, as a recreation, I will sit and watch the days in
their unchanging flight. I bristle with rhetoric. It is a symptom of
sanity. I am grateful for this ability to bore myself."
It was morning. Mallare paused against a window. He stood, staring into
the life of the street. His eyes were drawn and the corners of his wide,
thin mouth smiled feebly.
Snow was falling. The morning dissolved itself. Traffic drifted busily
and without sound behind the snow--an excited pantomime that filled the
air with misplaced, ventriloquial whispers.
Mallare remained smiling into the gentle storm. Snow covered his head
and shoulder.
"The snow falls," he thought tiredly. "It snows, snows. White flakes
lose themselves and are grateful for the earth. An invisible ending that
flatters them. Well, I have walked all night and rid myself of wisdoms.
I am hungry. It's possible I haven't eaten for months. In order to eat,
however, I need money."
He slipped one of the gloves from his hand and felt in his pocket. A
satisfied smile came to his eyes.
"Excellent," he thought. "Or I would have celebrated my sanity by
starving to death."
Withdrawing his hand from his pocket, he found himself regarding it. It
grinned back at him like a stranger. It was red.
"Blood," he murmured. His eyes glanced quickly around and he replaced
the glove. He continued to walk.
"Blood," he repeated to himself. The word made an ending in his thought.
He walked slowly staring at it. His silence lifted. A voice crept into
him and began to speak from a distance.
"Careful," it murmured. "Be cautious. Remember you were mad. You had
almost forgotten. There is something to think about, now. You will walk
slowly and think. It's not as easy as it seemed. Be careful.
"Your fists fought with a phantom. Blows, wild blows. The grotesque
memory--the madman pummelling the air. That was you. And your hands are
bruised. They've been bleeding. Her breasts and head were something
else. Your fists struck mercilessly at chairs and walls. When your hands
are washed you will find bruises over them that have been bleeding."
He walked on nodding his head slowly. Later he stopped. The snow was
piling itself over the grass of a small park. The swollen shapes of
trees and benches rested in the storm.
Mallare sat down on a bench and removed his gloves. Both hands were red.
Smiling tiredly, he began to rub them with the snow. His eyes waited as
the color dissolved. His hands were clean. He looked at them and
nodded.
"There are no bruises," he murmured. "The blood came from something
else."
He paused and watched the snow.
"It is curious," he whispered aloud. "Then I am still mad. Careful ...
mad. For there was blood ... and not mine. So it would seem I have been
seducing myself with optimisms. A true madman. Yes, a lunatic mumbling
excitedly to himself in the snow all night, saying:
"Sane. Mallare is quite sane."
He laughed softly.
"Oh, yes. I'm too clever for you, Mallare. Very much too clever. You
present a pair of red hands to me. I wash them carefully in the snow.
They become white. Interesting phenomena."
He chuckled softly and stared at the snow and swollen trees.
"The old circle again," he murmured. "And I begin the absorbing hide and
go seek with my senses. Who am I and where do I end? And who are they
and where do they begin? Let us study the phenomenon of red hands.
Primo--how do I know there was blood? My eyes said, 'blood.' And the
snow is red. But that is only because my eyes, infatuated with an idea,
repeat the information.
"But I, Mallare, who am no madman's pawn, no lickspittle secretary to my
senses, I say, 'no blood.' I am the Pope. I excommunicate the
phenomenon.
"Ah, if there is blood, I fought with one who could bleed. And even my
cleverness could not supply arteries in a phantom. Ergo, there is no
blood. I am still mad. I see that which is not. But it is nothing to be
disturbed about. In fact, it is a diversion."
The snow slowly covered the figure of Mallare. His drawn eyes balanced
themselves amid the flakes.
"It snows, snows," he murmured after a pause. "And I remember something.
What is it I think! Rita ... Yes, there would be blood if Rita were ...
Hm, the murdered one. There was something I didn't remember while I
walked.
"I can't. Not that way. Careful, Mallare. Be careful. There are thoughts
impossible to think. Yes, impossible."
Again silence filled him. His drawn eyes widened.
"Mallare," he whispered, "you are a madman. I know. This chokes. Yes. It
was I--I, Mallare. It is I who have been mad. I have been mad myself.
Not you. No, not you! But the God--the Strange Pose. I can't. An
impossible denouement. My head breaks. Her blood ... Rita."
He stared open mouthed at a question that circled toward him out of the
snow. Words babbled in his head. He shook himself away from them and
stared.
"She was alive!" he cried aloud. "My phantom lived. It was I who was the
phantom. And she--alive!"
His face whitened, his eyes remained inanimate and gleaming with terror.
Then the figure of Mallare fell forward and lay curved in the snow.
[Illustration: Eighth Drawing]
[VIII]
_From the Journal of Mallare dated January._
"I am the one who contemplates. I am the Knowing One. There is nothing I
do not know. It is amazing to be Mallare. I have triumphed over five
worlds. I look down upon a rabble of Mallares. There are five
Mallares--five sullen looking madmen. One of them sits and listens to
voices. Another of them wanders about, staring with sad eyes at
intolerable visions. Another of them lies on his back, babbling
excitedly with the darkness. Another of them eats and sleeps like a
prosperous grocer. And there is a fifth Mallare who weeps. A baffling
rogue who puts his arms around me and blubbers on my shoulder like a
lodge brother. He says nothing, and of them all I dislike him the most.
"His silence is mysterious. His tears are uncomfortable. A distressing
ass, weeping, blubbering. He implores me. Aha, I have it. I know his
secret. He is memory--a memory of myself following me around like a
heart-broken mother a wayward son.
"Five Mallares, five sinister comedians to entertain me. And I, what can
I call myself--pure reason? No, a disgusting title. Rather, Unreason,
since I am after all the Indifferent One. But all this is a quibble
inspired by modesty. I am God. I am that which men have worshipped--the
aloof one, the pitiless and amused one.
"The five tribes of Mallare rage and curse beneath me, fill the air with
profanations, weep and gibber in the night. But I sit inviolate and wait
for them--even for that blubbering one whose tongue is thick with tears
and whose idiot eyes implore me--and they return. They raise their faces
to me, their God, and fall prostrate before my smile.
"Yes, it is the weeping one who causes me the most trouble. A reluctant
worshipper who annoys me. He clings like another phantom. A meddlesome
imbecile who keeps buttonholing me and pouring out tales of woe. And who
keeps my name on his lips. I can see it moving on his lips. But he is
dumb. I have his secret though. This dumb one came to me in the snow. I
was faint. Hunger had thrown me to the ground. When I stood up he was
beside me. His lips moved excitedly but they made no sound. And we
walked home together.
"'Who is this pathetic intruder?' I thought. 'He walks beside me
gesturing with his lips and weeping, weeping. He falls on my neck and
embraces me. His eyes roll with panic. What new variant of madness is
this?'
"It is curious that of all the Mallares he alone is speechless. The
others keep up their incessant babbling and screaming--true citizens of
Bedlam. But this dumb one who attached himself to me in the snow, even
his lips have stopped moving now, except to form my name slowly as he
blubbers on my shoulder.
"I am kind to him and forgiving. I smile. I even coax him to speak, to
move his lips once more. In the snow when he followed me home I was able
to detect words his silence spoke.
"'Blood on your hands,' he repeated. 'Think, think, Mallare.'
"I humored him and looked at my hands. They were clean. And I answered
him soothingly.
"'You are an interesting quirk,' I said. 'My senses that fancy they have
killed a woman have given birth to an illusion of guilt. And you are
that illusion. My madness dresses itself in logic like a fishwife
hanging rhinestones in her hair.
"'Be calm,' I said, 'Mallare has slain only a phantom, and the murder of
illusions is a highly respectable privilege whose exercise is rewarded
on earth as well as in heaven.'
"But this creature was not to be diverted from himself.
"'He is another one of them,' I thought. 'He walks and implores and
wrings his hand and babbles, 'blood, blood that was real.' And there is
nothing to be done with him. Another pathologic symptom asks the
hospitality of Mallare, and I must make the proper pretense of
graciousness and cordiality.
"'But first I must identify my guest. Take his measure out of the corner
of my eye and understand him. Very well, I have been the victim of a
hallucination which my senses accepted as real. And which I was able to
murder only by pretending I too believed it real. Therefore, having
committed this illusory crime, there results this illusory sense of
guilt.'
"And thus we walked home, this dumb one and I, his absurd grief
confusing me. I will confess. My name on his lips frightened me at
first. As it sometimes does now. For he has become more than an illusion
of guilt. He is, this sly fellow, a memory, inarticulate and envious.
He envies me because I am clever enough to laugh at my madness. However,
I will consider him later, in his various guises, for of all the
Mallares, dumb though he is and ludicrous with inane tears, he interests
me the most.
"We walked home and I finally fell to belaboring him. A pest, a
mendicant, a croaking idiot--I cursed him out roundly and refused him
further attention. This is the wisest course sometimes. It is dangerous
to humor too carelessly these sprawling Mallares. They are slyly at war
with my omnipotence. I can understand the anger of God. Sacrilege
confuses Him. And We are all alike--We Gods. We are forced into an
attitude of indifference in order that We may keep Ourselves
intact. Thus We look down with Consummate dispassion upon Our
hallucinations--Our worlds. And it is this dispassion that men worship
in Us, unable to understand Our lack of interest and terrified by Our
aloofness they prostrate themselves before an infinite mystery.
"Yet, though the theology of God has become the secret of My unreason, I
find Myself dangerously susceptible. It is when I seek to appease My
loneliness by raising one of the babbling ones to My side. He enters My
black heaven with a pretense of gratitude, fawning before Me and
accepting My fellowship with humility. There follows then a moment of
insidious diversion. Slowly a confusion fills Me. Yes, even I am open to
confusion. It is a pity I have for the babbling one.
"I listen to his complaints. The sad-eyed Mallare staring at intolerable
visions. Mallare, the dark chatterer. Or this other one--My friend the
weeping lodge brother. Yes, I pity them and soothe them. But I find
Myself singularly moved. Their prayers move Me. They begin to whisper
that I return with them. I am tempted to follow them, to let them take
My hand and lead Me into their strange houses.
"But I smile in time and My smile, fixed and profound, overcomes them.
They prostrate themselves once more before the mystery of My
indifference. And I remain the God of Mallare.
"On this day the dumb one sprawled along home with me, there were many
curious things happened. I had walked all night in the snow weary with
hunger. Rita, who had driven me into a moment of fury--I had destroyed
her for the time. A strange destruction during which I pummelled the air
like a veritable madman. But the ruse had served to rid me of the
hallucination for the night. Finally, tired with walking and hunger, I
fell from a bench in the park.
"When I awoke I recalled at once the grotesque struggle of the night.
And with this dumb, weeping creature dogging my steps, I returned home.
She was still with me. I smiled, although I confess there was despair in
my thought. For I had fancied the miserable business of the night had
put an end to the hallucination. No, she was still there. She was
waiting for me on the couch.
"But my mind had not deceived itself. It was as I had thought. I had
planned to rid myself of her by hating this phantom until my hate had
darkened it. Then there would be nothing but an imperceptible shadow of
her remaining, one with which my senses could no longer seduce
themselves.
"And when I came into the room I saw my plot was working. For her eyes
no longer gleamed. A radiance had left her.
"'My hate begins to operate upon this chimera,' I thought. I frowned at
her and sat down, worn out with the walking of the night.
"'I have undermined the infatuation of this phantom,' I thought. I would
have been elate but it occurred to me there was an inconsistency. This
dumb one, this sniveling one, persisted. 'And how should he, who was
dependent upon her death for his existence, persist in her presence?'
This was a question for Mallare, the indifferent one. This was a query
to answer.
"Ah, I will write more about this blubberer, for the answer to him is
piquantly involved. It is like a head with too many hats. But not
now--I will not write about him now. I will only bear him in mind.
"She watched me from the couch and I became aware of something. I
studied her cautiously. Her eyes no longer gleamed with love. There was
a radiance absent.
"'Aha,' I thought, 'she hates. Mallare recovers the strings to his
Frankenstein. His puppet dances again to his will. See, my senses no
longer leap to her. They tremble warily before the hate in her eyes.'
"I watched her as she watched me. And then an incredible thing happened.
She arose from the couch and came slowly toward me and she held a knife
in her hand. She came toward me with the knife at her side.
"'Clever,' I thought. 'In fact, a miracle of cleverness. This phantom
has gone mad. It is madder than I. It fancies itself able to slay me. It
advances upon me with its dagger of mist and it intends to fall upon me.
This mysterious logic that grows of itself like a fungus in darkness,
where will it end? Already it towers around me--a monstrous weed rising
out of my madness, and I am chilled by its shadow.'
"And I continued to think:
"'I desired to be rid of her. My desire finally overleaped my befuddled
senses. And now this desire has become a new soul for my phantom. Yet I
planned no details in my desire. I did not will this melodramatic
denouement. Then it is obvious that my desire is like a seed filled with
hidden life. I blow a thought into my phantom and that thought develops
and hatches. This is a phenomenon to be written about.'
"As I thought she came closer and finally stood over me. Her eyes, I
observed, were completely mad. Yes, they were like horrible fires. And
her face was a marvel of mimicry. The cleverness of my thought appalled
me. I said nothing, however, and watched her. She began to talk. I had
become used to this phase of the hallucination. But this time my senses
shuddered at her words. They who had been so eager to sate themselves
in the possession of this chimera and who had betrayed my omnipotence,
they now suffered the penalty of their blindness. For it was evident
that to them, this chimera was still real. She was an avenger towering
with a knife above them.
"But Mallare smiled.
"'See,' he murmured aloud, 'here is the reward of your folly. You would
philander with this shadow. You would disport yourself in abominable
fornications with this hallucination. Very well, I am amused at your
clownish terror even more than I was amused at your burlesque ecstasies.
Tremble now for here is a Medusa, a Messalina come to destroy you.
Whimper and grovel, but observe in your idiot cowardice how Mallare, the
indifferent one, sits and smiles--still supreme, still a spectator
ravished by the dark comedy.'
"I could not resist this moment of triumph. I laughed although there was
no one to enjoy my laughter. And I watched her. She was still talking,
deep, meaningless words. For it was her habit to talk in the gypsy
language when moved. Often this fact baffled me. But I perceive now that
my thought was a seed containing my omniscience in microcosm. God does
not invent languages but He understands them since it is unnecessary for
Him to know, in His indifference, what they are saying. And the language
my phantom spoke, although foreign to me, was nevertheless an integral
part of my thought--another of the manifestations with which God naively
astounds Himself. It is His only diversion.
"I was curious concerning the effect upon my senses of this illusory
attack. And, I must confess these things simply, there came to me the
idea that Mallare might be slain by the cowardice of his senses. There
would be nothing illogical in that. For if this chimera had been able to
trick them into the illusion of love, it was entirely natural that it
should be able to trick them now into the illusion of death. With the
exception that death is an illusion even Mallare, the indifferent one,
might not survive.
"Ah, Mallare, Mallare! He wanders pensively amid treacherous
shadows--Mallare--an image debating subtly the existence of its mirror.
I sigh. But it is one of the relaxations of God--to pity Himself His
uselessness.
"Her talk came to an end and she raised her knife. Die or not, the thing
was too incredible a farce to leave me unmoved. Yes, I laughed out of
sheer delight. The drollery of this phantom hacking at Mallare with a
non-existent dagger ... a mad windmill charging Don Quixote! Superb!
"I perceive now a moral in the situation that I did not think of at the
time. Sacrilege is a vital danger to God. His omnipotence is dependent
upon the submission of His creatures. And they who, inspired with the
quaint illusion of their own reality, turn upon Him--ah, they destroy
themselves. But their destruction impoverishes their God.
"At the time, however, the spectacle alone and not its significances,
preoccupied me. I laughed and reached my hand to the dagger. A sadistic
gesture, for I desired to give my senses a taste of its reality and
thus enjoy their squirming. Marvelous dagger! The point of it was sharp.
Mallare can invent daggers, beautiful daggers that poise
melodramatically over his heart, that move slowly in quest of his life's
blood! S'death, a property man of parts!
"'Clever dagger,' I murmured. 'Do you enjoy the illusion of yourself as
much as this chimera wielding you quivers with the illusion of impending
murder?'
"It paused before me and I nodded. My laughter had halted it. It was
evident that my thought operating in this phantom was confused by my
laughter. I nodded again.
"'It would be logical and extremely pleasant,' I thought, 'if this
creature, shrinking before the sacrilege of destroying its creator,
turned on itself and accomplished a more probable assassination.'
"She stood before me and I was pleased to see her hatred increase. It
was amazingly vivid. I observed the viciousness of her features. Her
face had become contorted. Its fury was like a mask. But she had
dropped the knife. I could not refrain smiling an encouragement at
her--the naive applause an author bestows upon his puppets.
"But the plot still contained surprises. Yes, astonishing denouements
began to crowd the stage. For she started to undress. Here was a trick
that baffled Mallare. I winced with distaste.