CHAPTER X.
At about the time that Wentworth was scrawling his note in Vane's roomsa slender young woman, dressed in a grey that shimmered like thewinter-sea in sunlight, wearing a hat that had the air of having litupon her hair for the moment only,--merely to give the world aninstant's glance at the gracious combination that woman's beauty andman's millinery could effect--was coming out from one of those hugebazaars where you can buy almost everything in the world except thethings you want. As she reached the doors, a young man, entering,brushed her arm; his sleeve caught her portemonnaie. He stooped for it,offered it hastily, and then--and not until then, gave a little "Oh!"of--what was it, joy? or mere wonder, or both?
"Oh," he repeated, "I can't go in--now. It's--it's ages since I couldsay two words to you. 'Good-morning!' and 'How do you do?' has been thelimit of our talk. Besides, you have a parcel. It weighs, at the veryleast, an ounce. I could never think of letting you tire yourself so."He took the flimsy mite from her, and ranged his steps to hers.
It was true, what he had said about their brief encounters. Do what shewould to forget that morning in the Park, and the weeks before it,Jeannette Vanlief had not quite succeeded. Not even the calmdissertations of her father, the arguments pointing to the unfathomablefreakishness of human nature, had altogether ousted her aversion toOrson Vane. It was an aversion made the more keen because it came on theheels of a strong liking. She had been prepared to like this young man.Something about him had drawn her; and then had come the something thathad simply flung her away. Yet, to-day, he seemed to be the Orson Vanethat she had been prepared to like.
She remembered some of the strange things her father had been talkingabout. She noted, as Orson spoke, that the false tenor note was gone outof his voice. But she was still a little fluttered; she could not quitetrust herself, or him.
"But I am only going to the car," she declared. "It will hardly be worthwhile. I mustn't take you out of your way."
"I see," he regretted, "you've not forgotten. I can't explain; I was--Ithink I was a little mad. Perhaps it is in the family. But--I wish youwould imagine, for to-day, that we had only just known each other a verylittle while, that we had been in that little bookshop only a day or soago, that you had read the book, and we had met again, and--." He waslooking at her with a glow in his eyes, a tenderness--! Her eyes met hisfor only an instant, but they fathomed, in that instant, that there wasonly homage, and worship, and--and something that she dared not spell,even to her soul--in them. That burning greed that she had seen in thePark was not there.
She smiled, wistfully, hesitatingly. Yet it was enough for him to clingto; it buoyed his mood to higher courage.
"Let us pretend," he went on, "that there are no streetcars in the town.Let us be primitive; let us play we are going to take a peep-show fromthe top of the Avenue stage! Oh--please! It gets you just as near, youknow; and if you like we can go on, and on, and do it all over again.Think of the tops of the hats and bonnets one sees from the roof! It'ssuch a delightful picture of the avenue; you see all the littlemarionettes going like beads along the string. And then, think of thedanger of the climb to the roof! It is like the Alps. You never know,until you are there, whether you will arrive in one piece or in several.Come," he laughed, for she was now really smiling, openly, sweetly, "letus be good children, come in from Westchester County, to see the bigcity."
"Perhaps," she ventured, "we will make it the fashion. And that wouldspoil it for so many of the plainer people."
"Oh," and he waved his hand, "after us--the daily papers! Let uspretend--I beg your pardon, let me pretend--youth, and high spirits,and the intention to enjoy to-day."
A rattling and a scraping on the asphalt warned them of an approachingstage, and after a scramble, that had its shy pleasures for both, theyfound themselves on the top of the old relic.
"It is a bit of the Middle Ages," said Orson, "look at those horses!Aren't they delightfully slender? And the paint! Do you notice thepaint? And the stories those plush seats down below us could tell! Thinkof the misers and the millionaires, the dowagers and the drabs, thathave let these old stages bump them over Murray Hill! You can't havethat feeling about a street-car, not one of the electric ones, at anyrate. Do you know the story of the New Yorker who was trying to sleep ina first-class compartment on a French railway? There was a collision,and he was pitched ten feet onto a coal-heap. He said he thought he wasat home and he was getting off the stage at Forty-Second street."
They were passing through the most frequented part of the avenue. Notedsingers and famous players passed them; old beaux and fresh belles;political notabilities and kings of corruption. A famous leader ofcotillions, a beauty whose profile vied with her Boston terriers forbeing her chief distinction, and a noted polo-player came upon the sceneand vanished again. Vane and his companion gave, from time to time,little nods to right and left. Their friends stared at them a little,but that caused them no sorrow. Automobiles rushed by. They looked downupon them, lofty in their ruined tower.
"As a show," said Vane, "it is admirably arranged. It moves with abeautiful precision. There is nothing hurried about it; the illusion oflife is nearly complete. Some of them, I suppose, really are alive?"
"I am not sure," she answered, gravely. "Sometimes I think they merelymove because there is a button being pressed somewhere; a button wecannot see, and that they spend their lives hiding from us."
"I dare say you are right. In the words of Fay Templeton, 'I've beenthere and I know.' I have made my little detours: but the lane had,thank fortune, a turning."
She saw through his playfulness, and her eyes went up to his in asympathy--oh, it made him reel for sweetness.
"I am glad," she said, simply.
"But we are getting serious again," he remonstrated, "that would neverdo. Have we not sworn to be children? Let us pretend--let us pretend!"He looked at the grey roofs, the spires oozing from the hill to the sky.He looked at the grey dream beside him: so grey, so fair, so crownedwith the hue of the sun before the world had made him so brazen. "Let uspretend," he went on, after a sigh, "that we are bound for the openroad, and that we are to come to an inn, and that we will ordersomething to eat. We--"
"Oh," she laughed, "you men, you men! Always something to eat!"
"You see, we are of coarse stuff; we cannot sup on star-dust, and dineon bubbles. But--this is only to pretend! An imaginary meal is sometimesso much more fun than a real one. At a real one, you see, I would haveto try to eat, and I could not spend the whole time looking at you, andwatching the sunshine on your hair, and the lilies--" He caught hisbreath sharply, with a little clicking noise. "Dear God," he whispered,"the lilies again! And I had never seen them until now."
"You are going to be absurd," she said, though her voice was hardly arebuke.
"And wouldn't I have excuse," he asked, "for all the absurdities in theworld! I want to be as absurd as I can; I want to think that there'snothing in the world any uglier than--you."
"And will you dine off that thought?"
"Oh, no; that is merely one of the condiments. I keep that in reach,while the other things come and go. I tell you: how would it be if webegan with a bisque of crab? The tenderest pink, you know, and not theghost of any spice that you can distinguish; a beautiful, creamy blend."
"You make it sound delicious," she admitted.
"We take it slowly, you know, religiously. The conversation is mostlywith the eyes. Dinner conversation is so often just as vapid asdinner-music! The only point in favor of dinner-music is that we areusually spared the sight of it. There is no truth more abused than theone that music must be heard and not seen. When I am king I mean toforbid any singing or playing of instruments within sight of the public;it spoils all the pleasure of the music when one sees the uglinesses inits execution."
"But people would not thank you if you kept the sight of Paderewski orDe Pachmann from them."
"They might not thank me at first, but they would learn gratitude in theend, A contortionist
is quite as oppressive a sight as an automaton. No;I repeat, performers of music should never, never be visible. It is ablow in the face of the art of music; it puts it on the plane of thetheatre. What persons of culture want to do is to listen, to listen, tolisten; to shut the eyes, and weave fancies about the strains as theycome from an unseen corner. Is there not always a subtle charm aboutmusic floating over a distance? That is a case in point; that same charmshould always be preserved. The pianist, the soloist of any sort, aswell as the orchestra, or the band--except in the case of the regimentalband, in battle or in review, where actual spectacle, and visibleencouragement are the intention--should never be seen. There shouldalways be a screen, a curtain, between us and the players. It would makethe trick of music criticism harder, but it would still leave us thereal judges. Take out of music criticism the part that covers fingering,throat manipulation, pedaling, and the like, and what have you left?These fellows judge what they see more than what they hear. To give aproper judgment of the music that comes from the unseen; that is theonly test of criticism. There can be no tricks, no paddings."
"But the opera?" wondered the girl.
"The opera? Oh, the opera is, at best, a contradiction in terms. But Ido not waive my theory for the sake of opera. It should be seen aslittle as any other form of music. The audience, supplied with the storyof the dramatic action, should follow the incidents by ear, not by eye.That would be the true test of dramatic writing in music. We would,moreover, be spared the absurdity of watching singers with beautifulvoices make themselves ridiculous by clumsy actions. As to comicopera--the music's appeal would suffer no tarnish from the merelyphysical fascination of the star or the chorus ... I know the thought isradical; it seems impossible to imagine a piano recital without longhair, electric fingers, or visible melancholia; opera with only thebox-holders as appeals to the eye seems too good to be true; but--Iassure you it would emancipate music from all that now makes it themost vicious of the arts. Painters do not expect us to watch thempainting, nor does the average breed of authors--I except the Manx--liketo be seen writing. Yet the musician--take away the visible part of hisart, and he is shorn of his self-esteem. I assure you I admire actorsmuch more than musicians; actors are frankly exponents of nothing thatrequires genius, while musicians pretend to have an art that is over andabove the art of the composer.... Music--"
"Do you realize," interrupted the girl, with a laugh that was melodyitself, "that you are feasting me upon dinner-music without dinner. Itmust be ages since we began that imaginary feast. But now, I am quitesure we are at the black coffee. And I have been able to notice nothingexcept your ardor in debate. You were as eager as if you were beingcontradicted."
"You see," he said, "it only proves my point. Dinner-music is anabomination. It takes the taste of the food away. While I was playing,you admit, you tasted nothing between the soup and the coffee. Whereas,in point of fact--"
"Or fancy?"
"As you please. At any rate--the menu was really something out of thecommon. There were some delightful wines. A sherry that the innkeeperhad bought of a bankrupt nobleman; so would run his fable for theoccasion, and we would believe it, because, in cases of that sort, ittakes a very bad wine to make one pooh-pooh its pedigree. A Madeira thathad been hidden in a cellar since 1812. We would believe that, everyword of it, because we would know that there was really no Madeira inall the world; and we must choose between insulting our stomachs or ourintelligence. And then the coffee. It would come in the tiniest, mosttransparent, most fragile--"
"Yes," she laughed, "I dare say. As transparent and as fragile as theentire fabric of our repast, I have no doubt. But--pity me, do!--I shallhave to leave the beautiful banquet about where you have put it, in theair. I have a ticking conscience here that says--"
"Oh, hide it," he supplicated, "hide it. Watches are nothing butmechanisms that are jealous of happiness; whenever there is a happy houra watch tries to end it. When I am king I shall prohibit the manufactureand sale of watches. The fact that they may be carried about so easilyis one of their chief vices; one never knows nowadays from what corner awoman will not bring one; they carry them on their wrists, theirparasols, their waists, their shoulders. Can you be so cruel as to letthat little golden monster spoil me my hour of happiness--"
"But I would have to be cruel one way or the other. You see, my fatherwill wonder what has become of me. He expects me to dinner."
"Ah, well," he admitted soberly, if a little sadly, "we must not keephim waiting. You must tell the Professor where we have been, and what wesaid, and how silly I was, and--Heigho, I wish I could tell you how thelittle hour with you has buoyed me up. Your presence seems to stir mypossibilities for good. I wish I could see you oftener. I feel like theprovincial who says good-bye with a: 'May I come 'round this evening?'as a rider."
"A doubtful compliment, if I make you rustic," she said. "But I havesomething on this evening; an appointment with a man. The most beautifulman in the world, and the best, and the kindest--"
"His name?" he cried, with elaborate pretense of melodrama, for he sawthat she was full of whimsies.
"Professor Vanlief," she curtsied.
They were walking, by now, in the shade of the afternoon sun. Vane saw astage approaching them, one that would take him back to the lower town.She saw it, too, and his intention. She shook hands with him, and tooktime to say, softly:
"Do you never ride in the Park any more?"
"Oh," he said, "tell me when. To-morrow morning? At McGowan's Pass? Atten? Oh, how I wish that stage was not coming so fast!"
In their confusion, and their joyous sense of having the same absurdthought in common, they both laughed at the notion of a Fifth avenuestage ever being too fast. Yet this one, and Time, sped so swiftly thatVane could only shake hands hastily with his fair companion, look at herworshipfully, and jump upon the clattering vehicle.
He would never have believed that so ramshackle a conveyance could haveharbored so many dreams as had been his that day.
That thought was his companion all the way home. That, and efforts todefine his feelings toward Miss Vanlief. Was it love? What else could itbe! And if it was, was he ready, for her, to give up those ambitions ofstill further sounding hitherto unexplored avenues of the human mind?Was this fragile bit of grace and glamour to come between him and thechance of opening a new field to science? Had he not the opportunity tobecome famous, or, at the very least, to become omnipotent in readingthe hearts, the souls, of men? Were not the possibilities of theProfessor's discovery unlimited? Was it not easy by means of that mirrorin his rooms, for any chief of police in the world to read the guilt orinnocence of every accused man? Yet, on the other hand, would marriageinterfere? Yes; it would. One could not serve two such goddesses aswoman and science. He would have to make up his mind, to decide.
But, in the meanwhile, there was plenty of time. Surely, for thepresent, he could be happy in the thought of the morrow, of the ridethey were to take in the Park, of the cantering, the chatteringtogether, the chance to see the morning wind spin the twists of goldabout her cheeks and bring the sparkle to her eyes.
He let himself into his house without disturbing any of the servants. Hepassed into his room. He lifted the curtain of the doorway with onehand, and with the other turned the button that lighted the room. As theglobes filled with light they showed him his image in the new mirror.
He reeled against the wall with the surprise of the thing. He noted themirror's curtain in a heap at the foot of the frame. Perhaps, after all,it had been merely the wind.
He summoned Nevins. The curtain he replaced on the staring face of themirror. Whence the thought came from, he did not know, but it occurredto him that the scene was like a scene from a novel.
"Nevins," he asked, "was anyone in my rooms?"
"Mr. Spalding-Wentworth, sir."
Orson Vane laughed,--a loud, gusty, trumpeting laugh.
He understood. But he understood, also, that the accident that hadbrought the soul of Spaldin
g-Wentworth into his keeping had decreed,also, that the dominance should not be, as on a former time, with theusurper.
He knew that the soul of Spalding-Wentworth, to which he gave the refugeof his own body, was a small soul.
Yet even little souls have their spheres of influence.
The Imitator: A Novel Page 10
