CHAPTER XII.
Orson Vane was taking lunch with Professor Vanlief. Jeannette, learningof Vane's coming, had absented herself.
"It is true," Vane was saying, "that I can assert what no other man hasasserted before,--that I know the exact mental machinery of two humanbeings. Yes; that is quite true. But--"
"I promised nothing more," remarked Vanlief.
"No. That is true, too. I have lived the lives of others; I have giventheir thoughts a dwelling. But I am none the happier for that."
"Oh," admitted Vanlief, "wisdom does not guarantee happiness...." Hedrummed with his fine, long fingers, upon the table-cloth. Vane,watching him, noted the almost transparent quality of his skin. Underthat admirable mask of military uprightness there was an aging, a fadingprocess going on, that no keen observer could miss. "It is the pursuit,not the capture of wisdom, that brings happiness. Wisdom is too oftenonly a bubble that bursts when you touch it."
"Perhaps that is it. At any rate I know that I do not love my neighborany more because I have fathomed some of his thoughts. Moreover,Professor, has it occurred to you that your discovery, your secret,carries elements of danger with it? Take my own experiments; there mighthave been tragic results; whole lives might have been ruined. In onecase I was nearly the victim of a tragedy myself; I might have become,for all time, the dreadful creature I was giving house-room to. In theother, there was no more than a farce possible; the visiting spirit was,after all, in subjection to my own. I think you will have to simplifythe details of your marvelous secret. It works a little clumsily, alittle--"
"Oh," the Professor put in, "I am perfecting the process. I spend mydays and my nights in elaborating the details. I mean to have it in thesimplest, most unmistakable perfection before I hand it over to thehuman race."
"Sometimes I think," mused Vane, "that your boon will be a doubtful one.I can see no good to be gained. My whole point of view is changing. Iached for such a chance of wisdom once; now that it has come to me I amsad because the things I have learned are so horrible, so silly. I hadnot thought there were such souls in the world; or not, at any rate, inthe immediate world about me."
"Oh," the Professor went on, steadfastly, "there will be many benefitsin the plan. Doctors will be able to go at once to the root of anyailments that have their seat in the brain. Witnesses cab be made totestify the truth. Oh--there are ever so many possibilities."
"As many for evil as for good. Second-rate artists could steal theideas, the inventions of others. No inventor, no scientist, would besure of keeping his secrets. The thing would be a weapon in the hands ofthe unscrupulous."
"Ah, well," smiled Vanlief, "so far I have not made my discovery public,have I? It is a thing I must consider very carefully. As you say, thereare arguments on either side. But you must bear in mind that you aresomewhat embittered. It was your own fault; you chose the subjectwittingly. If you were to read a really beautiful mind, you might turnto the other extreme; you might urge me to lose no time in giving theworld my secret. The wise way is between the two; I must go forward withmy plans, prepared for either course. I may take it to my grave with me,or I may give it to the world; but, so far, it is still a littleincomplete; it is not ripe for general distribution. Instead of the onemagic mirror there must be myriads of them. There are stupendousopportunities. All that you have told me of your own experiences inthese experiments has proved my skill to have been wisely employed; yoursuccess was beyond my hopes. Do you think you will go on?"
Orson Vane did not answer at once. It was something he had been askinghimself; he was not yet sure of the answer.
"I haven't made up my mind," he replied. "So far I have hardly beenrepaid for my time and the vital force employed. I almost feel towardthese experiments as toward a vice that refines the mind whilecoarsening the frame. That is the story of the most terrible vices, Ithink; they corrode the body while gilding the brain. But this much Iknow; if I use your mirror again it will not be to borrow a merely smartsoul; I mean to go to some other sphere of life. That one is toocontracted."
"Strange," said the Professor, "that you should have said that.Jeannette pretends she thinks that, too. I cannot get her to take herproper position in the world. She is a little elusive. But then, to besure, she is not, just now, at her best."
"She is not ill?" asked Vane, with a guilty start.
"Nothing tangible. But not--herself...."
Vane observed that he wished he might have found her in; he feared hehad offended her; he hoped the Professor would use his kind officesagain to soften the young lady's feelings toward him. Then he got up togo.
Strolling along the avenue he noted certain aspects of the town with anappreciation that he had not always given them. He had seen these thingsfrom so many other points of view of late; had been in sympathy withthem, had made up a fraction of their more grotesque element; that tosee them clearly with his own eyes had a sort of novelty. The life ofto-day, as it appeared on the smartest surfaces, was, he reflected, acolorful if somewhat soulless picture....
The young men sit in the clubs and in the summer casinos, smoking andwondering what the new mode in trousers is to be; an acquaintance goesby; he has a hat that is not quite correct, and his friends comment onit yawningly; he has not the faintest notion of polite English, butnobody cares; a man who has written great things walks by, but he wearsa creased coat, and the young men in the smoking-room sniff at him. Inthe drags and the yachts the women and the girls sit in radiance and gaycolors and arrogant unconsciousness of position and power; they talk ofgolfing and fashion and mustachios; Mrs. Blank is going a hot pace andMrs. Landthus is a thoroughbred; adjectives in the newest sporting slangfly about blindingly; the language is a curious argot, as distinct asthe tortuous lingo of the Bowery. A coach goes rattling by, the horsesthrowing their heads in air, and their feet longing for the Westchesterroads. The whip discusses bull-terriers; the people behind him aredeclaring that the only thing you can possibly find in the Waldorf roomsis an impossible lot of people. The complexions of all these people,intellectually presentable in many ways, and fashionable in yet moremodes, are high in health. They look happy, prosperous andsatisfied....
Yes, there was a superficial fairness to the picture, Vane admitted. Ifonly, if only, he had not chosen to look under the surface! Now that hehad seen the world with other eyes, its fairness could rarely seem thesame to him.
A sturdy beggar approached him, with a whine that proved him anadmirable actor. But Vane could not find it in him to reflect that ifthere is one thing more than another that lends distinction to a town itis an abundance of beggars.
He wondered how it would be to annex this healthy impostor's mite of asoul. But no; there could be little wisdom gained there.
He made, finally, for the Town and Country Club, and tried to immersehimself in the conversation that sped about. The talked turned to theeminent actor, Arthur Wantage. The subject of that man's allegedeccentricities invariably brought out a flood of the town's stalestanecdotes. Vane, listening in a lazy mood, made up his mind to seeWantage play that night. It would be a distraction. It would show him,once again, the present limit in one human being's portraiture ofanother; he would see the highest point to which external imitationcould be brought; he could contrast it with the heights to which hehimself had ascended.
It would be a chance for him to consider Wantage, for the first time inhis life, as a merely second-rate actor. This player was an adept onlyin the making the shell, the husk, seem lifelike; since he could notread the character, how could he go deeper?
The opportunities the theatre held for him suddenly loomed vast beforeVane.
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