by A. A. Milne
They each spoke at the same moment.
"It cannot be Ronnie," they said.
"It must be Ronnie," amended Helen. "There is no one else in the house."
"You go in," whispered Dick. "I will wait here. Call, if you want me. Don't startle him. Go in very softly. Be very—er—you know?"
Helen moved forward alone.
She laid her hand upon the handle of the studio door.
She wished the weird music within would cease for one moment, that she might feel more able to enter.
Cold shivers ran down her spine.
Try as she would, she could not connect that music with Ronnie.
Somebody else was also in the studio, of that she felt quite certain.
She nearly went back to Dick.
Then—rating herself for cowardice—she turned the handle of the door and passed in.
Dick saw her disappear.
Almost at that moment the 'cello-playing ceased; there was a crash, a cry from Helen, a silence, and then—a wild shriek from Helen, a sound holding so much of fear and of horror, that Dick shouted in reply as he dashed forward.
He found himself in a low room, oak-panelled, lighted only by the uncertain flame a log-fire. The door by which Dick had centered was to the left of the fireplace. On the wall at the farther end of the room, opposite both door and fireplace, hung an immense mirror in a massive gilt frame.
On the floor in the centre of the room lay Ronnie, unconscious, on his back. The chair upon which he had been sitting and which had gone over backwards with him, lay broken beneath him. His 'cello rested on his chest. He gripped it there, with both his hands. They fell away from it, as Dick looked at him.
Ronnie's wife knelt on the floor beside him, but she was not looking at Ronnie. She was staring, with white face and starting eyes, into the mirror. Her left arm, stretched out before her, was rigid with horror, from the shoulder to the tip of the pointing finger.
"Look, Dick!" she shrieked. "Oh, heavens! Look!"
Dick flashed up the electric light; then looked into the mirror.
He saw himself loom large, dishevelled, grimy, travel-stained. Then he saw Ronnie and the Infant in a dark heap on the floor, and the white face of Ronnie's wife, kneeling beside him with outstretched arm and eyes upon the mirror. On the other side of Ronnie, in the very centre of the scene, stood a queer old chair of Italian workmanship, the heads of lions completing its curved arms, on its carved back the fleur-de-lis of Florence, its seat of padded leather, embossed in crimson and gold.
This was all Dick saw, excepting the leaping flames of the fire beyond.
And even as he looked, Helen's arm fell to her side; he saw her turn, lift the Infant off Ronnie's breast; and, bending over him, draw his head on to her lap.
Dick turned from the mirror. The scene in the room was identical with the reflection, in all points save one. The Florentine chair was under Ronnie. It had fallen with him. Its back was broken. Not until he had lifted his friend from the floor did Dr. Dick see the panelled fleur-de-lis of Florence, nor the crimson and gold of the embossed leather seat.
As he and Helen together loosed Ronnie's collar and tie, she whispered: "Did—you—see?"
"This is no time for staring into mirrors," said Dr. Dick, crossly. "I saw that I need a good wash; and you, some sal-volatile! But we shall have plenty to do for Ronnie before we can find leisure to think of ourselves. Send a couple of men here; sturdy fellows whom you can trust. Order that car to the door; then bring me a pencil, a sheet of note-paper and an envelope. There is just one man in the world who can help us now, and we must have him here with as little delay as possible."
When Helen had left the room, Dick glanced furtively over his shoulder into the mirror.
The Italian chair, in the reflection, now lay broken on the floor!
"Hum!" said Dr. Dick. "Not bad, that—for an Infant! Precocious, I call it. We must have that 'cello re-christened the 'Demon of Prague'!"
Ronnie Faces The Upas
Ronnie had walked from his wife's sitting-room, along the corridor and into the studio, in a state of stunned stupefaction.
He carried his 'cello in one hand, its case and bow, which he had picked up in the hall, in the other; but he had for the moment completely forgotten the Infant.
He leaned it against a chair, laid down the case, closed the studio door; then walked to the fireplace.
He stood looking at the great crackling logs, and into the glowing heart of the fire beneath them.
"Utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish," he repeated slowly. "That is what my wife considers me; that is as I appear to Helen. Utterly—preposterously—altogether—selfish. She is so lovely—she is so perfect! I—I have longed for her so! But I am utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish!"
He put his arms upon the mantel-piece and dropped his head upon them. He felt a queer contraction in his throat, a stinging beneath his eyelids, such as he had not experienced since the days of childish mortifications and sorrows. But the instinctive manliness of him, held back the actual tears. He was debarred, even in solitude, from that form of relief.
Presently he lifted his head, took out his pocket-book, and wrote down the words, spelling each with a capital letter.
He looked long at them; then suddenly exclaimed: "U, P, A, S! Why, it is the Upas tree; the deadly, mysterious, poisonous Upas tree! I found it in the jungle. I felt ill the night I camped beneath it. I have never felt quite well since. The nightmares began on that night; and the nightmares have followed me home. This is the worst of all. Helen calls me the Upas tree—the poisoner of her content. Utterly, preposterously, altogether, selfish!"
He turned on the electric lights, and walked up and down the room, with desperate, restless tread.
"Poisoning all it touches," he said. "Blasting the life of all who pass beneath its deadly foliage—U,P,A,S—Upas."
He paused before the great mirror, gazing at his own reflection.
He put his face quite close to the glass, staring into his burning eyes.
Then he struck at the reflection with his clenched fist. "Upas tree!" he snarled. "Take that, and be damned!"
He had hurt his knuckles. He walked back to the fire, rubbing them carefully with his left hand.
"Poor old chap," he said. "It is hard lines! You meant well; but all the while you were a Upas tree. 'I, Helen, take thee, Upas, to be my wedded husband.' Poor lovely Helen! What a bargain!"
He sat down in a deep basket-chair, lighted a cigarette, pushed another chair into position, exactly in front of him, with his foot; then filling it, one by one, with friends of his own and Helen's, held conversation with them.
"Quite right, my dear Mrs. Dalmain! You need not now confine yourself to looking your disapproval; you can say exactly what you think. You see, Helen herself has told me the worst truth of all. I am a Upas tree. She sums me up thus: U, P, A, S! You can hardly beat that, Mrs. Dalmain. In fact, you look distressed. I can see that your kind heart is sorry for me. Helen said you were a wonderful person to turn to in trouble. There is no one in the world quite like you. Well, now's your chance to prove it; for surely nobody ever came to you in more desperate trouble. If you wish to be really kind and comforting, talk to me of my wife. Say how sweet and lovely she is. Say that her arms are tender, her eyes gentle and kind. I am the thirsty traveller in the desert, who sights pure water, hastens eagerly forward, and finds—a mirage! But a deadly stream flows from the roots of the Upas—Hullo! Here comes Aubrey Treherne. Look out, Mrs. Dalmain! He owes you a grudge. Hey, presto! Vanish from the chair, or Helen's cousin will lean over, with a bleeding face, threatening to kill you with both hands!…
"Good-evening, Cousin Aubrey. How is your lip to-night? You mustn't kiss Helen again, until that lip is well. Helen will be ashamed of you for not being able to put fuel into a stove without knocking your lip. Fie, man! Poor happy Ronnie, going home to show his wife his 'cello, believed you. But the Upas tree knows! You can't deceive the
Upas tree, you liar! You may as well tell Helen that you wounded your lip on a branch of her Upas tree… .
"Hullo, Dick! Come in, and welcome! Sit down, old boy. I want to ask you something. Hist! Listen! That motor, which hooted in the park a moment ago, contained a policeman—so it is essential we should know whether there is any by-law in Leipzig against men, as trees, walking. Because you weren't walking about with a man, you know, but with a Upas tree. When in doubt, ask—my wife! It would have made a sensational paragraph in the papers: 'Arrest of a Upas tree, in the streets of Leipzig!' Worse than 'Arrest of the Infant of Prague.' … Why! Where is the Infant?"
He turned and saw his 'cello, where he had placed it, leaning against a chair.
He rose, took it up, and walked over to the piano.
"A, D, G, C. 'Allowable delights grow commonplace!' What did the fiend mean? C, G, D, A. 'Courage gains desired aims.' That's better! We aimed pretty straight at his lying mouth."
He opened the piano, struck the notes, and tuned the 'cello exactly as he had seen Aubrey do.
At the first sound of the strings his mood changed. All bitterness passed out of his face. A look of youth and hope dawned in it.
He carried the 'cello back to the circle of chairs. He placed it where it had stood before; then lay back in his own seat smiling dreamily at the empty chair opposite.
"Helen," he said, "darling, I don't really play the piano, I only strum. But there is one instrument, above all others, which I have always longed to play. I have it now. I own the 'cello I have always loved and longed for; the 'cello on which I used to play a hundred years ago. Now I am going to play to you; and you will forget everything in this world, my wife, excepting that I love you."
He drew the Infant between his knees; then realised at once that his chair was too low.
Rising, he went over to a corner where, against the wall, stood a beautiful old chair which he and Helen had brought back, the winter before, from Italy. Its arms and feet of walnut wood, were carved into lions' heads and paws. Its back bore, in a medallion, the Florentine fleur-de-lis. The high padded seat was of embossed gold, on crimson leather.
Ronnie placed this queer old chair in the centre of the room, facing the great mirror.
Then he clicked off the electric lights, stirred the fire, and threw on a couple of fresh logs.
The flames shot up, illumining the room.
"As In A Mirror"
Ronnie returned to the Florentine chair, took the 'cello between his knees, placed his thumb behind its polished neck and his fingers on the ebony finger-board. He let them glide lightly up and down the strings, making no sound. Then he raised the bow in his right hand, and slowly, softly, sounded the four open notes.
Each tone was deep and true; there was no rasp—no uneven scraping of the bow.
The log-fire burned up brightly.
He waited. A great expectation filled him.
He was remembering something he had long forgotten.
Looking straight before him at his own reflection in the mirror, he smiled to see how correctly he held the 'cello. The Infant seemed at home between his knees.
The sight of himself and the Infant thus waiting together, gave him peculiar pleasure.
The fire burned low.
His reflected figure dimmed and faded. A misty shadow hid it from his eyes. He could just see the shining of the silver strings, and the white line of his linen cuff.
Then suddenly, he forgot all else save that which he had been trying to remember.
He felt a strong tremor in his left wrist. He was gripping the neck of the 'cello. The strings were biting deep into the flesh of his finger-tips.
He raised the bow and swept it across the strings.
Low throbbing music filled the studio, and a great delight flooded Ronnie's soul.
He dared not give conscious thought to that which he was doing; he could only go on doing it.
He knew that he—he himself—was at last playing his own 'cello. Yet it seemed to him that he was merely listening, while another played.
Two logs fell together in the fire behind him.
Bright flames shot up, illumining the room.
Ronnie raised his eyes and looked into the mirror.
He saw therein reflected, the 'cello and the Italian chair; but the figure of a man sat playing, and that man was not himself; that figure was not his own.
A grave, white face, set off by straight black hair, a heavy lock of which fell over the low forehead; long white fingers gliding up and down the strings, lace ruffles falling from the wrists. The knees, gripping the 'cello, were clad in black satin breeches, black silk stockings were on the shapely legs; while on the feet, planted firmly upon the floor, gleamed diamond shoe-buckles.
Ronnie gazed at this reflection.
Each movement of the gliding bow, corresponded to the rhythm of the music now throbbing through the studio.
Ronnie played on, gazing into the mirror. The man in the mirror did not lift his eyes, nor look at Ronnie. Either they were bent upon the 'cello, or he played with them fast closed.
Ronnie dared not look down at his own hands. He could feel his fingers moving up and down the strings, as moved the fingers in the mirror. He feared he should see lace ruffles falling from his wrists, if he looked at his own hands.
The fire burned low again.
Still Ronnie played on, staring before him as he played. The music gained in volume and in beauty.
The fire burned lower. The room was nearly dark. The reflection was almost hidden.
Ronnie, straining his eyes, could see only the white line of the low square forehead.
He wished the eyes would lift and look at him, piercing the darkness of the darkening room.
Another log fell. Again flames darted upwards. Each detail in the mirror was clear once more.
The playing grew more rapid. Ronnie felt his fingers flying, yet pressing deeply as they flew.
The right foot of the figure, placed further back than the left, was slightly raised. The heel was off the floor.
Ronnie's right heel was also lifted.
Then, looking past the figure in the chair, he marked behind him, where in the reflection of the studio should have been the door, heavy black curtains hanging in sombre folds. And, even as Ronnie noticed these, they parted; and the lovely face of a woman looked in.
As Ronnie saw that face he remembered many things—things of exquisite joy, things of poignant sorrow; things inexpressible except in music, unutterable except in tone.
The 'cello sobbed, and wailed, and sang itself slowly into a minor theme; yet the passion of the minor was more subtle, sweeter far, than the triumph of the major.
The woman glided in.
Ronnie watched her. She came and softly stood behind the Florentine chair.
Apparently she made no sound. The 'cellist did not raise his eyes. He appeared totally unconscious of her presence.
The woman bent her beautiful head, observing him closely. Following her eyes, Ronnie saw a ruffle of old lace falling from the 'cellist's throat, a broad crimson ribbon crossing his breast, on which glittered a diamond star.
The woman waited.
Ronnie watched.
The 'cellist played on.
The fire burned low.
Then another log fell. Again flames darted upward.
Ronnie saw the woman lay her left hand noiselessly upon the back of the Italian chair, then slip her right behind her and take something bright, off a table covered with bright things. And, as he watched, she flung her right hand high above her head, and in it,point downwards, gleamed the sharp blade of a dagger.
Her eyes met Ronnie's in the mirror. A gleam of malicious triumph shot from them.
He knew she was about to kill the unconscious 'cellist.
His one thought was to warn and to save him. He knew no sound he made could be heard in a past century; but whatever he himself now did, he instinctively felt the 'cellist in the mirror would also do
.
With a desperate effort he stopped the movement of the bow.
He had just time to see the 'cellist in the mirror also pause.
Then Ronnie dropped his bow, gripped the 'cello with both hands, and, as the swift blow fell, drew the body of the 'cello up over his breast.
Then the back of his chair seemed to give way; his feet left the floor, and he fell over backwards—down—down—down—into a never ending abyss of throbbing, palpitating, rolling blackness.
Part IV
"The Fog Lifts"
When Ronnie came to himself, emerging quite suddenly from a long, confused dream, which had held many voices, many happenings over which he had exercised no control and which were too indefinite to be remembered, he found himself sitting on a seat, on the esplanade at Hazelbeach.
A crisp, wintry feeling was in the air; but the sun was brilliant, and the high ground behind, sheltered the sea-front from wind.
He was muffled in his fur coat, and felt quite warm.
The first thing he consciously noticed was the sparkling of the ripple on the calm water.
There is something particularly reviving and inspiriting about sunshine on the gaily moving sea. The effect is produced with so little apparent effort. The sun just shines; the water just moves; and lo, hosts of sparkling diamonds!
Ronnie watched it in silence for some time, before giving any sign that he actually saw it.
He was anxious carefully to take his bearings, without appearing to do so.
Helen sat beside him on the seat. She kept up a flow of conversation, in the kind, cheerful, intelligent voice in which you talk to a child who has to be kept happy and amused.
Ronnie let her go on talking in that voice, while he took his bearings.
He glanced at her, furtively, once; then turned his eyes seaward again.
Helen, also, was wearing a fur coat, and a pretty grey fur toque on her soft hair. Her face seemed thinner than it used to be; but the sea breeze and sunshine had brought a bright colour to her cheeks.
