Max
Page 35
CHAPTER XXXV
Who shall depict the soul of woman? As well essay to number the silkhairs on the moth's wing, or paint truly the hues in the blown bubble!The soul of woman dwells apart, subject to no laws, trammelled by noprecedent; mysterious in its essence, strong in its very frailty, itpasses through many phases to its ultimate end, working as all greatagents work, silently and in the dark.
With the passing of Blake, the spiritual Maxine entered upon a newphase--was arbitrarily forced into a new phase of existence. The passingof Blake was sudden, tremendous, devastating in its effect, leaving asconsequences a moral blackness, a moral chaos.
It was a new Maxine who wakened to the realization of facts; rather, itwas a new Max, for it was the masculine, not the feminine ego thatturned a set face to circumstance in the moment of desertion--thatsedulously wrapped itself in the garment of pride spun and fashioned inhappier hours.
'Now is the test! Now is the time!' Max insisted, drowning by insistencethe poignant cry of the heart; and to this watchword he marched againstfate.
With set purpose he faced life and its vexed questions in that bitter,precipitate moment. Again it was the beginning of things; but it was therue Mueller and not the Gare du Nord that was the scene of action; theMay sun fell burning on the Parisian pavements, while the blood of theadventurer ran slow and cold. The illusions bred of the winter dawn hadbeen dispersed by the light of day; life was no glad enterprise--noclimbing of golden heights, but the barren crossing of a tracklessregion where no hand proffered guidance and false signs misled the wearyeyes. One weapon alone was necessary in the pursuance of the grayjourney--a sure command--a sure possession of one's self!
This thought alone made harmony with the music of the past, and towardits thin sound his ears were strained. Comradeship had come andgone--love had come and gone--the fundamental idea that had lured him toParis alone remained, stark, colorless, but recognizable!
One must possess one's self! And to achieve this supreme good, one mustclose the senses and seal up the heart, and be as a creature alreadydead!
To this profound end, Max locked himself in his studio and sat alonewhile the May morning waxed; to this profound end, moving as in a dream,he at last rose at midday and left the _appartement_ in quest of hiscustomary meal. What that meal was to consist of--whether stones orbread--did not touch his brain, for his mind was solely exercised withwonder at the fact that his will could command the search forfood--could compel his dry lips to the savorless duty of eating.
As he left the little _cafe_, paying his score, he half expected to seehis wonder reflected on the good face of madame the proprietress, andwas curiously shocked to receive the usual cheerful smile, the usualcheerful 'good-day!' that took no heed of his heavy plight.
It was that cheerful superficiality of Paris that can so delightfullymirror one's mood when the heart is light--that can ring so sadly hollowwhen the soul is sick. It cut Max with a bitter sharpness; and, like aman fleeing from his own shadow, he fled the shop.
Outside in the dazzling glitter of the streets, the sun blinded him,accentuating the scorching pain of unshed tears; the very pavementsseemed to rise up and sear him with their memories. Here in this verystreet Blake and he had strolled and smoked on many a night, wendinghomeward from the play or the opera, laughing, jesting, arguing as theypaced arm-in-arm up and down before the sleeping shops. The thoughtstung him with an amazing sharpness, and he fled from it, as he had fledfrom the _cafe_ and its smiling proprietress.
His descent upon Paris was a descent upon a region of beauty. The senseof summer lay like a bloom upon the flowers for sale at the streetcorners, and shimmered--a ribbon of silver sunlight--across thepale-blue sky. The trees in the grand boulevards shone in their greentrappings; rainbow colors glinted in the shop windows; everywhere, savein the heart of Max, was fairness and youth and joy.
Supremely conscious of himself, adrift and wretched, he passed throughthe crowds of people--passed from sun to shade, from shade to sun--witha hopeless eager haste that possessed no object save to outstrip histhoughts.
It is a curious fact that, to the desponding, water has a magnetic call;without knowledge, almost without volition, his footsteps turned towardthe river--that river which has so closely girdled Paris through all hervaried life. Smooth and pale, it slipped secretly past its quays as Maxapproached, indifferent to the tragedies it concealed, as it wasindifferent to the ardent life that ebbed and flowed across its manybridges. On its breast, the small, dark craft of the city nestledlazily; to right and left along its banks, the sun struck glints of goldand bronze from spire and monument; while, close against its sides, onthe very parapet of its quays, there was in progress that quaint booktraffic that strikes so intimate a note in the life of the quarter.
It is a charming thought that in the heart of Paris--Paris, thepleasure city--there is time and space for the vender of old books toset out his wares, to lay them open to the kindly sky, to tempt thestudious and idle alike to pause and dally and lose themselves in thatmost fascinating of all pursuits--- the search for the treasure that isnever found. Max paused beside this row of tattered bookstalls, andquivered to the stab of a new pain. Scores of happy mornings he hadwandered with Blake in this vicarious garden of delight, flitting fromthe books to the curio shops across the roadway, from the curios backagain to the books, while Blake talked with his easy friendliness to theodd beings who bartered in this open market.
It was pain inexpressible--it was loneliness made palpable--to stand bythe tressel stalls and allow his eyes to rest upon the familiarmerchandise; and for the third time in that black morning he fled fromhis own shadow--fled onward into the darker, older Paris--the Paris oftradition, where the church of Notre Dame frowns, silently scornful ofthose who disturb its peace.
As he approached the great building, its sombre impressiveness fell uponhis troubled spirit mercifully as its shadow fell across the blindingsunlight. He paused in the wide space that fronts the heavy doors, andcaught his breath as the fugitive of old might have caught breath atsight of sanctuary.
Here was a place of shade and magnitude--- a place untouched by memory!
Blindly he moved toward the door, entered the church, walked up theaisle. Few sight-seers disturbed the sense of peace, for outside it washigh noon and Paris was engrossed in the serious business of _dejeuner_;no service was in progress; all was still, all dim save where a taperof a lamp glowed before a shrine or the sun struck sharp through thesplendor of stained glass.
There are few churches--to some minds there is no other church--wherethe idea of the profound broods as it does in Notre Dame. The sense ofdignity, the curious ancient scent compounded by time, the mystic colorsof the great windows breathe of the infinite.
Max, walking up the aisle, looked at the dark walls; Max--modern,critical--looked up at the wondrous rose window, and felt theovershadowing power of superhuman things. The modern world crumbledbefore the impassive silence, criticism found no challenge in itsbrooding spirit, for the mind cannot analyze what it cannot measure.
Max subscribed to no creed; but, by a strange impulsion, born of deadages, his eyes fell from the glowing window and turned to the highaltar. He did not want to pray; he rebelled against the idea ofsupplication; but the circling thoughts within him concentratedsuddenly, he clasped his hands with a clasp so fierce that it was pain.
"Oh, God!" he said, under his breath. "God! God, let me possess myself!"And as if some chord had snapped, relieving the tension in his brain, hedropped upon his knees, as he had once done at the foot of his ownstaircase and, crouching against a pillar, wept like a lost child.
PART IV