cut off extraneous sights, so that you can see only the mirror. Go ahead, I tell you! It’s no more than the barrel of a telescope or microscope.”
I complied. “Now what?” I asked.
“What do you see?”
“My own face in the mirror.”
“Of course. Now I start the reflector rotating.” There was a faint whir, and the mirror was spinning smoothly, still with only a slightly blurred image of myself. “Listen, now,” continued van Manderpootz. “Here is what you are to do. You will think of a generic noun. ‘House,’ for instance. If you think of house, you will see, not an individual house, but your ideal house, the house of all your dreams and desires. If you think of a horse, you will see what your mind conceives as the perfect horse, such a horse as dream and longing create. Do you understand? Have you chosen a topic?”
“Yes.” After all, I was only twenty-eight; the noun I had chosen was—girl.
“Good,” said the professor. “I turn on the current.”
There was a blue radiance behind the mirror. My own face still stared back at me from the spinning surface, but something was forming behind it, building up, growing. I blinked; when I focused my eyes again, it was—she was—there.
Lord! I can’t begin to describe her. I don’t even know if I saw her clearly the first time. It was like looking into another world and seeing the embodiment of all longings, dreams, aspirations, and ideals. It was so poignant a sensation that it crossed the borderline into pain. It was—well, exquisite torture or agonized delight. It was at once unbearable and irresistible.
But I gazed. I had to. There was a haunting familiarity about the impossibly beautiful features. I had seen the face—somewhere—sometime. In dreams? No; I realized suddenly what was the source of that familiarity. This was no living woman, but a synthesis. Her nose was the tiny, impudent one of Whimsy White at her loveliest moment; her lips were the perfect bow of Tips Alva; her silvery eyes and dusky velvet hair were those of Joan Caldwell. But the aggregate, the sum total, the face in the mirror—that was none of these; it was a face impossibly, incredibly, outrageously beautiful.
Only her face and throat were visible, and the features were cool, expressionless, and still as a carving. I wandered suddenly if she could smile, and with the thought, she did. If she had been beautiful before, now her beauty flamed to such a pitch that it was—well, insolent; it was an affront to be so lovely; it was insulting. I felt a wild surge of anger that the image before me should flaunt such beauty, and yet be—non-existent! It was deception, cheating, fraud, a promise that could never be fulfilled.
Anger died in the depths of that fascination. I wondered what the rest of her was like, and instantly she moved gracefully back until her full figure was visible. I must be a prude at heart, for she wasn’t wearing the usual cuirass-and-shorts of that year, but an iridescent four-paneled costume that all but concealed her dainty knees. But her form was slim and erect as a column of cigarette smoke in still air, and I knew that she could dance like a fragment of mist on water. And with that thought she did move, dropping in a low curtsy, and looking up with the faintest possible flush crimsoning the curve of her throat. Yes, I must be a prude at heart; despite Tips Alva and Whimsy White and the rest, my ideal was modest.
It was unbelievable that the mirror was simply giving back my thoughts. She seemed as real as myself, and —after all—I guess she was. As real as myself, no more, no less, because she was part of my own mind. And at this point I realized that van Manderpootz was shaking me and bellowing, “Your time’s up. Come out of it! Your half-hour’s up!”
He must have switched off the current. The image faded, and I took my face from the tube, dropping it on my arms.
“O-o-o-o-o-oh!” I groaned.
“How do you feel?” he snapped.
“Feel? All right—physically.” I looked up.
Concern flickered in his blue eyes. “What’s the cube root of 4913?” he crackled sharply.
I’ve always been quick at figures. “It’s—uh—17,” I returned dully. “Why the devil—?”
“You’re all right mentally,” he announced. “Now—why were you sitting there like a dummy for half an hour? My idealizator must have worked, as is only natural for a van Manderpootz creation, but what were you thinking of?”
“I thought—I thought of ‘girl’,” I groaned.
He snorted. “Hah! You would, you idiot! ‘House’ or ‘horse’ wasn’t good enough; you had to pick something with emotional connotations. Well, you can start right in forgetting her, because she doesn’t exist.”
I couldn’t give up hope, as easily as that. “But can’t you—can’t you—?” I didn’t even know what I meant to ask.
“Van Manderpootz,” he announced, “is a mathematician, not a magician. Do you expect me to materialize an ideal for you?” When I had no reply but a groan, he continued. “Now I think it safe enough to try the device myself. I shall take—let’s see—the thought ‘man.’ I shall see what the superman looks like, since the ideal of van Manderpootz can be nothing less than superman.” He seated himself. “Turn that switch,” he said. “Now!”
I did. The tubes glowed into low blue light. I watched dully, disinterestedly; nothing held any attraction for me after that image of the ideal.
“Huh!” said van Manderpootz suddenly. “Turn it on, I say! I see nothing but my own reflection.”
I stared, then burst into a hollow laugh. The mirror was spinning; the banks of tubes were glowing; the device was operating.
Van Manderpootz raised his face, a little redder than usual. I laughed half hysterically. “After all,” he said huffily, “one might have a lower ideal of man than van Manderpootz. I see nothing nearly so humorous as your situation.”
The laughter died. I went miserably home, spent half the remainder of the night in morose contemplation, smoked nearly two packs of cigarettes, and didn’t get to the office at all the next day.
Tips Alva got back to town for a week-end broadcast, but I didn’t even bother to see her, just phoned her and told her I was sick. I guess my face lent credibility to the story, for she was duly sympathetic, and her face in the phone screen was quite anxious. Even at that, I couldn’t keep my eyes away from her lips because, except for a bit too lustrous make-up, they were the lips of the ideal. But they weren’t enough; they just weren’t enough.
Old N. J. began to worry again. I couldn’t sleep late of mornings any more, and after missing that one day, I kept getting down earlier and earlier until one morning I was only ten minutes late. He called me in at once.
“Look here, Dixon,” he said. “Have you been to a doctor recently?”
“I’m not sick,” I said listlessly.
“Then for Heaven’s sake, marry the girl! I don’t care what chorus she kicks in, marry her and act like a human being again.”
“I—can’t.”
“Oh. She’s already married, eh?”
Well, I couldn’t tell him she didn’t exist. I couldn’t say I was in love with a vision, a dream, an ideal. He thought I was a little crazy, anyway, so I just muttered “Yeah,” and didn’t argue when he said gruffly: “Then you’ll get over it. Take a vacation. Take two vacations. You might as well for all the good you are around here.”
I didn’t leave New York; I lacked the energy. I just mooned around the city for a while, avoiding my friends, and dreaming of the impossible beauty of the face in the mirror. And by and by the longing to see that vision of perfection once more began to become overpowering. I don’t suppose anyone except me can understand the lure of that memory; the face, you see, had been my ideal, my concept of perfection. One sees beautiful women here and there in the world; one falls in love, but always, no matter how great their beauty or how deep one’s love, they fall short in some degree of the secret vision of the ideal. But not the mirrored face; she was my ideal, and therefore, whatever imperfections she might have had in the minds of others, in my eyes she had none. None, that is, save the terrible one of being only an ideal, and therefore unattainable—but that is a fault inherent in all perfection.
It was a matter of days before I yielded. Common sense told me it was futile, even foolhardy, to gaze again on the vision of perfect desirability. I fought against the hunger, but I fought hopelessly, and was not at all surprised to find myself one evening rapping on van Manderpootz’s door in the University Club. He wasn’t there; I’d been hoping he wouldn’t be, since it gave me an excuse to seek him in his laboratory in the Physics Building, to which I
