The Cords of Vanity. A Comedy of Shirking

sighed effectively.

'I know,' said she.

''Or ever the knightly years had gone 
With the old world to the grave, 
I was a king in Babylon 
And you were a Christian slave.''

'Yes, only I was the slave, I think, and you—er—I mean, there goes the roof, and it is an uncommonly good thing for posterity you thought of the trap-door. Good thing the wind is veering, too. By Jove! look at those flames!' I cried, as the main body of the Continental toppled inward like a house of cards; 'they are splashing, actually splashing, like waves over a breakwater!'

I drew a deep breath and turned from the conflagration, only to encounter its reflection in her widened eyes. 'Yes, I was a Trojan warrior,' I resumed; 'one of the many unknown men who sought and found death beside Scamander, trodden down by Achilles or Diomedes. So they died knowing they fought in a bad cause, but rapt with that joy they had in remembering the desire of the world and her perfect loveliness. She scarcely knew that I existed; but I had loved her; I had overheard some laughing words of hers in passing, and I treasured them as men treasure gold. Or she had spoken, perhaps—oh, day of days!—to me, in a low, courteous voice that came straight from the back of the throat and blundered very deliciously over the perplexities of our alien speech. I remembered —even as a boy, I remembered.'

She cast back her head and laughed merrily. 'I reckon,' said she, 'you are still a boy, or else you are the most amusing lunatic I ever met.'

'No,' I murmured, and I was not altogether playacting now, 'that tale about Polyxo was a pure invention. Helen—and the gods be praised for it!—can never die. For it is hers to perpetuate that sense of unattainable beauty which never dies, which sways us just as potently as it did Homer, and Dr. Faustus, and the Merovingians too, I suppose, with memories of that unknown woman who, when we were boys, was very certainly some day, to be our mate. And so, whatever happens, she

'Abides the symbol of all loveliness, 
Of beauty ever stainless in the stress 
Of warring lusts and fears.

'For she is to each man the one woman that he might have loved perfectly. She is as old as youth, she is more old than April even, and she is as ageless. And, again like youth and April, this Helen goes about the world in varied garments, and to no two men is her face the same. Oh, very often she transmutes her fleshly covering. But through countless ages I, like every man alive, have followed her, and fought for her, and won her, and have lost her in the end,—but always loving her as every man must do. And I prefer to think that some day—' But my voice here died into a whisper, which was in part due to emotion and partly to an inability to finish the sentence satisfactorily. The logic of my verses when thus paraphrased from memory, seemed rather vague.

'Yes—like Pythagoras' she said, a bit at random. 'Oh, I know. There really must be something in it, I have often thought, because you actually do remember having done things before sometimes.'

'And why not? as the March Hare very sensibly demanded.' But now my voice was earnest. 'Yes, I believe that Helen always comes. Is it simply a proof that I, too, am qualified to sit next to the Hatter?' I spread out my hands in a helpless little gesture. 'I do not know. But I believe that she will come,—and by and by pass on, of course, as Helen always does.'

'You will know her?' she queried, softly.

Now I at last had reached firm ground. 'She will be very tall,' I said, 'very tall and exquisite,—like a young birch-tree, you know, when its new leaves are whispering over to one another the secrets of spring. Yes, that is a ridiculous sounding simile, but it expresses the general effect of her—the coup d'oeil, so to speak,—quite perfectly. Moreover, her hair will be a miser's dream of gold; and it will hang heavily about a face that will be—quite indescribable, just as the dawn yonder is past the utmost preciosity of speech. But her face will flush and will be like the first of all anemones to peep through black, good-smelling, and as yet unattainable earth; and her eyes will be deep, shaded wells where, just as in the proverb, truth lurks.'

But now I could not see her eyes.

'No,' I conceded, 'I was wrong. For when men talk to her as—as they cannot but talk to her, her face will flush dull red, almost like smouldering wood; and she will smile a little, and look out over a great fire, such as that she saw on the night when Ilium was sacked and the slain bodies were soft under her stumbling feet, as she fled through flaming Troy Town. And then I shall know her.'

My companion sighed; and the woes of centuries weighed down her eyelids obstinately. 'It is bad enough,' she lamented, 'to have lost all one's clothes—that new organdie was a dream, and I had never worn it; but to find yourself in a dressing-gown—at daybreak, on a strange roof—and with an unintroduced lunatic—is positively terrible!'

The unintroduced lunatic rose to his feet and waved his hand toward the east. The dawn was breaking in angry scarlet and gold that spread like fire over half the visible horizon; the burning hotel shut out the remaining half with tall flames, which shouldered one another monotonously, and seemed lustreless against the pure radiance of the sky. Chill daylight showed in melting patches through the clouds of black smoke overhead.

It was a world of fire, transfigured by the austere magnificence of dawn and the grim splendour of the shifting, roaring conflagration; and at our feet lay the orchard of the Councillor von Hollwig, and there the awakened birds piped querulously, and sparks fell crackling among apple-blossoms.

'Ilium is ablaze,' I quoted; 'and the homes of Pergamos and its towering walls are now one sheet of flame.'

She inspected the scene, critically. 'It does look like Ilium,' she admitted. 'And that,' peering over the eaves into the deserted by-street, 'looks like a milkman.'

I was unable to deny this, though an angry concept crossed my mind that any milkman, with commendable tastes and feelings, would at this moment be gaping at the fire at the other end of the block, rather than prosaically measuring quarts at the Councillor's side-entrance. But there was no help for it, when chance thus unblushingly favoured the proprieties; in consequence I clung to a water-pipe, and explained the situation to the milkman, with a fretted mind and King's College French.

I turned to my companion. She was regarding the burning hotel with an impersonal expression.

'Now I would give a deal,' I thought, 'to know just how long you would prefer that milkman to take in coming back.'

12. He Faces Himself and Remembers

1

Into the lobby of the Hotel d'Angleterre strolled, an hour later, a tall young man, in a green dressing-gown, and inquired for Charteris. The latter, in evening dress, was mournfully breakfasting in his new quarters.